“And where’s the money going to come from?”
“So far it’s come from my grandfather, which brings us to that, Humberto.”
“Excuse me?” Duarte said.
“There are two accountants aboard the Ciudad de Buenos Aires,” Clete said, “dispatched by my grandfather to make sure I don’t squander his money on whiskey and wild women. Tonight, I’m going to put them up in the house on Coronel Díaz. But we’re going to have to find them someplace to live—someplace nice; they’re high-priced CPAs—maybe the Alvear or the Plaza. Can you deal with that?”
Duarte nodded.
“The immediate problem is to get them off the airplane, by which I mean we need the service of Immigration and Customs.”
Humberto pointed. Clete saw a half-dozen uniformed Immigration and Customs officers.
“But first we need a better way to get things off the Connie than that stepladder,” Frade said. “I wonder where Señor Mañana is.” He looked around and spotted him.
“Señor de Filippi?” he called.
Guillermo de Filippi, SAA’s chief of maintenance, walked to him.
“Our immediate problem, Guillermo,” Frade said, “is to unload our new aircraft. That stepladder won’t do. Any suggestions?”
“Señor Frade, we don’t have a ladder that tall.”
“We have wood, right?” Frade said. He pointed to two railroad flatcars, both bearing enormous stacks of lumber intended for the construction of a third hangar. “And carpenters? Does that suggest anything to you?”
“Señor Frade, the carpenters stop work at five o’clock, and it’s after that. There would be problems with the union.”
“I will deal with the workmen, Don Cletus,” Enrico Rodríguez said.
Frade turned and saw him standing behind him. Holding his shotgun.
How the hell did he get down the ladder with the shotgun?
I don’t think that being forced to build a stairway with a shotgun aimed at you would be good labor-management practice.
“Enrico, tell them it’s two days’ pay if they can build a stairway up to the plane in half an hour.”
Father Welner chuckled. Señor de Filippi looked confused.
“And I’ll throw in a case of beer,” Frade added, then turned to de Filippi. “And there’s a couple of other things that have to be done. On the airplane are airframe and engine engineers . . .”
He stopped in midsentence when a line of cars started to stream from behind the hangar onto the tarmac.
“What are we going to do, have a parade?” Frade quipped.
“We are having a cocktail and small buffet at your house on Coronel Díaz,” Claudia said. “To celebrate whatever is going on here.”
“You set that up, did you?”
“I was with your father for many years, Cletus. I didn’t think you would mind my using the house.”
“I was just about to say, ‘Thank you very much, that’s a great idea.’ ”
“And while that’s going on,” Claudia said, “we’re going to have a quick board of directors meeting in the upstairs sitting room.”
“We are?” he asked, smiling at her.
“We are,” Claudia said flatly. “And I mean right now.”
“There’s a lot that has to be done here,” Frade said.
“Aside from getting your passengers off that airplane and into the cars—and that can be dealt with by Señor de Filippi—there’s nothing you have to do here that won’t wait until tomorrow morning. Humberto and I have a right to know what’s going on here, and I insist you tell us. And right now.”
Actually, there is one thing I have to do here that won’t wait until morning.
My back teeth are floating.
“Claudia, I’m going to go directly into the hangar, get in the Horch, and when you get to the house I’ll greet you at the door.”
He pointed to the automobile, which was sitting just inside the door, and then at Rodríguez.
“Enrico, have someone throw my bags off the Connie and put them in the Horch. We’re going to Coronel Díaz. Señor de Filippi can get the ladder built. Right, Guillermo?”
“Of course, Señor Frade.”
“And then bring everybody to my house on Coronel Díaz. You know where it is?”
De Filippi nodded.
Claudia eyed Frade suspiciously.
“I trust that that will be satisfactory, Claudia?” Frade asked with a smile.
She examined his face carefully and finally said, “All right.” Then she added, “Be there, Cletus.”
He grabbed her, kissed her wetly on both cheeks, and then walked quickly toward the hangar.
He walked past the Horch until he found the men’s room.
A moment after he had reached one of the urinals, someone walked to the adjacent fixture. Frade looked to see who it was.
“Please don’t say it, Cletus,” el Coronel Alejandro Martín said.
“But people will talk, Alejandro, if you keep following me into men’s rooms.”
He sighed. “I should have known better than to ask.”
“Humberto said you were looking for me,” Frade said.
“We have to talk.”
“Okay.”
“Not in here.”
“I presume you’ve been invited to Señora Carzino-Cormano’s cocktail and small buffet?”
Martín shook his head.
“Not to worry. It’s her party, but my house. You’re invited. So we can talk there. Or better yet, ride into town with me. We can sit in the back of the Horch and wave at our loyal subjects.”
He turned slightly away from the urinal and well mimicked the regal flat-handed slow wave of British Royalty.
Martín smiled and chuckled.
“I think I should warn you, Cletus, that I have learned you are at your most dangerous when you’re playing the clown.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, mi coronel.”
“Okay, I’ll ride in with you. What we need to talk about has nothing to do with what happened here today. But I want to talk about that, too.”
