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“Well, has he?” the old man demanded.

“Yes, sir,” Ford and Armstrong said, in chorus.

“I want to assure you this is in no way a suggestion that you are inadequate in any way,” the old man went on. “When I get to the States, I am going to get on the phone to Howard Hughes, tell him how pleased I ha

ve been with your services, and ask him how angry he’s going to be when I offer all of you employment at one hundred twenty-five percent of whatever he’s paying you.”

“You’d better show him the letter—” Clete repeated.

“Shut up, Cletus!” the old man snapped. “I’m not through!”

“Yes, sir.”

“In the meantime, vis-à-vis Rio, I am going to send the manager of the Hotel Astoria Palace a telegram telling him to put you up in the best accommodations he has until it’s time for you to board one of that goddamn Juan Trippe’s flying boats to take you to Miami.

“I think you’ll like the Astoria Palace. It’s on the Copacabana Beach. The best rooms provide clear views of the beach, on which some of the most beautiful women in the world go swimming in bathing suits no larger than postage stamps. Spectacular!”

He paused, grinning broadly.

“Well, how does that sound, gentlemen?”

“They’re not going to Rio,” Clete said.

“What did you say?”

“Show him the letter,” Clete said.

Armstrong handed the old man the President’s letter.

The old man read it.

“This proves my point that you can never trust a goddamn Democrat!” the old man exploded. “That sonofabitch never told me about this!”

“But the President of the United States and commander in chief of its armed forces did tell Commander Armstrong that I had his permission, at my discretion, to tell you about it, which I just did,” Clete said.

The old man glared at him for a moment.

“I was carried away by surprise,” he said finally. “You’ll please forgive that outburst. The President of the United States and commander in chief of its armed forces is, like myself, a Thirty-third Degree Mason. We Master Masons never lie to each other. I’m sure ol’ Harry had good reasons to keep it quiet that the crew was OSS.”

“There is no OSS, Grandfather,” Clete said. “Ol’ Harry put it out of business some time ago.”

“Then who the hell do you work for?”

“I guess you could say ol’ Harry,” Clete said. “I thought he told you.”

“I think it could be fairly said that we are ol’ Harry’s secret weapon,” Armstrong said.

The old man snorted, then asked, “So, what are you two wiseasses going to do now, as President Truman’s secret weapon?”

“Well,” Clete said, “first we’re going to load all the civilians on the Flying Brothel—civilians being defined as the women and children and you, Grandfather—and ol’ Tony and ol’ Dick here and I are going to fly it to Mendoza.”

“What’s in Mendoza?”

Frade ignored the question.

“The men who aren’t civilians will fly to Mendoza in my red Lodestar and one Lodestar chartered from SAA by the Bureau of Internal Security. These men will include some of General Martín’s specialists in tracking Nazis who have sneaked into the country.” He looked between the captains, and added, “This was the plan before my horny little brother broke the Kriegsmarine code and found the U-234’s landfall.”

“‘Horny little brother’?” Ford parroted.