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The Republic of Argentina
* * *
“Heads up, Jefe,” Frade called, and when Schultz looked at him, went on, in Spanish, “Please show the ambassador in.”
He had heard there was a new ambassador, but knew nothing beyond that.
The first impression Frade had of Ambassador Alexander was that he looked like Allen W. Dulles. He was younger and had no mustache, as did Dulles, but was built about the same and wearing the same kind of single-breasted suit and button-down-collar shirt and bow tie that Dulles habitually wore.
“Than
k you, Colonel, for receiving me without notice,” the ambassador said.
He sounds like Dulles, too. Pure Boston.
“Welcome to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, Mr. Ambassador,” Frade said as he walked toward Alexander.
He realized the hand he wanted to extend held his whisky glass, then moved the glass.
Alexander’s handshake was firm.
“May I offer you . . . ?” Frade asked, holding up his whisky glass.
“Very kind of you,” the ambassador said.
“Jefe,” Frade ordered in Spanish. “See what the ambassador will have.”
“A little of that Jack Daniel’s, if you please, Lieutenant Schultz,” the ambassador said in perfect Spanish. “Over ice.”
The ambassador smiled shyly. “I’ve seen el Jefe’s photograph,” he said. “So let’s get that out of the way. I know a good deal—not everything, of course, but a good deal—more about you than an ambassador usually does about the American citizens whose well-being and property he is charged with protecting.”
Schultz made the drink and handed it to the ambassador.
He raised it. “The United States of America, gentlemen, and our President.”
Schultz and Frade raised their glasses, and they all sipped.
“I’m sure you’re curious about the sources of my information,” the ambassador said.
“I can’t imagine why you’d think that,” Frade said.
Alexander smiled shyly again.
“I hardly know where to begin,” Alexander said. “Well, at his request, I paid a courtesy call on Treasury Secretary Morgenthau shortly after I was confirmed by the Senate. He seems to feel that you are facilitating the movement of Nazis from Germany to Argentina, which understandably distresses him.”
“Mr. Ambassador . . .” Frade began.
Alexander cut him off with a raised palm. “I’m not asking you for confirmation or denial.”
“Where did you see my photograph?” Schultz asked.
“Your photo, Lieutenant, and yours, Colonel, were in the dossiers given to me by the Navy. Since word hasn’t yet reached you—I asked my naval attaché to hold off on contacting you—you have both been relieved of your assignment to the now defunct Office of Strategic Services and are now assigned . . . as unassigned officers to the Navy Department—the Navy uses very strange terminology, as you may have noticed—with temporary duty station, the U.S. embassy, Buenos Aires.
“The Navy has directed my naval attaché to issue the appropriate orders to you to return you to the United States for reassignment or relief from active duty.
“The War Department has done very much the same thing for the Army personnel formerly assigned to OSS Western Hemisphere Team 17, code name Team Turtle. Specifically, Majors Maxwell Ashton the Third and Anthony J. Pelosi, Master Sergeants William Ferris and Sigfried Stein, and Technical Sergeant Jerry O’Sullivan. They are now assigned to Fort Meyer, Virginia, with temporary duty station at the embassy here.”
Frade thought: He recited all that from memory. And without a pause.
