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He didn’t know why, but somehow he knew that he should get and stay completely sober.
The first thing he thought was that his total sobriety would pour a little oil on the troubled waters between him and Claudia.
And between me and Martha.
Or maybe it’s because I know I’m taking off for Berlin at nine tonight.
I don’t believe that pilots have to go off the sauce twenty-four hours before takeoff, but they should turn off the alcohol valve eight hours before starting the engines.
He had looked down the table when he had that thought. He saw Hansel’s glasses were also turned over.
Well, either ol’ Hansel believes that twenty-four-hour business, or Alicia got to him.
Or he saw that I’m not drinking.
Or it may be that I don’t want to make Elsa uncomfortable.
Or maybe because, if I’m really sober, I may pick up something from what von Dattenberg says, or how he acts. I’m still not sure if I trust him with that honor of the officer corps bullshit.
Or maybe I’m just trusting my intuition.
Whatever the reason, get thee behind me, Demon Rum!
—
Clete had, almost two hours later, just about finished his postre—a small mountain of strawberries just about concealed by whipped cream—and was on the cusp of deciding that a little cognac—one only—to top off the meal would not see him qualify as a flying drunk when the maître d’hotel bent over him and whispered in his ear.
“Don Cletus, Father Welner asks if you can have a word with him.”
“Send him in.”
“He asks that you join him in the foyer, Don Cletus.”
What the hell does he want?
Why didn’t he come in?
“Okay.”
He turned to Elsa.
“Excuse me, please. I’ll be back in a moment.”
—
The priest was standing to one side of the foyer. On either side of him were men in civilian clothing. Both of them Clete recognized as agents of Martín’s Bureau of Internal Security. One of them held, as Enrico so often did, a Model 11 Remington twelve-bore riot gun against the seam of his trousers; it was, Clete realized, a surprisingly effective way of hiding a shotgun. The other BIS agent, making no effort to conceal it, held a Thompson submachine gun cradled in his arms.
What the hell is going on?
Where the hell is Enrico?
“You can let Father Welner go,” Clete greeted them. “I’ll vouch for him.”
No one was amused.
“This way, please, Don Cletus,” one of them said, and indicated a door opening off the foyer.
