The Honor of Spies

Police of varying ranks had come to the scene, but the interrogation of Frade and Rodriguez had been stopped by a telephone call from the Bureau of Internal Security, which announced it was taking over the investigation and that el Coronel Martin was en route.

When Martin arrived at the mansion ten minutes later, he found two policemen guarding the door of the library, and Frade and Rodriguez inside. Frade was sitting in an armchair with a glass in his hand and a bottle of Johnnie Walker on the low table in front of him.

"Alejandro, what a pleasant surprise," Frade said. "But we're going to have to stop meeting this way; otherwise people will talk."

Martin had not been amused when Frade had said it before, and he was not amused this time either.

"What happened?" Martin asked.

"Enrico was opening the gate when people started to shoot at us," Frade said. "Who the hell are they? Were they?"

"All we know so far is that the car was stolen," Martin said. "If I had to guess, I'd say the dead men were members of the criminal element."

"God, you're a veritable Sherlock Holmes!" Frade said. "And I'll bet they followed us here from Libertador, right?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say they followed us from Aerodromo Coronel Jorge Frade to Libertador and then followed you here. I can't ask them, of course, as they are no longer with us."

Clete, after first taking a sip, laid down his glass of scotch whisky, picked up a telephone, and dialed a number from memory.

"Tio Juan, this is your godson, Cletus. Three members of the criminal element just tried to kill Enrico and me. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt and accepting that you just didn't find the time immediately to call your German friends and call them off. But if I were you, I'd call them right now."

Then he hung up.

He looked at Martin, who shook his head.

"You don't really think el Coronel Peron had something to do with what happened here, do you?" Martin asked.

"I think his German friends had a lot to do with it."

"But you have no proof?"

"As you said, the people who tried this are no longer with us."

"Hypothetically speaking: What if one or more of them were still with us? What if one or more of them said, 'Si, senor. We were hired by'--let's say Commercial Attache Karl Cranz--"

"You mean SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Cranz?"

Martin ignored the interruption.

He continued: "Or perhaps Sturmbannfuhrer--excuse me, Deputy Commercial Attache Raschner--to carry out this dastardly deed. I'm sure both of them would regard the charges as absurd. But that's moot. Cranz and Raschner have diplomatic immunity; they don't even have to answer any of my questions. The worst that could happen to them would be being declared persona non grata and told to leave Argentina. That would cause a diplomatic incident, at the very least, and the Germans would, tit for tat, expel a like number of Argentine diplomats from Berlin. And on the Condor that flew the Argentines home there would be the replacements for Cranz and Raschner."

"Why am I getting the idea that you think the Argentines should stay in Berlin?"

"I have no idea. And I denounce as scurrilous innuendo that the Argentine agricultural attache in Berlin, who was a classmate of mine at the military academy, has any connection with the Bureau of Internal Security."

"Suggesting that someone has a connection with the BIS is a terrible thing to say about anybody," Frade said.

"I thought you might feel that way," Martin said, and then went on: "Earlier in his career, I just remembered, my classmate was privileged to serve in the Husares de Pueyrredon under your late father."

Frade picked up his glass, took a deep swallow of his scotch whisky, then said, "How interesting. So tell me, Alejandro, what happened here tonight?"

"My initial investigation tends to suggest that three known members of the criminal element were observed by the police trying to break into these premises. When the police challenged them, the criminals fired at them. The superior marksmanship of the police prevailed, and the malefactors unfortunately went to meet their maker."

Frade considered that a moment, nodded his acceptance, and then asked, "Can you get Rodriguez's weapons back from the cops?"

"The 'cops'? Oh, you mean the police. Why would the police have the suboficial's weapons?" Martin said. He nodded, then added, "It's always a pleasure to see you, Don Cletus. But we're going to have to stop meeting like this, lest people start to talk. I can show myself out. I'm sure you're anxious to get to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and the charming Dona Dorotea."

"Just as soon as I have a shower," Frade said. "Enrico will show you out."

When Enrico came back into the library a minute or so later, he had the Remington Model 11 in one hand, the .45 pistol stuck in his waistband, and a leather bandolier of brass-cased shotgun cartridges hanging around his neck.

"How are we going to get home?" Frade asked.