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

1700 1 October 1943

"Ladies and gentlemen," Capitan Frade announced over the passenger-cabin speakers, "this is your captain. Welcome to Buenos Aires. The local time is five p.m. and, as you can see, it's raining."

"Ciudad de Rosario," the tower operator's voice came over his headset. "Follow the Follow-Me to the terminal. Be advised there is a band on horseback on the tarmac."

"There's a what ?" Frade asked.

There was no reply from the tower. But when he turned Ciudad de Rosario onto the taxiway, there it was--a forty-trooper-strong, horse-mounted military band in dress uniforms getting soaked in the rain.

Frade turned to Capitan Manuel Ramos beside him and said, "Don't let those horses get in the prop wash. It'll be a Chinese fire drill."

Capitan Frade's copilot had no idea what a Chinese fire drill was, but he, too, had been thinking about the effect that the blast of air from the Constellation's four engines was going to have on the band's horses.

"Engineer, shut down Three and Four," Frade ordered.

"Shutting down Three and Four," the engineer replied. "What's going on?"

The Ciudad de Rosario taxied toward the tarmac. The horses didn't like the airplane, the noise it made, or the prop wash that had made its way around the Constellation from its left engines and was blowing the water from the rain-soaked tarmac at them. The tuba player and one of the kettle drummers lost their instruments when their mounts became unruly.

"Ah, ha!" Clete said. "Mystery explained. El Presidente is under one of those umbrellas."

Twenty or more people were under a sea of umbrellas in front of the passenger terminal.

"And so is the Papal Nuncio," Ramos replied.

"I'm going to stop it right here, Manuel," Clete said. "We don't want to drown the president."

"Especially not now," Ramos said.

"Why 'especially not now'?"

"Cletus, El Presidente didn't come out here with the band of the Second Cavalry to welcome us home. He came out to rub Brazil's nose in SAA's mud. We now have a transoceanic airline, and the Brazilians don't."

"If I knew you were so smart, Manuel, I would have let you land."

"If you had let me land, it would've been because you know I am a Numero Uno pilot," Ramos said. He demonstrated Numero Uno by holding up his left fist, balled, with the index finger extended.

Frade laughed.

"How about getting some ground power out here?" he said into his microphone.

A moment later, Clete saw the ground power generator being pushed toward them. And he could see something else in the sea of umbrellas that made his heart jump. Retired Sargento Rodolfo Gomez of the Husares de Pueyrredon was holding an umbrella over the mother of Clete's unborn child. Over only her. Rodolfo was getting soaked.

There is nothing in this world that I would rather do this instant than run down the aisle, open the door, and--the moment the stairway appears--run down it to Dorotea and wrap my arms around her.

But I can't do that.

"Tell you what, Manuel: While I shut it down, you go back in the cabin and pick some unlucky soul to get off first and deal with El Presidente."

"Cletus, that's your honor," Ramos said. "This would not have happened without you."

"That wasn't a suggestion. That's what they call an order," Frade said.

"I will be embarrassed. I was not the pilot in command."

That embarrassment will last until El Presidente pumps your hand.

"Well, I won't tell anyone if you don't," Frade said. "Do it, Manuel, please, as a favor to me."

"If you insist."

And when your picture appears on the front page of La Nacion, I will have one more good guy in my corner.

And if your picture is in the newspapers, the picture of Don Cletus Frade, master aviator and OSS agent, won't be.

"We have auxiliary power," the engineer reported.

"Shut down One and Two," Clete ordered. "Go, Manuel! Don't keep El Presidente waiting."

When Clete finally came out of the cockpit, he saw that someone else already had decided who was going to deplane first. The nuns and orphans were standing at the door.

Why did the steward do that?

He then saw the Jesuit priest bringing up the rear of that line, after the nuns, orphans, members of the Order of Saint Francis, and the other Jesuits.

Why? Because Father Welner "suggested" that to him.

What is that wily Jesuit up to?

Clete looked out a window.

Manuel Ramos and the older pilot whose name Clete could not remember were shaking hands with El Presidente and party, everybody under umbrellas.

Where the hell did all those umbrellas come from?

And the people holding them?

The band was playing. Trumpets and flutes only, plus a xylophone.

I guess the rain fucked up the drums.

El Presidente and one other man--a short, pudgy, middle-aged fellow wearing clerical vestments, a wide-brimmed hat, a huge gold cross, and a purple waistband-- Christ, that must be the Papal Nuncio! What the hell is he up to?-- plus umbrella holders-- God, there must be twenty of them. Where the hell did they all come from? --walked toward the stairway.

Two of the nuns started down the stairway, followed by two orphans. Then two more nuns, followed by four older orphans.

When they got to the tarmac, now shielded by umbrellas, the nuns curtsied before the Papal Nuncio and kissed his ring. The Papal Nuncio made what Clete thought was a gesture of blessing, then patted the orphans on the head.

Then El Presidente patted the orphans on the head.

Flashbulbs from at least fifteen photographers lit the scene.

The umbrella holders then led the nuns and the orphans toward two buses that Clete hadn't noticed before. The buses were parked beside a Mercedes limousine bearing diplomatic license plates.

The number on the plate--0001--caught Clete's eye.

Who the hell gets plate Number One? God?

Close, Cletus.

The Papal Nuncio gets diplomatic license plate Number One, that's who!

Now members of the Order of Saint Francis went through the ritual. They all kissed the Papal Nuncio's ring, but he did not pat their heads, and El Presidente gave them nothing but a smile and a quick handshake.

And then finally the Jesuits. When they had gone through the line, the Papal Nuncio and Father Welner, each with his own umbrella holder, walked to the Mercedes limousine and got in.

Clete turned and went into the galley, which was between the cockpit and the passenger compartment. He quickly found a bottle of brandy and a snifter. He half filled the glass, then took it and the bottle to one of the first seats, sat down, and took a healthy swallow.

A sudden memory filled his mind.

"This is a long goddamn way from our puddle jumper, isn't it, Uncle Jim?" he said softly but aloud, his eyes filling with tears and his voice on the edge of breaking. "Here I am having a little snort after flying this great big beautiful sonofabitch across the Atlantic!" He raised the glass, said, "Mud in your eye!" and drained it.

James Fitzhugh Howell, Clete's uncle, who had raised him and was really the only father he had known as a child and young man, had taught Clete to fly in a Piper Cub when he was thirteen.

He poured more cognac and estimated it would be another three or four minutes before he could leave the Ciudad de Rosario and go down the stairway and put his arms around Dorotea and feel her warmth and smell her hair.

Three minutes later, a familiar voice pleaded: "Please don't say it, Cletus."

"But they will, " Clete said. "If we keep meeting this way on my airplane, people will talk."