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“Probably, Hansel,” Clete said, “but the problem for you and Karl is not Dulles. It’s those two.” He nodded toward the back of the Lodestar, where Alicia von Wachtstein was sitting with Miss Beth Howell. “As far as I’m concerned, you guys need their permission, not Dulles’s.”
Clete knew that neither woman was going to be remotely thrilled to hear that the men they loved—and had just been reunited with—were abo
ut to leave them for war-torn Germany.
“I would suggest, Karl,” Clete said as they stood on the tarmac, “based on my long experience with a live-in woman, that you not broach the subject of you going to Germany with me until we’re on our way back from Mendoza. Unless you really meant that vow of celibacy you took.”
Von Wachtstein laughed.
Boltitz’s face turned red.
“Clete,” Karl said, “I have been meaning to discuss my relationship with Beth with you.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you have, Karl. Confession is good for the soul!”
Von Wachtstein laughed again, this time louder.
“What are you three laughing about?” the baroness called.
“I don’t think you really want to know, Alicia,” Clete called back. “In case anybody needs to ‘freshen up,’ do it now. As soon as Dulles’s plane takes off, we go wheels-up for Mendoza.”
[ONE]
Casa Montagna Estancia Don Guillermo Km 40.4, Provincial Route 60 Mendoza Province, Argentina 1550 14 May 1945
Casa Montagna had been built by Clete’s Granduncle Guillermo after he returned from a tour of Tuscany and had had an out-of-character very good year at both the Hipódromo and the poker tables at the Jockey Club.
“In other words, damn the expense!”
Casa Montagna had been built on a natural plateau two thousand feet above the vineyards of the estancia. Carving a road up to it out of the granite of the foothills of the Andes had taken two years. The last—upper—kilometer of the road was so steep it had to be taken in a vehicle’s lowest gear.
The plateau was perhaps three hundred meters wide and two hundred meters long. A low stone wall on three sides kept people and animals from falling off the mountain.
The main house was built of natural stone and stood three stories tall. The third floor had dormer windows, and the red tile roof extended over a verandah whose pillars were covered with roses. From the front of the house, there was an unobstructed view of the Andes Mountains. The rear of the house was against what anywhere else would be called “the mountain” but here was referred to as “the hill.”
Enrico Rodríguez had told Clete that Clete’s mother had loved Casa Montagna, and also that it had been her last home in Argentina. It was from Casa Montagna that his parents had left to catch the train in Mendoza for Buenos Aires, and from there the ship that took them to New Orleans, where she had died in childbirth.
El Coronel Frade had never set foot in Casa Montagna again.
Clete Frade led Peter and Alicia von Wachtstein, Karl Boltitz, Beth Howell, and Enrico Rodríguez into the bar.
They found—sitting around tables holding a collection of bottles of various intoxicants and plates of cheese and sausage—Major Madison R. Sawyer III, Master Sergeant Siggie Stein, the Reverend Francisco Silva, S.J., Wilhelm Fischer, Otto Körtig, Ludwig Stoll, and el Subinspector General Pedro Nolasco. Pouring wine at the bar was the estancia’s manager, el Señor Pablo Alvarez.
“I was under the impression that cocktail hour began at seventeen hundred,” Cletus Frade announced sternly, hoping he sounded like an indignant lieutenant colonel who had just caught his subordinates at the sauce when they should have been about their duties.
Except for a few smiles and chuckles, he was ignored.
Sawyer, Stein, and Fischer quickly rose and, their hands extended, went to von Wachtstein and Boltitz. That civilized gesture quickly degenerated into hugs and embraces.
“I now believe it,” Körtig said. “I never thought you’d get away with getting them. Clete, you are truly an amazing man.”
“Please tell that to my wife, Otto,” Clete said.
Frade sat down beside Körtig, offered his hand to Pedro Nolasco and then to Stoll.
“If you would be so good, Ludwig,” he said. “Hand me that bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon before Pedro gets into it again.”
When the hugs and back-patting were over—as if suddenly remembering their manners—Boltitz and von Wachtstein, with their women following them, came to the table where Clete sat with Körtig.
