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“The President himself did, did he?” Clete said in an unimpressed tone that Perón could not mistake.
Clete felt all of Argentina’s recent presidents—Rawson, Ramírez, Farrell—were flawed, but especially Edelmiro Julián Farrell.
Farrell had overthrown Ramírez in a bloodless coup d’état, masterminded—Clete was sure, but could not prove—by el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón. Because one of General Farrell’s first acts as president of the Provisional Government of Argentina was to name Labor Secretary Perón to the additional posts of vice president and minister for War.
Farrell had also summoned Clete to the Pink House, where he told him that “as a dear friend of your father from our days at the military academy” he had been pleased that Clete had been wise enough not to accept a position in General Ramirez’s government.
Farrell added that he had deeply regretted having to depose Ramirez.
“But P. P. simply seems unable to understand that Germany and Italy are fighting our fight—Christian civilization against the Antichrist, the Russian Communists.”
That shortsightedness had confirmed to Clete that Farrell was not to be trusted. And his opinion hadn’t changed when a year later, almost to the day, President Farrell conveniently announced that the Argentine Republic was now in a state of war with Germany, Italy, and Japan.
It all caused Clete to wonder: What would’ve happened had my father indeed become president? Would he have shown similar deficiencies?
“Yes, Cletus,” el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón now replied arrogantly, “el Presidente himself.”
Clete said: “Exactly what kind of a special flight?”
Clete watched Perón mentally consider his answer.
Just what are you really up to now, you sonofabitch?
“In military terms,” Perón then replied officiously, “a reinforcement and replacement flight. Our diplomatic personnel in Germany not only have been under an enormous strain lately, but may not even have enough to eat or adequate shelter.”
“You want me to fly some diplomats to Germany?” Frade asked incredulously.
“President Farrell and Foreign Minister César Ameghino do. You would take some diplomatic personnel there, to replace the diplomats whom you would then bring home. Plus some supplies—food and medical supplies, that sort of thing—to support our embassy.”
“I’m sure the Americans and the British would be happy to see that food and medical attention would be made available to the embassy personnel,” Clete said. “And, for that matter, see that they got safely to Sweden or Switzerland. Now that I think of it, that’s probably already been done.”
“I’m sure that Minister Ameghino has considered his options,” Perón said, “and concluded that sending a plane is the thing to do.”
Frade looked between Perón and Duarte, and thought:
Whatever this is all about, it has nothing to do with rushing aid to a clutch of abused diplomats.
Damn it! What i
s this sonofabitch up to?
My God! Has he got Hitler stashed somewhere? And he wants me to go over there so the sonofabitch can fly to sanctuary here in comfort?
That’s more absurd than Hitler on a U-boat!
I didn’t believe that bullshit—and neither did Dulles—about Hitler and his girlfriend taking off from some tree-lined street in Berlin and flying to Norway in a Storch to board the sub.
Perón looked toward the new Constellations, then went off on a tangent: “I presume those are the new aircraft you acquired?”
“That’s them, five Connies,” Clete said.
“I wasn’t aware until this morning, when we got here, that we were even contemplating such an investment,” Perón said.
“The executive board approved the purchase, Juan Domingo,” Duarte offered. “I’m sure that you were sent a copy of the minutes of that meeting.”
“Presumably, these five new aircraft would solve the problem of not having enough aircraft?” Perón said.
Frade shook his head and said, “Having aircraft available is not the problem. What is a problem is that I can’t fly into Germany without clearance. You do know what’s going on over there, right?”
