The General Belgrano Suite was in the center of the top—fifth—floor of the hotel. It consisted of a bedroom, a sitting, a dining, and a maid’s room (where Enrico Rodríguez had insisted on sleeping). It was furnished with what Clete considered typical Argentine furniture: large, heavy, dark, and uncomfortable—particularly the bed.
Its windows overlooked the promenade, a wide concrete walk that separated the curved-front hotel from the beach and the South Atlantic Ocean.
Cletus Frade, who was wearing the red silk bathrobe he had found in his father’s closet still in its Sulka Rue de Castiglione Paris wrappings, turned from the window to look at his wife. She was wearing a white lace negligee that did virtually nothing to conceal the details of her anatomy.
“I tried very hard not to wake you, baby,” he said, genuinely contrite. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“And what have you been doing?”
“I’ve been looking out the window,” he said, indicating the window.
“And what did you see?”
“The waves are still going up and down,” he said. “Aside from that, not much is happening out there.”
That wasn’t exactly true.
Leaning against the wall of the promenade was a man in a snap-brim hat and a business suit, looking up from his newspaper from time to time toward the General Belgrano Suite. Clete was sure he was in the service of the Bureau of Internal Security.
Enrico Rodríguez was leaning on the same wall, ten feet from the BIS agent, keeping him under surveillance. His broad smile indicated that he found the very idea of keeping a man on his honeymoon under surveillance ludicrous.
Dorotéa walked to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and looked for herself.
“Who’s the man in the suit? One of Coronel Martín’s men?”
“Probably,” Clete said.
“That’s ridiculous,” Dorotéa said. “Is that going to happen all the time?”
“I don’t know,?
?? Clete said. “Probably.”
“They obviously think you’re up to something,” she said.
“I’m not,” Clete said.
“I know,” she said. “You promised to tell me if you were, and I trust you.”
“My orders, baby, are not to fall out of the marriage bed,” he said. “And to keep my eyes and ears open. That’s all.”
“So you told me,” she said. “And I trust you.”
“Just so I understand, you trust me, right?”
“Are you getting a little bored, my precious?”
“I may not be very bright,” Clete said, “but I am smart enough to know that the wise bridegroom on his honeymoon does not tell his bride he’s bored.”
“That, of course, means you are, my precious,” Dorotéa said. “I rather hoped you would be.”
“Excuse me?”
“Why don’t we get out of here? We could be in Buenos Aires in time for a late lunch. I could do what I have to do this afternoon. We could have a nice dinner—maybe at the Yacht Club—and then we could drive home in the morning.”
Clete was surprised at the emotion he felt when Dorotéa referred to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo as “home.” He put his arms around and hugged her. “Why go to Buenos Aires? Why don’t we just go home, baby?”
“There are some things at Mother’s I want to take home,” she said. “And then I have to see my obstetrician.”