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Martín didn’t respond directly.
“On the other hand, I can’t imagine the interior ministry dragging its feet, much less looking unfavorably upon a request for the necessary licenses presented to them by Colonel Perón.”
“That does seem unlikely, doesn’t it?” Delgano said dryly. “What are we going to do about pilots?”
“How many pilots are required for fourteen aircraft?”
“Don Cletus, when he told me my first job was to recruit pilots, said we’d best plan for four per aircraft at a minimum. That’s fifty-six. Call it sixty, at least.”
“We can’t get that many from the air service,” Martín thought aloud.
“And that’s probably as many pilots as Aeropostal has.”
“They have seventy-one,” Martín said. “Seven of whom are quote inactive end quote air service officers.”
“If we have half a dozen air service officers to watch the others and keep their eyes open, generally—”
“Can we find that many willing to quote resign end quote?” Martín asked. It was obvious he didn’t expect an answer. “Let me think about that, Gonzalo.”
“Yes, sir. And while we’re just a little off the subject of airlines, Clete—”
“ ‘Clete’?” Martín parroted.
“I realize it’s not very professional of me, Colonel, but the cold fact is I like him. He’s a nice chap, funny. And you have to admire the way he jumps in and gets things done.”
“I agree with everything you say, Gonzalo. But Frade—despite his not-at-all-convincing denials—is a serving officer of the American Corps of Marines in the OSS. What he’s trying to do is not necessarily—indeed, rarely—in the best interests of Argentina.”
“Who’s going to win the war? Don’t answer that if it puts you on a spot.”
“It doesn’t matter who I think will win it. There are a lot of people here, including President Ramírez and Colonel Perón—perhaps most importantly, Colonel Perón—who think German efficiency and the invincible Wehrmacht will come out on top.”
“The Wehrmacht was run out of Africa, and just a couple of days ago, the Allies invaded Sicily. And it’s Berlin that is being bombed just about daily, not Washington.”
“It would not behoove either of us as Argentine officers to publicly disagree with our president’s—or, again, perhaps more importantly, Colonel Perón’s— assessment of the world situation. For one thing, we might well be wrong. The late Colonel Frade also thought the Germans were going to be invincible.”
“For which he got himself shot.”
Martín met Delgano’s eyes for a long moment.
“Before we got into this potentially dangerous conversation, Gonzalo, you started to say something? ‘A little off the subject of airlines’?”
“Oh, yeah. I told you that von Wachtstein brought two friends with him to dinner at Estancia Santa Catalina? The Lufthansa pilot and the new commercial attaché for the German embassy?”
“What about them?”
“Frade managed to make me understand that he didn’t think the commercial attaché was what he said he was, and that I should make you aware of this.”
“How so?”
“The implication was he wasn’t either a friend of von Wachtstein’s or a diplomat.”
“He has a diplomatic passport,” Martín replied. “And there has been no word from our embassy in Berlin suggesting he’s not bona fide.”
“Do you think it’s possible there are people in our embassy who might close their eyes—”
“What about the Lufthansa pilot?” Martín asked, shutting off the question.
