“Boy Scout’s honor,” he said. “I didn’t know that Zammoro knew Rangio, and—I don’t know, of course—I don’t think that Felter or Lowell knew either.”
“The people in Virginia know only that he was a major in the Cuban Army,” Stephens said. “Which, coupled with the fact that Castro has got his wife in that very nasty slam on the Isla de Pinos, makes me think he was in the same line of work as Rangio. Intelligence officers’ records have a tendency to disappear.”
“Yeah,” Oliver agreed thoughtfully.
“If you tell Lowell, will he jerk him out of here?”
“I don’t know.”
“I would hate to see that happen,” Stephens said. “That contact could be very valuable.”
“Are you suggesting I don’t tell Colonel Lowell?”
“I’m suggesting you have a decision to make about that that isn’t covered in a field manual,” Stephens said. “One you should not make like one of Pavlov’s pooches.”
“I was going to say ‘Give me time to think about that,’ ” Oliver said.
“Good. I will interpret that as step one on your path toward concluding that this housing officer is trustworthy.” He held up his hand in the Boy Scout salute. “I was an Eagle. What about you?”
“Me, too,” Oliver said.
“And you, Lieutenant?” Stephens asked.
“I was never a Boy Scout,” Jack said.
“That’s a pity. Now I’ll have to wonder if I can trust you,” Stephens said. “Why don’t we go get some lunch? I’ll buy, mainly because I can put it down as a necessary on-duty expense.”
“That’s the Edificio Libertador,” Stephens said, pointing out the window of his Chevrolet Impala at a wide, tall building. “Army Headquarters. Rangio has an office on the twelfth floor, right down the corridor from General Pistarini.”
“Giving tours to tourists is in your job description, is it?” Oliver asked.
“My job description is a little vague,” Stephens said. “Only tourists who agree with me get the tour.”
“Agree with you about what?” Jack asked.
“That blowing the bearded bastard away would be really counterproductive, ” Stephens said. “You’d be surprised how few people feel that way. When vacationing in Virginia, I sometimes feel like that still, small, lonely, voice of reason.”
“Uh,” Oliver grunted.
“This is Avenida Libertador,” Stephens said. “We’re going to make a left here and drive around Plaza San Martín, past the Círculo Militar, which makes any officers’ club I ever saw in the States look like a roadhouse.”
Oliver and Portet were smiling.
“When Lowell and Lunsford were here, they stayed in one of the general officers’ suites in the Círculo Militar, which, to someone in my line of work—I mean, as a housing officer—suggested that they knew someone important, like, for example, General Pistarini or Lieutenant Colonel Rangio. And sure enough, I got a skinny from my friends in Virginia a couple of days later, saying Lowell’s father-in-law is Lieutenant General Count von Greiffenberg, head of German intelligence. Did you know that?”
“I did,” Oliver said.
“I didn’t,” Jack said.
“A little bird told me the Argentines—which means Rangio at the orders of Pistarini—had a shoot-the-bearded-bastard-on-sight order out. The next thing I know is Colonel Lowell is playing polo with Pistarini—”
He paused and pointed out the window again, this time at an enormous turn-of-the-century French-style mansion.
“That’s the Círculo Militar. It was built by the people who owned the Argentine version of The New York Times. Inspired by admiration for the Army, they gave it to them. I’d love to know what was behind that.”
He continued around Plaza San Martín, slowed, and drove the Impala half onto the sidewalk in front of another turn-of-the-century building, his bumper against a sign that very obviously forbade parking.
“This is the Plaza Hotel,” he said. “Inside is the oldest—and possibly the most expensive—restaurant in Argentina. I only get to eat here when I can put it on the expense account.”
“They don’t teach you to read in Virginia? Not even very graphic signs?” Oliver asked.
“You are with a duly accredited diplomat,” Stephens said. “We get to park anyplace we want to. We’re immune to Argentine law. You can probably guess how handy that is, on occasion.”
“I’ll bet,” Jack said.
He led them into the restaurant, which was on the ground floor. The headwaiter greeted Stephens by name and bowed them to a table. A waiter immediately appeared.
“You guys want to trust me, or do you want to gamble with your nonexistent Spanish?”
“We’re in your hands,” Jack said, chuckling.
Stephens ordered rapidly without looking at a menu. The waiter left.
“We’re going to have to talk about diplomatic immunity,” Stephens said. “But before we do, let