Death and Honor

By the time both young fighter pilots had staggered off to bed, they had agreed that (a) fighter pilots are special people; (b) Captain Duarte’s flying around in a Storch directing artillery was a pretty dumb fucking thing for a neutral observer to be doing; (c) fighter pilots understand things beyond the ken of bomber and transport drivers; (d) getting shot down doing something really dumb doesn’t deserve a medal, especially one of the better ones, like the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, even if (e) just about every medal on a fighter pilot’s chest really should have gone to some other fighter pilot who really deserved it; (f) fighter pilots are special people, and after this dumb fucking war is over, we’ll have to get together and do this again.

The bureaucrats at the German embassy, who had finally learned that von Wachtstein had been sent to the Frade guesthouse even though El Coronel Frade’s American son was already resident there, sent an officer to retrieve von Wachtstein early the next morning.

Both thought that they would probably never see the other again.

That didn’t happen, either.

When Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein learned that it was intended to have Cletus Frade assassinated as a lesson to Cletus’s father, to the officer corps of the Ejército Argentino—and, incidentally, also because it was suspected that young Frade was a secret agent of the Office of Strategic Services—von Wachtstein decided that his officer’s honor would not permit him to look the other way. He warned him what was coming.

Thus Cletus Frade was prepared for the assassins when they came after him. He killed both of them, but not before they had cut the throat of Señora Mariana María Dolores Rodríguez de Pellano, the guesthouse housekeeper and the sister of Enrico Rodríguez, sergeant major retired.

“We were headed for Santa Catalina,” Hans-Peter von Wachtstein lied to Cletus Frade. “The hydraulic pressure warning light came on. I thought I’d better sit it down and check it out.”

Frade nodded but said nothing.

“Don Cletus, may I present Korvettenkapitän Boltitz? Herr Korvettenkapitän, this is Don Cletus Frade.”

Frade examined Boltitz coldly, said “Mucho gusto” with absolutely no gusto, and did not offer his hand.

Boltitz clicked his heels and bowed. “Señor Frade.”

“I’ll have a mechanic look at your aircraft,” Frade said. “And now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Cletus,” von Wachtstein said. “He knows.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He knows, Cletus. Just about everything. That’s why I brought him here.”

“Oh, my God!” Dorotea said, horrified, and looked at her husband.

What the hell does that mean? Boltitz thought. That she knows what “just about everything” means?

And if she knows, how many other people know what von Wachtstein has been up to?

“Shit!” Frade said bitterly, and met Boltitz’s eyes. “Do you speak English, Captain?”

“Yes, I do,” Boltitz replied in English.

“Then you just heard how I feel about Peter’s announcement,” Frade said. Then anger overwhelmed him. “Jesus H. Fucking Christ, Peter! What did you do, lose your mind? Why the hell did you tell him anything, much less everything?”

“Clete!” Dorotea said warningly.

“Señor Frade,” Boltitz said. “Major von Wachtstein did not betray your confidence. I was sent here to uncover the traitor in our embassy, and I did so.”

Frade examined him, his eyes revealing his incredulity.

“I don’t pretend to understand you Germans,” he said. “But do you have any idea at all how close I am to telling Enrico to take you out on the pampas and make really sure you can’t tell anyone what Wachtstein has told you about anything?”

“Clete, my God!” Dorotea exclaimed. “You can’t mean that!”

“Put a round in the chamber, Enrico,” Frade ordered. “And don’t take your eyes off him.”

Enrico said, "Sí, señor,” and pushed the button on the side of the shotgun’s receiver. There was a metallic clacking as a shell was fed to the chamber.

Boltitz had two chilling thoughts:

If Frade tells that tough old soldier to shoot me, he will.

Frade is entirely capable of giving that order.

“I suggest we go into the study,” Dorotea said. She inclined her head toward the Lodestar. A man wearing mechanic’s coveralls was examining something in the right engine nacelle. This placed him in a position where he could overhear the conversation.

Yes, she knows, Boltitz thought.

What the hell is the matter with Frade, making his wife party to business like this? His five-months-or-so pregnant wife?

Boltitz felt Frade’s unfriendly eyes on him.

“Does the name El Coronel Alejandro Martín mean anything to you, Captain? ” Frade asked.

Boltitz nodded.