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“That’s a helluva story.”

“Which I thought I should tell you. Now that I have, may I suggest we go downstairs for our lunch?”

“You may. But please tell them I said to start without me, Father Jack. I’ll join you after I gather some things for the trip.”

“Will do.”

[FIVE]

4730 Avenida del Libertador General San Martín

Buenos Aires, Argentina

2030 10 April 1946

Cronley drained the last of the bottle of ’41 Estancia Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon into the crystal stem that sat on the massive marble sink of Uncle Willy’s bathroom. He both felt and heard his stomach growl. Not only had they started lunch without him, it had ended in his absence, too. All he managed to scrounge after the table had been cleared was the makings for a small lomo sandwich—sliced rare filet mignon with horseradish on a hard-crusted baguette.

The blame for his having missed the meal rested with Cletus Frade.

Frade had called while Cronley was packing his suitcase, announcing that the Dorotea would be wheels-up for Germany at first light and that Cronley was being summoned to the Bunker to answer, over the SIGABA, El Jefe’s questions—which Frade said meant DCI Souers’s questions—concerning Wallace’s last communiqué.

That had consumed, it turned out, the remainder of the afternoon and into the early evening.

When Cronley had finally returned to Uncle Willy’s bedroom to finish packing and get dressed for dinner, it had been with a bottle of the fine Cab they had flown in by the caseload in the Lodestar from Frade’s estancia in Mendoza.

* * *

—

Cronley came out of the bathroom, showered and smelling of the eau de cologne he had found in a cardboard box in one of the closets. He had helped himself to one of the remaining half dozen liter bottles. He suspected the cologne had been in the closet since Uncle Willy had lived there himself a generation or two before.

Cronley had a bath towel tucked around his waist. On his way out of the bathroom, the towel slipped off and he stumbled over it, nearly falling to the marble floor.

“Shit!”

He looked down at the towel on the floor, then kicked it. It flew into the bedroom, coming to rest on the lamp shade of a wall fixture. The wet cotton touched the hot lightbulb, causing it to explode.

If I go over there, I’ll cut my feet on the glass.

So, fuck it, I’ll get it later.

Stark naked, he walked over to the bed, where he had left his clothes.

He felt the damp towel being draped over his shoulder.

A female voice said, “You dropped something. Don’t turn around until you put it on.”

Ginger!

What the hell is she doing up here again?

When, towel in place, he turned around, she was standing there, arms crossed over her ample bosom. She was dressed for dinner in a fancy black dress that, he could not help but notice, not only did little to conceal her curves, it very nicely accentuated them.

What the hell do they call those?

Cocktail dresses.

Jesus, she is one attractive broad, especially in that tiny outfit.