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Wallace was sitting behind a highly polished desk. It held a leather-bound green blotter, a telephone, a pen holder, a sign reading Brig Gen Wallace, and nothing else.

“Thank you for seeing me, General,” Frade said politely.

Wallace nodded but did not reply.

“General, I’m going to need some assistance,” Frade said.

“Is that so?” General Wallace asked in his somewhat nasal tone.

“Yes, sir. The first thing—”

“Forgive me, Señor Frade,” Wallace interrupted, “but what gives you the authority to demand anything of me?”

Frade took a leather folder from his trousers pocket and laid it on the general’s desk. It was his set of the credentials that Colonel Graham had issued to everyone on Team Turtle on 5 July. His identified him as the OSS regional commander.

“Those credentials do, sir. And you are advised that those credentials are classified Top Secret, and you are not permitted to disclose to any of your subordinates that I have shown them to you.”

The general picked up the folder and began to examine it.

“And my superiors ?” he challenged, sarcastically. “Am I permitted to disclose to them that you have shown me whatever this is?”

“You may inform your superiors, in the grade of major general or above, that I presented them to you, but not the circumstances under which I have done so. Any questions you or they may have about the credentials or me should be directed to the Office of Strategic Services in Washington.”

General Wallace tried to stare Frade down. He failed.

The general examined the credentials again, this time very carefully. Finally, he raised his eyes to Frade.

“Frankly, I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Very few people have, sir.”

“What is it you want me to do, Mr. Frade?”

I thought those credentials would dazzle you, you pompous sonofabitch!

“I want you to fly Mr. Fischer to Rio de Janeiro as soon as possible so that he can catch the next Pan American Airways flight to the United States.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” General Wallace said.

“I want him escorted, very discreetly, of course, by armed officers—one of whom should be at least a major—who will stay with him until they see the Pan American plane take off.”

“That can be arranged. And what else?”

“I need to send a small package by officer courier to Washington,” Frade said. “I thought perhaps one of your pilots flying up there—a major or more senior officer?”

“Again, that should be no problem to arrange. Am I permitted to ask what’s in the package?”

Frade did not answer immediately. Instead he gestured to Fischer.

“Let me have one of those cassettes, Len.”

When Fischer had handed him one, Frade held it up for General Wallace to see.

“This is also classified Top Secret,” he said.

“I understand,” General Wallace said seriously.

“I will need three large manila envelopes—better make it four, right, Mr. Fischer? You’re the expert here.”