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“Do you know what I’m talking about, General Martín?” the old man asked. “Freemasonry? Do they have that down here?”

“There are Masons here of course, Señor Howell,” Martín replied. “Many of our founding fathers—José de San Martín, Manuel Belgrano, and Domingo Sarmiento, for example, all presidents of the Argentine Republic—were Masons.”

“I didn’t know that,” the old man said. “I thought you were all Roman Catholics down here. No offense intended, Father Welner.”

“Most of us are,” Martín said.

“That’s something else you’re going to have to do, Cletus,” the old man said. “And, for that matter, you, too, Jimmy. See about getting into the Masons. You’re both old enough. I’m surprised your father, Jimmy, hasn’t talked to you already.”

“How the hell did we get on this subject?” Clete asked.

“Because he doesn’t want to explain that letter, or whatever it is, from President Truman,” Martha said.

“Nonsense,” the old man said. “What happened was that Harry—excuse me, President Truman—and I were having a little Tennessee pick-me-up in my apartment and I happened to mention that I’d bought the Constellation and was coming down here, and he said, that being the case, he wondered if I would do him a favor, and I said certainly. He is the President. How can you tell the President of the United States no?

“So he told me what you’re doing down here—”

“What did he tell you we’re doing down here?” Clete interrupted.

“What the hell do you think he told me? About keeping General Gehlen’s people out of the hands of the goddamn Communists is what he told me. My God, Cletus!”

“I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Clete said.

“Watch your mouth, Cletus,” Martha said. Then she had a second thought: “I never heard about any of this. Who is General Gehlen?”

“Harry also told me,” the old man went on, “that you’re looking for a German submarine, or submarines, that left Germany with uranium oxide aboard that he’s afraid the Russians will get their hands on.”

“I’m having trouble believing the President ran at the mouth like that,” Clete said.

“Well, Harry knows I’m not exactly a Commie in the closet. That probably had something to do with it.”

“And what exactly does the commander in chief want you to do for him here?” Clete asked.

“What he said, Cletus, is that while as far as he’s concerned you’ve been doing a first-class job down here, you can’t get away from the fact that you’re pretty young to be a lieutenant colonel. He said that when he was your age, he was a captain.”

“So?”

“What he said was that he would be more comfortable with this situation if someone a little older, a little more experienced, and with the wisdom that comes only with a lot of years . . .”

“I wonder who he had in mind?” Clete asked sarcastically.

“. . . had a look at everything,” the old man went on. “And, if needed, put a gentle hand on the tiller and got your boat back on the right course.”

The door opened and Antonio announced, “Captain von Dattenberg, Don Cletus.”

Jimmy snapped his head toward the door.

He saw a tall, slim, hawk-featured man in nice-looking civilian clothing that seemed just a little too large for him.

But he saw no Elsa.

Where is she?

And why did she come here with this sonofabitch?

“Come on in, Willi,” Frade called. “The ladies are just leaving.”

Frade waited until all the women but Dorotea had left.