Special Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  “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.

  “Colonel Lowell,” he said, holding out his hand. “How good of you to come. I am Pascual Pistarini.”

  “It was very good of you to ask us, General,” Lowell said. “May I introduce my assistant, Major George W. Lunsford?”

  “And it is a pleasure to meet you, Major,” Pistarini said. “I understand you are not a polo player?”

  “No, sir, I am not,” Father said.

  “Then may I suggest that you join me here, and I will attempt to explain the game to you, while Ricardo takes your colonel and does his best to get him suited up?”

  “You’re very kind, sir,” Lunsford said.

  “And if you will be good enough to come with me, mi coronel?” Fosterwood said, motioning toward the door to the building.

  “Inasmuch, mi coronel,” Lowell said, “as we are both of the same rank, and you are about to learn what a terrible polo player I am, could you find it in your heart to call me by my Christian name? Craig?”

  General Pistarini laughed.

  “Of course, Craig,” Fosterwood said. “My friends—and if I may say so, I consider you one already—call me Ricky.”

  They shook hands, smiled, and Ricky waved Craig into the building.

  Just inside the door were two soldiers in fatigues and web gear carrying automatic rifles, and there were others, officers, in fatigue uniform and armed with pistols and submachine guns in the large foyer of the building.

  “Polo fans, no doubt?” Craig said to Ricky.

  “There is, as I mentioned, a small internal problem at the moment, ” Fosterwood said uneasily. “What is the cliché? ‘Better safe than sorry’?”

  “Are you a betting man, Ricky?”

  “Every once in a while I make a small wager, yes. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ll give you five to one the Brazilians don’t let him leave the country for anywhere but Spain.”

  Fosterwood, although he tried hard, could not keep his surprise off his face.

  “Excuse me?” he said after a moment.

  Lowell smiled at him.

  “How good a polo player is General Pistarini?” he asked.

  “He has a six-goal handicap,” Fosterwood said, almost visibly relieved the subject had been changed.

  “The locker room is right this way, Craig,” he went on. “Unless you would like a little something to drink first?”

  “I think, under the circumstances, that alcohol would not be wise,” Craig said. “After the game . . .”

  When Craig rode onto the field—which he saw was manicured, but bore the marks of frequent use—he saw that the tile-roofed building also had a verandah on the polo field side. Officers and their wives were sitting, waiting for the game to begin, at tables on it.

  There was also a balcony cut into the attic of the building, providing a better view of the field, obviously for senior officers and their wives. There were four tables under umbrellas. No one was sitting at any of the tables.

  And he saw, standing at maybe thirty-yard intervals against the ten-foot-high shrubbery that lined both sides of the field, more soldiers in field gear and carrying automatic rifles.

  Perón really has these people worried. What if he manages to get back in, and takes over the country again? Where’s that going to leave me?

  Your immediate problem, Craig, my boy, is not to fall off your horse while playing far out of your league. Worry about that.

  Not only is this a first-class shower room, Lowell thought an hour and a half later, standing in a large, tile-walled shower stall under a powerful stream of hot water, but there is obviously an even better one reserved for the commander-in-chief of the Argentina Army. I don’t see him here, and he needed a shower just about as bad as I do.

  Fosterwood, now wearing a polo shirt and slacks, was waiting for him in the locker room.

  “You are too modest, Craig,” he said. “Of our five goals, two were yours.”

  “God takes care of fools and drunks, Ricky, and I qualify on both counts.”

  Fosterwood laughed delightedly.

  That’s a funny line, but not that funny.

  “I will have to remember that,” Fosterwood said. “When you’re finished dressing, the general asks that you join him.”

  Fosterwood led him up a stairway to the upper-level balcony. Pistarini, dressed in slacks and a polo shirt like Fosterwood, was sitting in a wicker chair at one of the tables with Father Lunsford and a ruddy-faced man of forty-odd in a suit. There were glass mugs of beer sitting in front of Lunsford and the ruddy-faced man.

  And there were two soldiers in field gear with automatic rifles, standing in the inside corners of the area, simultaneously scanning the area and trying to make themselves inconspicuous.

  Pistarini rose to his feet, smiled, and offered Lowell his hand.

  “We have a rule that anyone who scores two or more goals can cut the dust of the trail with absolutely anything he desires,” he said.

  “In that case, I will have a large glass of water, followed by a glass, perhaps two, of your excellent Argentine champagne,” Lowell said.

  Fosterwood went to fill the order.

