Hearing this, Clete had made a decision. Instead of flying to Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade as he usually did—that is, direct cross-country to Morón at about three hundred feet off the ground, which afforded him the opportunity to look at his own fields and cattle and those of his neighbors—he had climbed to fifteen hundred, flown to Dolores, picked up Ruta Nacional No. 2 there, and flown up it to Buenos Aires, where he flew over the Casa Rosada and the National Cathedral, and from there to the airport outside Morón.
For some reason, he liked the young Jesuit and suspected that, whatever other satisfactions the priest found in his vocation, he didn’t have much personal fun or any little luxuries. Fun and luxuries, for example, like Father Kurt Welner S.J.’s Packard convertible, bejeweled gold cuff links, luxury apartment in Recoleta, and box for the season at the Colón Opera House.
And Frade had thought that they had plenty of time for the aerial tour. While there was no question in his mind that Martín would eventually show up at Jorge Frade in response to Schultz’s call, he was equally convinced that Martín would not be there when the Cub landed, if for no other reason than to impress on Cletus that the head of the Bureau of Internal Security did not dance to Don Cletus Frade’s whistle.
This assumption proved to be wrong.
As he got closer to the passenger terminal building, he saw that el Coronel Martín indeed was waiting for him, and in uniform. Martín was standing beside another uniformed officer, whom Clete recognized after a moment as General Nervo. His military-style uniform was brown. They were standing beside a black 1941 Buick Roadmaster.
“That’s General Nervo, Don Cletus,” Father Pedro said.
“We’ve met,” Clete replied. “Well, what we’ll do now is get you a ride into town.”
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” Clete said at the passenger terminal building.
Martín and then Nervo embraced Clete cordially.
For the moment, I am a good guy. That may change in the next two or three minutes.
“Not a problem,” Martín said. “The general and I were here anyway. Your friend had a reservation on the eleven-thirty flight from Montevideo. Santiago had never seen him, and I thought this would give him the chance.”
“What did you think?” Clete asked.
“He missed the flight,” Martín said. “And changed his reservation until tomorrow.”
“This is Father Silva, General,” Clete said.
“I know the Father,” Nervo said. “And aren’t you lucky to have Don Cletus fly you to Buenos Aires, Father? And spare you the return trip with Father Kurt at the wheel?”
Okay. As if I needed proof, Nervo, as well as Martín, knows just about everything that happens on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.
“Yes, it was very kind of Don Cletus,” Father Silva said.
“Cletus, in the Gendarmería,” Nervo said, “they say that if Father Kurt wasn’t the president’s confessor, he would have lost his driving license years ago. Have you ever ridden with him?”
Frade shook his head.
“Don’t! He thinks that Packard of his has two speeds, fast and faster. And they know that the more he’s had to drink, the faster he drives. The Gendarmes along Route Two call him ‘Padre Loco.’”
“Oh, I can’t believe that’s true!” Father Silva said loyally.
“Would I lie to a priest?” Nervo asked righteously.
Martín took pity on the priest.
“He’s pulling your leg, Father,” he said. “Can we give you a lift into town? We’re headed for Plaza San Martín.”
“That would be very kind,” Silva said. “I’m going to the cathedral.”
“Right on our way,” Martín said.
“I need ten, fifteen minutes of your time, maybe a little more,” Clete said. “Father, would you mind waiting?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then why don’t you go in the passenger terminal and have a cup of coffee while the general, the colonel, and I take a little walk?”
They walked across the tarmac toward one of the Constellations, the Ciudad de Buenos Aires. It was being prepared for its flight to Lisbon the next day; mechanics and technicians swarmed all over it.