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“I surrender. I am an officer of the Waffen-SS—” Schäfer began, then paused when he saw that the large man had trained the muzzle of the Thompson back at him.

“Enrico, we need to question them,” Staff Sergeant Stein said in Spanish.

The big man nodded. “I was wrong,” he said.

Schäfer went on: “—under the protection of Oberst Sch—”

“Shut your mouth, you sonofabitch, before I shoot you,” Stein barked in perfect German. He pointed to one of the SS troopers. “Start digging him out of there.”

Then Enrico gave an order of his own. “Rafael, send someone for the horses.”

“Sí, Suboficial Mayor,” one of the natives said.

[TEN]

El Plumerillo Airfield

Mendoza, Mendoza Province, Argentina

1635 16 October 1943

Clete had just finished his inspection of the fourth Piper Cub in the hangar when he heard the familiar sound that the Continental A-65-8 flathead, four-cylinder, 65-horsepower engine made.

He looked at his hands, which were covered with grease.

“Why am I not surprised?” he asked.

“Is that them, Cletus?” General Rawson asked.

“It’s either them,” Clete said as he walked to the hangar door, “or somebody else has two Cubs.”

A Piper painted in Ejército Argentino olive drab touched down on the runway. A second was a thousand meters behind it.

Clete ran across the tarmac and made the appropriate arm signals, telling the pilot to come to where he was standing. The pilot ignored him and taxied toward the passenger terminal. And so did the pilot of the second Cub when he landed.

The president of the Argentine Republic, the senior officer of the Gendarmería Nacional, the chief of the Eth

ical Standards Office, and the aide-de-camp to the president followed Don Cletus Frade as he walked across the airfield toward the passenger terminal, trailed by six gendarmes.

By the time they got there, Father Kurt Welner, S.J., who had been left with the cars and trucks, had told the pilots who was who, and the pilots—both young tenientes—were now standing, visibly uncomfortable, waiting for the sword of presidential wrath to fall.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Rawson said courteously, returning their salute. “Please stand at ease.”

“Where the hell have you been?” General Nervo inquired, far less courteously.

“Mi general, we had to stop at Córdoba to refuel,” one of the pilots said.

A civilian wearing a bloody bandage on his forehead and in a grease-stained polo shirt and khaki trousers, went to one of the Cubs and with grease-stained hands opened the engine compartment. Neither pilot thought this was the appropriate time to ask questions.

The civilian turned from the engine.

“I don’t think I have ever seen such a clean engine,” he said.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce Don Cletus Frade, who is an experienced Piper pilot. He is the son of the late Coronel Jorge Frade, whose last active duty command was of the Húsares de Pueyrredón.”

Neither lieutenant seemed to know quite how to deal with that revelation. An indelicate sophistry from Major Frade’s own military experience popped into his mind: Those poor bastards don’t know whether to shit or go blind.

He took pity on them.