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“Better yet,” Pedro Vega said, “have them pour water on the rolls of toilet paper in their baños. We used to do that at the Academy, remember?”
“Pedro, you’re as evil as Cletus,” Delgano said.
“I consider that a compliment, mi coronel,” Vega said.
“Or we could have Mario fly the next leg, presuming we get clearances. That way they would be airsick all the way,” Frade said.
“And I was just starting to like you,” Peralta said.
“Speaking of clearances,” Frade said. “Fernando, what’s with the no clearances?”
“What’s interesting,” Aragão replied, “is that there were—yesterday—clearances. But five hours ago they were canceled. I asked London about it, and they said it was probably the Russians being difficult, but that’s all they knew.”
“The Russians?” Delgano asked incredulously.
Aragão looked at Clete for permission to answer the question.
“Tell them,” Clete said. “They’re friends.”
Aragão nodded and said: “The story I got is that the Russians, after talking Eisenhower into letting them take Berlin, had no intention of allowing anybody else in, the agreements dividing Berlin into American, English, French, and Russian zones to the contrary notwithstanding.
“General White screwed that up for the Russians when he (a) took the Second Armored Division into Berlin without Russian permission—or Eisenhower’s—and (b) threw the Red Army out of what was agreed to be the American zone. Our guy in London suspects the Russians don’t want us to have any control over the airports, or even fly into Berlin unless we ask for permission. Eisenhower, finally realizing the Russians are trying to screw him, has no intention of asking their permission, as that would imply they have the right to say no.”
If Delgano, Peralta, or Vega was curious how it was that the Portuguese station chief for SAA could call London and come up with that sort of information, they were too prudent to ask.
“Is there an airport in our zone?” Frade asked.
Aragão nodded. “Tempelhof.”
“The Americans have Tempelhof?” von Wachtstein asked.
“London told me General White has it surrounded by tanks and has been flying his Piper Cubs into it from his Division Rear, which is still at the other side of the Elbe River. You know something about Tempelhof?”
“It’s—it used to be—Lufthansa’s terminal. Good airport. I could get the Connie into it with no trouble.”
If Aragão was curious to know how an SAA pilot knew so much about Tempelhof, he was too prudent to ask. But von Wachtstein saw the look on his face. And so did Frade.
“Fernando,” Clete said, “say hello to Special Agent Peter von Wachtstein of the OSS, formerly major of the Luftwaffe. Peter, Fernando is the OSS station chief here.”
Aragão didn’t reply but looked at Boltitz.
Clete went on: “And Special Agent Karl Boltitz used to be Kapitän zur See of the Kriegsmarine. When we get to Germany, he’s going to see what his U-boat buddies can tell us about all these submarines that Mr. Dulles tells us are supposed to be headed for Argentina.”
“Damn it,” Aragão suddenly exclaimed.
Clete looked on curiously as Aragão stabbed his right hand into his suitcoat and came out with a sealed envelope.
“This came for you earlier, Clete. There’ve been fifty different stories making the rounds about those subs, each harder to swallow than the other. And I’m not sure this helps.”
Frade took the envelope, opened it, and extracted the single page inside. His eyes fell to it:PRIORITY
TOP SECRET
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
FROM AGGIE
TO TEX
