He said something in Spanish to her, and she pulled the tray back and went into the apartment.
“The only way I can drink the coffee here is to lace it heavily with cream,” Stephens said. “Which in Argentina, fortunately, means real cream from a cow, rather than that ‘dairy creamer’ crap—mostly soybeans and chemicals—they give you in the States.”
“I don’t know when we’ll be going back to the States,” Oliver said. “Jack and I are newlyweds, so we’d like to leave yesterday. Our orders are to get Zammoro, de la Santiago, and Otmanio settled; to get a feel for the country and a feel for Señor Guevara. I want to see—I want us all to see—where he grew up; that sort of thing.”
“ ‘Know thy enemy’?”
“I suppose,” Oliver said.
The maid returned with the tray of coffee. In each cup now floated a large chunk of cream.
“They call that café con crème,” Stephens said as he reached for his cup. “Are the . . . what should I say, ‘permanent party’? . . . around?”
“Otmanio went for a run,” Oliver said. “He’s a Green Beret. They do that sort of thing. De la Santiago went out to buy a newspaper—newspapers. ”
“I thought you were all Special Forces,” Stephens said.
“There’s the kind who runs and the kind that don’t,” Jack said. “Oliver and I are in Group Two.”
“And Zammoro?”
“He’s visiting a friend,” Oliver said.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really,” Oliver said.
“Are you going to tell me what that’s all about?” Stephens asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“There are two kinds of guys in my line of work,” Stephens said. “I was sort of hoping that I had convinced Colonel Lowell and Father Lunsford that I was the kind who could be trusted.”
“When they briefed us,” Oliver said, “Father said you were better than most, and Colonel Lowell said he hoped we were all familiar with the adage ‘beware of spooks bearing gifts.’ ”
“Okay, fair enough. Let me tell you what I know. After an emotional greeting at Campo de Mayo between your Mr. Zammoro and the guy who diverted your flight there, there was a sumptuous repast laid in a private room of the Campo de Mayo Casino.”
“How do you know who diverted our flight?”
“I can count the people with the clout to do that on the fingers of one hand, leaving out the thumb. By a simple process of elimination—it wasn’t the President, or General Pistarini, or the minister for aviation—I have a damned good idea who did it.”
“Watch out for him, Jack,” Oliver said. “He’s clever.”
“While Dick Harris and I—he’s another good guy, by the way—were on our way from Ezeiza to Campo de Mayo, your Mr. Zammoro and his good herein-unnamed buddy left for parts unknown in said buddy’s official car.”
“How’d you find that out?” Jack asked.
“The waiters at the Casino talk too much,” Stephens said.
“Just for the record, Jack, I made the decision to tell the housing officer here what that was all about,” Oliver said. “And the answer is that I don’t have the foggiest idea what that was all about, except that Zammoro and Colonel Rangio are apparently old and good friends.”
“You didn’t know beforehand?”
Oliver shook his head, no.
“De la Santiago thinks Zammoro was afraid they wouldn’t send him down here if they knew he and Rangio were old pals.”
“What did Zammoro do in the Cuban Army?” Stephens said. “Was he in the same line of work as Rangio?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Oliver said, and then had another thought: “How did you know he was in the Cuban Army?”
“I got a radio from some people in Virginia,” Stephens said. “I know a lot about all of you, although, come to think it, you’re supposed to be a bachelor.” He paused and pointed to Jack. “The long arm of the draft caught you in the Congo,” he said. “Where your father owns one airline, for which you flew, and is chief pilot of another. Right after you married some general’s daughter, the Army recognized your all-around genius and made you an officer. . . .”
“Right before I married the general’s daughter,” Jack said, chuckling.
“De la Santiago was a captain in the Cuban Air Force, who worked for your father, then flew black B-26s in the Congo, and then joined the Army,” Stephens said. “How’m I doing?”
“Otmanio?” Oliver asked.
“Otmanio, Jorge,” Stephens said. “Puerto Rican. Joined the Army at seventeen. Jump School. Served with the Eighty-Second Airborne, 183rd Regimental Combat Team—my old regiment, by the way—made buck sergeant, applied for Special Forces, went to Vietnam as a demolitions man on an A Team, came back as an SFC with a Silver Star, two Purple Hearts . . . He’s fluent in Spanish, of course.”
“You guys are very good,” Oliver said.
“I think they call that ‘knowing your enemy,’ ” Stephens said. “Would it shock you to learn that there are people in an unnamed government agency—probably more than one agency, come to think of it—who gather at midnight in cemeteries to stick pins in a doll bearing a resemblance to one Colonel Sanford T. Felter?”
