Death and Honor полностью

When Clete and Dorotea had walked into the sitting room of the big house at Estancia Santa Catalina, Isabela, sniffling into a lace handkerchief, had walked out in an air of high drama.

Custom required that Clete embrace and kiss everybody. Kissing Doña Claudia and Alicia von Wachtstein posed no problems. Kissing his Uncle Humberto was, as usual, a little awkward. Kissing his Aunt Beatrice made him both uncomfortable and a little ashamed of himself. That she was playing with far less than a full deck wasn’t her fault, obviously, but the cold fact was that kissing her made him feel uncomfortable.

But not as uncomfortable as kissing Tío Juan Domingo had made him feel. Notwithstanding the fact that he had been his father’s best friend and the best man at his parents’ wedding, he couldn’t stand the sonofabitch.

To help get himself through the greeting ritual that experience had taught him was inevitable, Clete had told himself that he was behaving like a child. He certainly could not afford to act as such, and reminded himself that Perón had done nothing to him and had, in fact, done things for him, and the last thing he should do now, when he needed Perón’s influence to get the airline off the ground, was piss off the bastard.

There were two people in the sitting room he was not expected to kiss and didn’t. One of them was Gonzalo Delgano, a short, muscular man of about forty, and the other a bespectacled, slim, fair-skinned man of about the same age whose name was Kurt Welner. Both of them were wearing well-cut suits and striped neckties.

“How are you?” Frade said, offering Delgano his hand. “More important, what do I call you? ‘Señor’? Or ‘Major’?”

“I could ask just about the same thing of you,” Delgano replied. “But how about ‘Gonzalo,’ Don Cletus?”

“How about dropping the ‘Don’?”

“Agreed. Good to see you again, Cletus.”

Frade next offered his hand to Welner, who, when he had seen Clete kissing Perón, had smiled approvingly, causing Clete to give him the finger behind Perón’s back. Smiling broadly, Father Kurt Welner, S.J.—who only rarely wore the clerical collar associated with his profession—had countered the gesture by making the motions of a priest benignly blessing a beloved member of his flock.

Welner had been Clete’s father’s friend and confessor; Clete wasn’t sure which had been the more important role. Welner was also the confessor for the Duartes and the Carzino-Cormanos. He wasn’t sure what Welner’s relationship with Perón was, although Perón treated him with great respect.

“What’s the latest from Rome?” Clete asked.

“ ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself,’ ” Welner replied unctuously.

They both laughed. Claudia looked dismayed.

“Why don’t we go in the library and get our business out of the way?” Humberto Duarte suggested.

All the men—including Father Welner, which Clete thought was a little unusual—plus Doña Claudia de Carzino-Cormano went into the library, where a long table was just about covered with blue folders.

Everyone sat down but Duarte, who stood at the head of the table.

“Aside from a name for this enterprise,” he said, “I think everything is ready for signatures. And since Cletus is going to be the majority stockholder, I suggest that he has the right to name it. Once he does, I think you should all read the documents carefully, and if you find nothing wrong with them, sign them.”

Everyone looked at Frade.

“I first thought of calling it ‘Trans-Andean Airways,’ ” Frade said. “You know, over the Andes to Santiago. But then I found out there are mountains between here and there that are higher than seven thousand meters. And ‘Through and Around the Andes Airways’ doesn’t have the same appeal, does it?”

There was polite laughter. Frade considered Major Delgano’s smile as genuine, and thought, The only thing I have against him is that he’s an intelligence officer, and God knows I’m in no position to hold that against anybody.

“How about ‘South American Airways’?” Frade went on. “It is going to be international.”

“I think that’s fine,” Claudia said.

“I don’t think el señor Trippe’s going to like it,” Colonel Perón said, “but I do.”

Why am I surprised that he knows Juan Trippe owns Pan American Airways?

Because you’re not listening to Humberto, Clete, who keeps warning you Tío Juan is a lot smarter than you give him credit for being.

“We’re not a Sociedad Anónima until everything has been signed,” Duarte said, “so a vote isn’t necessary. When everyone has signed, it will be for the establishment of South American Airways, S.A. Agreed?”

No one said anything, but no one raised any objection.