Shit! Tío Juan!
What’s that sonofabitch want?
“Do you see what I see?” Peter von Wachtstein asked from the copilot’s seat as he turned the aircraft from the taxiway to the tarmac.
“Don’t let anyone off the plane until I say so,” Clete said, and quickly unstrapped his seat belt and shoulder harness. He was at the fuselage door in the passenger compartment before von Wachtstein had stopped the plane in front of the passenger terminal.
The original idea the previous day—that after the meeting and lunch Clete would fly Dulles in one of the estancia’s Piper Cubs to Jorge Frade, where he would board South American Airways Flight 717 to Canoas—had failed by increments. First, Clete flying anybody anywhere was obviously out of the question once the bar had been reopened.
The alternative plan—that a South American Airways pilot would fly an Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Piper Cub conveniently at Jorge Frade to the estancia, pick up Dulles, and fly him back to Jorge Frade so he could catch a plane to start flying to Washington—went out the window during lunch.
There had still been a great deal to talk about with Dulles:
How was the current status of Boltitz and von Wachtstein going to be affected by the German surrender?
What was to be done with the Germans who had been brought to Argentina in the deal with Oberstleutnant Gehlen? They were divided into three groups—the Good Gehlen Germans, Good Germans, and Nazi Germans—and one answer to that question obviously would not fit all.
There had been no satisfactory answers to these questions. Dulles said that he was either going to have to look into the problem, or they would just have to wait and see what developed, or Clete would just have to use his best judgment.
About three in the afternoon, Clete had realized the discussions were getting nowhere.
“All we’re doing here is kicking a dead horse,” Frade announced. “Or, to quote the distinguished Kapitän zur See Boltitz, ‘All we’re doing here is pissing into the wind.’ I suggest we knock it off. In the morning, on the way to Mendoza, we’ll drop Mr. Dulles off at Jorge Frade in time for him to catch SAA’s oh-nine-thirty Flight 701, nonstop Lodestar service to Rio de Janeiro.”
At that point, Dulles had raised his hand, and when he had everyone’s attention said, “One final thought, Colonel Frade. I am aware that circumstances beyond my control are leaving everyone here—and especially you, as commanding officer—out on a limb. The only thing I can do—and do herewith—is order that any orders you consider it necessary to give will be presumed to be based on my authority.
“In other words, Clete, do what you think should be done. I’ll take responsibility for any action of yours.”
Frade approached Perón and Duarte on the tarmac at Aeropuerto Jorge Frade. Argentine social protocol dictated that Frade wrap his arms around his uncle and make kissing noises with their faces in close proximity. That was fine with Clete; he really liked his uncle.
But the same protocol applied to his godfather, which wasn’t quite the same thing. And Clete had hated every second of their greeting.
That faint tinkling sound is drops of ice falling to the tarmac after a less-than-warm embrace with my Tío Juan.
“When I called San Pedro y San Pablo,” Humberto Duarte then announced, “Dorotea said you were on your way here. So Juan Domingo and I came to intercept you.”
“So I see. What’s up, Humberto?”
Perón cleared his throat, then answered for him: “President Farrell is aware that I am a director of SAA, Cletus, and he called me to see how soon a special flight could be set up to go to Germany. I naturally called Humberto.”
“The President himself did, did he?” Clete said in an unimpressed tone that Perón could not mistake.
Clete felt all of Argentina’s recent presidents—Rawson, Ramírez, Farrell—were flawed, but especially Edelmiro Julián Farrell.
Farrell had overthrown Ramírez in a bloodless coup d’état, masterminded—Clete was sure, but could not prove—by el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón. Because one of General Farrell’s first acts as president of the Provisional Government of Argentina was to name Labor Secretary Perón to the additional posts of vice president and minister for War.
Farrell had also summoned Clete to the Pink House, where he told him that “as a dear friend of your father from our days at the military academy” he had been pleased that Clete had been wise enough not to accept a position in General Ramirez’s government.
Farrell added that he had deeply regretted having to depose Ramirez.
“But P. P. simply seems unable to understand that Germany and Italy are fighting our fight—Christian civilization against the Antichrist, the Russian Communists.”
That shortsightedness had confirmed to Clete that Farrell was not to be trusted. And his opinion hadn’t changed when a year later, almost to the day, President Farrell conveniently announced that the Argentine Republic was now in a state of war with Germany, Italy, and Japan.
It all caused Clete to wonder: What would’ve happened had my father indeed become president? Would he have shown similar deficiencies?
“Yes, Cletus,” el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón now replied arrogantly, “el Presidente himself.”
Clete said: “Exactly what kind of a special flight?”
Clete watched Perón mentally consider his answer.
Just what are you really up to now, you sonofabitch?
“In military terms,” Perón then replied officiously, “a reinforcement and replacement flight. Our diplomatic personnel in Germany not only have been under an enormous strain lately, but may not even have enough to eat or adequate shelter.”
“You want me to fly some diplomats to Germany?” Frade asked incredulously.
“President Farrell and Foreign Minister César Ameghino do. You would take some diplomatic personnel there, to replace the diplomats whom you would then bring home. Plus some supplies—food and medical supplies, that sort of thing—to support our embassy.”
“I’m sure the Americans and the British would be happy to see that food and medical attention would be made available to the embassy personnel,” Clete said. “And, for that matter, see that they got safely to Sweden or Switzerland. Now that I think of it, that’s probably already been done.”
“I’m sure that Minister Ameghino has considered his options,” Perón said, “and concluded that sending a plane is the thing to do.”
Frade looked between Perón and Duarte, and thought:
Whatever this is all about, it has nothing to do with rushing aid to a clutch of abused diplomats.
Damn it! What is this sonofabitch up to?
My God! Has he got Hitler stashed somewhere? And he wants me to go over there so the sonofabitch can fly to sanctuary here in comfort?
That’s more absurd than Hitler on a U-boat!
I didn’t believe that bullshit—and neither did Dulles—about Hitler and his girlfriend taking off from some tree-lined street in Berlin and flying to Norway in a Storch to board the sub.
Perón looked toward the new Constellations, then went off on a tangent: “I presume those are the new aircraft you acquired?”
“That’s them, five Connies,” Clete said.
“I wasn’t aware until this morning, when we got here, that we were even contemplating such an investment,” Perón said.