“Because my plane leaves in about an hour, and I want to go to the base store—what do they call it?”
“The PX?” Fischer furnished.
“Close, but not correct. The Air Forces calls their stores something else. In any event, I need toothbrushes and toothpaste and hair tonic.” He stood up and put out his hand. “So, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure meeting both of you. And we’ll be in touch, of course.”
And when they had shaken hands, Dulles walked out of the room.
[FOUR]
El Palomar Airfield Campo de Mayo Military Base Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1115 19 July 1943
“El Palomar, South American Airways Zero Zero One,” South American Airways Chief Pilot Gonzalo Delgano said into his microphone.
His co-pilot, Señor Cletus Frade, restrained a smile.
I am learning. If I hadn’t let him sit in the left seat for this, he never would have forgiven me.
“South American Zero Zero One, Palomar.”
“Palomar, South American Zero Zero One is at two thousand meters, twenty-five kilometers from your station, indicating three hundred forty kph.”
“Zero Zero One, Palomar. What is your airspeed?”
“Palomar, I repeat. Indicated airspeed is three four zero kilometers per hour. I repeat, three four zero kilometers per hour. Request approach and landing instructions. ”
If you said “three four zero” one more time, Gonzalo, you would have popped the buttons on your shirt.
“Gear is down and locked, Captain,” co-pilot Frade reported. “You have twenty-degrees of flap. We are indicating one hundred twenty-five kph.”
“That was a very fine landing, Captain,” the co-pilot said. “If I may be permitted to say so. What we call a greaser.”
“Actually, for an aircraft of this size, it’s not at all that hard to fly, is it, Cletus?”
“It’s not an easy one to fly, Gonzalo,” Frade said seriously.
Captain Delgano beamed.
I have made a friend for life.
But how that will, of course, affect our professional relationship in the other profession we practice—but don’t talk about—remains to be seen.
Frade’s good feeling disappeared sixty seconds later
when he looked out the cockpit window and saw the welcoming party waiting for them. It included— in addition to Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodríguez, Retired, the Horch, and a Ford ton-and-a-half stake-bodied truck with ESTANCIA SAN PEDRO Y SAN PABLO painted on the doors—two Argentine officers, El Coronel Juan D. Perón and El Teniente Coronel Alejandro Martín.
How the hell did they know we were coming?
And what the hell do they want?
They knew we were coming, Stupid, because your new friend for life called the Argentine embassy in Rio de Janeiro—
Or maybe there’s an Argentine consulate in Pôrto Alegre—
Or maybe Martín has one of his guys in Pôrto Alegre and my pal for life Gonzalo just happened to run into him in the lobby of the hotel.
—and told him, them—somebody—when we were leaving and when we expected to arrive.
And what our welcoming party wants—or at least Martín wants—is to see what interesting things I’m smuggling into Argentina.