This time Martín was waiting for the control-tower operator to ask for instructions.
“Do whatever you have to do to have him land,” he ordered.
“Sí, mi Coronel,” the control-tower operator said, and picked up his microphone. “Lockheed Zebra Eight Four Three, El Palomar.”
“Four Three, go ahead.”
“You are cleared to land on Runway One Eight. There is no other traffic. The winds are from the south at fifteen kilometers. Report when you have airfield in sight.”
“Understand, One Eight. South at fifteen. I have the airfield in sight. I will require customs and immigration.”
Again, Martín was waiting for the control-tower operator’s request for orders.
“Inform the appropriate customs and immigration officials,” he said, “and thank you for your courtesy, señor.”
“It is nothing, mi Coronel.”
Martín quickly went down the steep and narrow stairs from the control tower and walked toward the customs and immigration area. He was nearly there when, looking northward toward the Rio Plate, he saw the Lodestar making its approach to the field.
He stopped to watch it land.
The wheels came out of their wells. The airplane moved slightly to the right to precisely line up with the runway, and then it gracefully touched down, the tires giving off an audible squeal and puffs of smoke when they encountered the runway.
It’s a beautiful machine. I’m glad I came to see this.
He resumed walking as the Lockheed rolled to the far end of the runway.
The day before, he had been informed that the Lodestar had taken off from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo an hour and a half after the event. The report would have come immediately, Benito Letieri had assured him nervously, if the telephone line hadn’t gone out.
Benito had also related that Señor Frade’s two sisters were aboard, as were Señorita Mallín and Señor Duarte, but no one else, Benito seemed to think. His information was that they were bound for Uruguay.
Martín had immediately called El Palomar, not at all surprised to hear that the Lockheed had cleared customs and immigration and taken off ten minutes earlier with the announced destination of Carrasco airfield, outside Montevideo.
By the time Martín could get through to his man in Montevideo, it was of course too late for him to reach the airport when the Lockheed landed; but he had ordered him out there anyway, with orders to ask questions and immediately report the answers. And also to stay there, around the clock if necessary, to report the departure of the Lockheed.
Martín thought, more admiringly than angrily, that whatever the purpose of his flight, Cletus Frade had gotten away with it. It was of course entirely possible that the flight was wholly innocent, and that the telephone line going down so conveniently was Cletus Frade tweaking his tail.
But it was also highly possible—Cletus Frade not being the amateur intelligence officer he’d once assumed—that Frade had wanted to see if the people he knew were watching him at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo could communicate with Buenos Aires by another means besides the telephone.
If I had had my people at El Palomar when he landed the first time, he would have known that I had another telephone line, or a radio, out there. And I suspect that if my men had gone over that airplane with a fine-toothed comb, they would have found nothing at all illegal.
His man in Uruguay had called several hours later to report that the plane had been met by the managers of Frade’s Uruguayan estancias and by the Managing Director of the Bank of the Río Plate. Frade and Señor Duarte had gone off to an unknown destination with the banker and the managers, and the young ladies had gone off in another car.
And then today, when his man in Montevideo had called to report that Frade was in the process of clearing customs and immigration and about to take off for El Palomar, Martín had decided that the facts clearly indicated that the trip was as innocent as it appeared…or else Frade had succeeded in doing whatever he’d wanted to do.
Under ordinary circumstances, he would have simply sent one of his men to El Palomar to see what he could find out. If the clever fellow had succeeded in putting one over on him, he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing him there. But under these circumstances—he would have to report the flight to General Obregon—he decided the best thing to do was go. He did not want General Obregon to think he was not doing all he could to keep an eye on Frade.
When he reached the airfield, he toyed briefly with having a word with the customs people to take a close look at the aircraft, but decided that it wouldn’t be neces
sary. When they saw him in uniform, they would be inspired to show how dedicated they were to their duty.
The Lockheed was now taxiing up the taxiway parallel to the runway. Martín could not see Frade, but he could see the copilot, over whose long blond hair were cocked a set of earphones.
I wonder how much the beautiful Señorita Mallín knows about what he’s doing? Or how much, if anything, she will learn as Señora Frade?
With a roar of its engines and a blast of air from its propellers (which blew Martín’s uniform cap off his head), the Lodestar turned and stopped in the customs area.
When he had chased down his hat and turned back to the airplane, he saw Frade in the pilot’s seat. Frade waved cheerfully, smiling in obvious amusement about the blown-off hat. Coronel Martín saluted.