The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B. Griffin; William E. Butterworth; IV

  And with the exception of my beloved father-in-law, so is everybody else out there.

  "Captain," Delgano's voice came over the headset. "The ladder they brought is a meter too short."

  "Shit! Now what?"

  "They sent for a truck. They're going to put the ladder in the bed of the truck."

  Frade tried to take a look from the cockpit window. The only thing he could see was a Chevrolet pickup truck approaching the aircraft. He couldn't see the door to the passenger compartment.

  He quickly unstrapped himself, went into the passenger compartment, and looked out a window there. The pickup truck was backing up toward the airplane. In it, supported by four men, was a stepladder--a very long one. Then he no longer could see the truck.

  He looked down the aisle. Delgano was standing in the door, facing inward, one leg gingerly extended downward out the door.

  Then, very slowly, he disappeared.

  Clete could see nothing out the window.

  Then the SAA pilot/flight-engineer-in-training backed into the door and warily reached for the ladder with his leg.

  "Change of plans!" Clete announced. "All SAA pilots go down the ladder!"

  The five remaining SAA pilots formed a line by the door.

  Out the window, Clete could see that Delgano had made it safely to the bed of the pickup, from which he jumped to the ground. Then the first SAA pilot came into view.

  God, don't let any of them take a dive off that damn ladder with all those cameras trained on them!

  Finally, everybody had gone down the ladder, jumped off the truck, and had lined up behind Gonzo and Pilot Number One. They all adjusted their uniforms.

  Delgano issued a command. Everybody marched six steps forward. Delgano issued another command and everyone halted.

  They were now facing General Rawson, his entourage, Claudia de Carzino-Cormano, Father Welner, and Humberto Duarte.

  Delgano saluted.

  "Senor Presidente, mi general," he barked. "I have the honor to present Argentina's first international passenger aircraft!"

  Frade couldn't actually hear what Delgano was saying, but he had spent thirty minutes rehearsing him on what he was to say before they left Canoas.

  General Rawson saluted, then took three steps forward, kissed--more or less--Delgano on both cheeks, then each of the other pilots. Colonel Juan D. Peron appeared and joined Rawson's entourage as they walked after the president, each of them shaking each pilot's hand.

  By then, Frade was at the door.

  Enrico Rodriguez came to him, carrying his shotgun.

  "Leave that on the airplane," Clete commanded. Then he raised his voice and ordered: "Everybody sit tight. I'll come for you as soon as I can."

  He backed out the door, found the top step of the ladder with his left leg, then the step below it with his right, and went down the ladder into the bed of the pickup.

  As he jumped to the tarmac, he saw that General Rawson had seen him and was smiling happily. When Rawson had finished kissing--more or less--the last SAA pilot, he headed right for Clete.

  The president embraced Frade and kissed him--fully and wetly--on both cheeks, then again embraced him, then finally, holding on to both of Frade's arms, backed away and looked into his eyes.

  "Cletus, your father would be so proud of you!"

  Rawson was so sincere that the cynicism with which Frade had been viewing the entire performance instantly vanished. He felt his eyes water, and his voice was not firm when he replied, "Muchas gracias, mi general."

  "Cletus, as much as I want to see inside the airplane, the Papal Nuncio is at this moment waiting for me at Casa Rosada. But I will be back."

  "By then, mi general, there will be proper aircraft steps for you when you can find time in your schedule for us."

  Rawson squeezed both of Frade's arms, then turned and marched off.

  El Coronel Juan D. Peron marched up to Frade. He kissed--pro forma--Frade's cheeks. "I am presuming, Cletus, that there is some good reason why I didn't hear about this--"

  He gestured at the airplane, at Claudia de Carzino-Cormano, at Humberto Duarte, and at General Rawson.

  "--until an hour ago."

  "There certainly is, Tio Juan," Frade said enthusiastically. Then he kissed Peron wetly on the cheek and said, "You're going to have to excuse me."

  Frade walked quickly to Claudia, kissing her fondly but not wetly.

  Peron's face tightened and for a moment it looked as if he might follow Frade. At the end, he marched toward his car.

