“The real question here, Zammoro,” Oliver said, “is whether you’re a Special Forces officer who takes orders, or somebody in a Special Forces uniform who’s going to take the first clear shot he gets at Guevara.”
“Captain, you’re a Norwich graduate, a professional officer. I’d hoped you would understand.”
“Understand what?”
“I am a professional officer, too. Before I put on this uniform, I took a solemn oath before God to obey the officers appointed over me,” Zammoro said. “If those orders are not to kill the Antichrist sonofabitch who has my wife in a cage on starvation rations, I will obey them, whether or not I like them.”
Oliver looked into Zammoro’s eyes for a long moment, then stood up.
“I need a drink,” he said. “Anybody else?”
“A little scotch would go down nicely,” Jack said.
“No, thank you, sir,” Zammoro said.
Oliver went to the bar and returned with two glasses dark with whiskey. He handed one to Zammoro.
“Take it,” he said. “Get your own booze, Jack,” he added. “You’re only a lieutenant, and a damned junior one at that.”
Zammoro took the drink from Oliver but didn’t taste it. Oliver waited for Jack to make a drink, then touched his glass to Zammoro’s.
“Embassy policy is that two bachelor officers will share an apartment,” he said. “The embassy housing officer, who is also the CIA station chief, says he can waive that rule. What do you think, Julio? You want to share an apartment with de la Santiago or not?”
“Muchas gracias, mi capitán,” Zammoro said, his voice thick with emotion. “A sus órdenes, mi capitán.”
Jack and Oliver looked at him curiously.
’’’Muchas gracias’ means ‘thank you very much,” Zammoro translated. “ ‘A sus órdenes, mi capitán’ means, ‘I am at your orders, Captain.’ ”
“That’s nice, Julio,” Oliver said. “But I asked you a question.” Zammoro looked at the glass in his hand, then took a sip.
“If we were to have separate apartments against the policy, that might look odd,” he said. “And I have no objections whatever to sharing an apartment with de la Santiago. On the other hand, it might be very useful if we had a second apartment. Could that be arranged?”
“I don’t see why not,” Oliver said.
[ SEVEN ]
1210 Avenida Tucaman
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1525 5 February 1965
Captain John S. Oliver, Lieutenant Jacques Portet, Warrant Officers Junior Grade Enrico de la Santiago and Julio Zammoro, and SFC Jorge Otmanio—all in civilian clothing—had been standing on the sidewalk before the ornate door of the turn-of-the-century apartment building about five minutes when a 1964 Chevrolet Impala with CD license plates and a CD sticker on its bumper drove up, slowed, inched halfway onto the sidewalk, and stopped.
Mr. J. F. Stephens got out and walked up to them.
“Kept you waiting long?” he asked, offering his hand to Oliver.
“We just got here,” Oliver said.
“By the skin of our teeth,” Jack said. “I thought Paris had the craziest drivers in the world.”
“The Argentines try to excel in everything,” Stephens said. He pointed down the street at a large building. “That’s the Colón Opera House,” he said. “When it was built, the architect’s first order was to make it larger than the Paris Opera and the Vienna Opera.”
“Really?” Jack asked, chuckling.
Stephens put out his hand to Otmanio.
“I’m Jack Stephens, the embassy housing officer,” he said in Spanish.
“SFC Otmanio, señor.”
“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ Sergeant. I used to be a Spec Five,” Stephens said, still in Spanish. “Welcome to Buenos Aires and the U.S. Embassy family. What do you think so far?”
“It’s a beautiful city,” Otmanio said.
“Pity you’re married, Sergeant,” Stephens said. “The women are spectacular, as you may have noticed.”
“I’ve noticed,” Otmanio said, smiling.
Stephens offered his hand to de la Santiago.
“Enrico de la Santiago,” de la Santiago said.
“Portet tells me you used to fly together in Africa,” Stephens said. “What kind of airplanes was that?”
“Most of the time, it was old Boeing C-46s,” de la Santiago said.
“There are people here who don’t speak Spanish,” Jack Portet said.
“How unfortunate for you,” Stephens said. “Bear with me, Jack.”
He turned to Zammoro.
“You have to be Mr. Zammoro,” he said, switching back to Spanish.
“I am.”
“I understand you have friends here in Buenos Aires?”
“I do.”
“How lucky for you. Have they been showing you around?”
“Yes.”
“There’s two apartments here. Fourth and sixth floors. Would you prefer the fourth or the sixth?”
“It doesn’t really matter,” Zammoro said.
“Well, why don’t we have a look at both and then you can decide. ”