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The dining room of Clete’s apartment was the master suite of the big house. He didn’t make it that far. The aroma of searing meat caught his attention as he walked down the corridor and he followed his nose into the kitchen.
Enrico, wrapped in a white apron, was standing at a parrilla and holding a large knife against a large, three-inch-thick bife de chorizo.
“When you finish making that inedible,” Frade said as he slipped into a chair at a large kitchen table, “I’ll eat it here.”
“I cooked at this parrilla for your father before you were born, Don Cletus. I know what I’m doing.”
“You want the wine?” Ashton asked.
“I never challenge Mother Superior’s medical opinions.”
Ashton opened a bottle of Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon 1940 and poured all of it into three glasses, handing one to Enrico and one to Frade and raising the third.
“What do we drink to?”
“Perón is still alive,” Frade said seriously. “And maybe we can avoid a civil war.”
“That really worries you, doesn’t it?” Ashton asked. “A civil war?”
“Not only would that really fuck up Operation Ost for us, but I’ve heard a lot more than I wanted to about the one they had in Spain.”
“From who?”
“From Hansel as we were flying back and forth across the drink. Spain’s was apparently really bad, and I don’t want that to happen here. And not only because of what it would mean for this operation.”
“Well, we should be hearing from el Jefe pretty soon about what happened at the airport.” Ashton raised his glass. “Long life to your Tío Juan!”
As if the toast had been his cue, el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón came into the kitchen.
He was in a sort of ratty cotton bathrobe, thin, washed out, and not quite large enough for him. He had a bandage covering most of his cheek. He looked pale but somewhat better.
“Very kind of you, señor,” Perón said. “But I don’t believe I have the privilege of your acquaintance.”
Clete took a healthy sip of his Cabernet Sauvignon and was surprised at how quickly—immediately—he felt the effect of the alcoho
l.
I guess that’s because I’ve been bled.
“Colonel Perón,” Clete said, “may I present my deputy, Major Maxwell Ashton the Third? Max, this is my Tío Juan.”
The two shook hands.
“Aside from my godson, Major, you’re the first member of the OSS I’ve ever actually met.”
“Of the what, Colonel?” Ashton asked.
Clete thought: Why do I think this is going to be a disaster?
“Enrico,” Frade ordered, “get el Coronel a glass of wine, and then go in the wardrobe and get him a decent bathrobe. I think there’s a couple still in boxes. And where’s my breakfast?”
“Right away, Don Cletus,” Enrico said, gesturing for the plump, pleasant-looking middle-aged woman who was “el patrón’s cook” to take over the parrilla.
She dropped what looked like a half pound of butter into a fire-blackened flying pan on the parrilla and then—seemingly without looking—began to break eggs into a bowl with one hand.
My God, my mouth is actually watering!
