way. “You resemble you brother so much, you could be his twin.”
Nicholas turned the umbrella as the sun moved west. Super-conscientious about his appearance, he was unnaturally terrified of sun damage.
“Here, look at me straight on so I can get a picture of those blue-green eyes.”
Nicholas turned, full-face, to the camera and rested his cheek against the palm of his hand. “Are you married, John?”
"My wife photographs animals for National Geographic. Was Olivad married?”
“Many times. He’d pay some actor he knew—they’re always broke—to pose as a priest to do the ceremony and promise to register the marriage. The marriages weren’t legal, but the women didn’t care.”
“Children?”
“Sterile as a mule and just as stubborn. He supported Natalia’s bastards though. She was his only true love. Probably because she demanded the same freedom he did. She had two sons and a daughter, and he was there for every christening. He couldn’t make it back to Paris in time for the births as fast as that cow dropped babies. Every time he saw her, he’d beg her to marry him. Maybe because he knew she’d always say no. Even when she bore a Nazi’s child. Eventually, Olivad moved them to Los Angeles. Enrique was furious.”
“Enrique?”
“What can I say? Beauty is drawn to beauty. Agent. Manager. Worshiper. Fellatio aficionado. He served with Olivad during the War. It was his idea to make Olivad a star.”
“It was rumored Olivad was bisexual.”
“Olivad? Hardly. Enrique was my lover. As you said, I look like my brother only I’m ten years younger. I’m sure that’s the reason he adored me.”
“Whose idea was it to make Olivad a spy?”
Col. Gerald Compton read Borghese’s dossier and knew the thirty-eight year old Director of Art and Culture was his man. High profile. Apolitical. Still wildly popular in elite circles although his mentor, Carlos Gaudel, had died in ’35. “Borghese would be an asset if the rumor about Argentina’s planned neutrality was accurate,” he said.