Fischer wondered, Frade’s not talking about the gaucho—is he?
Schultz thought, This kid is supposed to be expert on the Collins Model 7.2 transceivers and the SIGABA?
“How do you do, sir?” Fischer said politely.
“And kill the ‘sir’ business, too,” Frade added.
“What do you say, Fischer?” Schultz said.
“What do I call you?”
“We call him El Jefe,” Dorotea said. “It means ‘the chief.’ ”
Fischer nodded his agreement.
“Well, come in the house and we’ll have tea,” Dorotea said.
“Can I pass on that, Dorotea?” Schultz said. “I want to look at what they brought. I figured we’d do that in the hangar?”
“So would Carlos like to have a look at what we brought,” Frade said, then explained Carlos to Fischer. “He’s my mechanic, hired at the strong recommendation of Delgano, which means he works for El Coronel Martín.”
“Carlos went into town yesterday,” Schultz said. “I thought he’d be back today, but he’s not here. I checked on that when I heard you’d come onto the estancia.”
“So would I like to see what you brought home,” Dorotea said. “So tea will be served in the hangar. There also will be beer, Mr. Fischer, a very nice merlot, and bourbon, as that’s what my husband drinks. But we have about anything else you might want.”
“Beer will be fine, ma’am,” Fischer said. “Ma’am, do you have a vacuum cleaner?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Could I borrow it, please? One with a hose would be just what I need.”
“One vacuum cleaner with a hose coming up,” Dorotea said.
“What’s with the vacuum cleaner?” Schultz asked.
“I packed the transceivers and the . . . electric typewriter . . . with popcorn,” Fischer said.
“You did what?”
“I used popcorn as a cushioning material,” Fischer explained.
“I’ll be goddamned!” Schultz blurted.
“Quite probably,” Dorotea said, “if you keep taking His name in vain.”
“Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Chief Schultz said in awe, then winced. “Sorry again, Dorotea.”
They were in the hangar, looking into the innards of the SIGABA device, the cover of which had been carefully removed. There was not much to see, other than an odd wire rising from a sea of popcorn kernels.
“You did that to the Model Seven-Twos, too?” Schultz asked.
“Yeah. It really works.”
“You’ve moved one of these before?” Schultz asked doubtfully.
“I’ve moved a bunch of them,” Fischer said.
Fischer turned to Enrico Rodríguez, who was somewhat awkwardly, if not comically, holding his shotgun in one hand and an upright vacuum cleaner by its handle in his other. Fischer took the vacuum from him and found a power outlet.
There was a thin, foot-long hollow wand attached to the vacuum cleaner hose. Fischer pulled it off, then turned on the vacuum and carefully lowered the now-large, open end of the hose into the SIGABA.
There was a rattling in the hose as the machine sucked up the popcorn. It didn’t take long to get most of it out, and then Fischer put the wand back on the hose and used that to suck out what was left from among the vacuum tubes and rat nests of wiring in the cavity.
“I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Schultz said again. This time he didn’t apologize.
“Now let’s see what happens when we plug it in,” Fischer said.
Dorotea handed him a power cord.
“One-ten or two-twenty?” Fischer asked.
“Two hundred twenty volts,” Schultz answered for her.
Fischer threw the voltage-selector switch on the side of the SIGABA device, then made the connection.
“You better stand back, Chief. Sometimes there’s a flash fire,” Fischer said seriously.
Schultz looked at him in disbelief but took a step back.
Fischer pushed the main power switch.
There was a hum, but no fire.
Fischer smiled at Schultz, who, smiling, shook his head.
A row of dials slowly came to life.
Both Fischer and Schultz examined them carefully.
“Jesus, better than I thought,” Fischer said thoughtfully.
“You don’t have any juice on the DC feed to the secondary oscillator,” Schultz said.
“Oh, hell!” Fischer said, then added, “But no problem. I’ll just say the magic words!”
“The what?”
“Mumbo jumbo, fish boom bah,” Fischer intoned, and with his index finger tapped the dial that showed no indication of power. The indicator needle leapt to life and indicated twelve volts DC.
“If that didn’t work, I would have kicked it. That usually works,” Fischer said. “But sometimes I have to use a hammer.”
“You’re a real wiseass, aren’t you?” Schultz said, smiling.
Fischer shrugged. “I’m a Signal Corps second lieutenant. It goes without saying.”
“It’s working?” Frade asked.
“If I hadn’t watched it myself, I wouldn’t believe it,” Schultz said. “Okay, Fischer. Fair’s fair. If that popcorn is your idea, you’re one clever sonofabitch.”
“Call me ‘Len,’ ” Fischer said.
Frade said, “Talk about clever: You should have heard the line of bull he fed Martín and Tío Juan about this thing. Which they swallowed whole. Tell the chief, Fischer.”
Fischer related the story.
“And they believed that?” Schultz then said.
“Swallowed it hook, line, and sinker,” Frade confirmed.
“Well, then, they must not know a hell of a lot about the way RDF works.”
“What do you mean?” Frade asked.
“There’s no long message like that—‘South American Airways Zero Zero One’—what he said. What the field RDF transmitter sends is a couple of letters. Like P-A-L for Palomar. That’s all. You don’t know that?”
“I do,” Frade replied. “But so what? Martín and Perón don’t.”
Then he had a thought that chilled him, almost making him sick to his stomach.
Oh, shit!
Delgano was there when Fischer was handing that bullshit story to Perón and Martín!
He’s a pilot. He knows about RDF call signs as well as I do! Every time he goes into Palomar, he homes in on PAL.
He looked at Fischer.
Fischer looked embarrassed.
“I know about radios,” he said. “I don’t know much about airplanes.”
“Obviously,” Frade said, somewhat sharply. And was immediately sorry.
This is my fault, not his.
So why didn’t Delgano say anything?
Was he waiting until we were gone, and was going to tell Martín then?
That doesn’t make any sense.
If he was going to tell Martín, he would have told him when he was showing him and Perón around the airplane.
And if he had told Martín, Martín wouldn’t have been so obliging about us loading the SIGABA and the Collins transceivers on the truck and bringing them out here.
At the very least, Martín would have “suggested” we leave everything in the hangar at Palomar.
“Something you ate, darling?” Dorotea asked. “You look as if you’re about to be sick.”
“We didn’t fool Delgano with that story,” Clete said. “He’s a pilot.”
“Oh, shit!” Schultz said.
After a moment, Dorotea asked very softly, “You think he told Martín?”
“I think if he had, the SIGABA device now would be in Martín’s office, being examined by his technicians, and I would be explaining to Tío Juan why I was smuggling a cryptographic device into Argentina. Or I’d be in a cell.”
“Delgano’s a good guy, Clete,” Schultz said. “I know you don’t like him, but . . .”
“But what? The sonofabitch spied on my father for years.”
“That was his job,” Schultz argued. “His duty. That don’t mean he didn’t like your father. Or that he liked spying on him.”