Top Secret Part 30

Jimmy still had trouble remembering exactly what had happened and when, but in about the middle of it he had been in Mendoza- That was right after Clete flew there with a wounded Colonel Peron in the back of the machine-gun-riddled SAA Lodestar.

And before the Squirt told me she'd loved me all her life-and I took her virginity. The next and last time we Did It was in the Lord Baltimore Hotel.

That was after I got checked out in the Lodestar, then headed to the Straits of Magellan. And after I came back from down there with the uranium oxide from the U-234.

And we loaded it on the Old Man's Connie and flew it to Was.h.i.+ngton.

And the next thing I knew I was a captain.

And I was a widower-no-first I was a married man.

The next day I was a widower, and that afternoon I was a captain.

-on top of a mountain, in sort of a fort and prison run by Clete's deputy, Major Maxwell Ashton III, and for the first time Jimmy and Clete were alone for a few minutes and Jimmy had just blurted out, "What the h.e.l.l's going on?"

"You mean here at Casa Montagna-aka Fort Leavenworth South?"

"Start with that."

"Well, it also was built by my Great-uncle Guillermo," Clete said, "which is why it's called Estancia Don Guillermo. I never met him, but I understand he was not crippled by modesty and self-effacement. I inherited it from my father, and placed it in the service of the Office of Strategic Services. Next question?"

"How'd you go from being a hotshot fighter pilot to the OSS, Clete? I still remember your mom showing me the picture of you being awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for service there."

Clete turned his head slightly and nodded. "That's right. I never told you. As you know, I made Ace-that takes five kills and I got seven-with VFM-226 on Guadalca.n.a.l. For living to tell about it, there was a prize: The Corps sent me home to go on a War Bond tour. You can imagine how much fun that was. And following the tour, the Corps was sending me to Pensacola to teach fledging birdmen.

"I was in my room in the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel trying to decide who I was going to have to kill to get out of both the tour and flight school when a full bull Marine colonel showed up. He handed me a picture of a man wearing what looked like a German uniform. 'That's your father.'

"I said, 'Really?' and he said, 'We think he's going to be the next president of Argentina.'

"And I probably said, 'Really?' again, and he said, 'Lieutenant, we want you to go to Argentina and do two things. Blow up an ostensibly neutral s.h.i.+p which is supplying German submarines in the River Plate, and see what you can do to tilt your father to our side. Right now he's favoring Hitler, Mussolini, and Tojo.'"

"This is for real?"

Clete nodded again. "It was mind-blowing. I said, very respectfully, 'Sir, I have never laid eyes on my father. That's the first picture I ever saw of him. And I have no idea how to blow s.h.i.+ps up. I'm a Marine fighter pilot.'"

"And?"

"He said, 'You were a Marine fighter pilot. What you are now is a Basic Flight Instructor on temporary War Bond Tour Duty en route to Pensacola. We'll teach you how to blow up s.h.i.+ps, and I'm sure you'll figure out some way to cozy up to your daddy once you get to Buenos Aires.'"

"Jesus!"

"Three weeks later, I got off the Panagra Clipper in the River Plate. My cover was that I had been medically discharged from the Corps and was now going to make my contribution to the War Effort by making sure none of the crude or refined product that the Old Man s.h.i.+pped there from Howell Petroleum Venezuela wound up in German, Italian, or j.a.panese hands.

"The Old Man arranged for me to stay with his major customer, who is a real pain in the a.s.s. All Seor Enrico Mallin knew about me was that I was the Old Man's grandson-not that my father was an Argentine.

"Two nights after I get to Buenos Aires, I'm having dinner with the Mallin family, trying to keep my eyes off his daughter-"

"His daughter?"

"Good-looking blond. You've met her. Her last name is now Frade."

"That's where you met her?"

"You want to hear this story or not?"

"Go!"

"The phone rings. The butler tells my future father-in-law it's for him. Seor Mallin snaps, 'You know I don't take calls at dinner,' and the butler replies, 'Seor, it is el Coronel Frade.'

"Mallin turns white. He takes the phone and oozes charm as he tells el Coronel Frade how pleased he is to hear his voice, and asks how might he be of service.

"A very loud voice that can be heard all over the dining room announces, 'It has come to my attention that my son is under your roof. I would like to talk to him.'

"'Your son, mi Coronel?'

"'For Christ's sake, Mallin! I know he's there. Get him on the G.o.dd.a.m.ned phone!'"

Cronley laughed.

"How'd he know you were there?"

