Enrico put his head in the cockpit. “Señor Clete…”
“I saw them.”
“What do I do?”
“Open the door and smile,” Clete said. “What else can we do?”
“Sí, Señor,” Enrico said, and turned and went into the passenger compartment.
A minute later, Martín put his head into the cockpit. “Señora Frade,” he said, “how delightful to see you.”
“Mi Coronel,” Dorotéa said. “Since we’re going to be friends, why don’t you call me Dorotéa?”
“I would be greatly honored to do so, Dorotéa,” Martín said. “My Christian name is Bernardo.”
“And what brings you to El Palomar, mi Coronel?”
“I would be honored if you would also use my Christian name, Don Cletus.”
“And I would be pleased if you called me Clete, without the Don, Bernardo,” Clete said. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Lufthansa Six Two Nine,” Clete heard over his earphones, “you are cleared to land on Runway One Eight. There is no other traffic. The winds are from the north gusting to thirty kilometers.”
“Understand, One Eight. Winds north gusting to thirty. I have the runway in sight.”
“I would hazard the guess that I’m here for the same reason you are, Clete,” Martín said, and knelt, and then pointed out the side cockpit window. Lufthansa Six Two Nine had its wheels down and was making its final approach to El Palomar.
“Good-looking bird, isn’t it?” Clete asked.
“Beautiful,” Martín agreed. “For my general fund of aviation knowledge, which is faster, this or the Condor?”
“I think I’m a little faster,” Clete said.
“I hope you won’t mind,” Martín said, “but I asked the authorities to have him park his machine to your right.”
“Why should I mind?”
“I thought it would give us a chance to see who’s getting off, without appearing too obvious,” Martin said.
And make a few snapshots for the family scrapbook, right?
“I’m sure you will be both be delighted to see Major von Wachtstein again,” Martín said. “I just wonder which of you is more delighted.”
“You think he’ll be on that plane?” Clete asked innocently.
“Well, we’ll see in a minute, won’t we?” Martin asked, and went into the cabin.
“How did he know that?” Dorotéa asked.
“He has someone in the German Embassy.”
“Do you think he knows about Peter?”
“I think he suspects.”
“And if he finds out for sure?”
Clete held his hands up in a gesture of helplessness.