“Actually, it was a pointed suggestion from Colonel Felter,” Oliver said.
“It’s probably a good idea, but don’t expect to see much,” Stephens said. “I’ve taken that tour myself. You’re going to have a guide, I hope?”
“Oh, sure.”
“I presume the apartments meet your approval?” Stephens asked.
“They’re very nice,” Zammoro said.
“And convenient, too,” Stephens said. “You can probably have lunch with your old buddy a lot.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your old pal’s office is at Leandro Alem, 26. That’s just a couple of blocks from here.”
“What’s that?” Oliver said.
“Large office building,” Stephens said. “Lots of people—in and out of uniform—standing around just inside the door and on the loading dock holding submachine guns. There’s a rumor going around it’s SIDE’s secret headquarters.”
Jack chuckled.
“I’ll send a car to the transient quarters at nine,” Stephens said. “Give my regards to Miami.”
He tossed a large stack of keys to Zammoro and walked out of the apartment.
XVI
[ ONE ]
Córdoba
Córdoba Province, Argentina
0955 6 February 1965
“Córdoba,” Lieutenant Colonel Guillermo Rangio announced, “is the second largest city in Argentina, and the capital of Córdoba province. It is also the site of our aircraft factory, another expensive legacy of General Perón. Everybody knows and admits that it would be cheaper and more efficient to buy all our military aircraft from you Americans, or the British, than to try to make them ourselves, but if we did that, it would put a lot of people out of work here. And, another legacy of the general, the unions here are second in power only to the military, so the politicians throw our money away on our aircraft factory.”
Everyone in the L-23 smiled.
He was sitting in the copilot’s seat beside de la Santiago, wearing, like the others, a green coverall garment officially described as a “US Army Suit, Flight, Summer.”
“There it is,” he said, pointing out the window. “When we land, we will be directed to a hangar. With a little bit of luck, no journalist will see us land.”
“Would that be a problem, Colonel?” Oliver asked.
“It would be all over the front page of CLARIN—which is our New York Daily News—tomorrow that Yankee spies were down here brazenly stealing Argentine technology while SIDE did nothing about it.”
De la Santiago reached for the microphone and requested approach and landing instructions.
They were met at the end of the runway by a follow-me pickup truck, which led them to a hangar whose doors were wide open. De la Santiago shut off the engines and a dozen ground crewmen pushed the airplane into the hangar and turned it around. The hangar doors closed.
Jack Portet, who had ridden in the rearmost seat, opened the door and got out of the airplane. Two men in uniform approached.
“Good morning,” Jack said.
Both replied in English.
“Good morning,” one said.
“Welcome to Córdoba,” the other said.
Otmanio got out next, followed by Oliver, then Rangio, Zammoro, and finally de la Santiago.
The two officers saluted Rangio, then embraced him.
Rangio put his arm around Zammoro.
“This is my dear friend Julio Zammoro,” he said in English. “Formerly Major in the Cuban Army, and now an officer of the United States Army. My wife wept when she learned Castro has her friend Señora Zammoro on the Isla de Pinos.”
Both officers saluted Zammoro, and then, shaking their heads in what could have been compassion or outrage, and was probably both, shook his hand.
Rangio motioned de la Santiago over to him.
“This is Enrico de la Santiago,” he said, “formerly Captain of the Cuban Air Force, now also a U.S. Army officer. Dr. Guevara personally murdered his grandfather with Enrico’s grandmother and mother watching.”
Both officers saluted de la Santiago, and again shook their heads as they shook his hand.
“And this is Sergeant First Class Otmanio,” Rangio said. Otmanio saluted. “He is in the United States Special Forces, as are these gentlemen, Captain Oliver and Lieutenant Portet.”
Salutes and handshakes were again exchanged.
“They are all here at the request of General Pistarini,” Rangio went on. “To help us with a certain problem. Since you know we are going to Alta Gracia, I don’t think I have to put a name on the problem, nor point out the importance of discretion vis-à-vis their presence here.”
“No, sir,” the two said, almost in unison.
“The ugly one, gentlemen,” Rangio said, “is my deputy for this area, Major Ricardo Javez. And the other, really ugly one, Colonel Paolo Lamm, heads the Policía Federal in Córdoba Province. He is my wife’s cousin.”