Death and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “What exactly does that mean?” Dowling asked.

  “It means that thirty seconds ago, I decided that I don’t want you working for SAA. Your employment is terminated as of now.”

  “You can’t do that, Cletus!” Claudia said furiously.

  “Yes, I can. And I just did.” Frade looked at Dowling. “Good evening, señor.”

  Dowling stuffed the Mackay Radiogram back in his briefcase and looked at Duarte.

  “Cletus . . .” Duarte said.

  “Good evening, Señor Dowling,” Frade repeated.

  Dowling, white-lipped and with his dignity visibly injured, walked out of the conference room.

  When there was the sound of the outer door closing, Duarte said, “Cletus, that was a serious mistake. Ernesto and I have been friends for years. We were at school togeth—”

  “The matter is closed,” Frade interrupted icily.

  “You’re out of control, Cletus!” Claudia said. “You simply can’t do things like that.”

  “Will you take my word, Claudia, that I can, or are we going to have to go to the stockholders?”

  “You went too far, much too far,” Duarte said. “Things just aren’t done that way in Argentina.”

  “And that’s what’s wrong with Argentina,” El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón said.

  Frade looked at him.

  What the hell is this?

  “Excuse me?” Claudia asked.

  “I said that’s wrong with Argentina,” Perón said. “We do business with people we knew at school, and wink-wink when the rules are bent or broken. What we need here is what Cletus just demonstrated: an ability to see things as they are, even when that’s uncomfortable, and then to make the necessary corrections without regard to personal feelings.”

  “I don’t know what to say, frankly, Juan Domingo,” Duarte said.

  “Then say nothing, Humberto,” Perón said, coldly angry. “Or perhaps, ‘Thank you, Cletus.’ ”

  “Thank him for insulting a man who not only is a close personal friend but one of the most respected members of the bar?”

  Perón looked at Duarte a long moment with an expression that Frade thought could have bordered on contempt, then said: “If he’s one of the most respected members of the bar, I shudder for the legal system of Argentina. Good God, Humberto. Didn’t you hear what was said? Ostensibly as our attorney he said nothing when Seguro Comercial, whose attorney he also is, took our money to insure aircraft that we don’t even have. Did you hear that or not?”

  “I heard it, Juan Domingo, and obviously that was wrong. But there are other ways to deal with it than the way—”

  “And didn’t you just hear me say that the way to deal with such problems is to see them clearly—admit to them—then deal with them as brutally as necessary, paying no attention to our personal feelings?”

  Duarte nodded slowly. “I heard you, Juan.”

  Jesus Christ, Frade thought, where did all that come from?

  And that wasn’t Tío Juan taking care of me.

  He was as mad at Dowling as I was.

  Frade’s eyes turned to Father Welner, who was looking at him with a strange expression.

  Perón said, “May I suggest, señor managing director, that we now turn our attention to the insurance problem?”

  “Ernesto took the Lloyd’s of London radiogram with him,” Claudia said.

  “Well, why not?” Frade said. “It wasn’t addressed to us anyway. But we know what it said.”

  Perón said, “The goddamn English are behind that, Cletus. I’m sure of it.”

  Frade looked as if in thought, then said, “Before we turn to the problem, there’s one thing I would like to do.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask what that is,” Claudia said.

  Frade formally announced: “The chair moves the election of Captain Delgano to the board of directors.”

  “Splendid idea,” Perón said.

  “I’ll take that as a second,” Frade said. “Are there any other comments?”

  No one said anything.

  “Are there any objections?”

  The handle of the knife caused the water pitcher to resonate shrilly.

  “Hearing none, the motion carries,” Frade said. “Welcome to the board, Gonzalo.”

  “I don’t remember being asked if I wanted to be, as your grandfather would put it, window dressing,” Delgano said.

  “You didn’t have to,” Frade said. “I read minds.”

  Frade looked at Duarte. “Okay, Humberto, tell us what you think is really going on, presuming you agree with me that it has nothing to do with the qualifications of our pilots?”

  “If I may, Cletus,” Perón said. “As I said, the British are behind this.”

  “Explain that to me, please.”

  “Before the war, the British controlled the Argentine railroads. They were already talking back then about either taking over Aeropostal or starting their own airline. That had to be delayed by the war, but there is no question that that is still their intention. From their viewpoint—I am not among those who think the British will win this war—they see two obstacles to doing that. Varig and Pan American Grace—”

  “Not Aeropostal?” Duarte interrupted.