  “Oh, excuse me, Hans,” Pistarini said, in German, to the ruddy-faced man and then switched to English. “Lieutenant Colonel Lowell, may I present my friend Colonel Hans Friedrich Stumpff, the German military attaché?”

  Lowell rose fr
om his wicker chair.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Herr Oberst,” Lowell said in German.

  “And I you, Herr Oberstleutnant. Are you with the U.S. Embassy? ”

  “No, Herr Oberst, Major Lunsford and I are just visiting the army attaché,” Lowell said, shook Stumpff’s hand, and sat down again.

  “You must be a cavalryman,” Stumpff said. “You’re a very good polo player.”

  “I’m an armor officer, Herr Oberst. As I’m sure you know, our cavalry now rides helicopters.”

  “I have been watching that development with great interest,” Stumpff said.

  “As have I,” Pistarini said, now in German. “It is one of the things I look forward talking to Colonel Lowell about.”

  Fosterwood reappeared, trailed by a young soldier in a white jacket carrying a tray with glasses, and a second carrying a champagne cooler.

  The glasses were filled, and touched together.

  “To old friends and new,” Pistarini said.

  “Hear, hear,” Fosterwood said.

  Pistarini took a sip of his champagne and looked at his watch.

  “I really had no idea it was so late,” he said. “Hans, I need a word with Colonel Lowell, and we are both pressed for time. Would you be offended if I asked Teniente Coronel Fosterwood to take you and Major Lunsford to the bar?”

  “Absolutely not,” Stumpff said, immediately getting to his feet.

  Lunsford looked at Lowell for guidance. Lowell just perceptibly nodded his head.

  “Ricky, I think we’ll need another bottle of the champagne,” Pistarini said. “And then will you see we’re not disturbed?”

  “Yes, sir,” Fosterwood said.

  When they had gone, and another champagne cooler had been delivered, Pistarini looked directly at Lowell.

  “You had never met my friend Stumpff before, had you, Colonel?”

  “I never had the privilege of meeting the colonel before, sir.”

  “Interesting man,” Pistarini said. “As is Major Lunsford. Stumpff and I both tried to draw him out, and got hardly anywhere. What is it he does in the Army, Colonel?”

  “He’s a Special Forces officer, sir.”

  “I thought perhaps an intelligence officer.”

  “A Special Forces officer, General.”

  “And what, exactly, does a Special Forces officer do in the U.S. Army?”

  “They do all sorts of things, Sir. Major Lunsford, until recently, was in the Congo.”

  “I was under the impression the U.S. government flatly denied the presence of U.S. forces in the Congo.”

  “I believe that to be the case, sir.”

  “But you say your major was there?”

  “He infiltrated the Simba army that captured Stanleyville, sir. He speaks Swahili, and was wearing a uniform consisting of a Belgian officer’s tunic, topped off with a leopard skin.”

  Pistarini thought a moment before going on.

  “You’re just about fluent in German, aren’t you?”

  “It’s not as good as yours, General.”

  “You spent some time in Germany, I gather?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And that’s where you met our mutual friend Lieutenant General von Greiffenberg?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “May I ask how that came to be?”

  “My wife introduced us, sir.”

  “Your wife?” Pistarini asked, surprised.

  “Generalleutnant Graf von Greiffenberg is my father-in-law, General.”

  “How interesting,” Pistarini said. “I wonder why he didn’t mention that in his letter. You know about the letter?”

  “He was good enough to show it to me, and to Mr. Felter, before he sent it, General.”

  “You should have brought your wife to Argentina, Colonel. It would have given my wife great pleasure to show General von Greiffenberg’s daughter our country.”

  “My wife passed on, General.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Pistarini said.

  “An auto accident, in Germany, while I was in Korea,” Lowell said.

  “How very tragic,” Pistarini said. “You served with great distinction in Korea, didn’t you? Earning your country’s second-highest award for valor.”

  Lowell didn’t reply.

  “And before that, you were awarded the Greek order of Saint George and Saint Andrew.”

  Lowell said nothing.

  “What were you doing in Greece?”

  “We were trying to—and succeeded—in keeping the Communists from taking over the country.”

  “And you seem to know that Colonel Perón is at this very moment trying to reenter Argentina via Brazil,” Pistarini said. “Let a simple soldier, Colonel, try to put this all together. You have apparently spent a good part of your career fighting the communist menace.”

  “That’s a fair statement, sir.”

  “Would it be also be fair of me to conclude that you have a professional as well as a personal relationship with General von Greiffenberg?”

  “Yes, sir, it would.”

