"And you must be Se¤or Stanley," Clete said. "How nice to see you here in the heart of darkest Argentina."
Leibermann laughed. "Thank you for coming. I wasn't sure you would. I was sorry to hear about your father."
"Thank you," Clete said, somewhat abruptly. "I'm not sure I should have come. What's on your mind?"
A waiter appeared. Clete ordered a beer, and Leibermann pointed at his wineglass to order another.
Leibermann handed him a small black-and-white photograph. It showed a young, small but well-muscled young man in a skivvy shirt and cutoff utilities. He was posing ferociously with a Thompson submachine gun in one hand and a K-bar knife in the other.
"My son," Leibermann said. "Sidney. Corporal, First Raider Battalion, U.S. Marine Corps."
"Nice-looking young man," Clete said.
"I had a very nice letter from a lieutenant colonel named Merritt Edson," Leibermann said evenly. "He said that he felt privileged to have commanded such a fine young man; that he had been proud to recommend him for a Silver Star; and that his grave site has been very carefully marked, so that when the battle for Guadalcanal is over, they can recover his remains."
"I'm sorry," Clete said.
"I have the letter with me. Would you care to see it?"
God, no, I don't want to see it!
Leibermann handed him the letter. Clete read it and handed it back.
"The point I'm trying to make, Major Frade, is that you and I-if not every-body in the OSS and the FBI-are on the same side in this war."
"It's not Major anymore. I've been discharged from the Marine Corps," Clete said, and waited for Leibermann to go on.
"I heard about that," Leibermann said, making it clear he didn't believe it. "But what is it they say, 'Once a Marine, always a Marine'? I didn't hear that you're out of the OSS, and this conversation will go easier if we don't waste time bullshitting each other."
Clete nodded.
There's something about this guy that I like. And I don't think that it's be-cause his son got blown away on Guadalcanal.
"My orders-nothing written, of course," Leibermann said, "but I know an order when I get one-are that I am to have to have as little contact with the OSS as possible. That goes for the people who work for me, as well."
"I've got the same kind of orders," Clete said.
"Let me give you a little background on me-unless you already have it?"
"I never heard your name until a couple of hours ago," Clete said.
"I'm from New York. I have a BS in accounting from the City College of New York. When I graduated, took the exam, got certified, there was not much of a demand for CPAs, especially Jewish ones. But the FBI was accepting ap-plications for CPAs-in those days, you had to be either a lawyer or a CPA to get in the FBI-and there wasn't much they could do to keep me out. I was Phi Beta Kappa at CCNY."
"What do you mean, 'keep you out'?"
"There's a couple of jokes about Jews in the FBI. One: There are so few of us that we can hold our convention in a phone booth. And the second: The last time we had a convention, we voted to petition J. Edgar Hoover to treat us the way Hitler treats the Jews in Germany, as it would be an improvement."
The waiter delivered the wine and beer. Lei
bermann raised his glass to Clete and took a very small sip.
"OK. So I got in, surprised everybody by making it through agent's school, and got myself assigned to the Manhattan Field Office. I went to work as an ac-countant. I was happy-I never saw myself as a Jewish Elliott Ness-and the FBI was happy, because I am a good accountant. When I caught people manip-ulating their books, they usually went to jail. Twice a year I shot my pistol, and then put it away in a drawer. You getting the picture?"
"I suppose," Clete said.
"After 1940, the FBI became really involved in South America. I hear they're recruiting Latins now, but in the old days there were about as many Spanish-speaking FBI agents as there were Jews. Anyway, they ran everybody's records and came up with the fact that Leibermann, Milton, spoke a little Spanish-"
"Your Spanish is pretty good," Clete interrupted.