  "How's my favorite stockholder?" Clete asked Claudia.

  She shook her head in resignation.

  "Frankly, wondering what the hell is going on around here."

  "I saw an opportunity and took it. We gringos call that 'striking while the iron is hot.' I have no idea what that really means, but that's what we say."

  "How much did that cost?" Claudia asked, gesturing toward the Constellation.

  "A lot," Clete admitted. "And we have three of them."

  "And where's the money going to come from?"

  "So far it's come from my grandfather, which brings us to that, Humberto."

  "Excuse me?" Duarte said.

  "There are two accountants aboard the Ciudad de Buenos Aires," Clete said, "dispatched by my grandfather to make sure I don't squander his money on whiskey and wild women. Tonight, I'm going to put them up in the house on Coronel Diaz. But we're going to have to find them someplace to live--someplace nice; they're high-priced CPAs--maybe the Alvear or the Plaza. Can you deal with that?"

  Duarte nodded.

  "The immediate problem is to get them off the airplane, by which I mean we need the service of Immigration and Customs."

  Humberto pointed. Clete saw a half-dozen uniformed Immigration and Customs officers.

  "But first we need a better way to get things off the Connie than that stepladder," Frade said. "I wonder where Senor Manana is." He looked around and spotted him.

  "Senor de Filippi?" he called.

  Guillermo de Filippi, SAA's chief of maintenance, walked to him.

  "Our immediate problem, Guillermo," Frade said, "is to unload our new aircraft. That stepladder won't do. Any suggestions?"

  "Senor Frade, we don't have a ladder that tall."

  "We have wood, right?" Frade said. He pointed to two railroad flatcars, both bearing enormous stacks of lumber intended for the construction of a third hangar. "And carpenters? Does that suggest anything to you?"

  "Senor Frade, the carpenters stop work at five o'clock, and it's after that. There would be problems with the union."

  "I will deal with the workmen, Don Cletus," Enrico Rodriguez said.

  Frade turned and saw him standing behind him. Holding his shotgun.

  How the hell did he get down the ladder with the shotgun?

  I don't think that being forced to build a stairway with a shotgun aimed at you would be good labor-management practice.

  "Enrico, tell them it's two days' pay if they can build a stairway up to the plane in half an hour."

  Father Welner chuckled. Senor de Filippi looked confused.

  "And I'll throw in a case of beer," Frade added, then turned to de Filippi. "And there's a couple of other things that have to be done. On the airplane are airframe and engine engineers . . ."

  He stopped in midsentence when a line of cars started to stream from behind the hangar onto the tarmac.

  "What are we going to do, have a parade?" Frade quipped.

  "We are having a cocktail and small buffet at your house on Coronel Diaz," Claudia said. "To celebrate whatever is going on here."

  "You set that up, did you?"

  "I was with your father for many years, Cletus. I didn't think you would mind my using the house."

  "I was just about to say, 'Thank you very much, that's a great idea.' "

  "And while that's going on," Claudia said, "we're going to have a quick board of directors meeting in the upstairs sitting room."

&nb
sp; "We are?" he asked, smiling at her.

  "We are," Claudia said flatly. "And I mean right now."

  "There's a lot that has to be done here," Frade said.

  "Aside from getting your passengers off that airplane and into the cars--and that can be dealt with by Senor de Filippi--there's nothing you have to do here that won't wait until tomorrow morning. Humberto and I have a right to know what's going on here, and I insist you tell us. And right now."

  Actually, there is one thing I have to do here that won't wait until morning.

  My back teeth are floating.

  "Claudia, I'm going to go directly into the hangar, get in the Horch, and when you get to the house I'll greet you at the door."

  He pointed to the automobile, which was sitting just inside the door, and then at Rodriguez.

  "Enrico, have someone throw my bags off the Connie and put them in the Horch. We're going to Coronel Diaz. Senor de Filippi can get the ladder built. Right, Guillermo?"

  "Of course, Senor Frade."

  "And then bring everybody to my house on Coronel Diaz. You know where it is?"

