Death and Honor полностью

Delgano was there when Fischer was handing that bullshit story to Perón and Martín!

He’s a pilot. He knows about RDF call signs as well as I do! Every time he goes into Palomar, he homes in on PAL.

He looked at Fischer.

Fischer looked embarrassed.

“I know about radios,” he said. “I don’t know much about airplanes.”

“Obviously,” Frade said, somewhat sharply. And was immediately sorry.

This is my fault, not his.

So why didn’t Delgano say anything?

Was he waiting until we were gone, and was going to tell Martín then?

That doesn’t make any sense.

If he was going to tell Martín, he would have told him when he was showing him and Perón around the airplane.

And if he had told Martín, Martín wouldn’t have been so obliging about us loading the SIGABA and the Collins transceivers on the truck and bringing them out here.

At the very least, Martín would have “suggested” we leave everything in the hangar at Palomar.

“Something you ate, darling?” Dorotea asked. “You look as if you’re about to be sick.”

“We didn’t fool Delgano with that story,” Clete said. “He’s a pilot.”

“Oh, shit!” Schultz said.

After a moment, Dorotea asked very softly, “You think he told Martín?”

“I think if he had, the SIGABA device now would be in Martín’s office, being examined by his technicians, and I would be explaining to Tío Juan why I was smuggling a cryptographic device into Argentina. Or I’d be in a cell.”

“Delgano’s a good guy, Clete,” Schultz said. “I know you don’t like him, but . . .”

“But what? The sonofabitch spied on my father for years.”

“That was his job,” Schultz argued. “His duty. That don’t mean he didn’t like your father. Or that he liked spying on him.”

“Meaning?”

“And he’s not stupid.”

“No, he’s not. But what does that mean?”

“I don’t think he liked what the Krauts did to your father. Either personally, or as an Argentine officer. And then you proved you’re not exactly Argentina’s Public Enemy Number One by taking this”—he pointed to the nose of the Lodestar, which was just inside the hangar—“to Campo de Mayo and flying General Whatsisname . . .”

“Rawson,” Dorotea furnished.

“. . . around in their Piper Cub—”

“I know where you’re going, Chief,” Clete interrupted. “But I don’t share your optimism. I have a somewhat darker view.”

“Such as?” Dorotea asked.

“Arresting me—or even Fischer here—as a spy is something that’s not going to happen without General Rawson’s permission. They’re not going to just say, ‘Gotcha. Up against the wall!’ ”

“If you think you’re being clever and funny, you’re not,” Dorotea said.

“I’m obviously not clever, sweetheart, and this is not at all funny. So I think we have to consider the very real possibility that, any minute now, Rawson having given his permission, reluctantly or otherwise, the gauchos will report that a small convoy of Ejército Argentino vehicles have come onto the estancia . . .”

Dorotea inhaled audibly and put her hand to her mouth.

“. . . to arrest me. And, of course, Fischer. And to grab the SIGABA.”

“You don’t know that,” Schultz said.

“No. But I always look for the dark lining of the dark cloud,” Clete said. “The question then becomes what do we do with Fischer.”

“We take him out in the boonies,” Schultz said.

“No,” Frade said. “We fire up the Lodestar and take him to Uruguay. He heads for the Brazilian border, then home. I wait there until I hear from somebody here . . . you, sweetheart . . . what the Ejército Argentino did when they learned we were gone.”

“Or if they came here at all,” Dorotea said.

Clete nodded. “And based on that information, I decide what to do next.”

“Or if they came here at all,” Dorotea repeated.

Clete looked at her.

She added, “You’re assuming a lot has happened and will happen that may not have happened or will not happen at all.”

“Honey, I just can’t cross my fingers and hope for the best,” Clete said. “Okay. Get the tractor, Chief, and we’ll drag the Lodestar out of here.”

“I’m going with you,” Dorotea said.

“No, you’re not. If you did that, you would be an accomplice. Right now, you’re just a wife who had no idea what her crazy American husband was up to. They’re not going to bother you. And we’ll get you to Uruguay or Brazil or wherever later.”

“I’m going with you,” she insisted.

“No,” he said flatly.

“What about the pictures Mr. Dulles wants of me and the Nazis?” Fischer asked.