  “A moment ago,” Perón said, “I said something about seeing things the way they are, not as we wish they were. As an Argentine, I am ashamed of Aeropostal. We can do better, Humberto. And you know it.”

  Duarte shrugged. “No argument.”

  “As I was saying, Cletus,” Perón went on, “the English simply do not understand that England no longer rules the waves. In their ignorance, their arrogance, they believe that as soon as the war is over—which they believe they will win—they can come back here and take control of our commercial aviation just as they did with our railroads.

  “There’s not much they can do about Varig and Pan American, and they’re not worried about Aeropostal. But South American Airways? Better to nip that little flower in the bud—when it is easy to do so. Just step on it. How? By telling Lloyd’s of London to find some excuse not to insure us.”

  Frade looked at Welner, who was nodding his agreement.

  “You agree with that, Humberto?” Frade then asked.

  “That’s probably part of it, but—”

  “ ‘Probably part of it’?” Perón parroted indignantly.

  “Let him finish,” Frade said curtly.

  This earned him a look of both surprise and indignation from Perón, but after a moment Perón gestured regally for Duarte to continue.

  “Cletus,” Duarte said carefully, “I was a little surprised to learn that you have been flying back and forth to Montevideo. That is, that the Uruguayan authorities permitted you to do so.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “I heard some talk at the Jockey Club that Varig is more than a little upset that South American Airways has started up and, worse, started up with aircraft they had been led to believe they were going to get.”

  Frade raised an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t supposed to talk business at the Jockey Club.”

  “That doesn’t apply to the steam bath,” Humberto replied absently, then went on: “And I would really be surprised if Varig hasn’t casually mentioned in passing to the Uruguayan authorities that Lloyd’s of London has canceled SAA’s insurance because our pilots are not qualified.”

  “That would seem to buttress my argument,” Perón said. “Not refute it.”

  “I wasn’t disagreeing with you, Juan Domingo, merely suggesting that there’s more here than Winston Churchill having a word with some school chum at Lloyd’s Coffee House. For example, I wouldn’t think Señor Juan Trippe of Pan American Airways was thrilled to learn he will have competition from another Argentine airline. And I don’t think he would be above trying to do something to inconvenience us.”

  Duarte and Perón quietly looked at each other a long moment.

  Frade thought: This problem can be solved overnight by
messaging Graham that FDR’s airline is about to be shot down by an English insurance company or by Juan Trippe—or by both.

  But if the problem suddenly went away, how could that be explained?

  That would cause the OSS’s head to pop out of the gopher hole.

  Okay. So we get insurance from the same place Eastern Airlines and Transcontinental and Western Airways get theirs.

  And where is that? I don’t have the foggiest fucking idea.

  Has to be America—so the solution is we get American insurance.

  And how to do that?

  There’s nothing wrong with our airplanes. They’re brand-new Lockheeds.

  We’re back to the pilots. Nobody is going to write insurance on us if they think our pilots are a bunch of wild Latinos who learned to fly last week.

  And that brings us right back to getting ATRs for our pilots.

  “Gonzo,” Frade said, “how much time do our pilots have?”

  Perón and Duarte looked at him in curiosity.

  “That would depend on the pilot, Don Cletus,” Delgano said.

  “How many have a thousand hours of multiengine time?”

  “Maybe a dozen, possibly a few more than that.”

  “And how many of that dozen speak English?”

  “Most of them have enough English to fly.”

  “ ‘Enough English to fly’?” Perón parroted.

  “Mi coronel, English is the language of air traffic control in Uruguay and, in large matter, Brazil and Chile, as well. We’ve all flown there.”

  “Why is the language of air traffic control English?” Perón challenged, as if this offended him personally.

  “I don’t really know, mi coronel,” Delgano replied as if this outrage was his fault.

  “The solution to this little problem of ours,” Frade said, “is to get American insurance, and the way to do that is to get our pilots an American ATR rating.”

  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.”

  “That thought has run through my mind,” Clete said.

  “I am really offended at what he does in what I think of as our first bedroom, ” Dorotea said. “And I suspect he suspects that.”

  “Why?”

  “When I called to tell him we would be coming over to get the painting, he said that he was so sorry he would not be here to receive us; that he had a dinner engagement.”

  “Maybe he just had a dinner engagement.”