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“Peter does,” Dorotea Frade said. “I guess I do, too.”
Frade exhaled audibly.
“I’m going to have to think this over,” he said, and looked at Boltitz. “In other words, the jury is still out, Captain Boltitz.” He moved his look to von Wachtstein. “I was about to say watch your back, Peter. But since you already trust this guy, I don’t suppose that’s necessary, is it?”
“The korvettenkapitän is a brother officer, Clete,” von Wachtstein said. “And we have decided that what our fathers have decided, that our code of honor dictates that our duty is to Germany, not to Hitler and National Socialism. So, yes, Clete, I trust the korvettenkapitän.”
Frade was silent again for a long moment.
“Okay,” he said. “You were headed for Santa Catalina, right?”
Von Wachtstein nodded.
“How long had you planned on staying there?”
“I’d hoped to spend the night,” von Wachtstein said.
“Spoken like a true newlywed,” Frade replied. “Okay. Whatever is wrong with that ugly little airplane of yours is fixed. Get in it, go there, and tell either your mother-in-law or your bride that Dorotea and I accept their kind invitation for cocktails and dinner.”
Boltitz wondered what that was all about when Frade, as if reading his mind, went on: “That may—but probably won’t—explain your presence here to El Coronel Martín. It’s worth a shot.”
“I’ll take you to the airstrip,” Dorotea said.
“No,” Frade said flatly. “Have Antonio take them in one of the Model A’s. And while Carlos is being helpful, one of you say something—in German— about not liking me and/or how unfortunate it was that you had to stop here.”
“In German?” Boltitz blurted.
“Good ol’ Carlos speaks German, but thinks I don’t know,” Frade said.
He walked to the study door, unlocked its dead bolt, and held it open.
Von Wachtstein offered him his hand as he walked past.
“Keep your goddamn mouth shut, Peter,” Frade said, but he took the hand and touched von Wachtstein’s shoulder affectionately.
Boltitz offered Frade his hand.
Frade took it, and held on to it longer than Boltitz expected. When he looked curiously at Frade, Frade said, “Am I going to have to count my fingers when I let go, Captain?”
“No,” Boltitz said. “But I think you will anyway.”
Frade nodded at him. There was the hint of a smile on his lips.
Both men had just about the same thought: Under other circumstances, we probably would become friends.
After his wife passed through the door, Frade threw the dead bolt again.
He went to the desk, took a sheet of paper, and rolled it into the Underwood.
He patted his hands together for a moment, mentally composing the message, and then typed it rapidly.
URGENT
TOP SECRET LINDBERGH
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
FROM TEX
