with the departure of the man we’re talking about?”
“I don’t know that, sir. But I would certainly think so. We don’t want him back here any more than you do.”
“Let’s drink to his successful, nonstop transoceanic flight,” Pistarini said, and raised his glass.
There was nothing in the filled glass but Johnny Walker Black and ice, and not much of that.
“We are going to be completely open with you, Craig, in the belief you will be the same to us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is the office of the deputy director of SIDE,” Pistarini said. “Willi’s office. SIDE’s director, who has rarely been a career intelligence officer, serves at the pleasure of the President, and maintains his office in the Casa Rosado, our White House, near the office of the President. The deputy directors of SIDE— including Willi—are customarily career intelligence officers who serve at the pleasure of the commander-in-chief of the Army.”
He let that sink in, then went on.
“The director of SIDE very rarely comes to this building. Very few people do. Willi and I were talking before, and we really think that you and Father are the first Americans, and very probably the only foreign officers, ever to be where you are now.”
“Then we are very honored, sir.”
“There are in this office two symbols of what has been great about Argentina, and what has been very, very disgraceful and bad for the country,” Pistarini said. “The sword is that of General Simón Bolívar. He was, I’m sure you will agree, a great man, who at the risk of his life, his fortune, and his honor did great things not only for Argentina but for the entire Western Hemisphere. ”
“He is one of our heroes, too, sir. One of General MacArthur’s most trusted lieutenants was General Simón Bolívar Buckner.”
“So I have heard,” Pistarini said. “The other symbol is the desk behind which Willi sits. It was formerly used by Juan Domingo Perón.”
“I don’t know what to say, sir, except that it’s a beautiful desk.”
“There are many objects of beauty in Argentina, Craig,” Pistarini said. “Unfortunately, Perón thought—probably still thinks— they all belonged to him, and/or to the woman he married.”
He walked across the office and pulled open a door.
“I think you should see this,” he said, “although I hope you won’t tell anyone you did.”
Lowell and Lunsford walked across the room and into the small room beyond.
“I don’t think there are one hundred Argentines who know this,” Pistarini said. “But this is where, after God took pity on Argentina and removed Evita from our midst, SIDE held her body for six weeks. Perón had it specially embalmed—he had a Spaniard come here to do it—in the manner of Lenin, and it was the intention of the Peronists to build a enormous monument to Señora de Perón, in which her body would be on permanent display. ”
“I’d never heard that before,” Lowell said.
“We knew that once the parasites around Perón got their hands on her body, very little could be done to stop the Leninization of her, so we took control of the body to prevent that from happening. A young SIDE major was given the duty, with orders to guard the remains with his life.”
Lowell felt suddenly sure that he was talking about Willi Rangio.
“Curiosity is about to overwhelm me, General.”
“Where is the body now? I hope you can control your curiosity, Craig. I don’t think you need to know, but I will tell you if you ask.”
“I will not ask, sir. Forgive me.”
“I have told you our secrets, and over dinner, I hope you will tell us yours,” Pistarini said.
He took Lowell’s arm and led him back through Rangio’s office to another room where a table had been set for dinner.
A stocky man wearing a white jacket over uniform trousers served as the waiter. He reminded Lowell very much of Master Sergeant Doubting Thomas. An old soldier, tough as nails, and absolutely to be trusted to do whatever he was told to do.
“There’s wine, of course,” Pistarini said as he waved them into chairs. “A very nice Merlot from Mendoza, but if you would like another whiskey?”
“The wine will be fine, sir.”
“And you haven’t finished the first, have you? Either of you.”
It was a challenge, however tactfully phrased.
“Waste not, want not, my general,” Lowell said, raised his glass, and drained it. Father did the same thing.
The old soldier filled their wineglasses. It took nearly two bottles before he was finished.
Then, with a grace surprising for his bulk, he served the first course,