Pity, Lauffer thought. The idea of Querro taking an unintended bath in the River Plate had a certain appeal.
Lauffer was looking forward to meeting Se¤or Cletus H. Frade, about whom he had heard a good deal but had never actually seen. Lauffer had been in the Army for seven years without hearing a shot fired in anger. According to what he'd heard, Frade fought at Guadalcanal, was twice shot down, and downed seven Japanese airplanes. All before he came to Argentina, where he apparently bested two assassins sent to kill him, and then was responsible for the sinking of an armed cargo ship.
"Distinguished passenger, my ass," Querro said softly. "If I had my way, he'd never make it from the plane to the shore."
"S¡, Se¤or," Lauffer said.
Clete Howell looked out the window, now splashed with water, as the Mart¡n 156 taxied in a sweeping turn from the end of its landing roll toward the buoy where it would be moored.
Is it really, on a flying boat, a "landing roll"? Land planes roll, on their wheels, until they're slowed down enough to taxi. Flying boats, which have no wheels, obviously can't roll. So what do flying boat pilots call it? "The landing slow-down"? Or maybe "the landing splash"?
Who cares ? What difference does it make ?
That's the champagne working on me. I had damned near a whole bottle, which wasn't too smart, since I may have to use my brain when I get to Customs and Immigration carrying an Argentine passport, issued here, which does not have an Exit Stamp. What am I going to say if the guy asks me how I got out of the country without an Exit Stamp?
Damn! Colonel Graham should have thought of that!
What the hell, when all else fails, tell the truth, or something close to it. I left Argentina on my American passport, duly Exit Stamped.
The forty-odd other passengers aboard Pan American-Grace Airlines Flight 171 all seemed to be out of their seats, collecting their cabin baggage.
Three boats were headed out from shore, obviously to meet the flying boat. There had been two the last time, a Customs boat and a graceful, narrow, var-nished wooden powerboat. Pan American Grace had permanently chartered it from the owners of a fleet of substantially identical boats in El Tigre, a Buenos Aires suburb that Clete's father had described to him, accurately, as "an unde-veloped Venice."
The one leading the procession looked like a Navy boat of some sort, sort of an admiral's barge, carrying two officers.
Obviously to meet some big shot. I wonder who?
The admiral's barge reached the flying boat before it was tied up, and then moved close.
Those are Army officers, not Navy. What's that all about?
The hatch in the side of the fuselage opened, and the two officers came aboard. One of them, a small and intense major, spoke somewhat arrogantly to the steward.
That major's a feisty little bastard. Why are small people like that?
The major came down the aisle, shouldering past the passengers collecting their belongings.
Jesus, he's coming to me!
"Teniente Frade?" the little major asked, with a patently insincere smile.
"Se¤or Frade," Clete said.
"I was led to believe you served as a Teniente in the Norteamericano Corps of Marines, Se¤or."
"I served as a major in the U.S. Marine Corps, Major."
Clete thought he saw amusement in the eyes of the good-looking captain standing behind the major.
"Mayor Frade, I am Mayor Querro, who has the honor of presenting the compliments of Teniente General Ramirez, the Argentine Minister of War."
"How do you do?"
"This is Capitan Lauffer, Mayor Frade."
"How do you do, Capitan?"
"I have the honor of presenting the compliments of General Rawson, mi Mayor," Lauffer said. "And may I offer my condolences on the death of el Coronel Frade, under whom I was once privileged to serve?"