“I’ll bet that’s on Donovan’s agenda.”
“In words of one syllable, fuck him. Don’t worry, Clete.”
“Max, how do you feel about Sawyer taking over your team?” Clete asked.
“Frankly, I was hoping it would annoy you more than it looks like.”
“Chief, send Aggie a message saying that as senior officer present for duty, I will assume command of Team 17 while Ashton is gone.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“It would be easier just to not tell Sawyer. That’s liable to get you in trouble,” Ashton said.
“What are they going to do? Send me back to the Marine Corps? Send the message, Chief.”
“And if I refuse, will you send me back to the Navy?”
“Good try, Chief,” Clete said. “Just send the message.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Now the question is, how do we get you to Brazil?” Clete asked.
“There’s two ways,” Ashton said. “The way I came in, black. Go back to Santo Tomé and somehow get across the river.”
“I could fly you there, in a Cub,” Clete said. “First refuel at my estancia in Corrientes, and then fly you across the river.”
“Hey, you’re getting married next Saturday. You don’t want to be in a Brazilian jail.”
“What’s your second way?”
“If I could get into Uruguay, I have a Uruguayan passport. How risky would it be to rent a boat or something and get into Uruguay?”
“I could also fly you across, up by El Tigre, and put you out in a farmer’s field someplace. Or, for that matter, I could fire up the Lockheed and fly to the airport in Carrasco—”
“Where, Mr. Frade?” Chief Schultz asked.
“The airport outside Montevideo,” Clete said. “No one there would search that airplane.”
“I’ll come back to that wishful thought,” Ashton said. “Who would you get to help fly the Lockheed?”
“I flew it to Santo Tomé by myself, you will recall.”
“And safely only because God takes care of fools and drunks, and I qualify on both counts. Forget the Lockheed, thank you very much just the same.”
“There’s one other way that might work,” Clete said. “Just get on the overnight steamer.”
“How would I get through immigration? I’m in Argentina black, Clete.”
“Black means secret. Nobody knows,” Clete said.
“What?”
“Put yourself in Martín’s shoes,” Clete said. “He knows you’re here. He knows your whole team is here. He’s a good intelligence officer. Good intelligence officers don’t make waves. If he arrests you, that would make big waves. If I were Martín, I would much prefer to watch you leave the country, bye, bye, gringo, with no waves.”
“You really believe that?”
“I believe it, but it’s your choice, Max.”