“That’s the idea,” Dulles said simply.
“Why not? Some days I just sit around watching the grass grow and wishing I had something to do to pass the time. I don’t suppose I can get any help to do all this?”
“That would pose problems,” Dulles said.
“What kind of problems?”
“Primarily that Donovan would like nothing more than to send someone down to Argentina, some calm, rational, experienced colonel who could really lash down the loose cannon. And who would sooner or later—probably almost immediately—find out what’s going on and feel duty bound to report it.”
“I didn’t think about that.”
Graham grunted. “You better remember to think, Clete.” He looked at his watch and announced, “Allen, it’s getting pretty close to eight.”
“What happens at eight?” Frade asked.
“I catch the train to Madrid,” Dulles said. “I have to get back to Bern.”
He stood and put his hand out to Frade.
“We’ll be in touch, Cletus,” he said, nodded at Graham, and walked out of the room.
“I guess you’re not coming to dinner with me?” Frade said to Graham.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Graham said. “The Sicherheitsdienst is all over Lisbon. I don’t want them wondering what I have to do with SAA. And then I’m on the seven a.m. British Overseas Airways flight to Casablanca. I’ve got to get back to Caracas.”
“Caracas?”
Graham nodded. “Two reasons. I’ve got to borrow some more money from your grandfather. And that’s where Donovan thinks I am.”
“Jesus Christ!”
Graham stood up and put out his hand.
“I suppose it would be a waste of breath to tell you
to leave the cork in that wine bottle?”
“Yes, sir, Colonel Graham, sir, it would.”
“Good luck, Clete. Keep up the good work. Now, endorse that check so I can get out of here.”
[THREE]
The meeting with Fernando Aragão didn’t go very much at all as Dulles and Graham had suggested it would.
When Clete, freshly showered and shaved and wearing his just-pressed SAA uniform, got off the elevator at five minutes to nine, there were four SAA captains in uniform already in the hotel lobby, two sitting together and two sitting alone.
Clete took a seat in an armchair. He picked up a copy of the Correio da Manhã newspaper and pretended to be fascinated with it; he didn’t want any of the other SAA pilots to courteously ask him to join them.
Although the Portuguese and Spanish languages are similar enough for Clete to be able to make sense of what he was reading, there was nothing of any interest to him whatever on pages two and three. Then he came upon a small, one-column advertisement at the bottom of page three. It announced that South American Airways was about to offer service to Belém and Buenos Aires and gave a telephone number to call for further information.
At ten past nine, a somewhat chubby fiftyish man with slicked-back hair and a finely trimmed pencil mustache came in through the revolving door that was the hotel’s front entrance. He was carrying both an umbrella and a heavy leather briefcase. Clete instantly disliked him.
The man looked around and saw all the men in SAA uniforms. His face showed annoyance. Finally, he made his choice—the oldest SAA pilot, whose name Clete couldn’t remember—and spoke to him. The captain shook his head and pointed toward Clete. The man came over.
“Capitán Frade?” he asked in Portuguese-accented Spanish.
Clete lowered the newspaper.