Stein nodded.
“I have just been the bad cop,” Frade said. “I don’t know how convincing I was, but that’s what I was trying. I threatened to kill and burn them—”
“I don’t think they have buzzards down here, Major.”
“I don’t know if they do or not. But I don’t think that they know either.”
Stein smiled at him.
“You’re about to become the good cop, Major Stein. The way you do that is to confirm their suspicions that Colonel Frade is an unmitigated sonofabitch who hates Nazis because they killed his father—that’s not far from the truth, incidentally, but I have people like that sonofabitch Cranz in mind, the SS, not a miserable little shit like this guy. Anyway, being the good guy, tell them you may—just may—be able to talk me out of killing them if they have something to offer . . .”
“Like what?”
“He says he never heard of Operation Phoenix, and I don’t know if he’s lying or not. But work on that. Start—unless he starts on Operation Phoenix, or the ransoming operation, which I think is unlikely—by getting him to give us the manning chart of the embassy. We can have von Wachtstein check that, see if he’s lying.”
“Major, I’ve never done anything like this in my life.”
“Welcome to the club, Sergeant Stein. Neither have I.”
Stein shrugged.
“When will you be back?”
“In a couple of days. I want to talk to Leibermann. It’s going to be tough. Martín showed up as I was about to take off from Campo de Mayo. He suspects we’re involved in this. BIS agents are going to be all over everybody.”
Stein nodded, then shrugged, but didn’t reply directly.
“You better get going, Major. You’re about to lose daylight.”
Frade thought aloud: “Jesus, I wish I could get von Wachtstein out here. He’d know how to deal with them.”
“But then they would know he’s Galahad.”
“What makes you think he hasn’t already figured that out?”
“Or her,” Stein said. “Can you get him out here?”
“I don’t know. I’ll work on it. But in the meantime . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
[SEVEN]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1905 14 July 1943
When Clete dropped the nose of the Piper Cub on his final approach to the landing strip, he saw that the Horch and Dorotea’s Buick were parked side by side at the end of the runway. A dozen other vehicles were parked on either side of the strip, positioned so their headlights would illuminate the strip.
The “emergency lighting system” wasn’t needed yet, but in another fifteen minutes it would have been.
Dorotea set that up.
Jesus Christ, what a great woman!
And then he saw her, standing up in the front seat of the Horch, waving a welcome to him.
You sonofabitch, how did you wind up with a woman like that?
Because God takes care of fools and drunks, and you qualify on both counts?