“I’m an evil man, Gonzo. You’ve said so yourself.”
“So, what happens now?” Delgano asked.
“First, we finish this bottle of wine, and then maybe another, and then we have dinner and a bath, not necessarily in that order.”
“I meant tomorrow, Cletus,” Delgano said, shaking his head in resignation.
“We wait for the flyover clearances. We can’t go to Berlin without them.”
VII
[ONE]
Hotel Britania Rua Rodrigues Sampaio 17 Lisbon, Portugal 1705 18 May 1945
Ambassador Claudio de Hernandez was sitting at the hotel’s bar with Fernando Aragao when Frade, Delgano, Stein, Vega, and Peralta walked in.
Stein deposited a heavy, dripping burlap sack on the bar.
The barman appeared, looking askance at the burlap bag.
“Where have you been all day?” Ambassador de Hernandez asked. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Have a sniff of the bag and take a guess,” Frade said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Frade sniffed loudly and pointed at the burlap sack.
“After you pour us a little of that splendid Altano Douro 1942,” Frade ordered the barman, “please ask the chef to join us.”
Aragao sniffed the bag and smiled.
“I really thought you were kidding,” he said.
“I never kid about whiskey, women, or fishing,” Frade said. “Aside from Vega getting a little seasick, everything went . . .
“You have been fishing?” Ambassador de Hernandez asked incredulously. “In the ocean?”
“That’s where the fish usually are, Mr. Ambassador.” Frade then added, “You’re in luck, Fernando. There’s even enough for the ambassador and the diplomats.”
The chef, an enormous fat man in stained kitchen whites, appeared.
“Slide Siggie that tray, Mario,” Frade ordered, pointing down the bar. “Siggie, put a sample of our fruits of the sea on the tray for the chef’s edification.”
Stein dipped into the bag, came out with three large fish fillets, and arranged them on the tray.
The chef bent over and sniffed them, then punched them with his index finger.
“Yes,” Frade said. “In English, they say ‘mackerel.’ These are from what a
“And fresh,” the chef said approvingly.
“Mere hours ago, they were swimming. Into your capable hands, my friend, I entrust them.”
“I usually bake the whole fish,” the chef said.
“Indulge me,” Frade said. “I am Argentine, and the whole world knows we’re crazy. For now, I want you to dribble a little olive oil on the fillets, lay some lemon slices on top, and grill them. Serve them with some fried potatoes and a small salad. Can do?”
The chef nodded. “Can do.”
“After first selecting the best-looking fillets,” Frade then ordered, “which you will serve to us just as soon as you can, serve the leftovers to the diplomats traveling with South American Airways with the compliments of Chief Pilot Delgano.”
The chef nodded again.
Then Frade said: “They will taste much better if you drink a little Altano Douro as you grill them. Put a bottle for the chef on Senor Aragao’s bill, Senor Barman.”
Ambassador de Hernandez’s face showed that he believed Frade was either crazy or drunk. Or both.
The chef smiled, picked up the burlap sack, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
Frade looked at de Hernandez. “You were looking for me, Mr. Ambassador? Why?”
“The overfly permission has come, Senor Frade. But only as far as Frankfurt am Main.”
“We are supposed to go to Berlin,” Frade challenged.
“I know,” the ambassador said more than a little lamely.
“What does Buenos Aires have to say about this?”
“About this specifically, nothing.”
“And about things in general?” Frade pursued. “What about the assurance of either the Foreign Ministry or the President that no attempt will be made to smuggle Nazis to Argentina on SAA’s airplane?”
“There has been no response to that specifically, Senor Frade.”
“Then we’re not going,” Frade said.
“There was a message from el Coronel Peron, routed via the embassy, to Senor Nulder, which Senor Nulder shared with me.”
“And are you going to tell me what it said?”
“It said that the Foreign Minister was doing everything he can to get the necessary overfly permissions, as the president is very anxious to relieve the diplomatic contingent in Berlin as soon as possible.”
“We already knew that, didn’t we?” Frade said.
Frade then took an appreciative sip of the Altano Douro, sighed audibly, and announced: “Well, if the secretary of Labor and Retirement Plans tells us that General Farrell is anxious to relieve the diplomatic contingent in Berlin as soon as possible, I don’t see that we, as patriotic Argentines, have any choice. Have the passengers at the airfield no later than five-thirty tomorrow morning, Mr. Ambassador.”
“That early, Senor Frade?”
“We have already lost more than a full day, haven’t we, Mr. Ambassador, waiting for you to come up with the flyover permissions? I don’t want to lose any more time.”
“I’ll pass that to Senor Nulder right away,” Ambassador de Hernandez said. He then stood and excused himself.
When the ambassador had gone, Delgano softly asked, “Half past five in the morning, Cletus?”
“I didn’t say
[TWO]
Aboard
