Or two German studs.
“Go get him, please, Hansel,” Frade ordered. “Actually, get both of them in here.”
And—what the hell—bring Elsa, too.
We can have a party!
—
“Dieter, Willi,” von Wachtstein said, “this is General Martín, through whose good offices you have your identity documents. General, my former commanding officer, Dieter von und zu Aschenburg, and my old friend Willi Grüner.”
“I am very grateful to you, sir,” von und zu Aschenburg said.
“I have always been impressed with your flying skill, Señor Aschenburg,” Martín said, “as well as your personal courage. When Peter came to me about bringing you to Argentina, I had no problem at all bending a rule here and a regulation there. I have no doubt that you will make a fine Argentine citizen.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Señor Grüner’s situation,” Martín went on, “unfortunately did not lend itself—does not lend itself—to my making a quick decision.”
“Sir?” Willi Grüner asked, confused.
“Please let me finish, Señor Grüner. And Colonel Frade, I would be most grateful if you would keep any thoughts you might have on this subject to yourself until I’m finished. Actually, I’m going to have to insist on that.”
“A su órdenes, mi General,” Frade said, jovially sarcastic.
“Like your brother, Cletus,” Martín said, “I have had just about all of your sarcasm that I’m going to take. Just sit there and shut up.”
“Or leave the room,” Cletus Marcus Howell added. “I don’t know what the hell is the matter with you, but like everybody else, I’ve had enough of it.”
Frade appeared on the edge of saying something but didn’t.
Martín waited ten seconds, which seemed longer, and then started.
“I knew your father, Señor Grüner,” he said, “and a good deal about him. I detested him for a number of reasons, ones general and specific. Generally—this should surprise no one—because he was not only a coronel—an oberst—in the Sicherheitsdienst of the Schutzstaffel but was very good at what the SD-SS did. Which here in Argentina meant the corruption of our officer and diplomatic corps and the murder of anyone who got in your father’s way.”
“General, my father is dead,” Willi Grüner said.
“Do not interrupt me again, please, Señor Grüner,” Martín said evenly, then went on: “And, specifically, I hated him because he ordered the assassination of an officer who was a dear friend and destined to be president of the Argentine Republic.
“I refer of course to late el Coronel Jorge G. Frade. Cletus’s father. Your father also tried on several occasions to assassinate Cletus. The most memorable of those occurred in this house. In the room we just left on the top floor, Cletus killed two of the murderers hired by your father, but not before they had slit the throat of the housekeeper, a middle-aged woman, in the kitchen.”
My God, Jimmy realized, genuinely shocked, this is all true.
“You said a moment, ago, Señor Grüner, that your father is dead. Are you aware of the circumstances of his death?”
“I have heard—”
Martín held up his hand to silence Grüner.
“Permit me to tell you the circumstances, Señor Grüner. I think it important that you know them. Your father was shot on the beach of Samborombón Bay. He was engaged at the time in the off-loading from an ostensibly neutral merchant ship crates of currency and other valuables. These were to purchase sanctuary here in Argentina for senior Nazi officials once they lost the war. The vessel was also intending to smuggle into Argentina a detachment of SS officers and other ranks to guard the vast valuables.
“While assisting in this smuggling operation, your father was shot in the head by a retired Argentine army sergeant major in defiance of his orders from then-Major Frade to observe only and take no action. Sergeant Major Enrico Rodríguez was aware of your father’s role in the attempted assassination here of Cletus Frade, and the brutal murder of the housekeeper. She was his sister. Rodríguez was also aware of your father’s role in the assassination of el Coronel Frade. He had been at Colonel Frade’s side—as he had been for twenty years during their active duty—when the assassination took place. He had been so seriously wounded himself that the assassins presumed him dead. El Colonel Frade’s death was caused by a twelve-bore shotgun loaded with double-aught buckshot fired twice into his face—”
“Good God! I never heard that!” Cletus Marcus Howell exclaimed. “In the face? Cletus, you never told me that!”
Cletus looked at him and said, “Now it’s your turn to just sit there and shut up, Grandfather. Let’s see where Bernardo is going with this.”
As if he had heard neither, Martín went on: “The assassins were never arrested. Your father, Señor Grüner—as I said, he was very good at what he did—arranged for them to be murdered when they arrived in Paraguay expecting to be paid the second half of their fee. ‘Dead men tell no tales,’ it is said.