“Sí, Patrón. I heard the airplane coming, and…”
Clete trotted up the stairs, went to the desk in his apartment, and picked up the telephone. “If this is who I think it is, what a pleasant surprise,” he said.
“Captain Ashton, Sir.”
“Where are you, Max?”
“At the embassy.”
“And you’ve called to tell me you’ve found work?”
“Sir, I have been appointed as an assistant military attaché.”
“When did that happen?”
“We arrived last evening, Sir,” Ashton said. “Sir, I need to see you, at your earliest convenience.”
What’s with this “Sir” business?
“Will it wait until Saturday? Consider yourself invited to my wedding.”
“Thank you, Sir. Would it be possible to see you today, Sir?”
“Sure, come on out.”
“Sir, perhaps there’s someplace we could meet in Buenos Aires?”
Whatever this is all about, he’s serious.
“The weather’s closing in—I can’t fly. It’ll take me two hours, a little longer, to drive in. How about lunch?”
“Yes, Sir. That would be fine. Where, Sir?”
“You know where the guest house is, on Libertador?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“No. That’s out. I just remembered somebody’s staying there. It’ll have to be the museum. Noon OK?”
“The museum, Sir?”
“Seventeen twenty-eight Avenida Coronel Díaz, in Palermo,” Clete said. “I’ll call ahead and tell them you’re coming, in case you get there before I do.”
“Seventeen twenty-eight Avenida Coronel Díaz at twelve hundred,” Ashton said. “Yes, Sir. We’ll be there, Sir.”
The line went dead.
“We’ll be there”? He said “we” twice. Who’s “we”? What’s this all about?
He put the telephone in its cradle and turned and was not at all surprised to find Enrico standing in the door. “Get the Horch, Enrico, we’re going into Buenos Aires.”
“Señor Cletus, they are working on the polish of the Horch.”
“OK, then get the Buick.”
“We will be coming back today?”
“I think so.”