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General Martín, Chief Pilot Delgano, and Master Sergeant Stein were all at the Executive Suite windows with Leica C-II 35mm cameras and snapping pictures of the diplomats climbing the stairs to the Ciudad de Rosario.

“Anybody interesting?” Clete asked as he looked down at the tarmac.

“One man,” Martín said. “Rodolfo Nulder.”

“Who is he?” Frade asked.

“He was at the military academy with el Coronel and el Coronel Perón, and later at the Kriegsschule with your father,” Enrico announced, and matter-of-factly added: “Then he was cashiered for being a pervert and a liar.”

“What was that all about?” Clete asked.

“Young girls on the estancia,” Enrico said.

“Your father told el Coronel Perón that he never wanted to hear the name Rodolfo Nulder spoken again, and told el Coronel Perón that if Nulder ever put foot on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo again he would kill him.”

“Bernardo?” Frade asked.

“I think Rodríguez summed it up pretty well,” Martín said dryly.

Frade thought: Wonder what my father thought of Tío Juan’s taste for young girls?

Would he have approved of me calling my godfather a degenerate sonofabitch and then throwing him out of Uncle Willy’s—my—house?

Martín added: “El Señor Nulder is now the director of security at the Secretariat of Labor and Retirement Plans.”

“And this lying pervert is going to Germany with the diplomats why?” Frade said.

Martín shrugged. “I have no idea, but that may be why they were so late getting here. They didn’t want anyone to see Nulder getting on the airplane, so they waited until it was dark.”

“And you have no idea why this sterling character is going to Germany?” Frade pursued.

Martín shook his head. “Not long ago, over drinks at the officers’ casino at Campo de Mayo, I had a chat with el Coronel Sánchez of General Ramírez’s staff. He just happened to mention that he’d had a conversation with el General in which el General mentioned that with so much on my plate, he was sure I was wasting my time and assets on investigating things at the Secretariat of Labor and Retirement Plans. ‘Perón and his people are perfectly able to take care of that sort of thing themselves.’”

“You were told to back off?” Clete asked more than a little incredulously.

Martín repeated: “I was told that it was General Ramírez who had mentioned he hoped I wasn’t wasting my time and assets on the Secretariat of Labor and Retirement Plans.”

“You never happened to mention that to me.”

Martín smiled. “I like you, Cletus. And I love my wife. But there are some things I never mention to either one of you.”

“Taking pictures of this guy is backing off?” Clete said.

“Don Cletus Frade, master of the indelicate observation,” Martín said with a smile.

“And I don’t suppose you would be heartbroken if we kept an eye on him for you while we’re over there, would you?”

“You know I’m always interested in anything you have to tell me.”

“If this guy went to the Kriegsschule with my father . . .”

“He probably knows a good number of senior German officers,” Martín finished for him. “Some of whom might wish to come here now that their services are no longer required.”

“So this whole thing is an excuse to bring a planeload of Nazis here?” Clete wondered aloud.

“Another planeload of Nazis, you mean?” Martín asked.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, mi general,” Clete said. “Unless you’re suggesting that some of the priests, brothers, and nuns who SAA has ferried here for the Vatican—and traveling on Vatican passports—weren’t who they claimed to be.”