He looked at Frade. “Jesus H. Christ!”
“Yeah,” Frade said. “Initial reaction?”
“Wallace, especially with this ‘no action undertaken’ bullshit, is covering his ass again.”
“Okay, aside from that obvious part . . . ?”
“Well, for starters, the Tribunal Prison escape? With Cohen and the Twenty-sixth Infantry sitting on it? I would have said impossible.”
Frade nodded. “All right, give it some more thought on your way to the guesthouse. When you get there, get everybody lunch and start saying your good-byes.”
“While you . . . ?”
“While I’m in the Bunker talking to El Jefe on the SIGABA. When I’m finished, then I’ll come.”
“You got it.”
Cronley saw Ginger Moriarty being escorted with her infant to one of the vehicles that had just pulled up. He motioned his parents toward the second from the front of the line.
Cronley was glad to be able to get away from Ginger. The last time he had seen her, she had called him—with more, he believed, than a little justification—a bastard and a miserable son of a bitch, and told him to get the hell out of her house.
[FOUR]
4730 Avenida del Libertador General San Martín
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1355 10 April 1946
The master bedroom, what Cletus Frade called Uncle Willy’s bedroom, had been built by his grand-uncle Guillermo at the turn of the century. It had a mirrored ceiling and life-size marble statuary showing two couples, and one trio, engaged in the reproductive act.
Jim Cronley had just started shaving when he heard a familiar female voice outside the bathroom door.
“What is this place, a brothel?” Ginger Moriarty asked.
“Noticed the statues, have you?”
“Well, I’m glad I asked Father McGrath to give me a minute alone with you before he came in. I wouldn’t want it getting around that I led a priest into your private whorehouse.”
Cronley, using a thick cotton towel, wiped the soap from his face and went into the bedroom, where he grandly swept his hand around the room.
“This is all Clete’s grand-uncle’s doings. Personally, I am as pure as the driven snow.”
She grunted.
“So, what’s on your mind, Ginger?”
“Actually, I came up here to apologize. I’m just not sure if I came to Argentina only to do that. I think there may be another reason, besides me getting away from my parents.”
“Then what the hell are you doing in Argentina?”
“It’s sort of complicated.”
“Give it a shot.”
“I don’t know . . . Well, okay, what the hell. I was having supper with your folks and Clete’s at your spread in Midland when Admiral Souers called and told Clete to pick you and the others up down here and take you all to Germany. Immediately. Which meant the next morning.”
“And . . . ?”