He decided in the taxi on the way to Pelosi's new apartment on Avenida Corrientes that it was probably a delayed reaction to coming from Guadalcanal, a to-be-expected resentment toward any military-age male who hadn't been there, who had been sitting around in a neutral country drinking whiskey with ice in it in an air-conditioned saloon, while he and the others were in the heat and mud and humidity of Guadalcanal eating captured Japanese food and wondering if today was the day the odds would catch up with you and your next takeoff in a battered and worn-out Wildcat was going to be your last.
And then he wasn't able to find Pelosi. Carrying the pistols in a briefcase like a Chicago gangster, he went to the apartment on Avenida Corrientes. But Pelosi wasn't therethe building manager said he would return tomorrow and finish moving in. So Clete tried the Alvear Palace Hotel.
When Pelosi wasn't there, either, Clete decided he was following his orders to familiarize himself with Buenos Aires. Clete had told him to get on a bus, any bus, and ride it as far as it went.
The bus-riding was one of the really helpful, practical suggestions they'd gotten from the mentors in New Orleans. That Pelosi was following his orders reminded Clete that he himself was violating the military equivalent of the Golden Rule: that a commanding officer should never order his men to do anything he wasn't willing to do himself. He had yet to ride on a bus. His rationale, which he knew was empty, was that he'd been too busy, and when the Buick arrived, he would make up for his failure by driving around the city.
He left a note for Pelosi in an envelope at the concierge's desk in the Alvear Palace, telling him he would meet him there at ten in the morning.
He sat down on the bed and opened Nestor's briefcase. Two envelopes were inside, unsealed. In one was a single sheet of paper on which was typed:
Sud Atlantico Mercader-Cadiz-19 Nov
Reine de la MerLisbon23 Nov
Aguila del MareBarcelona16 Nov
Those are the names of the three possible ships where the hell is Cadiz? I should have paid attention in geography class. And when they sailed. Nestor probably gave them to me in case I hear something on my own about them. He said the voyage was at least twenty-three days. Twenty-three days minimum from where? Anyway, that means the first of them will be here in the next couple weeks.
He found a sheet of paper in the writing desk and copied the names down for Pelosi.
I don't think Pelosi stands any better chance of learning anything about these ships than I do, but if Nestor thinks there's a chance and he's the expert no harm can be done. And even if we don't learn anything on our own, Pelosi will at least know what we're looking for.
The second envelope contained a thick stack of money, American twenty- and fifty-dollar bills. And a sheet of paper, on which was typewritten:
Receipt of Two Thousand Five Hundred Dollars ($2590.00) in reimbursement of expenses incurred in the Service of The United States is acknowledged.
Cletus H. Frade
25 November 1942
Well, that's interesting. Nestor forgot to have me sign for what is obviously our expense money. He didn't even mention the money. Maybe his mind was on other things, once he met me. Such as ' 'What is the OSS thinking of to send an absolutely unqualified airplane driver down here to do something important?"
What do I do about it? Drop the signed receipt off at the bank in an envelope? Or let him ask for it? "What twenty-five hundred?"
He'll ask for it. Probably telephone. And if he does, I can ask him how I can get together with Ettinger. I'm pretty forgetful myself, especially when I have three ounces of scotch in me before lunch.
He took the pistols from the briefcase and laid them on the chest of drawers. They were each in holsters, separately wrapped in small towels. The holsters were different from U.S. military issue. They were stiffmoldedand had a hard molded cover, fixed in place with a rather ornate catch instead of the flap used by American armed forces. And they had a pocket holding an extra magazine sewn to the long side.
The two magazines provided for each pistol were loaded. When he thumbed the cartridges out, he saw that while they were identical to the .45 cartridges he was familiar with, their head stamps (which he didn't understand) were foreign.
I guess they make their own down here. Why not?
While the pistols themselves functioned identically to the Colt he'd carried in the Pacific, they were not exact copies. He couldn't put his finger on the difference, but there was a difference.
The grip safety? The horn, or whatever it's called, looks longer. And the safety on the side of the receiver. That's shaped differently, too, I think.
What does it matter, so long as it goes off when you pull the trigger?
He stripped and then reassembled both pistols. Both were dirty and required cleaning and lubrication. And there were pits in both barrels. He used a handkerchief and a toothbrush to clean them And for lubrication he used what was left of the jar of gray U.S. Navy Medical Corps paste he was sure was Vaseline.
He had just about finished with the pistols when there was a knock at the door.
"S??"
"Tel?fono, Se?or."
That must be Nestor, who's remembered I didn't sign the expense money receipt.
"Gracias," he called. He stuffed everything back into Nestor's briefcase and then locked the briefcase in the enormous wardrobe that covered just about all of one wall. He then unlocked the door with a loud clank and went quickly downstairs to the sitting room to the nearest telephone.
The Mallins were there, Mommy, Daddy, and the Virgin Princess.
"It's a woman," Mallin said, somewhat indignantly. "She wouldn't give her name."
A woman? Ah. Nestor's secretary. I was right.
He sensed the eyes of the Virgin Princess on him. She looked either angry or hurt or both.
"What's that? She doesn't like the idea of a woman calling me?
You want to keep your Older Gentleman Friend to yourself, do you, Princess, and not share him with the other virgins at the Belgrano Athletic Club?
He went to the telephone and picked it up.
"Hola?"
"Se?or Frade?" a woman's voice asked.
"S?."
"Un momento, por favor," the woman said.
A man came on the line and asked, "Cletus? Cletus Frade?"
"Who is this?"
"This is your father."
Jesus Christ! What do I do? What do I call him? "Dad"? "Father"?
Nestor was right. He did find out that I'm here, and quickly.
"I don't know what to say," Clete said.
There was a chuckle, a deep one.
"Now that I have you on the line, neither do I. What about 'Hola, Padre'?"Hello, Father.
"Hola, Padre," Clete said.
"Hola, Cletus. I only learned that you were in Argentina three days ago. It was impossible for me to come to Buenos Aires until today."
Clete said nothing.
"Is it an embarrassment for you if I call there?" Jorge Guillermo Frade asked.
"No, Sir. Not at all. You just caught me a little off base."