“Another beauty of this setup is that it transmits so fast,” Schultz said. “You can resend—in other words, send twice—in less time than it would take me to key this in by hand. Less time for anybody to triangulate us, even if they happened on the frequency we’re using.”
“Very impressive,” Clete said, meaning it.
He gestured to Dorotea, who fed the tape into the Collins again.
When it started to come out of the Collins, Schultz moved a small metal wastebasket under the transceiver to catch it.
“And now all we have to do is burn the tape,” he said. “And of course Dorotea’s notes and the drafts, and we’re done.”
“Not in here, Oscar,” Dorotea commanded. “Burning that paper will smell up the whole house.”
They carried the wastebasket onto the verandah.
Schultz took out a Zippo lighter, lit a piece of paper, and dropped it, flaming, into the wastebasket.
Clete saw something in the dark that shouldn’t be there—the flare of a match in the garden—touched Enrico’s arm, and pointed.
Enrico worked the action of his shotgun.
Then there was another flare of light in the garden, this time long enough for Frade to see that it was a match that a gaucho on horseback was using to light a cigar. And to see that the gaucho held a 7mm Mauser carbine across his saddle.
“There are always two watching the house, Don Cletus,” Enrico said matter-of-factly.
Frade replied softly so that only Enrico could hear.
“What are you talking about?” Dorotea demanded.
“I just told Enrico that I’m so pleased with all you learned that tonight you can stay; he won’t have to take you back to the village.”
“You bah-stud!” she said loudly.
Schultz laughed.
“And you, too!” Dorotea said.
[SIX]
Office of the Director Office of Strategic Services National Institutes of Health Building Washington, D.C. 0845 23 July 1943
“If you have a moment, Bill?” the deputy director for Western Hemisphere operations of the Office of Strategic Services inquired of the director of the OSS from the latter’s office door.
“I always have time for you, Alejandro,” William J. Donovan said, waving him in. “But only if you’re the bearer of good tidings.”
“We have a response from Frade,” Graham said, gesturing with the folded sheet of paper in his hand.
“From our loose cannon? Why am I afraid what you bear in your hands is not good tidings? Let me see it.”
“Shit,” Graham said.
“Alejandro!” Donovan said in mock horror. “I’m shocked.”
“Well, I was so pleased with it, and anxious to tell you, that I forgot to leave it in my office.”
Donovan gestured for him to hand it over.
“There are things in here I’m not going to like?” Donovan said.
“Almost certainly.”