“That does seem unlikely, doesn’t it?” Delgano said dryly. “What are we going to do about pilots?”
“How many pilots are required for fourteen aircraft?”
“Don Cletus, when he told me my first job was to recruit pilots, said we’d best plan for four per aircraft at a minimum. That’s fifty-six. Call it sixty, at least.”
“We can’t get that many from the air service,” Martín thought aloud.
“And that’s probably as many pilots as Aeropostal has.”
“They have seventy-one,” Martín said. “Seven of whom are quote inactive end quote air service officers.”
“If we have half a dozen air service officers to watch the others and keep their eyes open, generally—”
“Can we find that many willing to quote resign end quote?” Martín asked. It was obvious he didn’t expect an answer. “Let me think about that, Gonzalo.”
“Yes, sir. And while we’re just a little off the subject of airlines, Clete—”
“ ‘Clete’?” Martín parroted.
“I realize it’s not very professional of me, Colonel, but the cold fact is I like him. He’s a nice chap, funny. And you have to admire the way he jumps in and gets things done.”
“I agree with everything you say, Gonzalo. But Frade—despite his not-at-all-convincing denials—is a serving officer of the American Corps of Marines in the OSS. What he’s trying to do is not necessarily—indeed, rarely—in the best interests of Argentina.”
“Who’s going to win the war? Don’t answer that if it puts you on a spot.”
“It doesn’t matter who I think will win it. There are a lot of people here, including President Ramírez and Colonel Perón—perhaps most importantly, Colonel Perón—who think German efficiency and the invincible Wehrmacht will come out on top.”
“The Wehrmacht was run out of Africa, and just a couple of days ago, the Allies invaded Sicily. And it’s Berlin that is being bombed just about daily, not Washington.”
“It would not behoove either of us as Argentine officers to publicly disagree with our president’s—or, again, perhaps more importantly, Colonel Perón’s— assessment of the world situation. For one thing, we might well be wrong. The late Colonel Frade also thought the Germans were going to be invincible.”
“For which he got himself shot.”
Martín met Delgano’s eyes for a long moment.
“Before we got into this potentially dangerous conversation, Gonzalo, you started to say something? ‘A little off the subject of airlines’?”
“Oh, yeah. I told you that von Wachtstein brought two friends with him to dinner at Estancia Santa Catalina? The Lufthansa pilot and the new commercial attaché for the German embassy?”
“What about them?”
“Frade managed to make me understand that he didn’t think the commercial attaché was what he said he was, and that I should make you aware of this.”
“How so?”
“The implication was he wasn’t either a friend of von Wachtstein’s or a diplomat.”
“He has a diplomatic passport,” Martín replied. “And there has been no word from our embassy in Berlin suggesting he’s not bona fide.”
“Do you think it’s possible there are people in our embassy who might close their eyes—”
“What about the Lufthansa pilot?” Martín asked, shutting off the question.
“Well, he’s what he says he is. He and von Wachtstein flew together all over Europe and Russia. And we know he flies the Condor.”
“Why are you smiling, Gonzalo?”
“Señorita Isabela Carzino-Cormano was quite taken with him,” Delgano said. “And vice versa. As we speak, they’re having lunch in the Alvear. She’s going to show him around Buenos Aires.”
“That amuses you?”
“The possibility Estancia Santa Catalina might ultimately come into the hands of a couple of Luftwaffe pilots does.”
“You think that’s likely?”
“Ten minutes after she met him, she was miraculously transformed from grieving widow, sort of, into . . .” His eyebrows went up.
“Into what?”
“She did everything but back into him, wagging her tail,” Delgano said. “Doña Claudia saw it. She didn’t know what to think.”
Martín shook his head and smiled.
“Tell you what, Gonzalo. Nose around Aeropostal and see who you think would be useful to us and South American Airways—in that order. I’ll look into the new commercial attaché.”
[FIVE]
Office of the Military Attaché Embassy of the German Reich Avenida Córdoba Buenos Aires, Argentina 1405 13 July 1943
Sturmbannführer Erich Raschner, a thoughtful look on his face, handed Himmler’s handwritten order, the directive from the foreign ministry, and von Deitzberg’s personal orders from the reichssicherheitshauptamt, back to von Deitzberg but said nothing.
“And your opinion of all this, Erich?” von Deitzberg asked.
“There’s no telling—there’s not much to go on.”
“Off the top of your head? I won’t hold you responsible.”
“It’s odd that I’m not being ordered back to Berlin with you.”
Von Deitzberg nodded his agreement. “And what would be your guess about that?”
“The reichsprotektor wants me here,” Raschner said, matter-of-factly, with no suggestion that he was being flip.
“And why would he want you here?”
“To keep an eye on things,” Raschner replied. “We still haven’t found the traitor, and . . .” He let his voice trail off.
