“At this very moment, Colonel Harris and his very competent Sergeant Major Wilson, probably cursing the unpredictable Argentines, are en route from Ezeiza here to pick you up,” Rangio said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“And at this very moment, my good wife is sitting by the telephone to learn whether your Julio is our Julio,” Rangio said. “So I have a favor to ask of you. If I swear to deliver him to the embassy transient quarters at eight tomorrow morning, may I take him home with me?”
“Absolutely,” Oliver said. “And it doesn’t have be 0800, either, Colonel. I plan to sleep most of tomorrow . . .”
Rangio took a card from his wallet and wrote a number on it.
“Call this, night or day, and I will have Julio where you want him within the hour.”
“Thank you,” Oliver said.
“And now, if you will excuse us? Colonel Harris knows where you all are.”
Zammoro stood up and saluted.
“Thank you, Captain,” he said.
“Don’t be silly, Zam. Have a good time. See you tomorrow, or the day after.”
Oliver waited until Rangio and Zammoro had left, then rapped his knuckles on the glass tabletop to get everyone’s attention.
“Our orders, you will recall, are to tell Colonel Harris only what he has to know. And I don’t think he has to know that Zammoro and Rangio are old friends. Any questions?”
Everyone shook their heads in understanding, and SFC Otmanio said, “Yes, sir.”
“I wonder why Zammoro didn’t say anything . . . back in the States?” Jack asked.
“I don’t know,” de la Santiago said. “But it could be because he was afraid they wouldn’t send him down here knowing he and the SIDE guy are old pals.”
“Yeah,” Oliver agreed thoughtfully. “Anyway, Zam asked permission to spend the night with an old friend, name unknown, and I gave it to him. Okay?”
[ FOUR ]
Apartment 10-B
Malabia 2350 Palermo
(U.S. Embassy Transient Quarters)
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1130 3 February 1965
“Señor,” the maid who came with the apartment said to Captain John S. Oliver, who was sharing a cup of coffee with Lieutenant Jacques Portet on a narrow balcony, “there is a gentleman from the U.S. Embassy to see you.”
“Ask him to come out here, please,” Oliver said.
Thirty seconds later, Mr. J. F. Stephens walked onto the balcony.
“Captain Oliver?” he asked, and when Oliver nodded, went on: “I’m J. F. Stephens, the embassy’s administrative officer for housing and medical services.”
“Sure you are,” Oliver said, unable to restrain a smile. Colonel Lowell had told him to expect that the CIA station chief would make himself known, but not that he would be a CIA version of Felter, an absolutely unimpressive man in a mussed suit, who looked like anything but an intelligence agent.
“I really am,” Stephens said. “Maybe you expected an American Michael Caine?”
Oliver and Jack Portet chuckled.
“How about a cup of coffee before you tell us what we can do for you?” Oliver said, offering his hand. “This is Lieutenant Jack Portet.”
“I’d love some coffee,” Stephens said, and gave his hand to Jack. “Welcome to Buenos Aires.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. He ordered coffee for all of them from the maid with sign language.
“No Spanish, huh?”
“Not a word.”
“You really only need three,” Stephens said. “Baño, cerveza, and bife de chorizo. Bathroom, beer, and New York strip steak.”
Johnny and Jack chuckled dutifully.
“I really am, the admin officer for housing, I mean,” Stephens said. “I came by to discuss housing with Warrant Officers de la Santiago and Zammoro and Sergeant Otmanio. You two can stay here, of course, until you go back to the States. Which will be when?”
“I wonder who wants to know,” Oliver said. “The admin officer for housing or curious people in Langley?”
“Would you settle for both?”
The maid held out a tray with cups of coffee on it.
He said something in Spanish to her, and she pulled the tray back and went into the apartment.
“The only way I can drink the coffee here is to lace it heavily with cream,” Stephens said. “Which in Argentina, fortunately, means real cream from a cow, rather than that ‘dairy creamer’ crap—mostly soybeans and chemicals—they give you in the States.”
“I don’t know when we’ll be going back to the States,” Oliver said. “Jack and I are newlyweds, so we’d like to leave yesterday. Our orders are to get Zammoro, de la Santiago, and Otmanio settled; to get a feel for the country and a feel for Señor Guevara. I want to see—I want us all to see—where he grew up; that sort of