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“What did you say? Two million two hundred thousand? Why do I think you just made that figure up?”
“The aircraft are in the neighborhood of a hundred twenty-three thousand dollars U.S. each,” Humberto said. “And you’re going to need at least a dozen to get started, and fourteen would be better. . . .”
Is he making that up, too? Where did he get all that?
“Fourteen of them comes to about one and three-quarter million. Doubling that—to provide for spares, salaries, operating capital, et cetera, in our preliminary planning—comes to a little less than three and a half million. Sixty percent of that, to ensure your control, comes to the two-million-two figure I mentioned.”
“Why fourteen airplanes?”
“Aeropostal has a dozen,” Duarte said.
“Where’s the other forty percent coming from?”
“Claudia and I will take twelve-point-five each, and the bank the remaining fifteen percent. As I said, my board of directors feels it’s a sound investment.”
“When did they decide that?”
“I should have said, ‘The board will feel that it’s a sound investment after I have a chance to tell them about it.’ ”
“And when is this all going to take place?”
“Claudia’s going to give a small, sort of family-only dinner tomorrow night, if Colonel Perón can find the time. If not, the next night. We can sign everything at the dinner.”
“I don’t know how long it’ll take me to come up with that kind of money.”
“The bank regards you as a good credit risk.”
“You’re amazing, Humberto.”
“How kind of you to say so. Shall we walk over to the Jockey Club?’
[THREE]
El Palomar Airfield Buenos Aires, Argentina 1605 12 July 1943
“El Palomar, Lufthansa Six Zero Two,” came over the speakers in the El Palomar tower.
The call was faint, and in German. The latter posed no problems—just about all the tower operators spoke German—but the faintness of the call did.
The operators hurriedly put on headsets. One of them went to the radio rack to see if he could better tune in the caller. Another leaned over a shelf and spoke—in German—into a microphone.
“Lufthansa Six Zero Two, this is El Palomar.”
There was no answer, so the operator tried again, and again got no answer.
There was another call to the tower.
“El Palomar, Lufthansa Six Zero Two. El Palomar, Lufthansa Six Zero Two.”
Everybody knew what was happening; it had happened several times before. The Siemens radio transmitters aboard the Lufthansa airplane had greater range than did the radios in the tower. It wasn’t supposed to be that way, but that’s the way it was.
It produced mixed feelings in both of them, embarrassment that their tower had terribly mediocre communications equipment, and vicarious pride as Germano-Argentines in the really superb German equipment aboard the Lufthansa aircraft.
One of the operators picked up a telephone and dialed a number from memory.
It was answered, in Spanish, on the third ring.
“Embassy of the German Reich.”
