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“No!” Frade said, in sarcastic surprise. “I can’t imagine the officer corps being at all offended that the minister for War is running around with a semi-pro hooker half his age. Every senior colonel should have a blond tootsie like Evita to help him pass his idle hours.”

“You don’t know that for a fact,” the priest said, “that she’s a semi—”

“If it waddles like a duck, quacks like a duck, et cetera,” Frade interrupted.

“You’re repeating gossip,” the priest said disparagingly.

“You remember when our Hansel was ordered back to the fatherland?” Frade asked. “Well, let me tell you what happened that night at the Alvear Palace.”

The Alvear Palace Hotel was Argentina’s best hotel, and one of the best hotels anywhere in the world.

“Clete, let that lie,” von Wachtstei

n said.

Frade considered the request.

“Okay, Hansel,” he said.

“What happened that night at the Alvear?” Martín asked.

“Hansel wants it forgotten—it’s forgotten,” Frade said seriously, and then smiled. “Suffice it to say, mi General, on that memorable night I saw Señorita Evita waddling and going ‘quack, quack.’ It went over Hansel’s head. But not mine.”

Martín raised his eyebrows, then went on: “General Ramos and I went to see el Coronel Perón, and—”

“You went to see him or the president sent you to see him?” Frade interrupted.

“President Farrell suggested to General Ramos and me that it might be helpful if we had a talk with el Coronel Perón,” Martín said.

“About his blond tootsie?” Frade asked.

“To tell him that there was credible information about talk in certain factions within the officer corps about assassinating him—”

“Is there?” Frade again interrupted. “You believe it?”

Martín nodded. “For conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, bringing disgrace upon the officer corps.”

“The unbecoming conduct meaning his cohabitation with Señorita Evita?” Frade said. “Parading all around town with her on his arm? Or did that include his younger—much younger—other lady friends?”

“That came up,” Martín said. “But there’s more.”

“What more?”

“The officers in question know about the passports Rodolfo Nulder took to Germany.”

“I can’t say that breaks my heart,” Frade said. “But I didn’t tell them. I’ve been scrupulously neutral in the trouble the officer corps has been having with my beloved Tío Juan.”

Martín ignored the response.

“The officers we’re talking about are the ones who had to keep their mouths shut before we declared war on Germany,” Martín said. “Now they feel free to criticize not only the Nazis, but also—maybe especially—those officers who leaned toward Germany. And Perón certainly heads that list.”

“So you and Ramos said, ‘Get rid of the blonde, Juan Domingo, and the girls of doll-carrying age, and your Nazi sympathizer pals like Nulder—or you’re likely going to get shot’?”

Martín nodded. “And General Ramos phrased it just about that crudely.”

“Did he believe you? Did he think these officers are angry enough to be serious about assassinating him?”

“I don’t know,” Martín said.