Ambassador Claudio de Hernández was sitting at the hotel’s bar with Fernando Aragão when Frade, Delgano, Stein, Vega, and Peralta walked in.
Stein deposited a heavy, dripping burlap sack on the bar.
The barman appeared, looking askance at the burlap bag.
“Where have you been all day?” Ambassador de Hernández asked. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Have a sniff of the bag and take a guess,” Frade said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Frade sniffed loudly and pointed at the burlap sack.
“After you pour us a little of that splendid Altano Douro 1942,” Frade ordered the barman, “please ask the chef to join us.”
Aragão sniffed the bag and smiled.
“I really thought you were kidding,” he said.
“I never kid about whiskey, women, or fishing,” Frade said. “Aside from Vega getting a little seasick, everything went . . . swimmingly.”
“You have been fishing?” Ambassador de Hernández asked incredulously. “In the ocean?”
“That’s where the fish usually are, Mr. Ambassador.” Frade then added, “You’re in luck, Fernando. There’s even enough for the ambassador and the diplomats.”
The chef, an enormous fat man in stained kitchen whites, appeared.
“Slide Siggie that tray, Mario,” Frade ordered, pointing down the bar. “Siggie, put a sample of our fruits of the sea on the tray for the chef’s edification.”
Stein dipped into the bag, came out with three large fish fillets, and arranged them on the tray.
The chef bent over and sniffed them, then punched them with his index finger.
“Caballa,” he said.
“Yes,” Frade said. “In English, they say ‘mackerel.’ These are from what a norteamericano would call a ‘king mackerel.’”
“And fresh,” the chef said approvingly.
“Mere hours ago, they were swimming. Into your capable hands, my friend, I entrust them.”
“I usually bake the whole fish,” the chef said.
“Indulge me,” Frade said. “I am Argentine, and the whole world knows we’re crazy. For now, I want you to dribble a little olive oil on the fillets, lay some lemon slices on top, and grill them. Serve them with some fried potatoes and a small salad. Can do?”
The chef nodded. “Can do.”
“After first selecting the best-looking fillets,” Frade then ordered, “which you will serve to us just as soon as you can, serve the leftovers to the diplomats traveling with South American Airways with the compliments of Chief Pilot Delgano.”
The chef nodded again.
Then Frade said: “They will taste much better if you drink a little Altano Douro as you grill them. Put a bottle for the chef on Señor Aragão’s bill, Señor Barman.”
Ambassador de Hernández’s face showed that he believed Frade was either crazy or drunk. Or both.
The chef smiled, picked up the burlap sack, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
Frade looked at de Hernández. “You were looking for me, Mr. Ambassador? Why?”