Frade motioned for him to go on.
“What kind of photos do we need, Father?”
The priest answered by taking a National Identity booklet from his pocket and showed it to him.
“For women,” the priest said, “there is the Libreta Cívica. A little smaller, but you get the idea. My friend will provide both.”
“In other words, all that’s holding us up is the regular clothes?” Schultz asked.
“That and the names to go on the documents,” Father Welner said.
“Dorotea,” Schultz said, “we can come up with clothes—good enough for ID pictures—for the men. Can you get some clothing for the women and the kids?”
“Not a problem,” Dorotea said.
“You have any preference for your new names, Strübel?” Frade asked.
“I think it would be best if we used the Spanish translation of the Christian names,” Strübel replied immediately. “And Strübel, if you have no objection, could become Möller, and Niedermeyer, Körtig. Similarly, I would suggest retaining the dates of birth. I am presuming we will all have been born here in Argentina.”
He just didn’t pull that out of thin air. He’s given it some thought.
Why not? He’s a professional.
One who probably is looking down his professional nose at this American amateur.
I’m going to have to stay one step ahead of this guy.
And why didn’t I think of that before?
“That’s fine with me,” Clete said.
“And we’ll need a sheet for a background, Dorotea,” Schultz said.
“And when the pictures have been taken,” Clete said, “I’ll fly Father Pedro to Buenos Aires in one of the Piper Cubs.”
“Is that necessary?” Welner asked.
“The sooner we get the identifications, the sooner I can get everybody out of here,” Frade replied.
“Yes, of course,” Welner agreed. “Father, if Don Cletus flies you to Buenos Aires, when do you think you could have the identity cards ready?”
“Either late tonight, Father, or first thing in the morning.”
“If you can bring the identity cards and meet me at Jorge Frade at, say, nine o’clock, I’ll make a, quote, fuel stop, unquote, in the Lodestar on our way to Mendoza.”
The priest nodded.
“I’ll be there.”
It took less time than Clete thought it would—about forty-five minutes—to complete the photography. Rodríguez and the nun had not returned from their clothes-buying expedition.
When the last picture had been taken, Clete motioned for O’Sullivan and Schultz to follow him from the temporary studio in the library out into the foyer.
He closed the door, then asked, “You know how to get in touch with Colonel Martín, right?”
“I know how to get in touch with his sergeant major, a guy named José Cortina.”
“Good enough. Cortina’s really a lieutenant colonel,” Clete said. “And he’s Martín’s deputy. Call him and tell him I’m on my way to Jorge Frade and need to see Martín, really need to see him. Ask him to meet me at the airport. And if at all possible, have General Nervo there, too.”