Then he saw that all the others were saluting.
Graham felt his eyes water.
Well, goddamn it, why not?
Civilian clothes or not, these are warriors on a field of battle every bit as dangerous as Guadalcanal or the skies over Germany.
Graham moved his right hand, the fingers now stiff and together, from over his heart to his eyebrow.
When the band of the Chapel of Our Lady of the Miracles had concluded their rendition of the National Anthem of the United States of America, they were given a round of hearty applause. Someone—Graham suspected Lieutenant Pelosi—whistled very loudly and shrilly through his teeth.
The Lodestar’s landing light went out.
“I didn’t have the manpower to present the colors,” Frade said. “But that seemed to work pretty well, didn’t it?”
When Graham was sure he had control of his voice, he said, “Well done, Major Frade.”
“I also couldn’t lay my hands on a Marine Corps flag,” Frade said. “And God knows I tried. If I could have found one, I’d have put it beside the flag so the Lodestar could have lit it up, too.”
“Semper fi, Major Frade,” Graham said, hoping that Frade hadn’t picked up on his throat-tightened voice.
“All right, Pelosi,” Frade ordered. “Get your show off the goddamn dime!”
Graham saw Pelosi run across the runway into the darkness. A moment after he disappeared, a skyrocket raced into the night sky and burst into fireballs.
“Where did you get the fireworks?” Graham asked as another skyrocket went off.
“No problem. They use them down here for everything from New Year’s Eve to baby christenings.”
Graham said what he was thinking: “You’d have made a pretty good company commander, Frade.”
“If that’s an offer, Colonel, I can be packed in no more than three minutes.”
“Just as soon as the Corps gives me the regiment I want and so richly deserve, I’ll send for you.”
Frade chuckled, and handed Graham a fresh bottle of Quilmes beer.
The celebration at the airstrip lasted another hour. The chapel band played popular music, American and Argentine, and Lieutenant and Mrs. Pelosi danced the tango to the great delight of the others. Graham remembered how embarrassed Emelia had been when he had to explain to her what Mrs. Astor, the Anglo-American socialite, had meant when she described the tango as a “naval engagement without seamen.” María Teresa Pelosi reminded him more and more of Emelia Graham.
Graham decided early on that the talk he had to have with Frade could— and should—wait until morning. Not only would it more than likely be confrontational and unpleasant and destroy the good feeling celebrating the Fourth of July on the Argentine pampas had caused, but Frade had never been without a bottle of beer from the moment they had reached the ranch. It would obviously be better to have their meeting bright-eyed and sober in the morning.
[TWO]
As they walked into the house, Frade took Graham’s arm.
“Why don’t we go into the study?”
“How about in the morning?”
“Now would be better,” Frade said.
He started walking down the long, wide corridor toward what had been his father’s office, with Enrico trailing after him. After a moment’s hesitation, Graham followed them.
When Frade reached the door, he signaled to Enrico to sit in a leather armchair outside the office, then unlocked the door and went in. As Graham followed him inside, he saw that Frade had gone to a table lined with whiskey bottles.
“Close the door, please,” Frade said, then announced: “I’m having scotch. What can I fix for you?”
“I’ll have a scotch,” Graham said. “But we’re back to wouldn’t it be better to do this in the morning? When you’re . . . clearheaded?”