[FOUR]
Ruta Nacional No. 7
Near Morón
Buenos Aires Province, Argentina
1750 19 September 1943
“I hope this doesn’t make you think I’m paranoid, mi coronel,” Frade said, “but I think we are being followed.”
Frade was at the wheel of the Horch. Martín sat beside him. Enrico was in the back. The canvas top of the Horch had been lowered.
“We are,” Martín said. “Please tell Enrico not to shoot them; they belong to me.”
“Enrico,” Frade called, raising his voice. “Don’t shoot at the people in the car behind us. They belong to el Coronel Martín.”
“There’s two cars of them, Don Cletus,” Enrico called. “They’ve been with us since we left the airfield.”
Frade looked at Martín, held up two fingers, and wordlessly asked with a raised eyebrow, What the hell is that all about?
Martín explained: “About a month ago—on August 12, to be precise—there was an incident near your home on Coronel Díaz. You may have read about it in the press. It was necessary for the police to kill three criminals they came across in the middle of a robbery.”
“I do seem to recall something about that,” Frade said.
“I didn’t want something like that to mar Doña Claudia’s little party today. Better safe than sorry, as they say.”
“You really think that’s likely?”
“I’d say it’s far more likely that unknown malefactors who don’t like you would have another go at you while you’re—while we’re—riding along here like targets in a carnival shooting gallery.”
“How would they know I’m here?”
“How many cars like this Horch would you say there are in Argentina?”
“Good point,” Frade said.
“Cletus, can we have one of our off-the-record conversations?”
“S
ame rules?”
“Same rules. We don’t have to answer a question, but if we do, it has to be the truth.”
“Ask away.”
“Let’s start with what happened today: What’s going on with that enormous airplane?”
“Airplanes. There’s three of them.”
“Three of them?”
“There’s another at the Canoas airfield, being painted, and another on the way there.”
“And what are you going to do with them? More to the point, what are you going to do with them for the OSS?”
“The what?” Frade replied. “The OSS? What’s that?”
They smiled at each other.
Frade went on: “But to answer the question generally: South American Airways is about to begin one-stop—at Belém, Brazil—service between Buenos Aires and Lisbon, Portugal. Or maybe Madrid. I won’t know that until I make a test run. Could be to both places. And maybe to Switzerland, too. Anyway, at least one flight each way a week, maybe two.”
“What’s that all about?”
“What I was told was there is a problem moving civilians between Europe and the States by air . . .”
“Civilians? Or spies from that organization you never heard of?”
“Civilians. Diplomats. Not only Americans, but neutrals—French, Spanish, Swiss, et cetera. Businessmen, too. Right now, if we have to send a diplomat to Spain, for example, he has to either wait for a Spanish ship—or other neutral ship, and there aren’t many of either—or travel by air on one of our transport airplanes, which means some military officer gets bumped . . .”
“ ‘Bumped’?”
“Doesn’t get to go. Anyway, he goes by military air to England—sometimes by bomber, riding in the back, where the bombs go—and then they get him to Spain either by a neutral-country civilian airplane, and there aren’t many of those, or by a neutral ship. Getting the picture?”
Martín nodded.
“The Swiss—I didn’t even know they had an airline until last week—have been asking for Douglas transports and, specifically, for Constellations. Which is what I flew in here today.”
“Beautiful airplane. Enormous airplane. Where did you learn how to fly one?”
“I thought you knew I used to be a Marine fighter pilot. If it’s got wings, a Marine fighter pilot can fly it.”
Martín shook his head resignedly. “And Delgano?”
“I taught Delgano at Canoas. Then we partially trained another half-dozen SAA pilots—”
“Partially trained?”
“They’ve made a half-dozen takeoffs and landings, but they’re not ready to fly the Connies anywhere.”
“Getting back to how you came to get the airplanes?”
“Okay. They offered the Connies to me. I jumped at it, borrowed the money . . .”
“What I was asking was why did they—and who’s ‘they’?—offer them to you?”
“They were offered to me by Howard Hughes . . . the aviator, the movie guy?”
“I know who he is.”
“We’re old friends. More important, he’s close to my grandfather. He’s also in tight with Lockheed. I think he probably owns it, but that’s just a guess. Anyway, Howard told me what I just told you, and said that the government doesn’t want to sell airplanes of any kind to the Swiss—or just about anyone else in Europe, or to the Brazilians, but SAA is sort of special.”
“Because the managing director works for the OSS?”
“The what?” Frade replied.
They smiled at each other, and then Frade went on: “The only thing the Constellation is good for, Alejandro, is hauling people long distances. It is not a submarine hunter; it can’t drop bombs and there are no machine-gun turrets. And the Americans already have submarine-hunting aircraft—modified B-24s—at Canoas and other places in Brazil. As you well know.”
“So why does your friend Howard Hughes think SAA is special?”
“Because Argentina is neutral—”
“Some of us actually are,” Martín interrupted.
