It was the same technique he had earlier used to get all the contractors working almost feverishly. And he’d done it over the objections of the SAA board of directors—“Cletus, things are just not done that way in Argentina” was the way Humberto Valdez Duarte, financial director of South American Airways, had put it.
As they were about to let the contracts, Frade had insisted that the contracts include bonus and penalty clauses. And so, there were generous bonuses provided for completion of the various aspects of the construction ahead of schedule, and increasingly heavy penalties if the work was not completed when it was promised.
Frade landed the Cub without incident—neither from the aircraft nor from his squeamish passenger—and taxied to the terminal building behind one of the three hangars under construction. This one was almost done. Workmen were hanging the sliding doors. More important, there was a gasoline-powered generator at the base of the still-unfinished control tower, with a cable snaking up the tower and through an opening that would eventually hold a window.
“Greed triumphs, Len,” Frade said after he had shut down the engine.
“What?”
“Never mind.” He pointed to the tower. “Let’s climb up there and see if the Collins will work.”
Thirty minutes later, with a pleased smile, Second Lieutenant Leonard Fischer, Signal Corps, USA, handed Major Cletus Frade, USMCR, a headset.
“Your cans, sir,” Fischer said.
Frade put them on and heard a distinct metallic sound: dit dah dah dah, dah dat dit, dit dit dah dit.
He smiled.
There was a pause, then his smile broadened as dit dah dah dah, dah dat dit, dit dit dah dit came again.
And, after another pause, the Morse code for JGF sounded again. And again. And again.
“If you weren’t so ugly, Lieutenant, I think I’d kiss you.”
Fischer smiled, handed Frade a microphone, and threw a switch.
“That’s ready, too?” Frade asked, surprised.
Fischer nodded.
Frade pressed the TALK button on the microphone.
“South American Airways Zero Zero One,” he said in Spanish, “this is Jorge Frade.”
There was no reply. Over the next few minutes, Frade made the call again, and again, and again. Still, no reply. He shook his head and shrugged, and started to take the earphones from his head.
“Jorge Frade, this is South American Zero Zero One. Go ahead.”
Frade recognized Delgano’s voice.
“Zero One. What is your position?”
“Jorge Frade, Zero One is fifteen kilometers north of El Palomar at two thousand meters, indicating three hundred kph.”
“Zero One, Jorge Frade, report reception of our RDF signal.”
“Frade, Stand by.”
There was a minute’s silence as Delgano tuned his radio direction finder.
“Frade, Zero One. Receiving RDF signal loud and clear.”
“Zero One, using RDF signal as navigation device, proceed to Frade, descending to one thousand meters, report when field is in sight.”
“Zero One understands proceed Frade using RDF, descend to one thousand meters, report when in sight of field.”
“Zero One, Frade. That is correct.”
“Frade, Zero One has field in sight.”
“South American Airways Zero Zero One, you are cleared to make a low-level east-west pass over Jorge Frade at an altitude of your choice.”
Frade expected Delgano to make the pass at a minimum of fifteen hundred feet above ground level. Thirty seconds later, South American Zero Zero One flashed along the east-west runway of Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade at no more than five hundred feet AGL—her engines roaring, the throttles apparently against their stops.
Fischer watched in amazement as startled ground workers on and near the runway raced for cover.
Frade watched the aircraft roar past, then dramatically pull up and bank.
As her tail disappeared into the distance, he thought, Goddamn, that’s one pretty airplane!
It was a moment before Frade trusted his voice. Then he said, “South American Zero Zero One, proceed to El Palomar and terminate your flight.”
[TWO]
Aeropuerto de El Palomar Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1030 22 July 1943
South American Airways Chief Pilot Gonzalo Delgano was standing beside SAA’s Lodestar, tail number Zero Zero One, when Frade taxied up to it in the Piper Cub. Five other pilots of South American Airways also stood there. They were all in uniform, a powder blue tunic with four gold stripes on the sleeves, and darker blue trousers.
Frade wondered how Delgano had come up with the uniforms so quickly. He recognized several of the faces but couldn’t come up with a single name.
Delgano marched up to the Piper Cub as Frade and Fischer got out.
Then he spread his arms wide.
“Cletus,” he said emotionally. “El Coronel would be so proud!”
Then he wrapped his arms around Frade, wetly kissed both of his cheeks, and hugged him tightly.
Fischer looked uncomfortable.
Then one by one the other pilots marched up to Frade and solemnly shook his hand.
“And we are so grateful to you, Señor Fischer,” Delgano said, turning to him, “for your skill and hard work.”
He embraced Fischer and kissed him with almost as much emotional enthusiasm as he had shown with Frade. Fischer smiled bravely. Then the pilots advanced on Fischer and shook his hand.
“I’m happy to have been able to be of service, Captain,” Fischer said.
“El Señor Fischer will be going with us on the Varig flight, Gonzalo,” Frade said. “It is time for him to go home.”
“I have been thinking about that, Cletus,” Delgano said. “Perhaps it will not be necessary to subject our friend El Señor Fischer to the rigors—perhaps even the danger—of flying with our competition.”
Frade immediately thought, Oh, shit!
Getting Fischer safely out of Argentina—with the two rolls of high-speed 35mm film that when processed would show Fischer, looking uncomfortable, standing beside a scowling Frau Frogger holding a copy of La Nación—had become Priority One on the list.
Frade had considered, and decided against, having the film developed and copies made. If El Coronel Martín of the Bureau of Internal Security suspected—which was entirely likely—that not only was Fischer more than the technical representative of the Collins Radio Company of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, but further suspected—which also was entirely likely—that Cletus Frade had something to do with the missing Froggers, he might suggest that the customs officials pay special attention to Fischer’s luggage before he was allowed to board the Varig flight to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.
If the film were developed, there would be the proof that not only was Fischer more than a radio technician but—there he was, standing beside Frau Frogger—a kidnapper of a German diplomat and his wife.
Fischer—surprising Frade—said he was willing to take the risk.
After Frade accepted that, he said, “Then what you’re going to do, Len, if it looks as if you’re going to be searched, is ruin the film by pulling it out of the cassettes.”
“Those pictures are important to Mr. Dulles. You know that, Clete.”
Frade had then ordered, “What you’re going to do, Lieutenant Fischer, if it looks as if you’re going to be searched, is pull the film out of the cassettes. Say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
Getting Fischer on the Varig flight to Rio had depended on getting the Collins transceiver at Morón’s not-yet-completed Aeropuerto Jorge G. Frade up and running, so they could contact South American Airways Chief Pilot Gonzalo Delgano in SAA’s Lodestar, call sign Zero Zero One, and thus prove that his technical duties had been completed and he could leave Argentina.
When they had left Jorge Frade just now, Clete had decided that that much had been accomplished, and all that remained to be done was to get Fischer on the Varig flight to Brazil with himself and Delgano.