The Honor of Spies

A minute after that, the estancia airfield began to come into focus. A twin-engine Lockheed Lodestar, painted a brilliant red, was sitting in front of the hangar, dwarfing the four Piper Cubs parked beside it. Two peones on horseback sat watching it. When the Buick came closer still, Frade saw that they were cradling rifles in their arms and that a large fire extinguisher on wheels was beside the left engine of the Lodestar.

The plane was, as he had ordered it to be, ready to go at a moment's notice.

One of the gauchos doffed his flat-brimmed cap.

When the Buick passed through the outer line of poplars, the "big house" was visible beyond the inner two rows of trees. The term was somewhat misleading. There was indeed "a casa grande"--a rambling structure surrounded on three sides by wide porches--but the inner rows of poplars also encircled a complex of buildings. These included the small church La Capilla Nuestra Senora de los Milagros, seven smaller houses for the servants and the senior managers of the estancia, a large stable beside a polo field, the main garage, and "el Coronel's garage."

To which the shot-up station wagon will soon be taken--with a little luck, outside the view of Dorotea.

Between the second line of poplars and the line closest to the "Big House" was the English Garden, covering more than a hectare. Today, looking more than a little out of place, three more peones sat on their mounts, rifles cradled in their arms, as the horses helped themselves to whatever carefully cultivated flowers seemed appetizing.

The peones respectfully removed their wide-brimmed hats and sort of bowed when they saw Frade in the Buick. He returned the greeting with a sort of military salute. When he'd first become patron of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, he had returned their gesture with a wave, as a salute was obviously inappropriate between himself, a Marine major, and Argentine civilians.

Waving had made him feel like he was pretending to be the King of LaLa-Land, condescendingly acknowledging the homage of his loyal subjects. Enrico had solved that problem by telling him that not only was there universal military service in Argentina, but el Coronel, and before him, el Coronel's father, Don Cletus's grandfather, also el Coronel Frade, had encouraged the "young men of the estancia" to enlist in the Husares de Pueyrredon Cavalry Regiment for four years, rather than just doing a year's conscript service.

The result was that just about most of the more than one thousand male peones of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo had been soldiers at one time. Frade thought, but did not say, that the real result was that he had, if not a private army, then a private battalion at his command. And lately he had cause to think he might have to use it.

So now Frade tossed a salute when el Patron was saluted or otherwise acknowledged.

They passed through the inner line of poplars and rolled up to the big house. There were three more peones on horseback. And three people sitting bundled up against the winter chill in wicker chairs on the verandah. One was a tall muscular man in white riding britches, glistening boots, and a thick yellow woolen sweater. A beautiful sorrel mare tied to a hitching rail showed how he had come to the big house. Next to him was a large man in full gaucho regalia. A Ford Model A pickup truck parked nose-in against the verandah was his mode of transportation. Beside the gaucho, Dona Dorotea Mallin de Frade sat in a wicker armchair.

Frade did not see, however, whom he expected to see, and the moment he stepped out of the car, he asked, "Where's 'Wilhelm Fischer'?"

"Hello, my darling," the blonde said in British-accented English. "I'm so happy to be home. And how is every little thing with my beloved mother-to-be wife?"

"Hello, my darling," Frade said, "I'm so happy to be home. And how is every little thing with my beloved mother-to-be wife? And where the hell is 'Wilhelm Fischer'?"

She pointed to La Capilla Nuestra Senora de los Milagros, and when Frade looked at it, he saw there were two more peones on horseback, one in front of the chapel, the other to one side.

"He's not going anywhere he shouldn't, Major," the gaucho sitting on the porch said. "He asked if he could go to the church, and I figured, why not?"

The gaucho--despite his calf-high soft black leather boots, with billowing black bombachas tucked into them, loose white shirt with billowing sleeves, broad-brimmed black hat, wide silver-studded and buckled leather belt, wicked-looking fourteen-inch knife in a silver scabbard, and faultless command of the Spanish language--was not actually a gaucho.