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“I know he thinks that anyone who is not going to keep his vow of personal loyalty to Hitler is a traitor.”

“Like Galahad, for example?” Martín said.

“Like who?” Frade said.

“You did hear that he flew his little airplane to Montevideo this morning, and came back about an hour ago?”

“Who did what?”

“He brought back with him a package for Señor Gradny-Sawz,” Martín said.

He demonstrated with his hands the size of the package; about that of a shoe box.

“Cletus,” Nervo said. “Would you be shocked to hear that I don’t think fighting godless Communism is such a bad idea?”

“I’d say you sound like my boss and my grandfather,” Clete said.

Nervo chuckled. He patted Clete on the arm and then turned to Martín.

“Alejandro, decision time. You have thirty seconds to decide what we’re going to do about all these people violating the sacred neutrality of Argentina.”

Martín shook his head.

“Twenty-five seconds,” Nervo said, looking at his wristwatch. “Do you want to report to General Obregón that we have reason to believe that the American OSS with the connivance of the Papal Nuncio has just smuggled into Argentina two SS people and their wives and children? And plans to smuggle in more?”

Martín stared icily at him.

“Or that you watched, but did not arrest, an SS general as he was smuggled into Argentina from a German submarine?”

“Christ, Santiago!” Martín protested.

“Or that we have reason to believe that Don Cletus Frade has been concealing two Germans who either ran from their embassy—or who he might have kidnapped—at his Estancia Don Guillermo in Mendoza?”

“I didn’t kidnap the Froggers,” Clete said.

“Does Father Kurt know about you and the Froggers?” Nervo asked.

Clete nodded.

“Or, Alejandro, do you wish to join with Don Cletus and me in this noble—and I might add, endorsed by Holy Mother Church—battle against godless Communism?”

Nervo glanced at his wristwatch. “Fifteen seconds.”

“Goddamn you, Santiago!”

“I would ask if you want to join with Don Cletus and me in the equally—as far as I am concerned—noble battle against more-or-less godless Nazism, but I’m not sure how you and Holy Mother Church really feel about the Nazis.”

“You sonofabitch!” Martín said, but he could not restrain a chuckle.

“May I interpret that to mean you’re with us?”

“What other choice do I have?”

“Suicide would be an option, but I seem to recall that’s a mortal sin.”

“What are we going to do?” Martín asked.

“What I’m going to do is get in Don Cletus’s airplane . . . the little one . . . and fly to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo with him to have a word with el Señor . . . what’s his name, Cletus?”