  "And a professional relationship with the mysterious Mr. Felter, as well?”

  “Professional and personal, General. He is my closest friend.”

  “To a simple soldier, this suggests that you are an intelligence officer, probably attached to the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “No, sir. I have no connection of any sort with the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “But you realize, of course, that I would expect you to deny such a relationship?”

  “Would the general accept my word of honor as an officer about that?”

  Pistarini leaned forward in his chair and looked into Lowell’s eyes. Then he slumped back in his chair.

  “Yes, I will,” he said. “You come here bringing with you an officer, a Special Forces officer, who you tell me has been in the Congo, despite the flat statement by your government that the U.S. Army was not involved in the Congo.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In your judgment, Colonel, was the situation in the Congo Communist-inspired?”

  “My best information, sir, is that the Simba movement was spontaneous. As soon as Moscow heard of it, they attempted to get arms and ammunition, and other support, to the Simbas. The parachute envelopment of Stanleyville by the Belgians—”

  “Dropped from U.S. Air Force aircraft,” Pistarini interrupted.

  “—came just in time to make that impossible for them,” Lowell concluded.

  “And now this simple soldier wants to know what, if anything, this has to do with Argentina?”

  “We believe—and I have been authorized by General von Greiffenberg to tell you he shares this belief—that the Communists have by no means abandoned their intentions for Africa.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, but what is it you want from Argentina?”

  “We also believe that an Argentine national will shortly become very actively involved in fresh efforts to have the Congo fall under communist control.”

  “That’s difficult for me to accept,” Pistarini said. “What Argentine national? You’re not talking about Che Guevara?”

  “The most recent information I have on Dr. Guevara is that he spent New Year’s Eve in the Cuban Embassy in Bamako, Mali,” Lowell said. “Prior to that, he was in Algiers. We have reason to believe that he will next go to Brazzaville, in the former French Congo.”

  “You’re sure of this information?” He was visibly surprised.

  “We believe it to be absolutely reliable, General.”

  Pistarini slumped back in his chair and sat there for a full ninety seconds.

  “Even if it comes slowly to a simple soldier, there is usually a reason for everything,” he said finally. “Colonel, you may tell both the mysterious Mister Felter and General von Greiffenberg that should Dr. Guevara suffer an unfortunate accident, it would of course be fully investigated by our SIDE—the assistant director of which met you at the airport—who would conclude t
hey found nothing, absolutely nothing, suspicious in the events surrounding his death.”

  He looked at Lowell and smiled.

  “And between you and me, between Pascual and Craig, the sooner that despicable anti-Christ communist sonofabitch met a painful death, the better I would like it.”

  “General,” Lowell said. “Believe me, I understand your feelings. But the fact is I was sent here to solicit your cooperation in keeping the despicable anti-Christ communist sonofabitch alive.”

  Pistarini looked at him intently. He shrugged, then picked up the champagne bottle and refilled their glasses.

  “You are a man of many surprises, Colonel,” he said. “When you say you were sent here, you mean by Mr. Felter?”

  “Yes, sir. But General von Greiffenberg is aware of my mission, and has authorized me to tell you that he and Mr. Felter are in complete agreement about this.”

  “Did they share their reasoning with you? And if so, are you able to share it with me?”

  “They believe, sir—and I have come to believe they’re right— that Guevara alive will pose fewer problems than Guevara dead, especially if the Communists can allege—not necessarily prove, simply credibly allege—that he was murdered by fascist forces who wanted to keep him from liberating the poor and oppressed.”

  “I’m going to have a hard time selling that argument to Rangio, ” Pistarini said.

  “Sir?”

  “I was thinking out loud,” Pistarini said. “Coronel Francisco Bolla is the Chief of SIDE, which is directly under President Illia. Bolla works for Illia, in other words. Teniente Coronel Guillermo Rangio, who met you at the airfield, is the deputy director. He works for me. My orders to him are that Dr. Guevara is not to return to Argentina alive, despite what orders he may have from anyone else to the contrary.”

  Lowell said nothing.

  Pistarini drained his champagne glass.

  “What I really would like to have right now is a large scotch,” he said. “But as you know, I have another problem on my hands at the moment. . . .” He paused. “Did you mean what you said to Fosterwood? The odds are five to one the Brazilians will not allow him to come here?”

  “I was gambling from a position of ignorance, General,” Lowell said. “If I were the Brazilians, that’s what I’d do.”

  “Do they teach ‘never underestimate your enemy’ in the U.S. Army, Colonel?”