  De Filippi nodded.

  Claudia eyed Frade suspiciously.

  "I trust that that will be satisfactory, Claudia?" Frade asked with a smile.

  She examined his face carefully and finally said, "All right." Then she added, "Be there, Cletus."

  He grabbed her, kissed her wetly on both cheeks, and then walked quickly toward the hangar.

  He walked past the Horch until he found the men's room.

  A moment after he had reached one of the urinals, someone walked to the adjacent fixture. Frade looked to see who it was.

  "Please don't say it, Cletus," el Coronel Alejandro Martin said.

  "But people will talk, Alejandro, if you keep following me into men's rooms."

  He sighed. "I should have known better than to ask."

  "Humberto said you were looking for me," Frade said.

  "We have to talk."

  "Okay."

  "Not in here."

  "I presume you've been invited to Senora Carzino-Cormano's cocktail and small buffet?"

  Martin shook his head.

  "Not to worry. It's her party, but my house. You're invited. So we can talk there. Or better yet, ride into town with me. We can sit in the back of the Horch and wave at our loyal subjects."

  He turned slightly away from the urinal and well mimicked the regal flat-handed slow wave of British Royalty.

  Martin smiled and chuckled.

  "I think I should warn you, Cletus, that I have learned you are at your most dangerous when you're playing the clown."

  "I have no idea what you're talking about, mi coronel."

  "Okay, I'll ride in with you. What we need to talk about has nothing to do with what happened here today. But I want to talk about that, too."

  [FOUR]

  Ruta Nacional No. 7

  Near Moron

  Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

  1750 19 September 1943

  "I hope this doesn't make you think I'm paranoid, mi coronel," Frade said, "but I think we are being followed."

  Frade was at the wheel of the Horch. Martin sat beside him. Enrico was in the back. The canvas top of the Horch had been lowered.

  "We are," Martin said. "Please tell Enrico not to shoot them; they belong to me."

  "Enrico," Frade called, raising his voice. "Don't shoot at the people in the car behind us. They belong to el Coronel Martin."

  "There's two cars of them, Don Cletus," Enrico called. "They've been with us since we left the airfield."

  Frade looked at Martin, held up two fingers, and wordlessly asked with a raised eyebrow, What the hell is that all about?

  Martin explained: "About a month ago--on August 12, to be precise--there was an incident near your home on Coronel Diaz. You may have read about it in the press. It was necessary for the police to kill three criminals they came across in the middle of a robbery."

  "I do seem to recall something about that," Frade said.

  "I didn't want something like that to mar Dona Claudia's little party today. Better safe than sorry, as they say."

  "You really think that's likely?"

  "I'd say it's far more likely that unknown malefactors who don't like you would have another go at you while you're--while we're--riding along here like targets in a carnival shooting gallery."

  "How would they know I'm here?"

  "How many cars like this Horch would you say there are in Argentina?"

  "Good point," Frade said.

  "Cletus, can we have one of our off-the-record conversations?"

  "Same rules?"

  "Same rules. We don't have to answer a question, but if we do, it has to be the truth."

  "Ask away."

  "Let's start with what happened today: What's going on with that enormous airplane?"

  "Airplanes. There's three of them."

  "Three of them?"

  "There's another at the Canoas airfield, being painted, and another on the way there."

  "And what are you going to do with them? More to the point, what are you going to do with them for the OSS?"

  "The what?" Frade replied. "The OSS? What's that?"

  They smiled at each other.

  Frade went on: "But to answer the question generally: South American Airways is about to begin one-stop--at Belem, Brazil--service between Buenos Aires and Lisbon, Portugal. Or maybe Madrid. I won't know that until I make a test run. Could be to both places. And maybe to Switzerland, too. Anyway, at least one flight each way a week, maybe two."

  "What's that all about?"

  "What I was told was there is a problem moving civilians between Europe and the States by air . . ."

  "Civilians? Or spies from that organization you never heard of?"

