In the end, in the opinion of then-Lieutenant Colonel Martín of BIS, who by then had allied himself with Generals Ramírez and Rawson, having the plane available overrode all other considerations. Team Turtle and its radar had gone to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, and Clete had flown the Lodestar to Campo de Mayo.
The coup d’état was successful. Martín and Delgano were promoted for their contributions, and neither of them seemed to recall that there were half a dozen American OSS agents operating a radar station and doing only God knew what else on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.
“Yeah,” Clete said. “Ashton and the others and the radar.”
“I didn’t know this before,” Delgano said.
“Yeah, I know. For all I know, the Brazilians have stopped looking for an American name C. Frade. And I am now an Argentinean businessman with the same name, a passport to prove it, and intend to cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s when we go through immigration at Pôrto Alegre. Having said that, I still think it would be best if you dealt with the Brazilian authorities.”
Delgano considered that and nodded.
“You’re an amazing man, Cletus. Nothing you do surprises me anymore. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had Frogger and his wife in your luggage.”
“Who?” Clete asked, smiled, and raised his glass of merlot to Delgano.
[TWO]
Canoas Air Base Pôrto Alegre, Brazil 1935 17 July 1943
As Frade got out of the taxi, he saw that there were four military policemen in the guard shack at the brightly lit entrance to the base, two Brazilian and two American.
As he walked up to the shack, one of the Brazilian MPs stepped out of the booth and none too courteously inquired, “Señor?”
Well, I guess with this haircut, I look like a Latin American.
Is that good or bad?
His hairstyle had been among the other things that changed with marriage. Dorotea had announced that the trim—a crew cut he’d worn since his first haircut at the U.S. Navy Flight Training Facility at Pensacola, Florida—made him look like a criminal. His current cut hung over his collar and partially concealed his ears. He thought it made him look like a pimp, but he found that a newlywed, one giddy with love, will make all sorts of sacrifices to retain the affection of his bride.
He saw one of the American MPs glance at him, then dismiss him as unimportant.
“I would like to see Colonel Wallace. My name is Frade,” he said in Spanish.
Colonel J. B. Wallace, U.S. Army Air Forces, commanded the 2035th Training Wing—and the American portion of the Canoas Air Base—and Clete was reasonably sure that Colonel Wallace would be less than overjoyed to see him. But he had to establish contact with someone who knew who he was, and Wallace was the only name he knew or had been given.
And he couldn’t expect any immediate help from Colonel Graham. There had been no reply to the half-dozen messages Frade had just sent to Graham— one about the money being on its way to Lockheed’s account in California; another a report of progress on the registry of the Lodestars; then one asking that Graham arrange for him to get sent the airframe numbers of the planes that by then were en route to Brazil; two follow-up messages, then the final one saying that he would be aboard Varig Flight 525.
“Who, señor?”
“El Coronel Wallace. Norteamericano,” Clete said.
He knew there was enough similarity between Portuguese and Spanish that the MP understood him.
“There is no such person, señor,” the MP said.
Oh, shit. Now what?
He tried again. “El Coronel Wallace?”
The Brazilian MP shrugged.
“Then any American officer.”
“Tomás,” one of the American MPs asked in really bad Portuguese, “what did the señor say his name was?”
The Brazilian MP obviously didn’t understand.
“El Coronel Wallace,” he said, and shrugged to show he had no idea what the señor wanted.