“I shit you not, Major,” Stein said. “ ‘Tonto’ means ‘stupid’ in Spanish.”
“That’s right, it does,” Dorotea said, and giggled. “ ‘The Masked Rider of the Plains, and his faithful Indian companion, Stupid.’ ”
Everyone started laughing.
Jesus, Frade thought, the laughter is coming close to being hysterical.
I’d probably put them over the edge if I mentioned the name of where we’ve built the airfield for South American Airways—Morón.”
Then Frade wondered if he was the only one thinking that nervousness— hell, not only that but fear and terror, too—was causing the hilarity.
As they were getting in the Horch, Sargento Rodolfo Gómez walked up to Frade.
“May I have a moment, Don Cletus?”
Frade followed him out of earshot of the people in and around the car.
“What’s on your mind, Rodolfo?”
“So you will not worry about Sargento Stein, Don Cletus . . .”
“Worry about him? Why?”
“Enrico says he does not think Sargento Stein has it in him to kill the Nazi bitch.”
“I think Enrico is wrong, Rodolfo. And I don’t want either of the Germans killed unless it is necessary.”
“I understand, Don Cletus. But if I see that Sargento Stein thinks he has to do it, I will do it for him. My conscience will not bother me later. Enrico is like my brother. His sister, may she be resting in peace with all the angels, was like my sister. You understand, Don Cletus?”
“I understand, Rodolfo, and I thank you.”
“Que Dios lo acompañe, Don Cletus.”
[FOUR]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 0915 20 July 1943
They had gone a little over a mile onto Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo when a gaucho, where the road passed close to a thick grove of ancient eucalyptus trees, moved his horse onto the road.
Frade braked the Horch with a sinking feeling. There was no immediate danger, but he felt sure the gaucho had been sent to tell him that at the big house were agents of the Bureau of Internal Security—or the Policía Federal— and that he was about to have to start running.
If not running for his life, then running away from spending a long time in a miserable prison cell.
The gaucho politely nodded when Frade had stopped, but didn’t say anything.
Frade looked into the grove, expecting to see saddled horses. What he saw in addition to three saddled horses and three horse-borne gauchos and the Model A Ford pickup that Lieutenant Oscar Schultz, USN, used for his transportation over the pampas was Schultz himself, wearing his gaucho outfit and walking toward the road.
Clete turned off the ignition. If he was going to go riding off into the pampas, Dorotea would drive the car to the big house.
Dorotea reached for his hand and held it.
“Well, I’ll tell you what’s happened,” Schultz said, quite unnecessarily.
“Thanks,” Clete replied sarcastically, and was immediately sorry, even though the sarcasm had sailed over Schultz’s head.
“Delgano is at the big house,” Schultz said. “He’s been there since half past seven. He’s alone, and nobody else has come onto the estancia.”
“He’s alone?”