“Lowell playing polo with General Pistarini,” Stephens said. “He’s not bad, by the way. Not in Pistarini’s league, but not bad. Anyway, when I talked to him afterward—the next day, they drank the night away at the Círculo Militar—Lowell told me that Pistarini had agreed to call off the contract on Guevara. I then concluded that Lowell was one of the good guys. There are bad guys in uniform, you may be surprised to learn. The defense attaché here is a real asshole.”
“I’ve heard something to that effect,” Oliver said, chuckling.
The waiter appeared with a bottle of wine and went through a formal routine of offering the cork for Stephens to examine and sniff, and then pouring a taste-size dollop of wine into his glass. Stephens nodded his approval, and the waiter poured the wine.
When the waiter had gone, Stephens went on.
“At that point, I decided to make myself useful to your noble enterprise, despite pointed hints from my friends in Virginia that I throw broken bottles and other impediments in your path. Am I getting through to you guys?”
“Yeah,” Oliver said. “But you won’t mind if I keep looking for the hook?”
“I would be disappointed if you didn’t,” Stephens said. “First, assuming Zammoro gets to stay, it would be handy as hell if you could get him a diplomatic passport. Right now, his status doesn’t entitle him to one, and the Argentines don’t like to approve them for anybody but colonels. . . .”
“What is his status?” Jack asked.
“Military staff of the embassy,” Stephens said. “Dips get a white CD license plate. Mil Staff, which is just about everybody but the defense attaché, and the army and navy attachés, get blue plates. The Argentines leave them alone, but they don’t have diplomatic immunity. There are exceptions. The cryptographic guys are Army warrant officers, but for obvious reasons, they have to have immunity. They call them ‘communications officers’ and get them diplomatic passports.”
“So it wouldn’t look suspicious if Zammoro got a diplomatic passport?” Oliver asked.
“The problem is usually the Argentines,” Stephens said. “They don’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry parking on the sidewalk. But I suspect that Zammoro’s old buddy could overcome any objections. ”
“What about de la Santiago?” Jack asked.
“He’s a warrant officer; what would work for Zammoro would work for him. But again you’d need Rangio to grease the skids.”
“And SFC Otmanio?”
“He’s an enlisted man. That would really be pushing the envelope, ” Stephens said. “Which brings us to him. . . .”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Jack asked.
“It is an article of faith in diplomatic circles that enlisted men are children. Especially the unmarried ones. They require supervised living. They’re not—the unmarried ones—even allowed to have cars, and they make them live together. Here they live with the Marine Guards. Only the Marine sergeant in charge, who is always married, gets his own apartment and can drive his own car.”
“That’s bullshit,” Jack said.
“As a former Spec5”—an enlisted grade, equivalent to sergeant—“I of course agree, but I’m not the Secretary of State, who makes the rules. Is Otmanio married?”
“Yeah,” Jack Portet and Johnny Oliver said at the same time.
“If his wife was here,” Stephens said, “that would make things a lot better. He could have his own apartment, and drive a private car.”
“Where are Zammoro and de la Santiago going to live?” Oliver asked.
“Embassy policy is that two bachelor officers share an apartment, ” Stephens replied. “The housing officer has the authority to grant waivers to that rule.”
The waiter delivered two-inch-thick New York strip steaks, a lettuce and tomato and onion salad, and a huge mound of what looked like very thick potato chips.
“The steak is called bife de chorizo,” Stephens said. “The spuds are papas a la provenzal. Enjoy.”
He signaled to the waiter to bring another bottle of wine.
“So what I have to do is see if Colonel Felter will send Otmanio’s wife down here,” Oliver said.
“What you have to do is decide whether you’re going to tell Felter, or Lowell, which I suppose is really the same thing, that Zammoro and Rangio are old pals.”
“Colonel Lowell said that if I was properly humble, you would let me use your radio link to your friends in Virginia,” Oliver said.
“You want to call Felter?” Stephens asked, and when Oliver nodded, added: “And what are you going to tell him?”
“I’m going to think about that while I’m eating, and while we’re on the way to wherever your