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“Cletus speaks the truth, Juan Domingo,” Father Welner said.
Perón looked at Martín.
“You’re telling me Fernando Lopez is one of the malcontents?”
“It would appear so, el Coronel,” Martín said.
Perón considered that a moment, then said, “I refuse to believe el Presidente would permit any serious attempt by anyone in that handful of malcontents, including Lopez, to try to do something like trying to assassinate me. I am vice president of the Argentine Republic. It would be treason.”
“Then why do you suppose,” Frade said, “that Farrell sent us to get you off this island before your old friend Lopez gets here?”
That the question surprised Perón was visible on his face.
“General Farrell sent you?”
“There I was, minding my own business, having a pleasant lunch at the Jockey Club,” Clete said, “when these two showed up and said, ‘The president asks that you get your Tío Juan off that island before he gets shot.’ Or words to that effect. Father Welner told me it was my Christian duty to do so. So here we are.”
“I find that hard—impossible—to believe!” Perón said.
“What Cletus just said is the truth, Juan Domingo,” the priest said.
“You don’t really expect to fly me off the island in that?” Perón asked, pointing at the Storch. “I’m not going anywhere in that little airplane.”
“Well, you could swim to Uruguay, I suppose. That’s the only other option I can see you have,” Clete said.
“You seem to think this is funny, Cletus,” Perón snapped.
“I do see elements of humor in it. Mussolini was damned glad to see the Storch that flew onto that mountaintop to rescue him from a firing squad. The last thing I expected to hear was that you would be afraid to get in my Storch.”
Perón didn’t reply to that, but Clete saw on his face that he knew about how Otto Skorzeny, of the Waffen-SS, had rescued the Italian dictator from Italian troops who—waiting for orders
to shoot him—held Il Duce prisoner at the Campo Imperatore Hotel high in the Apennine Mountains.
“Afraid? You dare to accuse me of cowardice?”
“That’s what it sounds like, Tío Juan.”
“Cletus!” Father Welner said warningly.
“What did you expect to hear?” Perón snapped.
“Something along the lines of ‘Thank you, godson, for interrupting your lunch and risking your life to come here not only so I wouldn’t get shot, but to keep Argentina from having a civil war.’ You can say that in your own way, of course.”
“Civil war? What are you talking about?”
Frade met Perón’s eyes for a long moment, then shook his head disgustedly.
“You pompous fool! Stopping a civil war from getting started is what Farrell is concerned about! Not you. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about keeping you alive any more than I do!”
“Cletus, you know you don’t mean that!” the priest said.
Frade ignored him.
“Tío Juan,” Frade challenged, “are you going to stand there with a straight face and try to tell me you don’t know what your girlfriend and your old pal, former Teniente Coronel Rodolfo Nulder, are up to?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Perón said arrogantly.
“Then pay goddamn attention! It’s probably the reason your old friend el Coronel Lopez and the other malcontents have finally decided to stop their wishful thinking and get on with shooting you.”
