on, “but Colonel Lamm has explained to him who you are and what you are doing here, and thought he might be of some service to you.”
Everybody shook Frotzi’s hand.
Jack wondered if Frotzi really wanted to be helpful, or whether it was an invitation he couldn’t refuse.
Over lunch, it quickly became apparent that Rangio’s description of him was accurate. Frotzi was torn between his affection for Guevara, whom he had obviously looked upon as sort of another son, and at least embarrassment, and possibly shame, that “his” nice young man had turned into a communist revolutionary.
The picture Frotzi painted—his English was much better than Rangio had suggested; only an occasional translation was necessary—was that Che Guevara had had a perfectly normal childhood, marred only by the restrictions his asthma imposed on his athletics. There had been no indication, even, of leftist leanings, although his father and mother had supported the socialist-like programs of Juan Perón.
In the last serious talk he had had with him, Frotzi related, when Guevara was nearing the end of his medical education, he had candidly told him that he intended to stay in Buenos Aires, because doctors in the country had a hard time making a living, much less a lot of money.
The luncheon meeting lasted over two hours, and the array of wine bottles had just about been depleted when Rangio ended it.
“The norteamericano officers are flying home tonight; we’re going to have to start back to Buenos Aires.” He looked around the table. “Any last questions?”
No one replied.
“Sergeant Otmanio, you haven’t said very much,” Rangio said. “No questions?”
“Colonel,” Otmanio said, just a little thickly. “I been sitting here trying to figure this clown out.”
By the end of the sentence, it was obvious that Otmanio had done more than his fair share of depleting the wine supply.
“How is that, Sergeant?” Rangio said, not quite able to restrain a smile.
“I grew up in Spanish Harlem in New York, Colonel,” Otmanio said. “Compared to what I had, Guevara has had it really knocked all of his life. He lives in a nice house, he goes to church, he doesn’t do dope, he goes to medical school, and he wants to turn this country communist? From what I’ve seen, Colonel, all you Argentines want to do is eat, drink wine, and make babies. He knows what happens when the Communists take over. The first thing they do—I saw this all the time in Vietnam, and so did you, Captain Oliver—is blow away the nice people—like de la Santiago’s grandfather, like Señor Frotzi, like his own father and mother, for Christ’s sake! Where’s he coming from? What the fuck is wrong with the sonofabitch?”
’’’Eat, drink wine, and make babies’?” Rangio quoted. “An astute observation of the Argentine people, Sergeant.” He paused, then went on seriously. “I have asked myself the same question—why? why?—many times, and never found an answer. If I had an answer, maybe it would be easier for people like you and me to stop him. And others like him. But then, Sergeant, what would people like you and me do for a living?”
Rangio stood up and looked at his watch.
“It’s time we were going,” he said.
[ TWO ]
Ezeiza International Airport
Buenos Aires, Argentina
2310 6 February 1965
Army Regulations provide that when junior officers such as Captain John S. Oliver and Lieutenant Jacques Portet are traveling on official business, they will be provided with the most economical passage. This translated to mean that Oliver was in Aerolineas Argentina’s flight 7201’s seat 39B, separated from the window on his left by one fellow passenger, and from the aisle on his right by another fellow passenger. Lieutenant Porter was similarly seated in 39E, on the other side of the aisle, one seat away from the window and one seat from the aisle.
It was going to be a long—nine-hours-plus in the air—and somewhat crowded flight to Miami.
A white-jacketed steward came down the aisle and stopped at row 39.
“Captain Oliver?”
“That’s me.”
“Will you come with me, please, Captain?”
“What’s up?” Oliver asked.
The steward turned across the aisle and asked Lieutenant Portet if he would come with him.
Captain Oliver and Lieutenant Portet met in the aisle.
“What the hell is going on?” Portet asked. Oliver shrugged.
They followed the steward up the aisle to the door, where he turned and bowed them into the first-class compartment.
A man they had never seen before smiled.
“I am sure if Colonel Rangio were here, he would be mortified