No wonder! I look like I've been sent to unstop the fucking toilet, for Christ's sake, not sit down and have my breakfast.
He looked around the dining room and saw Adams sitting at a table with three sailors. There was a full lieutenant, a chief petty officer, and a bo'sun's mate first class. They were all wearing regular blue uniforms. Two tables away, he saw Lieutenant Frade with a couple of mentors. He had on a blue, brass-buttoned blazer, a crisp white shirt, and a striped necktie.
Lieutenant Frade saw him, smiled as if he thought Tony wearing a sailor's work uniform was the funniest thing he had seen all week, and winked at Tony and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Tony pretended he didn't see him and walked to Mr. Adams's table.
"Mr. Pelosi," Adams made the introductions, "this is Lieutenant Greene, Chief Norton, and Bo'sun Leech. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Pelosi."
The sailors looked at him with frank curiosity.
Lieutenant Greene shook his hand without speaking. Chief Norton said, "What do you say, Pelosi?" And Bo'sun Leech grunted and tried to squash his hand when he shook it.
There was little conversation at breakfast. Adams and the Navy menall of whom were at least ten years older than he was, and all of whom, he was sure, thought he looked as funny as Lieutenant Frade didhad already eaten their breakfasts. They waited impatiently for him to order and then eat his.
Two vehicles were waiting outside: a Navy-gray truck, sort of a panel truck, but with windows and seats in the back, and Frade's Buick convertible. Frade and his mentors got into the Buick and drove off.
"Why don't you sit in the back, Pelosi?" Lieutenant Greene suggested.
Bo'sun Leech came in the back with him. Lieutenant Greene went behind the wheel, and Chief Norton got in the front beside him.
That pretty well sets up the pecking order, putting me on the bottom,Tony thought. I wonder if Lieutenant Greene knows I'm an officer.
They drove out of town, east, across a long, narrow two-lane bridge set on pilings. Tony saw signs saying they were on U.S. Highway 98.
Chief Norton turned around and looked at him.
"Adams said you know something about explosives, Pelosi. That right?"
I've probably forgotten more about explosives than you ever knew, pal!
"I know a little bit about explosives," Pelosi replied.
"You ever use explosives to cut steel?"
Not more than five or six hundred times.
"A couple of times."
"I generally found when I'm teaching somebody who has a little experience with explosives that the best way is to get him to forget what he thinks he knows and let me start from scratch. Think you could handle that?"
"Why not?"
"This isn't the first time we've done this," Chief Norton said. "Usually we have a lot more time, a couple of days more, anyway."
[THREE]
The Consulate of the Republic of Argentina
Suite 1103
The Bank of New Orleans Building
New Orleans, Louisiana
0900 10 November 1942
"Buenos dias," Clete said to the redhead in the office of the Argentine Consulate.
"Good morning," the redhead said in English. "Can I help you?"
She's not an Argentinean, Clete Frade realized, which surprised him. He'd assumed that anyone who worked in the Argentine Consulate would be an Argentinean. But when he considered that, he realized there was no reason that should be so. It was obviously cheaper to hire a local than bring someone up from Argentina. It reminded him that what he knew about consulates and embassiesand for that matter, Argentinacould be written inside a matchbook with a grease pencil.
"I've come to apply for visas," he said, and smiled at her. He set his briefcase on her desk, opened it, and took out the forms and handed them to her.
"There's two applications," she said.
"Well, the sad truth is that my friend, who's going with me, right now thinks he's about to die," Clete said with a smile. "He was out on Bourbon Street all night, and most of the morning, too. I hoped he wouldn't have to come himself."
"I'll have to ask Se?or Galle about that," she said. "Which one is he?"
"Pelosi," Clete said. "I'm Frade."
She examined Pelosi's visa application carefully.
"Seems to be all right," she said. "Do you have his passport?"
"Yes, Ma'am," Clete said, and handed it to her.
"I'll have to ask Se?or Galle about it," the redhead said.
She went farther into the office, and a minute or so later a well-dressed, smiling man in his late thirties or early forties came into the outer room.
"Good morning," he said. His English was very faintly accented. "Miss O'Rourke gives me to believe that Bourbon Street has claimed yet another victim. My name is Galle."
He offered his hand.
"Frade," Clete said, taking it. "Clete Frade."
"I'm pleased to meet you," Galle said, looking at him carefully.
That look,Clete thought, went beyond idle curiosity.
"May I ask why you're traveling to Argentina?" Galle asked as he picked up the visa applications.
"It's on the application, Se?or," Clete said, switching to Spanish. "Our company is opening an office in Buenos Aires."
"And your company is?" Galle asked, in English.
"Howell Petroleum," Clete said. "Actually a subsidiary. Howell Petroleum (Venezuela)."
"Oh, yes. I know them," Galle said. "And I see that your name is Howell. Is there a connection?"
"My grandfather founded the company."
"I'm not always this inquisitive," Galle said. "But we're cooperating with your government in a rather delicate area. It would seem that your government has discovered that a number of young men have decided they would much rather enjoy the delights of Buenos Aires than those of, say, Fort Benning."
"Really?"
"Our policy is that we inform young men of a certain age that while we would be pleased to grant them a visa to visit Argentina, there will be a delay of a week or so while we confer with your Department of Justice. A number of young men, upon hearing that, have decided to change their travel plans."
"Both Mr. Pelosi and I have done our service," Clete said.
"You would not be offended if I asked to see your discharge papers?" Galle asked.
"Right here in my briefcase," Clete said. "Mine and Se?or Pelosi's. And I do have my brand-new draft card, which shows my classification. Medically discharged."
"That should do it," Galle said, finally switching to Spanish himself. "You speak Spanish very well, Se?or."
"Thank you," Clete said.
After carefully examining the discharge documents and Clete's draft card, Galle handed them back to him with a smile.
"No offense, Se?or Frade?"
Absolutely none. I hope you catch a couple of draft dodgers."
Galle bent over the desk and scrawled an initial on one of the visa applications:Clete could not see which oneand then started to do the same thing on the other.
"Oh, this is interesting," Galle said, straightening and looking directly at Clete. "You're an Argentinean, Mr. Frade."
"No," Clete said. "I was born there, but I'm an American citizen. My mother was an American."