The Honor of Spies

"I didn't know what to think. El Coronel Martin has been looking all over for you."

"He does like to keep an eye on me, doesn't he?"

"Cletus, for God's sake, can't you ever be serious? Martin said he has to see you as quickly as possible. He said it was very likely a matter of life or death."

The tone of Frade's voice changed. He now was serious.

"That's interesting. He say whose life?"

"Does it matter, for God's sake? Martin is a serious man. What in the world have you done now?"

"This is what I need you to do, Humberto. And it's not open for debate . . ."

"My God!"

"I want you to call President Rawson . . ."

"The president?"

"Are there two of them?"

"Have you been drinking?"

"I haven't so much as sniffed a cork," Frade said. "Tell el General that I would be very pleased if he, and such members of his staff as he sees fit, would have a glass of champagne with me at five o'clock this afternoon at Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade."

"What?"

"I think you heard me, Humberto. If he shows reluctance, insist. If he's really reluctant, go so far as to remind him that he told me if there was anything I ever wanted from him, all I had to do was ask. Just get him there, Humberto."

"What the hell are you up to? You really haven't been drinking?"

"Boy Scout's Honor, I haven't had a drop in four days."

"I asked what this is all about, Cletus," Duarte said as sternly as he could manage.

"Take him up in the control tower. Have him there at five," Frade said, ignoring the question. "And once he's agreed to be there, get on the horn, call Claudia and tell her to be there, too--with both daughters, if possible, and von Wachtstein. And Father Welner. I suppose I'd better ask my beloved Tio Juan. I'd hate to hurt his feelings for not getting invited. And call my beloved father-in-law, speaking of people who don't like me. Get him out there, too. The more the merrier, in other words. Oh, hell! And call el Coronel Martin, too. And you better call La Nacion, La Prensa, and the Herald, too. And tell them where el Presidente is going to be at five."

"Cletus, you listen to me," Duarte said sternly. "I'm not going to do any of this until you tell me what's going on."

"Just goddamn do it, Humberto. It's really important."

"I said no."

"And I said have everybody at the field at five o'clock. Just do it, goddamn it!"

There was a click, and Duarte realized that Cletus had hung up.

He took the handset from his ear and looked at it for a moment. Then he slowly replaced it in the base. He stared at that for a very long moment, exhaled audibly, then reached for the handset.

When his secretary came on the line, he said, "Call the Casa Rosada, please, and tell whoever answers the phone in the president's office that I am calling on behalf of Don Cletus Frade."

[TWO]

The Control Tower

Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade

Moron, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1700 19 September 1943

General Arturo Rawson, president of the Republic of Argentina, and his aide-de-camp were both in uniform as they stood with Senora Claudia de Carzino-Cormano, Senor Humberto Duarte, and Reverend Kurt Welner, S.J., in the control tower. They all held stems and sipped champagne. The windows of the tower provided them an excellent view of the airfield's runways, tarmac, and the surrounding buildings and area.

There were six Lockheed Lodestars visible. President Rawson had commented what beautiful aircraft they were, and had watched intently as one had landed and two others had taken off.

Behind the hangar, the parking lot was crowded with large automobiles. Their passengers--those not in the control tower; there was regrettably only so much room--were standing on the tarmac in front of Base Operations, where a table had been set up so that white-jacketed waiters could serve champagne and canapes.

As the sweep second hand of the large clock approached the numeral twelve, indicating the time to be precisely 17:00:00, a familiar voice came over the tower's loudspeakers.

"Jorge Frade, this is South American Three Zero One."

"That's Cletus," Senora Carzino-Cormano declared unnecessarily.

"Senor Duarte, we don't have an aircraft with that tail number," the controller announced.

"Answer him," Duarte snapped.

"South American Three Zero One, Jorge Frade, go ahead."

"Three Zero One is at fifteen hundred meters, indicating four hundred kilometers per hour, fifty kilometers north of your station. Request approach and landing."

"How fast did he say he was going?" General Rawson asked.

"He said four hundred kilometers, mi general, but that can't be right," the general's aide-de-camp said.

"Three Zero One, Jorge Frade. Descend to one thousand, report when the field is in sight."

"Three Zero One, leaving fifteen hundred for one thousand," Frade's voice came over the loudspeaker.