then turned off it and into a drive under one corner of the Plaza Hotel.
A doorman in a silk top hat opened the door of the car for them.
“This won’t take long,” Lowell said to the driver. “How will I find you?”
The passage under the hotel was obviously a drop-off/pick-up-and -get-moving-quickly area.
The driver acted as if the question surprised him.
“I will wait for you here, mi coronel.”
Lowell smiled and walked into the hotel with Lunsford trailing him.
“What is that, some pigs is more equal than other pigs?” Lunsford asked quietly. “And you noticed the old Ford?”
“Actually, it’s probably a new one,” Lowell said. “They still make them down here.”
He walked to the reception desk.
“My name is Lowell,” he said. “I think I have a reservation.”
“Oh, Mr. Lowell,” the desk clerk said immediately. “I am so sorry you didn’t connect with the car at Ezeiza.”
“I didn’t know you were sending a car,” Lowell said. “But no problem, a friend met me.”
“And your luggage, sir?”
“That will be along after a while,” Lowell said.
“Will you excuse me just a moment, Mr. Lowell?” the desk clerk said.
A moment later a man in formal clothing appeared in front of the desk.
“Mr. Lowell, I am Dominic Frizzelli, the assistant manager. I would like to apologize for our driver not being able to find you.”
“A friend met us; it was no problem. And I very much appreciate your courtesy in sending it.”
“You are very gracious. If you’ll come with me, please?”
He led them to an elevator, which took them directly to the foyer of a suite on the top floor.
The suite was large and elegantly furnished, and its windows provided a view of the ancient trees in Plaza San Martín, and, beyond, of the River Plate. There was a large basket of fruit and a bottle of champagne in a silver cooler. The suite was not as large nor as elegantly furnished as their accommodations in the Círculo Militar.
“This is very nice,” Lowell said.
“Mr. Delaplaine of the Bank of Boston personally inspected it, sir, and thought you would find it satisfactory. This is where they often accommodate their distinguished visitors.”
“How kind of Mr. Delaplaine,” Lowell said. “If you see him before I do, will you express my gratitude?”
“Of course, sir.”
“We may not be back tonight,” Lowell said. “I suspect we’ll be asked to spend the night.”
“I understand perfectly, sir.”
The Buick was parked exactly where they had left it in the passageway.
“Okay,” Lowell said to the driver. “I am now ready to be humiliated by Argentine polo players.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” the driver said, missing the intended humor completely, “that nothing like that will happen, mi coronel.”
“It doesn’t look much like Fort Bragg, does it?” Lunsford asked after they had entered the parklike Campo de Mayo. “I’m beginning to think I’m in the wrong army.”
Lowell chuckled.
“And I’m really beginning to think you’re in the wrong business, ” Lunsford went on. “You could really live like that all the time, couldn’t you?”
“And be bored out of my mind, sure,” Lowell said. “And I’m going to get a large piece of Lieutenant Craig’s ass for that suite at the Plaza.”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
“He’s been down here a couple of times with his father, so I told him to get us a nice hotel.”
“Well, he did that.”
“We didn’t need a suite arranged for by the Bank of Boston,” Lowell said. “The last thing I need is bankers—worse, journalists—chasing me around asking for my opinion of world economic affairs, or the trends in sow belly futures.”
“I get the point,” Lunsford said. “Hell, he was probably just trying to be nice.”
“I’d feel a lot better if I wasn’t beginning to question his smarts,” Lowell said.
Lunsford raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
The Buick pulled up before a long, red-tile-roofed building, surrounded by a verandah, and as the driver opened the door, Teniente Coronel Ricardo Fosterwood came off the verandah and down the shrubbery-lined walk toward them.
Fosterwood was dressed for polo, in a white polo shirt, white breeches, and boots. And these, Lowell saw, were the battered boots of a polo player, rather than the glistening boots of a cavalry officer.
“Pray for me,” Lowell said softly. “I suspect I am about to get my ass kicked.”
“Colonel,” Fosterwood said. “I’m glad to see you again, and you, Major.”
“It’s good to be here.”
He waved them toward the building. As they approached the verandah, another man dressed for polo got out of a wicker armchair and waited for them.