  "Civilians. Diplomats. Not only Americans, but neutrals--French, Spanish, Swiss, et cetera. Businessmen, too. Right now, if we have to send a diplomat to Spain, for example, he has to either wait for a Spanish ship--or other neutral ship, and there aren't many of either--or travel by air on one of our transport airplanes, which means some military officer gets bumped . . ."

  " 'Bumped'?"

  "Doesn't get to go. Anyway, he goes by military air to England--sometimes by bomber, riding in the back, where the bombs go--and then they get him to Spain either by a neutral-country civilian airplane, and there aren't many of those, or by a neutral ship. Getting the picture?"

  Martin nodded.

  "The Swiss--I didn't even know they had an airline until last week--have been asking for Douglas transports and, specifically, for Constellations. Which is what I flew in here today."

  "Beautiful airplane. Enormous airplane. Where did you learn how to fly one?"

  "I thought you knew I used to be a Marine fighter pilot. If it's got wings, a Marine fighter pilot can fly it."

  Martin shook his head resignedly. "And Delgano?"

  "I taught Delgano at Canoas. Then we partially trained another half-dozen SAA pilots--"

  "Partially trained?"

  "They've made a half-dozen takeoffs and landings, but they're not ready to fly the Connies anywhere."

  "Getting back to how you came to get the airplanes?"

  "Okay. They offered the Connies to me. I jumped at it, borrowed the money . . ."

  "What I was asking was why did they--and who's 'they'?--offer them to you?"

  "They were offered to me by Howard Hughes . . . the aviator, the movie guy?"

  "I know who he is."

  "We're old friends. More important, he's close to my grandfather. He's also in tight with Lockheed. I think he probably owns it, but that's just a guess. Anyway, Howard told me what I just told you, and said that the government doesn't want to sell airplanes of any kind to the Swiss--or just about anyone else in Europe, or to the Brazilians, but SAA is sort of special."

  "Because the managing director works for the OSS?"

  "The what?" Frade replied.

  They sm
iled at each other, and then Frade went on: "The only thing the Constellation is good for, Alejandro, is hauling people long distances. It is not a submarine hunter; it can't drop bombs and there are no machine-gun turrets. And the Americans already have submarine-hunting aircraft--modified B-24s--at Canoas and other places in Brazil. As you well know."

  "So why does your friend Howard Hughes think SAA is special?"

  "Because Argentina is neutral--"

  "Some of us actually are," Martin interrupted.

  "Let me finish. When SAA establishes probably a twice-a-week service back and forth to Portugal or Spain, the problem of moving civilians back and forth from the States by air is solved. The airplanes take off from a neutral country, Argentina, and fly with only one stop, Canoas, to another neutral country. If you want to go to Europe, you get on one of the Pan American Grace Clippers, the flying boats, and go to Canoas. SAA will then fly you to Lisbon."

  "Why is the United States being so nice to Argentina?"

  "The Connies will give the finger"--he demonstrated the gesture--"to the only other airline, Lufthansa, offering commercial service to Europe. Everybody knows the Constellation is an American airplane. They call that 'public relations.' "

  "You believe all this, Cletus?"

  "All I know for sure is that I am about to own three Constellations with which I hope to make a lot of money."

  "That presumes the Argentine Civil Aviation Direccion gives you--gives SAA--permission."

  "Come on, Alejandro. The airplanes are owned by an Argentine company--"

  "There is a nasty rumor going around that the major stockholder in that company is in the OSS," Martin interjected.

  "--and will be flown by Argentine pilots, many of whom"--Frade turned to look Martin in the eyes--"a nasty rumor has it, are actually military officers assigned to the Bureau of Internal Security." Frade looked back to the road and went on: "As will be, I suspect, the Immigration and Customs officers who will carefully check each plane before it takes off, and when each one lands. This has nothing to do with the OSS, Alejandro."

  "So you say, Major Frade. Or did a promotion come with your added responsibilities to the OSS?"

  "And then there's that other thing," Frade said, ignoring the comment. "I somehow got the impression just now that General Rawson thinks this is a lovely idea, that offering intercontinental air service will add to the prestige of the Argentine Republic."