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“And how is that, Cletus?” the Jesuit asked suspiciously.
“To a man, once we were out of sight of land, they put their hands together”—Frade placed his palms together in an attitude of prayer—“and solemnly vowed to God that if He would let them land safely, they would sin no more forever.”
The priest and Perón laughed out loud. Claudia and Humberto smiled.
“You’ve been flying back and forth to Uruguay, over the Río de la Plata, all day?” Dowling said.
Frade heard both surprise and disapproval in Dowling’s voice.
Fuck you, he thought, but said, “Yes, we have. Flying’s the only way to travel, Ernesto. You really should try it sometime.”
“You were almost certainly uninsured,” Dowling said. “I shudder to think what would have happened had you crashed, or gone lost.”
That sonofabitch is not talking about people getting killed.
What he’s shuddering about is money.
“Excuse me?” Frade said.
“Forgive me, Ernesto,” Duarte said politely. “But what I read in that was that SAA cannot fly passengers.”
“Perhaps I misread it,” Dowling said, and took a pink manila folder from his briefcase and began to paw through it.
“If SAA cannot start flying paying passengers,” Frade said, “and soon, we may have just a little trouble meeting the payroll.”
There were no smiles, much less laughter. And nobody replied.
Frade glanced around the room. “May I ask what the hell is going on here?”
“There has been a very disturbing development, Cletus,” Perón said. “Which I lay at the feet of the English.”
“The English ?”
“If this wasn’t such a serious problem, Cletus, I’d be amused,” Duarte said. “This will probably be a crushing blow to your ego, but Seguro Comercial, S.A., has notified us that you are not legally qualified to be flying passengers—that no South American Airways pilot is.”
Frade smiled, then said jokingly, “Tío Juan, tell the nice man that I have a commercial pilot’s certificate signed by the president of the Republic of Argentina himself.”
Perón, who did not look amused, did not reply.
Dowling began to read from a sheet of paper he had taken from the pink manila folder.
That looks like a Mackay Radiogram.
“ ‘Until you are able to provide us the appropriate documentation certifying that the pilots of South American Airways, S.A., have satisfactorily completed examinations leading to the ATR Rating in Lockheed Type 18 aircraft . . .’ ”
Dowling stopped and looked at Frade.
“ ‘Lockheed Type 18 aircraft’ would be the Lodestar,” Dowling said, almost seeming to enjoy himself. “Correct?”
“Correct,” Frade said.
Oh, shit!
Dowling’s eyes fell to the paper, and he went on: “ ‘. . . such examinations having been taken at either the manufacturer’s plant or at a facility approved by the U.S. Federal Aviation Administration, the undersigned must regretfully decline to insure any South American Airways flights of Lockheed Type 18 aircraft while such aircraft are carrying passengers.’ ” Dowling stopped again, then added, “It’s signed ‘Geoffrey Galworth-Moore for Lloyd’s of London.’ ”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, please, Ernesto,” Duarte said, “but what I heard just now is that we can’t get insurance to fly passengers.”
Dowling considered that for a long moment.