“Let me finish. When SAA establishes probably a twice-a-week service back and forth to Portugal or Spain, the problem of moving civilians back and forth from the States by air is solved. The airplanes take off from a neutral country, Argentina, and fly with only one stop, Canoas, to another neutral country. If you want to go to Europe, you get on one of the Pan American Grace Clippers, the flying boats, and go to Canoas. SAA will then fly you to Lisbon.”
“Why is the United States being so nice to Argentina?”
“The Connies will give the finger”—he demonstrated the gesture—“to the only other airline, Lufthansa, offering commercial service to Europe. Everybody knows the Constellation is an American airplane. They call that ‘public relations.’ ”
“You believe all this, Cletus?”
“All I know for sure is that I am about to own three Constellations with which I hope to make a lot of money.”
“That presumes the Argentine Civil Aviation Dirección gives you—gives SAA—permission.”
“Come on, Alejandro. The airplanes are owned by an Argentine company—”
“There is a nasty rumor going around that the major stockholder in that company is in the OSS,” Martín interjected.
“—and will be flown by Argentine pilots, many of whom”—Frade turned to look Martín in the eyes—“a nasty rumor has it, are actually military officers assigned to the Bureau of Internal Security.” Frade looked back to the road and went on: “As will be, I suspect, the Immigration and Customs officers who will carefully check each plane before it takes off, and when each one lands. This has nothing to do with the OSS, Alejandro.”
“So you say, Major Frade. Or did a promotion come with your added responsibilities to the OSS?”
“And then there’s that other thing,” Frade said, ignoring the comment. “I somehow got the impression just now that General Rawson thinks this is a lovely idea, that offering intercontinental air service will add to the prestige of the Argentine Republic.”
“Since we are still off the record, Cletus, I will admit that was brilliant, what you did at the airfield.”
“You are too kind, Alejandro.”
And it was.
Colonel Graham actually orchestrated that entire arrival business like a symphony conductor.
But, Alejandro, if you want to think I’m that clever, help yourself!
“What did you say about borrowing money?”
“My grandfather, who always knows a bargain when he sees one, has elected to make a substantial investment in South American Airways.”
“Wouldn’t that make it a mostly North American-owned company?”
“Not at all. As you know, I am an Argentine by birth. And many years ago, when he first started looking for oil in Venezuela, my grandfather became a citizen of that splendid South American country. Something to do with excessive taxes laid on foreigners. You know, dual citizenship. Like me. SAA is entirely owned by South Americans.”
Martín shook his head.
“You’re good, Cletus. This round goes to you.”
“That suggests there will be other rounds.”
“You and I both know there will be,” Martín said.
“All I can do is hope that your careful scrutiny of every little detail of our operations, which I fully expect will finally convince you that my motive in this is solely to make a lot of money. And, of course, to add a little prestige to the country of my birth.”
“You already have a lot of money.”
“Money is like sex, Alejandro,” Frade said solemnly. “You can never get too much of it.”
Martín laughed, but then said: “I already warned you that I’ve learned you are most dangerous when you’re playing the clown.”
“Can we turn to this ‘you have to see me on a matter of life-and-death importance’?” Frade said. “I never clown about things like life and death.”
“Neither do I,” Martín replied. “Okay. Here it is: T
he Germans may be planning to kidnap your father-in-law, your mother-in-law, and your brother-in-law, and exchange them for the Froggers.”
Frade didn’t say a word.
After a long moment, Martín said, “For God’s sake, Cletus, don’t pretend you don’t have the Froggers.”
“What I was thinking was: How good is your source?”
“It came from someone in a position to know,” Martín said.
“That’s not the same thing as saying ‘reliable’ or ‘very reliable,’ is it? Where’d you get that, Alejandro?”
“Next question?”
“You’ve got somebody in the German Embassy?” Frade said, but before Martín could respond, he went on: “I don’t understand why they would tell you that. Or, if this is true, why they haven’t already done it. It’s probably bullshit, which brings me back to: Why did they tell you?”
“It may very well be, to use your word, bullshit. But, on the other hand, they just might be getting ready to kidnap your in-laws.”
“You’ve said ‘may be planning’ and ‘just might be getting ready.’ Which suggests to me that you don’t have much faith in your source.”
Martín didn’t reply for a long moment, then asked: “You’re hearing this for the first time?”
Frade nodded. “I never even thought of something like this as a possibility.”
“I’m surprised. You generally think of just about everything. Unless, of course, you have a reason for believing the Germans won’t do anything to get the Froggers back.”
“Short of causing harm to me or anyone close to me, they’re capable and probably willing to do anything to get the Froggers back.” He stopped and smiled at Martín. “ ‘The Froggers.’ There’s that name again. Who are the Froggers, incidentally? I never heard of them.”
Martín shook his head in resignation. “Tell me,” he said, “why won’t they cause harm to you or people close to you?”
“I thought I told you that.”
“Tell me again.”
“I told my beloved Tío Juan—and you were there, Alejandro, when I called him from my house on Coronel Díaz, right after they tried to kill Enrico and me—that I was giving him the benefit of the doubt that he didn’t have time to call off his German friends, but that he’d better get right on the phone.”
The Honor of Spies Page 27
