“Have you thought about calling Señora Frade? You seemed to be getting along splendidly with her last night. A—I almost said ‘affair’—relationship with her might be valuable to us.”
“She called me,” Clete said. “The phone rang the minute I walked in the door last night.”
“And will you see her?” Nestor asked, then caught the look on Clete’s face. “Really? Good boy.”
“Is that why I was at the dinner? You wanted me to meet her?”
“I wanted you to meet David in a credible situation,” Nestor said. “Señora Frade, so to speak, was an unexpected bonus. Letting it travel around town that she has added you to her list of admirers—her long list of admirers—will paint the sort of picture about you we want.”
Her long list of admirers? Incredible!
“Inasmuch as you elected to ignore your instructions vis-à-vis your cover,” Nestor went on, “that may prove quite valuable. More gossip-worthy, so to speak.”
“Sir, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your father proudly introduced you to a number of important officers as ‘my son, late Teniente of the air service of the U.S. Marine Corps, who served at Guadalcanal.’”
“How did you hear about that?” Clete asked, surprised.
“I have a number of friends in the Argentine military. I presume you had reason to ignore your instructions about your cover?”
“I suppose I could tell you that it just slipped out. But the truth of the matter is, I was a little drunk at the time, and didn’t want my father to think I was shirking my duty to God and country.”
“From what I hear, the both of you were three sheets to the wind. I’m sure meeting him was emotional for the both of you, but you might consider the ill-wisdom of excessive alcohol.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Señora Pellano came onto the balcony with a bottle of cerveza and a glass on a tray.
Nestor stopped her when she started to pour, took the bottle from her, and put it to his lips.
Is he doing that because he really likes to, or to play “I’m just one of the boys” with me?
“I hope I haven’t disturbed anything?” Nestor asked.
“No. Not a thing. I was sitting here catching the breeze and feeling sorry for myself.”
“Why sorry? Don’t tell me Señora Frade didn’t turn out to be as advertised.”
“I miss flying. I even miss the goddamned Marine Corps. I’m a much better Naval Aviator than I am a saboteur.”
“Perhaps your father will let you fly his airplane. Or one of them.”
“I didn’t know he had an airplane.”
“He has a Beechcraft biplane, and at least one Piper Cub.”
“You mean a stagger-wing Beechcraft?”
“Your father’s has the top wing behind the lower…yes, I suppose it would be a ‘stagger-wing.’ And as I say, at least one Piper Cub. The use—on the larger estancias—of small aircraft is quite common.”
“They were getting into that in Texas and Oklahoma, too,” Clete said.
If my father has a Beech stagger-wing, he’ll probably let me fly it.
“We considered, of course, that you might not find your father to be the ogre Mr. Howell paints him to be. And in time, that you might manage to get close to him. We didn’t think it would happen so quickly.
“Do you think he’ll turn out to be useful to us?”