“I give you my word of honor as a German officer, mi coronel.”
Perón looked into his eyes for a long moment.
“For lunch today, I went to the Yacht Club,” Perón said. “As we drove up, I saw Señor Mallín’s car. He drives a Rolls-Royce drop-head coupe—”
“Excuse me, a what?”
“Canvas roof,” Perón explained impatiently. “It was parked on the curving drive leading up to the main entrance of the Yacht Club. Behind it was a Ford station wagon, of the Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. In it were three men whom I recognized as former soldiers of the Húsares de Pueyrredón. Inside the foyer, at the door to the main dining room, there was another. He recognized me from our service together. I asked him what he and the others were up to. He said, ‘Don Cletus believes the goddamn Nazis are going to try to kidnap Don Enrico Mallín. If they try it, we will kill them.’ ”
“ ‘The goddamn Nazis’?” Cranz blurted.
“They believe ‘the goddamn Nazis’ assassinated el Coronel Frade,” Perón said pointedly. He paused, then added, “As you well know, Cranz.”
“Mi coronel, all I can do is repeat, again on my officer’s honor: I know nothing of a planned kidnapping.”
“Has it occurred to you, Cranz, has it occurred to anyone, that if something like that happened, Cletus Frade would certainly make good on his threat to ensure that the photographs taken of me at Tandil would be published?”
“Of course it has, mi coronel. And we will do nothing that would cause that to happen.”
“If those photographs came out—and/or the photograph Cletus Frade has of the map of the South American continent after the Final Victory, which Brigadeführer von Deitzberg was kind enough to give me—not only would my usefulness to the cause end, but General Rawson would be inclined—almost be forced—to seriously consider declaring war on the Axis.”
“Mi coronel, again, on my word of honor . . .”
“I don’t think this kidnapping is a product of my godson’s feverish imagination, Cranz. As we have learned, he is a very capable intelligence officer. He didn’t move his wife to Mendoza so she could take in the mountain air.”
“Well, I’ll get to the bottom of this. You have—”
“I know, your word,” Perón interrupted. “And tell Ambassador von Lutzenberger this, Cranz. I have taken certain actions to protect myself in the event something like this happens. The result of that would be more than a little embarrassing to everyone in the German Embassy. Understand this: Juan Domingo Perón is not expendable.”
“I will get to the bottom of this.”
“Once you tell me the date of the arrival of the special shipment, I will get word to you when and where the Mountain Troop convoy will be.”
Perón pushed open the door to the elevator foyer and gestured for Cranz to go through it.
“Buenas noches, Señor Cranz. I will expect to hear from you shortly.”
[FOUR]
Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade
Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina
1205 27 September 1943
Cletus Frade was pleased but not really surprised to see SAA’s Lodestar Ciudad de Mar del Plata taxi up to the terminal. Flight 107, daily nonstop service from Mendoza, was right on schedule; it was due at noon.
Five minutes one way or the other really cuts the mustard.
Neither, three minutes later, was he really surprised to see a visibly pregnant, truly beautiful blond young woman carefully exit the aircraft as the first deplaning passenger.
Now that he had time to think about it, when he had spoken with Dorotea on the Collins late the night before, she hadn’t protested at all when he said there was really no reason for her to come to Buenos Aires to see him off. That should have told him she intended to come to Buenos Aires to see him off and was not interested in his opinion on the subject.
He stepped out of the passenger terminal as she walked to it.
“My God, you’re beautiful!” his wife greeted him. “Now I’m really glad I came!”
Frade was wearing the uniform of an SAA captain.