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That it was a warning showed in her eyes.
“How nice,” Dorotea replied cheerfully. “Are you going to ask us in?”
“Of course,” Alicia said, then raised her voice. “Mama, Dorotea and Cletus are here.”
She led them into the sitting room.
Von Wachtstein and Boltitz stood.
“Oh, how nice,” Claudia Carzino-Cormano said, smiling bravely. “You’re just in time for dinner.”
“Then our timing is perfect,” Cletus said, went to her, really kissed her cheek, and thought: I’m glad you don’t know there’s two other Nazis at Casa Chica, one of them sitting on your couch reading from my father’s copy of Goethe’s love poems.
He turned to the men.
“And how is the diplomatic corps tonight?”
“Señor Frade,” Boltitz said. “How nice to see you. And you, señora.”
“Hello, Frade,” Peter said. “How are you? Dorotea?”
“Can I get you something to drink?” Claudia asked.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Clete said. “If that’s merlot that Major von Wachtstein is drinking, I’d love some of that.”
He sensed Isabela’s eyes and looked at her. Her eyes were as hateful as he expected.
“What a joy it is to see you, Isabela,” Clete said. “And you seem so happy. Been pulling the wings off flies again, have you?”
“Cletus!” Dorotea and Claudia said, almost in unison.
“Karl,” Claudia then said, “you’ll have to forgive him. He’s always teasing Isabela.”
“I am not!” Cletus said.
“Changing the subject,” Peter said. “There’s a rumor going around that your first airplane has arrived.”
“Not a rumor at all,” Clete said. “It’s at El Palomar. After a two-hour-and-sixteen-minute flight from Pôrto Alegre.”
“That’s fast.”
“Fast and smooth,” Clete said. “American aviation genius at work.”
That earned him, as he expected it would, another dirty look from Isabela.
“Not as fast as the Condor, certainly,” Isabela said.
“I don’t know,” Clete said innocently. “How fast is the Condor, Isabela?”
Her expression showed that she did not have a clue. She looked at Peter.
“It’ll do a little better than three hundred kph,” Peter furnished. “It cruises at around two fifty-five.”
“The Lodestar tops out at a little better than three forty-five,” Clete said.
“But it won’t cross an ocean, will it?” Isabela challenged.
Gotcha, El Bitcho!
