“Isabela,” Clete explained politely, “the Lodestar, first, never was designed for long flights. And, second, it’s obsolete. That’s why they’ve sold them to South American Airways. We—the Americans—don’t need them anymore.”
“Then you Americans don’t have an airplane like the Condor that will cross oceans?” she pursued.
“I didn’t say that, Isabela,” Clete went on, trying not to sound condescending. “Right now, the Americans every day fly the Douglas DC-4 across both the Pacific and the Atlantic. And there’s a new Lockheed—”
“There is?” Peter asked.
Clete turned to him. “The Lockheed pilots who delivered the Lodestar to Pôrto Alegre told me their new one—they call it the ‘Constellation’—has just been certified. At cruise altitude, seventy-five hundred meters, it cruises at five hundred seventy kph. For eighty-seven hundred kilometers. With a full load. Thirty passengers.”
“Very impressive,” Peter said, meaning it.
“I’ll believe it when I see it land at El Palomar,” Isabela said.
“That’s probably never going to happen, Isabela,” Clete said, paused, and when he saw she was about to snap back at him, added, “When the first Constellation lands here, it’ll belong to South American Airways, and will of course land at Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade.”
“The two of you stop it!” Claudia said. After a moment, she asked, “What did you just say, Cletus?”
“About where the Constellation will land when it comes here, you mean?”
“You know very well that’s what I mean. What are you talking about?”
“The chief pilot of South American Airways—you remember him, Claudia, Major Delgano?”
She nodded. “And?”
“He came to see us this morning to tell me that he and my Tío Juan”—he paused and looked at Boltitz—“El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón is not really my uncle, korvettenkapitän, but he likes me to call him that. Anyway, Tío Juan and Major Delgano thought it would be nice if we named our new airport after my father, and wanted to know what I thought of the idea.”
“Damn you, Cletus!” Claudia said, having trouble with her voice. “You are just like him! Same awful sense of humor!”
“Oh, I don’t think they were fooling, Claudia. Tío Juan told Delgano he was going to have a word with the president. I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody’s already painting a temporary sign.”
“If la señora is so pleased,” the butler announced from the door to the dining room, “dinner can now be served.”
“As our hostess,” Clete said while the coffee was served, “already is offended by my bad manners—”
“And with damned good cause,” Claudia interrupted, “thank you very much, Cletus.”
Clete nodded once, then went on: “—I would not dare anger her further by filling the room with cigar smoke. I am therefore going to take my coffee onto the verandah for a smoke. If anyone would care to join me . . . you, perhaps, Isabela?”
She snorted.
“All are welcome,” Clete went on. “I have cigars but regrettably no cigarettes. ”
“I’d like a smoke,” Boltitz said. “With your permission, la señora?”
“Go,” Claudia said.
The three men went not only onto the verandah but off it and into the garden, where they could not be overheard. There, Frade extended his cigar case.
“I don’t use them, thank you,” Boltitz said.
&
nbsp; “Put one in your mouth anyway,” Frade said. “In case El Bitcho is watching us out the window, as I suspect she is. Or will be.”
Boltitz nodded and took a cigar.
Von Wachtstein took a cigar, lit it, and puffed appreciatively.