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She kissed his cheek affectionately, and then went to Perón and hung tightly to his arm. He beamed at her, then turned toward the city hall door, where two men Clete did not recognize were standing.

“Numenez,” Perón ordered curtly. “You can see that my guests have arrived. Go get the mayor!”

—

There was a small room off the foyer of the city hall. It looked something like a courtroom, except there was no elevated desk or platform for a judge. There was a small wooden barrier separating the front part of the room from the rear.

In the room’s front part were a lectern and three tables. Two of the tables had three chairs at each. The third table, with a pair of chairs, was in the center beside the lectern, and held some sort of register beside a pen-and-inkwell set. There was a large crucifix on the rear wall, and an Argentine flag to the left.

The rear of the room held a dozen rows of benches on each side. Six or eight people could be crowded onto each bench.

It wasn’t hard to figure out that the room was the official place where civil marriages were performed.

But why, Clete wondered, did we have to come way the hell out here for that?

There must be ten, probably more than ten, places like this in Buenos Aires.

For that matter, Perón is vice president; he could have summoned the proper officials to do their thing anywhere he wanted.

Perón ushered people into their proper places.

“Father,” he said to Welner, “if you would be so good, you’re at the right witness table with the general and Cletus. The ladies, I’m afraid, are going to have to use one of the benches.”

There was a man in a business suit at the left witness table. He had risen to his feet when everyone entered the room. Perón now introduced him.

“Señor Duarte,” Perón said, “this is my godson, Don Cletus Frade, and Señora de Frade, and Señorita Howell. Señor Duarte is Evita’s uncle. He will give the bride away.”

Señor Duarte offered his hand to Clete and said, with absolutely no sincerity, that he was delighted to make his acquaintance.

“I have a few words to say,” Perón announced, “and I might as well say them while we are waiting for the mayor, in his own sweet time, to join us.

“When I became godfather to the firstborn of my best friend, el Coronel Jorge G. Frade, may he be resting in peace, I swore to almighty God that I would protect his life as I would my own.

“As things turned out, as some of you know, it was Cletus who protected my life as he would his own, and at great risk to his own life. I would not be standing here today were it not for his courage and loyalty. And more than that, were it not for the blood from his veins now flowing in mine.

“Christ taught us, ‘Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends.’ General Martín proved his love for me by doing just that on the airfield named for my beloved best friend, Jorge Frade, and almost lost it to protect my life, suffering grievous wounds in the process.

“So I can say that I am grateful to Almighty God that the two men who have proved their love for me are here with me today to witness my marriage to my beloved Evita.”

Jesus H. Christ!

Does he believe that?

And/or does he expect us to believe it?

A middle-aged man in a business suit hurried into the room.

“I’m so glad you could find time in your busy schedule for me, Señor Alcalde,” Perón said unpleasantly. He turned to the man he had spoken to before. “Numenez, get the others in here.”

Clete wondered who Numenez was.

“The others” filed into the room from the foyer, where apparently they had been waiting. There were ten of them. They all looked like plainclothes policemen. Clete remembered Martín telling him that—in his role as secretary of Labor and Retirement Plans—Perón had his own security service, run by Rodolfo Nulder.

And where the hell is randy ol’ Rodolfo?

Eight of the men took seats on the benches. The other two—one of whom held an American Speed Graphic “Press” camera and the other a German 35mm Leica—remained standing. The man with the Leica started snapping pictures.

The mayor took his position behind the lectern, and after a moment signaled, somewhat nervously, to Perón that he was ready. Perón walked to the lectern and stood to the right of it. Evita walked to the man Perón had identified as her uncle and stood beside him.