“No,” Oliver said, chuckling.
“Presumably you have heard of ‘guilt by association’?” Stephens said.
“No,” Oliver said. “What’s that?”
“It’s contagious, and you got it,” Stephens said.
Oliver raised his hand above his shoulder, his thumb holding the pinkie down, the other fingers extended.
“Boy Scout’s honor,” he said. “I didn’t know that Zammoro knew Rangio, and—I don’t know, of course—I don’t think that Felter or Lowell knew either.”
“The people in Virginia know only that he was a major in the Cuban Army,” Stephens said. “Which, coupled with the fact that Castro has got his wife in that very nasty slam on the Isla de Pinos, makes me think he was in the same line of work as Rangio. Intelligence officers’ records have a tendency to disappear.”
“Yeah,” Oliver agreed thoughtfully.
“If you tell Lowell, will he jerk him out of here?”
“I don’t know.”
“I would hate to see that happen,” Stephens said. “That contact could be very valuable.”
“Are you suggesting I don’t tell Colonel Lowell?”
“I’m suggesting you have a decision to make about that that isn’t covered in a field manual,” Stephens said. “One you should not make like one of Pavlov’s pooches.”
“I was going to say ‘Give me time to think about that,’ ” Oliver said.
“Good. I will interpret that as step one on your path toward concluding that this housing officer is trustworthy.” He held up his hand in the Boy Scout salute. “I was an Eagle. What about you?”
“Me, too,” Oliver said.
“And you, Lieutenant?” Stephens asked.
“I was never a Boy Scout,” Jack said.
“That’s a pity. Now I’ll have to wonder if I can trust you,” Stephens said. “Why don’t we go get some lunch? I’ll buy, mainly because I can put it down as a necessary on-duty expense.”
“That’s the Edificio Libertador,” Stephens said, pointing out the window of his Chevrolet Impala at a wide, tall building. “Army Headquarters. Rangio has an office on the twelfth floor, right down the corridor from General Pistarini.”
“Giving tours to tourists is in your job description, is it?” Oliver asked.
“My job description is a little vague,” Stephens said. “Only tourists who agree with me get the tour.”
“Agree with you about what?” Jack asked.
“That blowing the bearded bastard away would be really counterproductive, ” Stephens said. “You’d be surprised how few people feel that way. When vacationing in Virginia, I sometimes feel like that still, small, lonely, voice of reason.”
“Uh,” Oliver grunted.
“This is Avenida Lib
ertador,” Stephens said. “We’re going to make a left here and drive around Plaza San Martín, past the Círculo Militar, which makes any officers’ club I ever saw in the States look like a roadhouse.”
Oliver and Portet were smiling.
“When Lowell and Lunsford were here, they stayed in one of the general officers’ suites in the Círculo Militar, which, to someone in my line of work—I mean, as a housing officer—suggested that they knew someone important, like, for example, General Pistarini or Lieutenant Colonel Rangio. And sure enough, I got a skinny from my friends in Virginia a couple of days later, saying Lowell’s father-in-law is Lieutenant General Count von Greiffenberg, head of German intelligence. Did you know that?”
“I did,” Oliver said.
“I didn’t,” Jack said.
“A little bird told me the Argentines—which means Rangio at the orders of Pistarini—had a shoot-the-bearded-bastard-on-sight order out. The next thing I know is Colonel Lowell is playing polo with Pistarini—”
He paused and pointed out the window again, this time at an enormous turn-of-the-century French-style mansion.
“That’s the Círculo Militar. It was built by the people who owned the Argentine version of The New York Times. Inspired by admiration for the Army, they gave it to them. I’d love to know what was behind that.”
He continued around Plaza San Martín, slowed, and drove the Impala half onto the sidewalk in front of another turn-of-the-century building, his bumper against a sign that very obviously forbade parking.
“This is the Plaza Hotel,” he said. “Inside is the oldest—and possibly the most expensive—restaurant in Argentina. I only get to eat here when I can put it on the expense account.”
“They don’t teach you to read in Virginia? Not even very graphic signs?” Oliver asked.
“You are with a duly accredited diplomat,” Stephens said. “We get to park anyplace we want to. We’re immune to Argentine law. You can probably guess how handy that is, on occasion.”
“I’ll bet,” Jack said.
He led them into the restaurant, which was on the ground floor. The headwaiter greeted Stephens by name and bowed them to a table. A waiter immediately appeared.
“You guys want to trust me, or do you want to gamble with your nonexistent Spanish?”
“We’re in your hands,” Jack said, chuckling.
Stephens ordered rapidly without looking at a menu. The waiter left.
