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“I’ve often thought the same thing, sir.”

“Well, he’s not. So I have to deal with what’s going on. And the only thing I’m sure of is that we cannot allow Perón to be assassinated. And the only person I know who can do that, General Martín, is you.”

“I will do my best, mi Presidente.”

“I know,” Farrell said. “But now, if you have nothing else for me?”

“With your permission, mi Presidente, I would like to parole the officers of the U-405, and then see where they go and who they contact.”

“Do what you think has to be done.”

Martín came to attention, saluted, did an about-face movement, and walked out of the room.

[FOUR]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila

Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1620 12 October 1945

There was no airfield in the small mountain village of General Villa Belgrano, just a stretch of road on which a skilled pilot could land a small aircraft such as a Piper Cub or a Fieseler Storch.

Aware of these—and his own—limitations, General Bernardo Martín had driven directly from President Farrell’s office in the Casa Rosada to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo intending to first find Cletus Frade and then, if he was lucky, Hans-Peter von Wachtstein.

He was lucky, really lucky. Both were in one of the hangars at the airstrip, watching as a mechanic did something to the engine of the Storch.

Wordlessly, they shook hands and patted each other’s back. Martín waited for the inevitable needling he was to get over his uniform.

It came immediately.

“Let me guess, mi General,” Frade said. “You’ve just come from posing for a recruiting poster.”

Martín ignored him, instead asking, “Is something wrong with the Storch?”

“Nothing that can’t be fixed in a month,” Frade said. “Why? Do you want another flying lesson?”

“I need a ride to Villa General Belgrano. I was hoping Peter could fl

y me there.”

Nothing had ever been said, much less written, when Martín had arranged for the Argentine registration of the German embassy Storch that Tony Pelosi had somewhat grandiosely “seized in the name of the United States of America as booty of war” and then sold to Frade for ten pesos. But it was understood that Martín had certain rights in the now-civilian aircraft.

But both Frade and von Wachtstein were really uncomfortable when Martín elected to fly the aircraft himself, although both had taught him the basic—very basic—techniques of flying.

As Frade repeatedly warned him: “Thirty-odd hours in the air does not a Charles Lindbergh make, so to speak.”

So neither had any problem with Hansel flying Bernardo anywhere. Not only was he a good guy, but they were deeply in his debt for many favors.

“You are going to tell us why, right?” Frade said.

“Because I don’t think I can land the airplane on that dirt road,” Martín said.

“Frankly, neither do I,” Frade said, “but my question was: Why do you want Hansel to fly you to Villa General Belgrano?”

“Two reasons,” Martín said. “The obvious, I don’t want to crash trying to land on that road.”