W. IV - Honor Bound 05 - The Honor of Spies

"I believe they're old friends," Dulles said. "I know that Father Welner is staying with the archbishop at his palace while he's here in Lisbon."

"So you two are really in bed with the Vatican," Clete said.

"Strategic services, like politics, makes for strange bedfellows," Dulles pronounced solemnly, then added, "Allen W. Dulles, April 7, 1893, to God Only Knows."

"Oh, God," Graham said, chuckling.

"On your return flight, Cletus," Dulles said, "you will be transporting eight Portuguese and Spanish diplomats, several Portuguese businessmen going to Brazil, some diplomatic couriers, a half-dozen or more Jesuit priests going to new assignments in South America under the supervision of Father Welner, eight Franciscan priests going to new assignments in South America, and four nuns of the Little Sisters of the Poor and a number of orphans in their care. Among the priests will be Obersturmbannfuhrer Strubel and Hauptscharfuhrer Niedermeyer, suitably attired. All the priests will be traveling on bona fide passports issued by the Vatican.

"Colonel Graham and I are agreed--with Fernando Aragao--that it would be best if you don't know which of your passengers are actually the Strubels and the Niedermeyers. They will make themselves known to you in Argentina. Your call, Clete."

"Makes sense," Frade said. "When do I get to meet Aragao?"

"He's going to meet you in the lobby and take you to dinner at nine," Graham said.

"How's he going to know me?"

"That splendiferous uniform should do it."

"One more thing, Cletus," Dulles said. "You will be carrying other passengers from time to time. Would you prefer not to know who they are?"

"Well, since I won't be on every flight or, for that matter, on most or even many of them--"

"I'm glad you brought that up," Graham interrupted. "Will it be any trouble for you to schedule yourself as a pilot at least once a month--better yet, once every three weeks?"

Frade thought about that, then nodded. "I can do that."

"And Aragao will make a monthly trip to Buenos Aires. Between those two things, he should be able to keep you up to speed."

"Okay. What kind of other passengers will SAA be carrying?"

"All kinds," Dulles said. "What comes immediately to mind are scientists we hope to get out, nuclear physicists and aeronautical engineers. The Germans have developed flying bombs--rockets, right out of Buck Rogers in the Twenty-fifth Century --and are working on others powered by jet engines. The 8th Air Force just about destroyed their base in Peenemunde in the middle of August, but they're frantically rebuilding it. We're going to try--Canaris is going to try--to get some of their people out. These weapons pose a hell of a threat to England, and the Russians are trying to steal rocket data, too."

"And I'm to find these people some place safe in Argentina, too?"

"That's the idea," Dulles said simply.

"Why not? Some days I just sit around watching the grass grow and wishing I had something to do to pass the time. I don't suppose I can get any help to do all this?"

"That would pose problems," Dulles said.

"What kind of problems?"

"Primarily that Donovan would like nothing more than to send someone down to Argentina, some calm, rational, experienced colonel who could really lash down the loose cannon. And who would sooner or later--probably almost immediately--find out what's going on and feel duty bound to report it."

"I didn't think about that."

Graham grunted. "You better remember to think, Clete." He looked at his watch and announced, "Allen, it's getting pretty close to eight."

"What happens at eight?" Frade asked.

"I catch the train to Madrid," Dulles said. "I have to get back to Bern."

He stood and put his hand out to Frade.

"We'll be in touch, Cletus," he said, nodded at Graham, and walked out of the room.

"I guess you're not coming to dinner with me?" Frade said to Graham.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Graham said. "The Sicherheitsdienst is all over Lisbon. I don't want them wondering what I have to do with SAA. And then I'm on the seven a.m. British Overseas Airways flight to Casablanca. I've got to get back to Caracas."

"Caracas?"

Graham nodded. "Two reasons. I've got to borrow some more money from your grandfather. And that's where Donovan thinks I am."

"Jesus Christ!"

Graham stood up and put out his hand.

"I suppose it would be a waste of breath to tell you to leave the cork in that wine bottle?"

"Yes, sir, Colonel Graham, sir, it would."

"Good luck, Clete. Keep up the good work. Now, endorse that check so I can get out of here."

[THREE]

The meeting with Fernando Aragao didn't go very much at all as Dulles and Graham had suggested it would.

When Clete, freshly showered and shaved and wearing his just-pressed SAA uniform, got off the elevator at five minutes to nine, there were four SAA captains in uniform already in the hotel lobby, two sitting together and two sitting alone.

Clete took a seat in an armchair. He picked up a copy of the Correio da Manha newspaper and pretended to be fascinated with it; he didn't want any of the other SAA pilots to courteously ask him to join them.

Although the Portuguese and Spanish languages are similar enough for Clete to be able to make sense of what he was reading, there was nothing of any interest to him whatever on pages two and three. Then he came upon a small, one-column advertisement at the bottom of page three. It announced that South American Airways was about to offer service to Belem and Buenos Aires and gave a telephone number to call for further information.

At ten past nine, a somewhat chubby fiftyish man with slicked-back hair and a finely trimmed pencil mustache came in through the revolving door that was the hotel's front entrance. He was carrying both an umbrella and a heavy leather briefcase. Clete instantly disliked him.

The man looked around and saw all the men in SAA uniforms. His face showed annoyance. Finally, he made his choice--the oldest SAA pilot, whose name Clete couldn't remember--and spoke to him. The captain shook his head and pointed toward Clete. The man came over.

"Capitan Frade?" he asked in Portuguese-accented Spanish.

Clete lowered the newspaper.

"Si. Senor Aragao?"

There was surprise on Aragao's face, quickly replaced by a smile and the announcement that his car was at the curb.

It was a gray 1940 Ford. It came with a cap-wearing chauffeur. They got in the backseat.

"Take us to the Hotel Aviz," Aragao ordered regally, then turned to Frade. "The restaurant at the Aviz is better, I think, than at the Britania, and, frankly, there's a better class of people."

Clete said nothing.

He thought: What a pompous asshole .

At the Aviz's restaurant, they were shown to an elaborately set table in a corner, and the moment they sat down, busboys put a screen of wooden panels around them.

"I don't suppose you know much about Portuguese wine," Aragao declared. "But if you like Merlot, there's a very nice Merlot type, Monte do Maio. I sent some over to Graham."

"I had some. Very nice," Frade said.

"Well, let's have some of that, and then we'll decide on what to eat."

"Thank you," Clete said politely.

I'm going to have to work with this guy, so the last thing I want to do is antagonize the sonofabitch.

Aragao ordered the headwaiter, the waiter, and the wine steward around so arrogantly that Clete thought they would probably bow and back away from the table and then spit in the soup they would serve them.

As soon as the wine was delivered--and Aragao had gone through the ritual of sniffing cork, then swirling wine around the glass and his mouth before nodding his reluctant approval--Aragao turned to Frade and announced, "Frankly, I expected a somewhat older man; I have a son your age."