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“That story will explain where you have been now, and where you will be after we have our breakfast.”

“That being the case, sir, I think I will have another little taste.”

[THREE]

Plaza Pôrto Alegre Hotel Pôrto Alegre, Brazil 0830 18 July 1943

The Plymouth staff car that had come to the Canoas Air Base entrance the day before was sitting at the curb when Frade and Delgano came through the revolving door of the hotel.

An AAF sergeant was at the wheel today, and General Wallace’s aide-de-camp was leaning against the rear door.

The aide straightened when he saw Frade and Delgano, opened the door, then as they approached greeted them in really bad Spanish: “Good morning, Señor Frade. General Wallace hopes that you will take breakfast with him and Mr. Stevens.”

Frade picked up on both “Señor” and the poor Spanish, then wondered who the hell Mr. Stevens was.

“That’s very gracious of the general,” he replied in Spanish.

There were two men sitting with Brigadier General J. B. Wallace, U.S. Army Air Forces, at a table in a small room off the main dining room of the Canoas Air Base Officers’ Open Mess. Cletus Frade saw that one of the men was Allen W. Dulles and the other a smallish, stocky young man with a crew cut.

If I were a betting man, and I am, I’d bet he’s a second john, not long out of Officer Candidate School.

Wallace stood up, put out his hand, and asked as if he had never seen Frade before in his life, “Señor Frade?”

Frade nodded.

“I’m General Wallace, the base commander. And these gentlemen are Mr. Stevens, of the War Production Board, and Mr. Fischer, of the Collins Radio Corporation.”

Dulles was “Stevens” and the second lieutenant in civvies was Fischer.

They shook hands, and Frade introduced Delgano.

General Wallace waved them into seats, and two waiters appeared. One handed them menus while the other put a folding partition across the opening to the room to screen it off from the main mess.

Frade examined the menu.

I have no idea what this role-playing is all about, or who is supposed to be fooling who, but I am not going to be a good little boy and play an Argentine businessman who has only coffee and a roll for his breakfast.

Not when faced with an American menu like this.

I’ll play the part halfway; I’ll order all I want—but in Spanish.

When the Portuguese waiter looked to him for his order, Frade said in Spanish, “I’ll have grapefruit juice, please, a large glass of milk, a double stack of the buckwheat pancakes, a couple of fried eggs over easy, and a double order of the bacon on the side.”

The waiters’ eyes, and those of Delgano, widened.

“Mr. Stevens” smiled and asked, “Are pancakes common in Argentina, Señor Frade?”

Frade shook his head. “And, I am shamed to admit, we don’t have very good bacon, either.”

“I’ll have the same,” Dulles said to the waiter in Portuguese. “But just a regular order of pancakes and bacon, please.”

“What are pancakes?” Delgano asked.

“Bring him what Mr. Stevens is having,” Frade ordered in Spanish.

“My orders, Señor Frade,” General Wallace said when the table had been cleared of everything but coffee, “are to fully cooperate with the War Production Board in the movement of the Lodestar aircraft through Canoas Air Corps Base to Argentina. When we transfer title to you here, they will have been inspected by my maintenance people. They will be in tip-top shape, or as close thereto as we are able to get them.”

“That’s very kind of you, General.”