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“When was the last time you saw a grown man pout?”

“What?”

“Pout. You know, stick your lip out and look sad so everybody feels sorry for you.”

“What the hell are you talking about now?”

“Enrico,” Clete said. He pointed.

They were approaching the Constellation. Sergeant Major Enrico Rodríguez, Cavalry, Argentine Army, Retired, was sitting on the stairway leading up the open rear door of the aircraft. His Remington Model 11 riot shotgun was in his lap.

And he was indeed pouting.

“I didn’t want to take him to the meeting at the Schlosshotel Kronberg. It would have been awkward all around. So I made him stay with Gonzo Delgano. ‘For just overnight.’ And then you and I went to Munich the next morning . . .”

“And he’s really pissed.”

“Yup. And he’s really pissed.”

“He loves you, Clete.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Cronley and Frade

got out of the Storch.

Enrico pretended not to see them.

“Enrico, you want to help me with my bag?” Frade called.

Rodríguez walked to the Storch, said, “Teniente,” to Cronley, and took Frade’s bag.

He ignored Frade.

“Actually, Enrico, that’s Capitán,” Frade said.

“Capitán,” Enrico said, and marched with Frade’s bag to the ladder and carried it up and into the airplane.

“How long are you going to be invisible?” Jimmy asked.

“God only knows. Enrico can stay pissed—pout—longer than my wife.”

“Here comes my gas truck.”

“As soon as you’re topped off, get out of here and down to Munich. Try to confuse the FBI about where you’re going. You probably won’t be able to, but try.”

“At the risk of repeating myself, Colonel, sir, I’m not going to blow Operation Ost.”

“So you said.”

“And here comes the admiral,” Frade said, pointing.

A convoy was approaching the Constellation. First an M-8 Armored Car, then a Packard Clipper with a four-star license plate, then a Buick Roadmaster with a one-star plate, and then another M-8.

“Major Johansen is dazzled by all those stars,” Frade said. “Good.”

“What?”