“I heard it, Juan Domingo, and obviously that was wrong. But there are other ways to deal with it than the way—”
“And didn’t you just hear me say that the way to deal with such problems is to see them clearly—admit to them—then deal with them as brutally as necessary, paying no attention to our personal feelings?”
Duarte nodded slowly. “I heard you, Juan.”
Jesus Christ, Frade thought, where did all that come from?
And that wasn’t Tío Juan taking care of me.
He was as mad at Dowling as I was.
Frade’s eyes turned to Father Welner, who was looking at him with a strange expression.
Perón said, “May I suggest, señor managing director, that we now turn our attention to the insurance problem?”
“Ernesto took the Lloyd’s of London radiogram with him,” Claudia said.
“Well, why not?” Frade said. “It wasn’t addressed to us anyway. But we know what it said.”
Perón said, “The goddamn English are behind that, Cletus. I’m sure of it.”
Frade looked as if in thought, then said, “Before we turn to the problem, there’s one thing I would like to do.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask what that is,” Claudia said.
Frade formally announced: “The chair moves the election of Captain Delgano to the board of directors.”
“Splendid idea,” Perón said.
“I’ll take that as a second,” Frade said. “Are there any other comments?”
No one said anything.
“Are there any objections?”
The handle of the knife caused the water pitcher to resonate shrilly.
“Hearing none, the motion carries,” Frade said. “Welcome to the board, Gonzalo.”
“I don’t remember being asked if I wanted to be, as your grandfather would put it, window dressing,” Delgano said.
“You didn’t have to,” Frade said. “I read minds.”
Frade looked at Duarte. “Okay, Humberto, tell us what you think is really going on, presuming you agree with me that it has nothing to do with the qualifications of our pilots?”
“If I may, Cletus,” Perón said. “As I said, the British are behind this.”
“Explain that to me, please.”
“Before the war, the British controlled the Argentine railroads. They were already talking back then about either taking over Aeropostal or starting their own airline. That had to be delayed by the war, but there is no question that that is still their intention. From their viewpoint—I am not among those who think the British will win this war—they see two obstacles to doing that. Varig and Pan American Grace—”
“Not Aeropostal?” Duarte interrupted.
“A moment ago,” Perón said, “I said something about seeing things the way they are, not as we wish they were. As an Argentine, I am ashamed of Aeropostal. We can do better, Humberto. And you know it.”
Duarte shrugged. “No argument.”
“As I was saying, Cletus,” Perón went on, “the English simply do not understand that England no longer rules the waves. In their ignorance, their arrogance, they believe that as soon as the war is over—which they believe they will win—they can come back here and take control of our commercial aviation just as they did with our railroads.
“There’s not much they can do about Varig and Pan American, and they’re not worried about Aeropostal. But South American Airways? Better to nip that little flower in the bud—when it is easy to do so. Just step on it. How? By telling Lloyd’s of London to find some excuse not to insure us.”
Frade looked at Welner, who was nodding his agreement.
“You agree with that, Humberto?” Frade then asked.
“That’s probably part of it, but—”
“ ‘Probably part of it’?” Perón parroted indignantly.
“Let him finish,” Frade said curtly.
This earned him a look of both surprise and indignation from Perón, but after a moment Perón gestured regally for Duarte to continue.
“Cletus,” Duarte said carefully, “I was a little surprised to learn that you have been flying back and forth to Montevideo. That is, that the Uruguayan authorities permitted you to do so.”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“I heard some talk at the Jockey Club that Varig is more than a little upset that South American Airways has started up and, worse, started up with aircraft they had been led to believe they were going to get.”
Frade raised an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t supposed to talk business at the Jockey Club.”
“That doesn’t apply to the steam bath,” Humberto replied absently, then went on: “And I would really be surprised if Varig hasn’t casually mentioned in passing to the Uruguayan authorities that Lloyd’s of London has canceled SAA’s insurance because our pilots are not qualified.”
“That would seem to buttress my argument,” Perón said. “Not refute it.”
“I wasn’t disagreeing with you, Juan Domingo, merely suggesting that there’s more here than Winston Churchill having a word with some school chum at Lloyd’s Coffee House. For example, I wouldn’t think Señor Juan Trippe of Pan American Airways was thrilled to learn he will have competition from another Argentine airline. And I don’t think he would be above trying to do something to inconvenience us.”
Duarte and Perón quietly looked at each other a long moment.
Frade thought: This problem can be solved overnight by messaging Graham that FDR’s airline is about to be shot down by an English insurance company or by Juan Trippe—or by both.
But if the problem suddenly went away, how could that be explained?
That would cause the OSS’s head to pop out of the gopher hole.
Okay. So we get insurance from the same place Eastern Airlines and Transcontinental and Western Airways get theirs.
And where is that? I don’t have the foggiest fucking idea.
Has to be America—so the solution is we get American insurance.
And how to do that?
There’s nothing wrong with our airplanes. They’re brand-new Lockheeds.
We’re back to the pilots. Nobody is going to write insurance on us if they think our pilots are a bunch of wild Latinos who learned to fly last week.
And that brings us right back to getting ATRs for our pilots.
“Gonzo,” Frade said, “how much time do our pilots have?”
Perón and Duarte looked at him in curiosity.
“That would depend on the pilot, Don Cletus,” Delgano said.
“How many have a thousand hours of multiengine time?”
“Maybe a dozen, possibly a few more than that.”
“And how many of that dozen speak English?”
“Most of them have enough English to fly.”
“ ‘Enough English to fly’?” Perón parroted.
“Mi coronel, English is the language of air traffic control in Uruguay and, in large matter, Brazil and Chile, as well. We’ve all flown there.”
“Why is the language of air traffic control English?” Perón challenged, as if this offended him personally.
“I don’t really know, mi coronel,” Delgano replied as if this outrage was his fault.
“The solution to this little problem of ours,” Frade said, “is to get American insurance, and the way to do that is to get our pilots an American ATR rating.”