Victory and Honor

Farrell had also summoned Clete to the Pink House, where he told him that “as a dear friend of your father from our days at the military academy” he had been pleased that Clete had been wise enough not to accept a position in General Ramirez’s government.

Farrell added that he had deeply regretted having to depose Ramirez.

“But P. P. simply seems unable to understand that Germany and Italy are fighting our fight—Christian civilization against the Antichrist, the Russian Communists.”

That shortsightedness had confirmed to Clete that Farrell was not to be trusted. And his opinion hadn’t changed when a year later, almost to the day, President Farrell conveniently announced that the Argentine Republic was now in a state of war with Germany, Italy, and Japan.

It all caused Clete to wonder: What would’ve happened had my father indeed become president? Would he have shown similar deficiencies?

“Yes, Cletus,” el Coronel Juan Domingo Peron now replied arrogantly, “el Presidente himself.”

Clete said: “Exactly what kind of a special flight?”

Clete watched Peron mentally consider his answer.

Just what are you really up to now, you sonofabitch?

“In military terms,” Peron then replied officiously, “a reinforcement and replacement flight. Our diplomatic personnel in Germany not only have been under an enormous strain lately, but may not even have enough to eat or adequate shelter.”

“You want me to fly some diplomats to Germany?” Frade asked incredulously.

“President Farrell and Foreign Minister Cesar Ameghino do. You would take some diplomatic personnel there, to replace the diplomats whom you would then bring home. Plus some supplies—food and medical supplies, that sort of thing—to support our embassy.”

“I’m sure the Americans and the British would be happy to see that food and medical attention would be made available to the embassy personnel,” Clete said. “And, for that matter, see that they got safely to Sweden or Switzerland. Now that I think of it, that’s probably already been done.”

“I’m sure that Minister Ameghino has considered his options,” Peron said, “and concluded that sending a plane is the thing to do.”

Frade looked between Peron and Duarte, and thought:

Whatever this is all about, it has nothing to do with rushing aid to a clutch of abused diplomats.

Damn it! What is this sonofabitch up to?

My God! Has he got Hitler stashed somewhere? And he wants me to go over there so the sonofabitch can fly to sanctuary here in comfort?

That’s more absurd than Hitler on a U-boat!

I didn’t believe that bullshit—and neither did Dulles—about Hitler and his girlfriend taking off from some tree-lined street in Berlin and flying to Norway in a Storch to board the sub.

Peron looked toward the new Constellations, then went off on a tangent: “I presume those are the new aircraft you acquired?”

“That’s them, five Connies,” Clete said.

“I wasn’t aware until this morning, when we got here, that we were even contemplating such an investment,” Peron said.

“The executive board approved the purchase, Juan Domingo,” Duarte offered. “I’m sure that you were sent a copy of the minutes of that meeting.”

“Presumably, these five new aircraft would solve the problem of not having enough aircraft?” Peron said.

Frade shook his head and said, “Having aircraft available is not the problem. What is a problem is that I can’t fly into Germany without clearance. You do know what’s going on over there, right?”

“You think it’s necessary for you to personally fly the relief mission?” Peron asked.

You don’t like that? Fuck you, Tio Juan!

“If an SAA aircraft is going to be flown into Germany, I’ll fly it.”

“You have a reason?” Peron pursued.

“Let’s say I want to protect my investment in SAA,” Clete said.

“Perhaps, with your contacts, your information about conditions in Germany is better than mine,” Peron said.

Does he know Dulles is here?

“Germany will be—probably already has been—divided into four zones,” Clete said. “Russian, English, French, and American. Berlin itself will be sort of an island in the Russian zone, and also divided into four zones. We would need permission from either Eisenhower’s headquarters or the French, whoever is controlling the airspace, to fly across France into Germany—as a matter of fact, it would probably be better to have permission from the Spaniards to fly across Spain into France—and I don’t know if we can get it.”

“Request has been made for whatever permissions are required from the appropriate ambassadors in Madrid and Paris,” Peron said regally. “I cannot imagine their denying it.”

Frade held his gaze a long moment, then said: “You get me the clearances and I’ll do it. I’ll be back from Mendoza tomorrow. Say, anytime twenty-four hours after that.”

“Why are you going to Mendoza?” Peron asked.

That’s none of your fucking business, Tio Juan!

“I have business there, Tio Juan.”

“You know, Cletus, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Major von Wachtstein was sitting in your airplane. That fellow looks just like him.”

No use trying to deny it.

“That’s Peter,” Clete said. “Now that he’s been released from his POW camp, he needed a job. SAA hired him.”

“That was unusually quick for him to be released from POW status, wasn’t it?”

“What I heard was that the Americans released him as soon as the surrender was signed. Sort of a reward for his contributions to the war effort.”

“Please give him my regards,” Peron said.

“I’ll do that.”

“I’ll tell President Farrell and Foreign Minister Ameghino that you see no problems with the relief flight.”

“None but getting the clearances,” Clete said.

“Thank you,” Peron said.

After another icy embrace, Peron marched into the passenger terminal.

Humberto then embraced Clete and looked into his eyes.

“Whatever you’re thinking of saying, don’t,” Clete said.

“You do have a very strange relationship with your godfather, don’t you?”

Clete laughed, then punched Duarte fondly on the arm.

As he turned to walk toward the Red Lodestar, he saw Dulles, Boltitz, and von Wachtstein at the foot of the stairs and starting toward him.

Damn it, Hansel! So much for keeping everyone on the aircraft.

[FOUR]

“Trouble?” Allen Dulles asked Clete when they’d stopped near the nose gear of the Red Lodestar.

“I don’t know exactly. It’s damn sure out of left field. The president and the foreign minister—with how much input from Peron, I don’t know—want me to take a Connie into Germany, presumably Berlin, ostensibly to take a replacement diplomatic crew in, and bring the diplomats that are there back here. And to take supplies of food,