"You met General Martn. The guy who runs the Bureau of Internal Security. He was a light colonel then, Number Three at BIS. It was brought to his attention that an American named Cletus Howell Frade, whose pa.s.sport said he was born in Argentina, had just gotten off the Panagra Clipper. He checked and-lo and behold!-there it was, el Coronel Frade had a son named Cletus Howell Frade. He asked my father if there was anything el Coronel thought he should know about his son who had just arrived in Buenos Aires."

"Why'd he do that?"

"My father was about to stage a coup d'etat, following which he would become president of the Argentine Republic . . ."

"He was what?"

". . . which Martn thought was a good thing, and didn't want anything s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g it up. Are you going to stop interrupting me?"

"Sorry."

"So I took the phone from Mallin. And a deep voice formally announced, 'This is your father. Would it be convenient for you to take lunch with me tomorrow?' I said, 'Yes, sir,' and he replied, 'The bar at the Alvear Palace. Half past twelve.' And he hung up.

"At twelve-forty the next day, ten minutes late-there are two bars at the Alvear, and I'd gone to the wrong one-I walked into the bar looking for a guy in a German uniform. No luck. But a guy wearing a tweed jacket and silk scarf looked hard at me. I walked over and in my best Texican Spanish asked if he was Colonel Frade.

"'You're late,' he announced. 'I hate to be kept waiting. That said, may I say I'm delighted to see you've returned safely from Guadalca.n.a.l.'"

"He knew you'd been on Guadalca.n.a.l?"

"Yeah. I found out later he knew just about everything else I'd ever done in my life, like when I was promoted from Tenderfoot in Troop 36, BSA, in Midland.

"Then he said, 'With your approval, I suggest we have a drink, or two, here and then go to the Crculo Militar for lunch. That's the officers' club.'

"In the next thirty minutes, over three Jack Daniel's-doubles-he politely inquired into the health of the Howells, including the Old Man, then announced I had arrived conveniently in time for the funeral next week of my cousin."

"You had a cousin down here?"

"Cousin Jorge, the son of my father's sister, Beatrice. Pay close attention, Jimmy, it gets complicated from this point.

"My father said Aunt Beatrice, who'd always been a little odd, poor woman, had just about gone completely bonkers when Cousin Jorge died in the crash of a Storch at Stalingrad. He was afraid she wasn't going to make it through the funeral, which was going to include the posthumous presentation of the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross."

"You had a cousin who was a German pilot at Stalingrad?" Jimmy said incredulously.

"He was an Argentine captain, at Stalingrad as an observer."

"Jesus Christ!"

"And sometime during this exchange of family gossip, I told him the bulls.h.i.+t cover story about me being medically discharged from the Corps, and how I was in Argentina to check on what happened to Howell Venezuela crude and refined product.

"To which he replied, 'Teniente Coronel Martn-who's seldom wrong-thinks the OSS sent you down here.' So I asked him who Martn was, and he told me, and I said he's wrong, to which he replied, (a) 'Please do not insult me by lying to me,' and (b) 'Don't worry about Martn. I can handle him until we get you safely out of the country.'

"Then he said it was time for lunch. I tried to be a gentleman and pay for the drinks, but my father waved at the barman. 'My son's money is no good in the Alvear. Make sure everyone knows that.'

"We walked out of the hotel. The Horch was parked there next to an Absolutely No Parking Or Stopping At Any Time sign. Enrico-you know Enrico . . ."

Jimmy nodded.

". . . was standing there holding the driver's door open. My father said, 'Cletus, this is Suboficial Mayor Rodrguez. We soldiered together for twenty-five years. Enrico, this is my son Cletus.'

"Enrico popped to attention. 'An honor, mi teniente. El coronel has told me what a fine officer of the Corps de Marines you are.'"

"I thought your father was a n.a.z.i. Or a n.a.z.i sympathizer."

"At the time, so did I. So then my father said, 'Get in the back, Enrico. Teniente Frade will drive.' I got behind the wheel and drove to the Crculo Militar, a couple of blocks away.

"I later found out I was the first person except Enrico my father ever let within ten feet of that steering wheel. He really loved his Horch. He died in it."

"What?"

"a.s.sa.s.sinated. Two barrels of twelve-gauge double-aught buckshot to the face."

"Jesus Christ, Clete!"

"I'll return to that later. So we went to the Crculo Militar, where we had several more double Jack Daniel's while waiting for our lunch, during which time he introduced me to maybe half of the senior bra.s.s of the Ejercito Argentino as 'my son, Teniente Cletus, hero of Guadalca.n.a.l, where he shot down seven j.a.panese aircraft and earned the Distinguished Flying Cross.'

