Now everyone, including Claudia, was looking at him as if he had lost his mind.
“Anyone got a better idea?” Frade asked.
“How are you going to get our pilots this rating?” Delgano asked. “Where?”
“At the Lockheed plant in Burbank.”
“Where?” Perón said.
“California. Burbank is in California.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Duarte asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“May I play the devil’s advocate?”
“Go ahead.”
“To do that, you of course would have to get our pilots to Burbank, California. ”
Frade nodded and motioned impatiently with his hand Get to the point.
“To get them to California,” Duarte went on, “they would need two things. First, a visa. And if the English—and, for that matter, Mr. Trippe—have the influence to get Lloyd’s of London not to insure us, isn’t it possible they have the influence to suggest to the U.S. government that giving visas to a dozen Argentine pilots is a bad idea—”
“I take your point, Humberto,” Frade interrupted, and thought, I didn’t think about that; you’re probably right.
“—inasmuch as the time and effort to train them could be better spent, for example, training their Brazilian allies,” Duarte went on to sink his point home.
And Graham could fix that, too, except that would see the OSS’s ugly head again popping out of the gopher hole.
Frade said, “What’s the other thing you think we would need to get our pilots to Burbank?”
“A means of getting them there,” Duarte said. “Do you think Mr. Trippe might suggest to the American Embassy in Rio de Janeiro—which issues the priorities necessary to get on any Pan American flight to the States—that there are more Americans or Brazilians deserving of a priority than some Argentines?”
Frade didn’t immediately reply because he couldn’t think of anything to say.
And again Duarte drove home his point: “And there is no other way but Trippe’s Pan American Airways to travel by air to the U.S., which means we’re talking of at least three weeks’ travel time by ship, and that’s presuming you could get the necessary visas . . .”
“Is that all that the devil’s advocate can think of?” Frade said.
“Isn’t that enough? I don’t like it, Cletus, but I’m following Juan Domingo’s idea that we should see things the way they are, rather than as we wish they were.”
Frade nodded. “True, but”—Where did this come from?—“there are two flaws in the devil’s argument.”
“Never underestimate the devil, Cletus,” Father Welner said.
Jesus, is he serious?
“Are there really?” Duarte said.
“First of all,” Frade went on, “Pan American is not the only way to fly to the States. The Lodestars were all flown down here; there’s no reason one couldn’t be flown back.”
“Could you do that?” Perón asked.
“It is possible, mi coronel,” Delgano said.
Frade added, “And it would also solve the visa problem. Aircrews don’t need visas.”
“They don’t?” Perón asked dubiously.
Delgano shrugged. “We don’t need them to fly to Chile, Brazil . . . anywhere. I can only presume the same is true of the United States.”
“It is,” Frade said with certainty.
I have no idea if that’s true or not.
The first question that comes to mind is whether I can call twelve guys sitting in the back “aircrew” just because they’re pilots.
But I have to run with this until I can get a message to Graham.
“When can you leave, Cletus?” Perón asked.
“At first light the day after tomorrow. It will take us that long to prepare. Right, Gonzo?”
Delgano nodded.
“Well, there you have it, Humberto,” Perón said.
“Excuse me, Juan Domingo?”
“An hour ago, I saw no solution to this problem,” Perón said. “And now, thanks to Cletus, we have one.”
Frade studied Perón.
Does he believe that?
Then Frade announced: “There being no other new business, is there a motion to adjourn?”
“So moved,” Claudia Carzino-Cormano said.
“Second?”
“Second,” Duarte said.
“Are there any objections? Hearing none, the motion carries, and this meeting is adjourned.”
He rapped the water pitcher with his knife again.
[THREE]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 2030 30 July 1943
Enrico had insisted on driving, so on the long ride to the estancia, Clete had the opportunity to think about what had happened, what was probably going to go wrong, and what difficulties he was likely to—or certainly would— encounter.
Heading the latter category was the reaction of Doña Dorotea Mallín de Frade on her learning (a) that her husband very shortly was going to fly to the United States, (b) that he didn’t know how long he would be gone, and (c) that, no, she couldn’t go along with him.
His lady greeted him at the door. He kissed her.
“You’re just in time for dinner, darling. Why do I suspect that’s either pure coincidence, or that you’ve done something really awful, and this is your way of making amends?”
“A lot’s happened, baby. I’ve got to message Graham, and I’d rather do that before we eat.”
“And are you going to tell me what’s happened?”
“How about I write the message, you run it through the SIGABA, and then I answer the questions you’re certain to have?”
She nodded.
“I did a random network check about an hour ago,” she said as they went inside and closed the door. “The Collins is up.”
“And you know how to operate it. That’s more than I know how to do.”
“That’s because I’m smarter than you are, darling.”
She waved him down the corridor toward the study.
Twenty minutes later, Clete watched as Dorotea thoughtfully and methodically tore into six-inch lengths the long tape that had run though the SIGABA device.
“What are you thinking, baby?” he finally asked.
“That there has to be a better way to get rid of the tape than tearing it into pieces,” she said matter-of-factly, “then taking it onto the verandah and burning it. But so far—”
“That’s all?”
She met his eyes.
“That, and that you can take the portrait of your mother with you to give to your grandfather.”
“Excuse me?”
“The one in the upstairs corridor in your Uncle Guillermo’s house on Libertador. ”
“Granduncle Guillermo,” he corrected her automatically. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“There is a portrait,” she explained patiently, then spread her arms wide to illustrate the size, “a large oil portrait of your mother. It’s hanging in the upstairs corridor in your Granduncle Guillermo’s house. You grandfather wanted it. I gave it to him. There was no way he could take it with him. I tried to ship it, but that proved impossible. The war, don’t you know? You can fly it with you to the United States. Do you understand now?”
“That’s all you’ve got to say about my going to the States?”
“What is there to say? You obviously have to go, for the reasons you gave in your message to Colonel Graham. And, as obviously, I can’t go with you for a number of reasons, including of course our Nazi houseguests.”
[FOUR]
4730 Avenida del Libertador Buenos Aires, Argentina 2030 31 July 1943
“In the best of worlds,” Dorotea said as the Horch rolled up to the massive iron gates of the house across the street from the hipódromo, “we would be living here, and your beloved Tío Juan would be living somewhere, anywhere, else.”