Frade nodded again. “And the third?”
There was absolutely no reason that Frade should know of the Manhattan Project.
“You don’t have the Need to Know,” Graham said.
“Fine with me, as long as it’s not going to happen here.”
“I can assure you it’s not going to happen here,” Graham said.
“So why is this business about Canaris such an important secret?”
“You make me another drink, and I’ll tell you.”
“. . . So, essentially all I have to do is make sure that nobody talks about Canaris.”
“That and keep me posted up to the minute on anything, anything at all, that touches on Canaris,” Graham said. “That’s even more important, if possible, than keeping me up-to-date minute by minute about anything else you learn—no matter how unimportant it seems to you.”
“That’s not a problem. There are only two people who know about Boltitz and Canaris—”
“You and who else?” Graham demanded.
“Dorotea.”
“Why in hell did you tell your wife?”
“She was there when von Wachtstein and Boltitz told me. She knows everything. ” He paused, then added: “About everything. The radar, Operation Phoenix, what happened on the beach. Everything.”
“I don’t like that.”
Frade didn’t reply, which Graham correctly interpreted to mean that Frade didn’t much care if he liked it or not.
“And, presumably, you intend to tell her about this conversation?”
“I’d rather have her trusting me to tell her everything than have her suspect I’m keeping something from her and then having her snooping around where she shouldn’t be trying to figure out what that is.”
And he’s probably right about that, too.
“And, of course, Schultz will have to know. He handles the encryption.”
“Only him?”
“He taught me how, in case I had to do it sometime, but he does the encryption. And decryption.”
“Keep it that way.”
Frade nodded.
He didn’t say, “Aye, aye, sir.”
But there was no sarcastic smile on his face when he nodded. He accepted the order. I’m going to have to be satisfied with that.
The sardonic smile will come back now when I tell him that President Roosevelt wants him to set up an airline.
Graham began: “Now, to the second reason I was coming down here before you sent for me . . .”
He saw that Frade was listening attentively.
“Is this airline supposed to be a cover for what we’re doing down here?” Frade asked when Graham had finished.
There’s no wiseass smile on his face.
“Obviously, it would be. But I don’t think that’s the primary purpose the President had in mind.”
“Then what’s he after?”
“He didn’t confide that in me. He doesn’t have to. He’s the commander in chief. And, actually, I haven’t talked to him. He told Donovan, and Donovan told me to do it.”
“Maybe he wants to stick it into Juan Trippe and Pan American Grace,” Frade said.
“Why would you want to say that?”
“My grandfather hates Roosevelt, but he says he’s smarter than hell. What was the name of that Italian family who went around poisoning everybody who got in their way? Machi-something.”
“Machiavelli,” Graham furnished.
“Right. My grandfather says Roosevelt is Machiavellian. Trippe has South America sewn up as far as airlines go—hell, he’s got the world sewn up. So give him some competition. Cut him down to size.”
“That’s pretty far-fetched, Frade.”
On the other hand, it may be right on the money.
I have no idea what Roosevelt was thinking when he came up with this airline idea or what it’s supposed to accomplish.
Frade chuckled.
“What’s funny?” Graham asked.
“I was just thinking: What does Donovan’s badge say, ‘world commander’?”
“I suppose. Either that or ‘friend of the President.’ Can this airline be done, Frade?”
Frade nodded.
“I’ll have to set up a company, and get some partners. . . .”
“Who, for example?”
“My Uncle Humberto—that is, the Anglo-Argentine Bank. And the proper officials in the ministry of transportation; things work much faster down here if the official with the rubber stamp has a piece of the action. And maybe— maybe hell; absolutely—my Tío Juan.”
“El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón?”
“He told me he wants me to think of him as my loving uncle,” Frade said, shaking his head in what could have been either disbelief or disgust. “If I can get him on board—and I think I can; he needs the money—that will keep Martín off my back.”
He looked at Graham for a moment, then went on: “Not that I’m going to use this airliner for anything of which Martín might disapprove. You understand that, right?”
“You’ll use it for any purpose the President or I direct.”
“You want to blow my contacts with Canaris, von Wachtstein’s father, and the rest of it?”
“Of course not.”
“Then it has to be kept as far away from the OSS as I can keep it.”
“Understood.”
We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.
If there is some OSS need for these airplanes, we’ll damn well use them for it.
Frade said: “Varig has got a bunch of Lodestars. Where’d they get them?”
“I have no idea.”
But I would not be at all surprised if Roosevelt was involved.
Frade raised an eyebrow, then drained his glass and said, “Lockheed must have some kind of operation in Brazil. Americans, I mean. Engineers, mechanics. And somebody in charge. What about having Lockheed send the guy in charge down here to try to sell Don Cletus Frade their airplanes? No mention of the OSS, of course, or that I’m an American. I’m a rich Argentine who Roosevelt, for his own reasons, wants to be nice to, and already gave me one Lodestar to prove it. And can get Don Cletus export licenses to buy some more now that I want to start an airline?”
“Sounds good, but slow down. All I really know about this is that Donovan—the President—wanted to know if it could be done—”
“You made it sound like an order.”
Graham ignored the interruption. He went on: “—and now that you tell me you think it can, I’ll get into the details when I get back to Washington.”
“When’s that going to be?”
“I’d like to leave tomorrow.”
“This airline’s that important, is it?”
“No. But everything else you’ve told me is. I want to get back to Washington as quickly as I can.”
“Okay.”
“And the sooner I get back, the sooner I can get a replacement for Commander Delojo down here.”
That didn’t produce the reaction Graham expected.
“I’d rather you leave him where he is,” Frade said. “Just watch him. And I’ll have Ashton and Pelosi watch him. And don’t tell him about this agent business with the badges. I’d rather have him there than somebody I don’t know. I told Delojo if he snoops around here or my people, I’ll kill him. I think he believes me. A new guy might not.”
“Your call,” Graham said.
These credentials really got to him.
And when you’re on a roll . . .
“There’s the oath of office to be administered to your officers and men,” Graham said. “It’s too late—and there’s been too much beer—to do that tonight. First thing in the morning?”
“Fine,” Frade said.
He also swallowed that hook, line, and sinker.
“I’d like to do it in the field,” Graham went on, “rather than here. Would that cause problems?”
“Where they are now is about five kilometers from here. Except Schultz, who never leaves the radar. But he can leave that for an hour or so. What I could do is tell him to meet us at the house, and you and I could go there.”