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Schultz nodded.

“They told him you and Dorotea were off somewhere on the estancia.”

“He didn’t think that was odd?”

“Your butler—what’s his name?”

“Antonio,” Clete furnished.

“Lavallé,” Dorotea furnished.

Antonio Lavallé had been El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade’s butler, at both the “money sewer” mansion on Avenida Coronel Díaz in Buenos Aires and the big house at Estancia

San Pedro y San Pablo, for longer than Clete and Dorotea were old.

“Yeah,” Schultz continued, “he managed, without coming right out and saying it, to tell him that you and Dorotea went off to find a little romantic privacy, if you take my meaning.”

“And?” Clete said.

“He asked when you would be back, and Antonio said, ‘Probably before lunch.’ Delgano said that he really had to see you, and that he would just wait.”

“And?”

“Antonio gave him coffee and rolls, and according to the last word I got, Delgano’s sitting on your verandah waiting for you to come home.”

“When was your last word?”

“Just before we heard you’d come onto the estancia. Maybe ten minutes ago.”

Frade, obviously in thought, didn’t reply.

“Come on, my darling,” Dorotea said. “Give us your worst-case scenario; you’re very good at that.”

“Okay. I will. He’s going to tell me that the Bureau of Internal Security would prefer that we handle the unfortunate situation in a civilized manner.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning he would rather that I just get in his car with him and go to Buenos Aires, thereby avoiding a shoot-out with my army of gauchos.”

“That’s absurd,” Dorotea said.

Clete didn’t think she really thought it was absurd.

“Possible, but I don’t think so,” Schultz said.

“Why not?” Frade challenged.

“I just don’t think so,” Schultz said. “I think if that was the case, he’d have at least brought one guy with him.” He paused, then explained: “In case you changed your mind on the way to Buenos Aires.”

“So what’s he doing here? Just paying a social call?” Frade asked.

“I think you have to find out,” Schultz said. “You open to a suggestion?”

“Wide open.”

“I take Fischer with me. Can you handle a Thompson, Fischer?”

“No,” Fischer said simply. “The only weapons I’ve ever fired was in Basic Officers’ School—the .45 and the M1 Garand.”