“Then I will go to her,” Beatrice announced, and marched into the house.
Clete and Humberto embraced with genuine affection.
“You do, you know, look elegant,” Humberto said.
“In Texas, we have a name for people who wear these things,” Clete said, pointing at the foulard.
“Please don’t tell me what it is.” Humberto chuckled. “And, as you may have noticed, Cletus, you are not in Texas.”
“Have I ever,” Clete said, and adding, “We have to talk.” He led Humberto into the cloakroom and closed the door after them.
“Something’s wrong?” Humberto asked.
Clete walked to a table on which sat an array of bottles and glasses. “You want wine, or something stronger?” he asked.
“A little wine, tinto, please,” Humberto said. “I think it may be a long day.”
Clete poured Merlot in two glasses and handed one to Humberto, then stationed himself where he could look through the slats in the blind. He glanced out, and then faced Humberto. “Alicia’s in the family way,” he said.
“Oh, my God!” Humberto said softly. “Peter’s the father?”
Clete nodded. “I found out a couple of hours ago.”
“Does Claudia know?”
“Just Dorotéa, me, now you, and in a few minutes, Juan Domingo Perón.”
“Why him?”
“Add Welner to the list,” Clete said. “He thinks my Tío Juan’s influence with the Germans may be helpful.”
“Alicia went to Father Kurt?”
“I did,” Clete said then. “Oh, shit, I forgot about them.”
Humberto walked to the window. Four men were getting out of a 1942 Buick Super with diplomatic tags. Three of them were in the pink-and-green uniform of U.S. Army officers, all with the golden rope of military attachés hanging from the epaulets. The third man was in a somewhat
rumpled suit. Humberto recognized two of the officers and the civilian. They were Milton Leibermann, “Legal Attaché of the American Embassy”; Captain Maxwell Ashton III; and Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi. The third officer he had never seen before. “Who’s the officer?” Humberto asked.
“I don’t know his name. He’s the new military attaché. Milton thinks I should meet him.”
“And meet him in public,” Humberto said.
Clete shrugged to indicate he had no idea of Leibermann’s motives.
“You were telling me what Father Kurt had to say,” Humberto said.
“I asked him if he could find out what’s going on with Peter von Wachtstein,” Clete said. “He suggested Perón would be useful. I told you about this von Deitzberg character bringing the apologies of the German officer corps for murdering my father….”
“What do you think has happened to Peter?”
“I don’t like to think about that,” Clete said. “They obviously suspect he was involved with what happened at Samborombón Bay. That’s enough to put him in front of a firing squad, without even getting into the rest of it.”
The door opened without a knock. Clete glowered at it and then smiled. Señora Dorotéa Mallín de Frade, wearing a simple black dress and a double strand of pearls that had belonged to Clete’s grandmother, entered the room. “Tío Juan is five minutes out,” she announced.
Enrico had stationed gauchos near the road from Pila to the estancia with orders to notify him the moment el Coronel Perón’s car appeared on the road. By galloping across the pampas, a gaucho could reach the Casa Grande at least five minutes before an automobile could do so by road.
She walked to Humberto and kissed him. “He told you?”