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“The Old Man wants me to take over Howell Petroleum. The problem with that is I’m going to have to learn how to do that. And I can’t learn how to do that as long as I have Operation Ost to worry about. I promised Souers I’d stick around until the new Central Intelligence Directorate, or whatever the hell they’re going to call it, is up and running. And then there’s El Coronel, Incorporated, I have to worry about.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Everything I inherited from my father. And I have already learned that what the Old Man told me to tell you is true. For every peso a rich gringo like myself has, there are at least three dishonest Argentine sonsofbitches trying to steal it.”

Jimmy chuckled.

“So are you going to sign that power of attorney or not?”

Jimmy didn’t reply. He instead poured Dewar’s into two glasses, gave one to Clete, and then signed the paper. Then he wordlessly touched his glass to Clete’s, and they took a healthy sip.

Jimmy gestured to the power of attorney: “When I signed the one for my dad, it had to be notarized. What are you going to do about that?”

“The Old Man’s lawyers thought of that, too. They found out that a commissioned officer, such as myself, can witness the signature of someone junior to them, such as yourself. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Captain Cronley.”

“I’ll be damned,” Jimmy said, as Frade scrawled Witnessed by C.H. Frade, LtCol, USMCR and then his signature below Cronley’s signature on the power of attorney.

Clete put the document in his luggage and then took the leather envelope and handed it to Jimmy.

“You get to keep that stuff. When you’re all alone in your monastery, feeling sorry for yourself, you can take it out and read it and tell yourself, ‘What the hell, at least I’m rich.’”

“Very funny. You through?”

“Yeah.”

Jimmy drained his glass and pushed it away. “Okay. Speaking of the monastery, Clete: Despite what everyone seems to think, all is not sweetness and light between General Gehlen and me.”

Clete’s eyebrows rose.

“I don’t think I’m going to like this,” he said.

“Tiny’s Number Two, Sergeant Tedworth, caught an NKGB officer sneaking out of the monastery—”

Clete silenced him with a raised hand.

“Let’s get all the details in from the beginning,” he said. “Tiny is who?”

“First Sergeant Chauncey Dunwiddie . . .”

“Well, Jimmy, I can understand why General Gehlen might be a little miffed that a twenty-two-year-old American captain who never saw a Russian a month ago decided he knows more about interrogating NKGB officers than Abwehr Ost experts. How do you even communicate with this guy? Sign language? You don’t know three words of Russian. What the hell were you thinking?”

“Konstantin speaks English. And German.”

“Konstantin? Sounds like you’re buddies.”

“I like him. Okay?”

“My God!”

“That—liking him—came after I decided that I wasn’t going to—couldn’t—stand around with my thumb up my ass watching while some Kraut kept him in a dark cell stinking from his own crap, following which he would be blown away. And knowing if anything came out about that, I’d be on the hook for it, not the Germans and not Mattingly.”

“Oh, so that’s it? You were covering your ass?”

“Fuck you, Clete!”

“What?” Clete said angrily. “Let’s not forget, Little Brother, that your big brother is a lieutenant colonel and you’re a captain. A brand-new captain.”

“Sorry. Make that, ‘Fuck you, Colonel.’”