Cranz looked out the windshield at the line of cars drawn up in the drive of the big house. There was a shiny new black Rolls-Royce, a black 1940 Packard 280 convertible coupe, an olive-drab Mercedes, a red-and-black Horch touring car, and a 1942 Buick Roadmaster.
“That Horch is really the last thing I would have expected to see out here in the middle of nowhere,” Commercial Attaché Cranz said.
“It belongs to Cletus Frade, Karl,” Peter von Wachtstein said. “It was his father’s. His father was riding in it when he was murdered.”
“You mean Frade is here?” Cranz asked.
“Either he or his wife. I would suspect both. Shall we turn around?”
“What is he doing here?”
“I would suspect having dinner. His wife and my wife are very close,” von Wachtstein said. “They grew up together. And my wife knew I had the duty and wouldn’t be here to make things awkward.”
“And who else would you say is here?”
“The open Packard is Father Welner’s. He’s the family’s Jesuit. The Rolls belongs to the parents of Hauptmann Duarte, who died at Stalingrad. They’re Frade’s aunt and uncle. The army Mercedes is almost certainly Colonel Perón’s. And the Buick is my mother-in-law’s.”
“And her relation to Frade?”
“Very close. She looks on him as a son.”
When Cranz didn’t reply for a long moment, von Wachtstein asked again, “Shall we turn around? If we go in there, it’s going to be more than a little awkward.”
“You don’t get along with Frade?”
“For some reason,” von Wachtstein said more than a little sarcastically, “he thinks we Germans were responsible for the murder of his father.”
Again, Cranz didn’t reply for a long moment. Then he said, “Peter, we are in a neutral country. We are gentlemen, and I think we may presume that Frade will do nothing to embarrass a woman who thinks of him as her son. I had hoped to get to know Colonel Perón while I was here, and at least get a look at Señor Frade. Fortune may well be smiling on us. Loche, put the lights back on and drive up to the entrance.”
“May I ask who these people are?” von und zu Aschenburg said.
“Colonel Juan Domingo Perón is a very important Argentine army officer,” Cranz began, “known to be sympathetic to National Socialism, and a man who a number of people believe will become even more important in Argentina. Frade is the son of the late Oberst Frade, who, until he was assassinated by parties unknown, many thought would be the next president of Argentina. His son, like you and Peter, is a fighter pilot of some distinction. You’ll have a lot in common. But be careful, please, Oberst von und zu Aschenburg. He is also the head of the American OSS in Argentina, and a very dangerous man.”
“I’m not good at this sort of thing, Cranz,” von und zu Aschenburg said. “Why don’t I just wait in the car?”
“I understand your feelings, Herr Oberst. Let me go off at a tangent. May I have your permission, Herr Oberst, to address you by your Christian name? And that you call me ‘Karl’? And that, especially, both of you remember not to use my rank?”
“In other words, you think I should go in there with you?”
“I would be very grateful, Dieter, if you would.”
Von Wachtstein kissed his wife and then his mother-in-law on their cheeks.
“Mama,” he said to Claudia Carzino-Cormano, “I had no idea you were having guests. I tried to call, but the lines were out again. . . .”
“This is your home,” she said in Spanish, and put out her hand to von und zu Aschenburg. “Welcome to our home. I’m Claudia Carzino-Cormano.”
Von und zu Aschenburg took her hand, clicked his heels, bowed, and kissed her hand.
“Please pardon the intrusion, la señora,” he said in Spanish. “Hansel and I are old friends, and I really wanted to meet his bride. My name is Dieter von und zu Aschenburg.”
“ ‘Hansel’? As in Hansel and Gretel?”
“In German, it means ‘Little Hans,’ señora,” he replied. “I have known him that long.”
“You’ll forgive me, señor, I don’t recognize your uniform.”
“I have the honor to be a pilot for Lufthansa, señora. We just arrived, and I haven’t had time to change out of my uniform.”
“So you’re not a soldier?”
“An airline pilot, señora.”
Cletus Frade thought:
“And how should I call you?”
“I would be honored, señora, if you bring yourself to call me Dieter.”
“And you will please call me Claudia,” she said, and turned to Cranz. “Welcome to our home, señor. And you are?”
“I regret, madam, I do not speak Spanish,” Cranz said in German.
“He says he’s sorry he doesn’t speak Spanish, Claudia,” Frade offered helpfully in English.
