[FIVE]
4730 Avenida Libertador Buenos Aires, Argentina 1515 12 August 1943
“Leave us, please, Colonel Martín,” Colonel Juan Domingo Perón said.
“Would you like me to wait, sir?”
“That probably won’t be necessary. But, yes, it might be a good idea.”
They were in the library. Perón was seated in one of the red leather-upholstered chairs.
A clear memory came to Clete Frade of Hans-Peter von Wachtstein sitting in that chair, half in the bag and listening to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, the night they first had met.
Seeing Perón in the chair angered him.
“How was the flight, Cletus?”
“Long and tiring, but everybody’s going to get their airline transport ratings. That, however, is not what this is about, is it, Tío Juan?”
“No, it’s not. Have you been to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo? Talked to anyone there?”
“Is that any of your business?”
Perón’s face tightened.
“To put a point on it, have you heard what happened in Tandil?”
“I heard you led some mountain troops there, along with the half-dozen SS troops who got off the U-405, and they shot up the house pretty badly.”
“I have no idea where you got that. It’s preposterous!”
“You were looking for the Froggers, Tío Juan. But you were a little late. Right about now they should be boarding a British cruiser in Rio de Janeiro. The Brits seem to think Frogger knows something about Operation Phoenix.”
Perón’s eyes bulged.
He blurted, “Do you have any idea what a dangerous position you’re in, you damned fool?”
“Well, your Nazi friends tried to kill me once—in this very house—and that didn’t work.”
“That could happen again . . .”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Now I’ve got you to protect me.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that if anything should happen to me—or anyone around me— the photographs showing you on the road in Tandil with the colonel of mountain troops will surface. And the photos of the dead SS bleeding all over my verandah. That would be a little hard to explain.”
Perón reached in his trousers pocket and came out with a small snub-nosed revolver.
Then suddenly there was the sound of the bolt slamming into place in a Remington Model 11 self-loading 12-gauge shotgun.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Rodríguez?” Perón snapped. “How dare you aim a weapon at me, at an officer?”
You sonofabitch! Frade thought. You’re so drunk with power that you think you could get away with intimidating me—even killing me—in front of Enrico?
You arrogant bastard. You’ll never know such loyalty. . . .
“I suggest you put the pistol on the floor very carefully, Tío Juan,” Frade said evenly. “I think Enrico would really like to shoot you. It would be a tragic accident, of course, witnessed by the son of your best friend in his library. Poor old Enrico didn’t know it was loaded.”