"During lunch, which was an enormous filet mignon served with two bottles of Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon-from here, Jimmy, my father said it came from a 'little vineyard the family owns' . . . Okay, where was I? Oh. The important part. Over lunch, I heard my father's version of his marriage and why I was raised by Mom and Uncle Jim. It differed substantially from the Old Man's version."

"What was your father's version?"

"That he and my mother were married in New Orleans, in the Saint Louis Cathedral, with the Old Man's blessing. His poker-playing pal the Cardinal Archbishop did the honors. No one had ever told me that.

"My father's best man was his Army buddy, then Major Juan Domingo Peron. A year later, I was born-upstairs in this house, the attending physician was Mother Superior-and To Juan became my G.o.dfather."

"That old nun who just sewed up Peron?"

"One and the same. She runs the Little Sisters of Saint Pilar hospital. She also delivered both of my kids."

"So what the h.e.l.l happened?"

"My mother, when she converted to Roman Catholicism, jumped in with both feet. The Old Man thought her conversion was no more than a formality to get the cardinal to marry them in the cathedral. But she became deeply devout."

"So what? I don't understand."

"She'd had trouble when I was born. Mother Superior warned her that future pregnancies would be dangerous. This was confirmed by other doctors."

"And your father didn't care, he just-"

"What my father told me, with tears running down his cheeks, was that he would cheerfully have started to wors.h.i.+p the devil if that's what it would have taken to get my mother to get her tubes tied or let him use what he called 'french letters.' But my mother declared them mortal sins. She said it was in the hands of G.o.d."

"And she became pregnant?"

"And died, together with the child she was carrying, in childbirth."

"Here?"

"In New Orleans. My father said she didn't want to go there. But Mother Superior told her that it was her Christian duty to get the best medical attention possible. They left here-taking me with them-and flew to Miami and then New Orleans. Where she died. And the Old Man went ballistic, blaming it all on-"

"That despicable Argentinean sonofab.i.t.c.h?"

Clete grunted. "Yeah. So when my father said that he intended to have my mother buried in the family mausoleum in the Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires, the Old Man talked him into leaving the baby-me-with Mom and Uncle Jim in New Orleans until after the funeral.

"When my father came back to the States to get me, they stopped him at the border. The Old Man had arranged to have him declared a 'person of low moral character.' And when my father sneaked into the States from Mexico, he was arrested and did ninety days on a Texas road gang, after which he was deported and told if he tried to get into the States again, he'd do five years."

"Jesus . . ."

"Yeah. My father told me he had to give up, and decided that Mom and my Uncle Jim would do a better job of raising me than his sister Beatrice, who already showed signs of lunacy."

"And you believed your father's version?"

"Yeah. I did. Right from the start. I knew what a sonofab.i.t.c.h the Old Man can be. I love him, you know that, Jimmy. But he can be, and you know it, a three-star sonofab.i.t.c.h. And what my father told me the Old Man had done sounded just like what the Old Man would do.

"Anyway, I heard this while putting down all that booze, and then my father said, 'The family has a guesthouse in town. Across from the racetrack on Avenida Libertador. It's yours for as long as you're here.'

"He wouldn't take no for an answer. And since I knew Mallin didn't want me in his house-he'd seen the way I looked at his Virgin Princess, and I'd seen his reaction to learning who my father was-I agreed to take a look at the house. He introduced me to the housekeeper, who was Enrico's sister, and showed me around the place.

"In the master bedroom, he sat down and pa.s.sed out. Enrico threw him over his shoulder and carried him home. Then I pa.s.sed out.

"Three days later, after the guy running the OSS here-an absolute moron of a lieutenant commander-sent me on an idiot mission to Uruguay . . . But that's another story."

"Tell it."

"Okay. Why not? This clown sent Tony Pelosi, my demolition guy-you met him, too, the a.s.sistant military attache from the emba.s.sy?"

"Yeah. The major from Chicago."

"Right. Well, Commander Jack Armstrong the All-American a.s.shole sent me and Tony-he was then a second lieutenant-to Uruguay. We went up near the Brazilian border and waited around in the middle of the night in a field until an airplane dropped us a package. The package had what looked like wooden boxes. The OSS in the States had cleverly molded explosives to look like wooden slats, then made the slats into boxes, and flew the boxes to the U.S. Air Force base at Puerto Allegre. After the exchange of many cla.s.sified messages between the Air Force and Commander a.s.shole, who was the naval attache at the emba.s.sy in Buenos Aires, an Air Force guy climbed into his plane. He then violated Uruguayan sovereignty and neutrality by flying into Uruguay and dropping the boxes to the OSS agents who were to use the explosives to blow up a Spanish freighter in Argentina. It was right out of an Errol FlynnAlan Ladd movie."