S?, Se?or," Lauffer said.
Clete Howell looked out the window, now splashed with water, as the Mart?n 156 taxied in a sweeping turn from the end of its landing roll toward the buoy where it would be moored.
Is it really, on a flying boat, a "landing roll"? Land planes roll, on their wheels, until they're slowed down enough to taxi. Flying boats, which have no wheels, obviously can't roll. So what do flying boat pilots call it? "The landing slow-down"? Or maybe "the landing splash"?
Who cares ? What difference does it make ?
That's the champagne working on me. I had damned near a whole bottle, which wasn't too smart, since I may have to use my brain when I get to Customs and Immigration carrying an Argentine passport, issued here, which does not have an Exit Stamp. What am I going to say if the guy asks me how I got out of the country without an Exit Stamp?
Damn! Colonel Graham should have thought of that!
What the hell, when all else fails, tell the truth, or something close to it. I left Argentina on my American passport, duly Exit Stamped.
The forty-odd other passengers aboard Pan American-Grace Airlines Flight 171 all seemed to be out of their seats, collecting their cabin baggage.
Three boats were headed out from shore, obviously to meet the flying boat. There had been two the last time, a Customs boat and a graceful, narrow, varnished wooden powerboat. Pan American Grace had permanently chartered it from the owners of a fleet of substantially identical boats in El Tigre, a Buenos Aires suburb that Clete's father had described to him, accurately, as "an undeveloped Venice."
The one leading the procession looked like a Navy boat of some sort, sort of an admiral's barge, carrying two officers.
Obviously to meet some big shot. I wonder who?
The admiral's barge reached the flying boat before it was tied up, and then moved close.
Those are Army officers, not Navy. What's that all about?
The hatch in the side of the fuselage opened, and the two officers came aboard. One of them, a small and intense major, spoke somewhat arrogantly to the steward.
That major's a feisty little bastard. Why are small people like that?
The major came down the aisle, shouldering past the passengers collecting their belongings.
Jesus, he's coming to me!
"Teniente Frade?" the little major asked, with a patently insincere smile.
"Se?orFrade," Clete said.
"I was led to believe you served as a Teniente in the Norteamericano Corps of Marines, Se?or."
"I served as a major in the U.S. Marine Corps, Major."
Clete thought he saw amusement in the eyes of the good-looking captain standing behind the major.
"MayorFrade, I am Mayor Querro, who has the honor of presenting the compliments of Teniente General Ramirez, the Argentine Minister of War."
"How do you do?"
"This is Capitan Lauffer, Mayor Frade."
"How do you do, Capitan?"
"I have the honor of presenting the compliments of General Rawson, mi Mayor," Lauffer said. "And may I offer my condolences on the death of el Coronel Frade, under whom I was once privileged to serve?"
"Thank you very much," Clete said.
"If you will give your baggage checks to Capitan Lauffer, Mayor Frade, he will deal with that. I will take you to General Ramirez."
"What about Customs and Immigration?" Clete asked.
"Capitan Lauffer will deal with that. Will you come with me, please?"
As soon as the admiral's barge moved alongside the quay, Major Querro jumped out, then extended his hand to assist Clete in leaving the boat.
Clete ignored the hand, more because he thought being assisted offered more risk of taking a bath than jumping out himself.
Major Querro motioned for him to precede him up a flight of stairs cut into the massive stone blocks of the quay.
A half-dozen ornately uniformed senior officers, coronels and generales, of the Argentine Army were lined up at the top of the quay behind an officer whom Clete recognizedhe had been introduced to him by his fatheras General Pedro P. Ramirez, the Argentine Minister for War.
Ramirez marched over to Clete, saluted him crisply, then put out his hand. The others raised their hands to the leather brims of their high-crowned uniform caps.
"Se?or Frade," Ramirez said, "please accept the most profound condolences of the Ejercito Argentina"Argentine Armed Forces"and my personal condolences, on the tragic loss of your father, el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade."
"You are very kind, mi General," Clete replied as Ramirez emotionally grasped his hand.
One by one, the other officers identified themselves and shook Clete's hand. One of them, a General Rawson, he also recognized, and remembered his father telling him they were old friends.
"Our cars are here, Se?or Frade, if you will come this way?" Ramirez said.
A crowd of people stood behind a barrier waiting to greet the incoming passengers. One of them Clete recognizeda slight, somewhat hunch-shouldered, thickly spectacled man in his late twenties wearing a seersucker suit and carrying a stiff-brimmed straw hat and a briefcase. His name was H. Ronald Spiers, and he was a Vice Consul of the Embassy of the United States of America.
As two policemen shifted the barrier to permit General Ramirez and his party to pass, Spiers stepped forward.
"Mr. Frade?"
Clete stopped.
"I am here on behalf of the Embassy, Mr. Frade," Spiers said. "To offer the condolences of the Ambassador on your loss, and to assure you the American Embassy is prepared to do anything within our power to assist you in any way."
"That's very kind of you," Clete said. "Thank you very much, but I can't think of a thing right now."
"We are ready to assist in any way we can," Spiers said.
"Thank you very much," Clete said, and offered his hand.
Spiers has a handshake like a dead fish,Clete thought, but at least Colonel Graham will know, as soon as a message can be encrypted and transmitted, that I not only got into the country without trouble, but am being treated like the prodigal son returning.
General Ramirez seemed to be annoyed at the delay.
Outside the building stood a line of official cars. Ramirez led him to the largest of thesea soft-top Mercedes limousine, said to be identical to that provided for field marshals in the German Army.
"Your father is lying in state in the Grand Salon of Honor in the Edificio Libertador," General Ramirez said when they were inside. "We can go there directly, if you like. Or if you would like to compose yourself, we can go to your father's home."
"What happened to my father, General?"
"Banditos," General Ramirez replied, exhaling. "They blocked the road near Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. Your father, who had the courage of a lion, apparently resisted, and was shot to death."
Well, that's the official version, apparently. Now I have to find out what really happened.
"And Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez? Was he with my father?"
"Yes."
"And how is he?"
"He is in the Argerich Military Hospital," Ramirez said. "He will recover."
"If you please. General. I would like to see him."
"Of course. I will arrange it."
"I mean now. Sir."
Ramirez looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded.