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The colonel offered his hand, then looked at Clete and von Wachtstein.

“I am Captain Frade,” Clete said, “and this is Captain von Wachtstein.”

“Von Wachtstein?” Colonel Stevens said. “That sounds pretty German.”

“There are a great many Germans in Argentina, Colonel,” Peter said.

“Well, you won’t be flying to Berlin today. The Russians are being difficult. We’re working on the problem, and by tomorrow I’m sure everything will be settled. So, what we’re going to do is take your passengers into Frankfurt, to the Park Hotel, which is near the railroad station. Because there’s just not room for everybody at the Park, we’re going to put your crew up here, in what used to be the Luftwaffe officers’ quarters. There’s a mess hall—not fancy, but adequate—and I think you’ll be comfortable.

“We’ll leave your aircraft right where it is and service it, and of course place it under guard. I recommend that you not leave the air base. That seems to cover everything. Is there something you need?”

“We’ve got fresh meat aboard,” Frade said. “We’re going to need several hundred pounds of ice to keep it from going bad.”

“That may pose a problem,” Colonel Stevens said.

“Which I’m sure you can solve, Colonel,” the natty colonel suddenly said.

Frade had not seen him walk up. Now that the natty colonel was standing beside Colonel Stevens, their sartorial difference was even more striking. And Frade now saw that the natty colonel’s uniform had pinned to the breast parachutist’s wings with three stars on them.

“I think the Argentine diplomats have been counting on their countrymen bringing them some decent meat, don’t you?” the natty colonel went on.

“You think it’s important obviously,” Colonel Stevens said, his tone making it clear he had just received an order he didn’t like.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then we’ll get some ice,” Colonel Stevens said.

“Thank you,” the natty colonel said, and started to walk back to the Horch.

Who the hell is this guy? Frade wondered, then decided that it was a question an SAA captain should not ask.

“If you’ll get into the three-quarter, gentlemen,” Colonel Stevens said, “you’ll be taken to your quarters. I’ll see you in the morning.”

[THREE]

The Luftwaffe officers’ quarters building was half destroyed, but the rooms to which an Air Forces sergeant took them were just about intact, except all the windows and the mirrors in the bathrooms were cracked or missing.

Frade had just sat on his bed—there were no chairs—when the natty colonel walked in.

The colonel greeted him: “I love your uniform, Captain—or should I say ‘Colonel’?—it looks like something General Patton would design.”

He put out his right hand.

His left hand held a bottle of Haig & Haig Pinch scotch whiskey.

As Frade shook hands, he was reminded of the story General Bendick had told about The Dawk showing up at Fighter One with two fistfuls of medicinal bourbon bottles.

“Sir, who are you?”

“Bob Mattingly, Colonel. We both work for Allen Dulles. And to set the ambience for our relationship, when no one senior to me is around, you may call me Bob. And with your permission, I will call you Clete.”

“Fine,” Frade said. “Bob, did you think of glasses to go with the scotch?”

“As a member of Oh, So Social, how could I forget a social amenity like that? The Air Forces sergeant who brought you here is getting us some as we speak.”

“Where’d you get the Horch, Bob?”

“The what? Oh, the car. It belongs to the Prince of Hesse. I pressed it into service. Magnificent machine, but I learned on my way here that it won’t go faster than fifty. Fifty kilometers. I finally decided it’s a parade car, designed to pass through hordes of screaming Nazis”—he paused and mockingly mimed Nazis giving the straight-armed salute—“but not designed to be used on the road.”