in front of them, in a maneuver not unlike Present Arms in the U.S. Army Manual of Arms, as the Buick rolled through the gates.
One of the white-jacketed men walked quickly to the car and opened the rear door.
Lowell and Lunsford got out.
A tall officer, in a splendidly tailored uniform—brown tunic, Sam Browne belt, pink riding breeches, and glistening riding boots—came out of the building, walked up, came to attention, and saluted.
“Colonel Lowell, Teniente Coronel Ricardo Fosterwood, a sus órdenes. I have the honor to be aide-de-camp to Teniente General Pistarini.”
“How do you do, Colonel? This is Major Lunsford.”
They all shook hands.
“Why don’t we go inside and get out of this beastly summer heat?” Fosterwood said, and waved them into the building.
Beside a curving marble staircase there was an elevator. There was hardly enough room for the three officers.
Fosterwood apologized for the size of the cramped elevator.
“I have always wondered if the Frenchman who designed this building did so in the belief that Argentines were all dwarfs, or whether he thought we liked to stand really close to ladies in the lift,” he said.
The three smiled at each other.
The elevator stopped, and Fosterwood slid the folding door open, then motioned them outside. He led them down a wide corridor, opened the left half of a huge, massive, heavily carved door, and waved them through it.
“I took the liberty of placing the major in one of the bedrooms in this suite,” Fosterwood said as he came into the elegantly furnished living room of the suite. “It would be no trouble at all to arrange—”
“I’m sure that Major Lunsford will be completely comfortable here,” Lowell said.
“General Pistarini has ordered me, as our first order of business, to go through a custom he said he learned at your Fort Knox while on a visit there. ‘Cutting the dust of the trail’?”
“One of our most sacred customs,” Lowell said.
Fosterwood bowed them through another door. It turned out to be a bar, with a white-jacketed bartender in attendance.
“And I believe bourbon whiskey is the dust-cutter of choice?”
“Actually,” Lowell began, stopped, and then went on. “Actually, two things. I’m a scotch drinker, and actually it’s a little early in the day for me to start on anything.”
“In that case, let me introduce you to an Argentine custom,” Fosterwood said. “We say it’s never too early, or too late, to have a glass of champagne.”
“We of the infantry say the same thing,” Lunsford said.
“I think we’ll find French champagne and Argentine,” Fosterwood said.
“Argentine, if you will,” Lowell said.
The bartender produced a bottle of champagne and glasses.
“To your very pleasant stay in Argentina, mi coronel,” Fosterwood said, raising his glass.
“Thank you,” Lowell said. “And when would you say it would be convenient for General Pistarini to receive me, so I can offer my thanks for his magnificent hospitality?”
“Odd that you should ask,” Fosterwood said. “There is a small problem at the moment, nothing that can’t be managed, but bothersome enough that General Pistarini feels he should be at Campo de Mayo until it is resolved. . . .”
“And Campo de Mayo is what?” Lowell asked.
“It’s one of our major bases, on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. Our military academy is there, and one of our cavalry regiments.”
“I see.”
“The General asked me to ask you, if you felt up to it, after your long trip, if you might not like to play a little polo with him this afternoon at Campo de Mayo.”
“I’m not really an Argentine-class polo player,” Lowell said.
“Oh, this would just be a friendly game between friends,” Fosterwood said. “To help pass the time, so to speak.”
“I’d be happy to play with the general,” Lowell said. “There is the problem of breeches and boots. . . .”
“Not a problem at all. I’m sure we can outfit you with no difficulty. May I tell the general you will join him?”
“How do we get from here to there?” Lowell asked.
“The car, of course, is at your disposal,” Fosterwood said.
“The Buick?”
“And the drivers will all speak English. So, mi coronel?”
“Please tell General Pistarini that, even with the knowledge that I will be a rank amateur playing with the world’s best, I am delighted to accept his kind offer.”
“And you, Major?”
“I am not a polo player, Colonel. Thank you just the same,” Lunsford said.
“But you will come anyway? There will be a—you call it barbecue—I’m sure.”
“Yes, I will. Thank you very much.”
“If you left here at three, or a little after,” Fosterwood said. “The driver will know where to take