He touched Clete's arm and propelled him to the bar, which was crowded with the successful members of the Revolution of 1943 not needed at the Edificio Libertador.
"Would you bring us a bottle of Johnny Walker Black, please? And three glasses?" Mart¡n ordered.
When it was delivered, he waved the barman away, poured the whiskey himself, and handed Clete and Enrico their glasses.
"If you will indulge me further, gentlemen, I have three toasts to offer."
"Don't take too long," Clete said.
"To the new government of Argentina," Mart¡n said seriously.
Clete raised his glass.
"Hear, hear," he said.
"To the officers and other ranks of the Argentine Armada and Army on both sides of this unfortunately necessary change of government who died for their country today."
Clete's face showed that the toast surprised him, but after a moment he said, "Hear, hear," raised his glass, and took another sip of his whiskey.
"And to Technical Sergeant David Ettinger, United States Army. I am very sorry indeed, Mayor Frade, to have to tell you that he also died in the service of his country."
"Oh, shit," Clete said. He looked at his half-empty glass of scotch, drained it, and then looked at Martin.
"When did that happen? How?"
"Excuse me, mi Coronel," Enrico said. "Did you say Ettinger is dead?"
"I'm afraid so, Suboficial Mayor," Mart¡n said, then looked at Clete. "I re-ceived the word just two hours ago. When the telephones to Montevideo were restored. Sergeant Ettinger's body was found on the beach at Carrasco two days ago. In the morning. He had been stabbed to death."
Mart¡n saw that Clete's face was white, and his lips bloodless.
With either pain or rage or both. This is not the time to tell him Ettinger was mutilated. Or how.
"By party or parties unknown, right?" Clete asked bitterly.
"My sources tell me the murder has all the marks of a killing for pay."
"And we know who paid, don't we? That goddamned Goltz!"
"'Goltz,' Se¤or Clete?" Enrico asked.
"That German SS Colonel, Enrico. He ordered Ettinger's murder, and he got it. He's the same sonofabitch who ordered my father killed. I'll get that sonofabitch, somehow!"
"I understand your feelings, Frade," Mart¡n said, "but it would help nothing if you took any-"
"It would be unprofessional, right? Conduct unbecoming an intelligence officer? Well let me tell you, mi Coronel, if I ever get a bead on that Kraut sono-fabitch-and I'm damned sure going to try-I'll drop him in his tracks!"
"A 'bead,' Se¤or Clete?" Enrico asked.
"A 'bead'?" Mart¡n parroted.
Clete, looking at the confusion on their faces, smiled.
"I guess that doesn't translate into Spanish very well, does it?" he said. "In English-or American, I suppose-when you line your rifle sights up on a deer, you say you're 'taking a bead.' I guess it comes from the little brass balls the old Winchesters used to use for front sights; they looked like beads."
"You shot many deer in the United States, did you?" Mart¡n asked.
"Asked the professional intelligence officer, cleverly tactfully trying to change the subject," Clete said, smiling at him. "Don't worry, Martin. When I drop that sonofabitch, I will make a real effort to do it so you won't get in-volved."