“We’re going to have to talk about diplomatic immunity,” Stephens said. “But before we do, let me pick up where I left off before.”
“Where was that?”
“Lowell playing polo with General Pistarini,” Stephens said. “He’s not bad, by the way. Not in Pistarini’s league, but not bad. Anyway, when I talked to him afterward—the next day, they drank the night away at the Círculo Militar—Lowell told me that Pistarini had agreed to call off the contract on Guevara. I then concluded that Lowell was one of the good guys. There are bad guys in uniform, you may be surprised to learn. The defense attaché here is a real asshole.”
“I’ve heard something to that effect,” Oliver said, chuckling.
The waiter appeared with a bottle of wine and went through a formal routine of offering the cork for Stephens to examine and sniff, and then pouring a taste-size dollop of wine into his glass. Stephens nodded his approval, and the waiter poured the wine.
When the waiter had gone, Stephens went on.
“At that point, I decided to make myself useful to your noble enterprise, despite pointed hints from my friends in Virginia that I throw broken bottles and other impediments in your path. Am I getting through to you guys?”
“Yeah,” Oliver said. “But you won’t mind if I keep looking for the hook?”
“I would be disappointed if you didn’t,” Stephens said. “First, assuming Zammoro gets to stay, it would be handy as hell if you could get him a diplomatic passport. Right now, his status doesn’t entitle him to one, and the Argentines don’t like to approve them for anybody but colonels. . . .”
“What is his status?” Jack asked.
“Military staff of the embassy,” Stephens said. “Dips get a white CD license plate. Mil Staff, which is just about everybody but the defense attaché, and the army and navy attachés, get blue plates. The Argentines leave them alone, but they don’t have diplomatic immunity. There are exceptions. The cryptographic guys are Army warrant officers, but for obvious reasons, they have to have immunity. They call them ‘communications officers’ and get them diplomatic passports.”
“So it wouldn’t look suspicious if Zammoro got a diplomatic passport?” Oliver asked.
“The problem is usually the Argentines,” Stephens said. “They don’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry parking on the sidewalk. But I suspect that Zammoro’s old buddy could overcome any objections. ”
“What about de la Santiago?” Jack asked.
“He’s a warrant officer; what would work for Zammoro would work for him. But again you’d need Rangio to grease the skids.”
“And SFC Otmanio?”
“He’s an enlisted man. That would really be pushing the envelope, ” Stephens said. “Which brings us to him. . . .”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Jack asked.
“It is an article of faith in diplomatic circles that enlisted men are children. Especially the unmarried ones. They require supervised living. They’re not—the unmarried ones—even allowed to have cars, and they make them live together. Here they live with the Marine Guards. Only the Marine sergeant in charge, who is always married, gets his own apartment and can drive his own car.”
“That’s bullshit,” Jack said.
“As a former Spec5”—an enlisted grade, equivalent to sergeant—“I of course agree, but I’m not the Secretary of State, who makes the rules. Is Otmanio married?”
“Yeah,” Jack Portet and Johnny Oliver said at the same time.
“If his wife was here,” Stephens said, “that would make things a lot better. He could have his own apartment, and drive a private car.”
“Where are Zammoro and de la Santiago going to live?” Oliver asked.
“Embassy policy is that two bachelor officers share an apartment, ” Stephens replied. “The housing officer has the authority to grant waivers to that rule.”
The waiter delivered two-inch-thick New York strip steaks, a lettuce and tomato and onion salad, and a huge mound of what looked like very thick potato chips.
“The steak is called bife de chorizo,” Stephens said. “The spuds are papas a la provenzal. Enjoy.”
He signaled to the waiter to bring another bottle of wine.
“So what I have to do is see if Colonel Felter will send Otmanio’s wife down here,” Oliver said.
“What you have to do is decide whether you’re going to tell Felter, or Lowell, which I suppose is really the same thing, that Zammoro and Rangio are old pals.”
“Colonel Lowell said that if I was properly humble, you would let me use your radio link to your friends in Virginia,” Oliver said.
“You want to call Felter?” Stephens asked, and when Oliver nodded, added: “And what are you going to tell him?”
“I’m going to think about that while I’m eating, and while we’re on the way to wherever your radio link is.”
[ FIVE ]
Office of the USIS Administrative Officer for Housing and
Medical Services
United States Embassy
Sarmiento 663
Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina
1505 3 February 1965
“White House Secure,” a male voice said, the clarity surprising Johnny Oliver.
“Two-two-seven, please.”
“Two-two-seven, Mr. Finton.”
“John Oliver, Finton. Is the boss there?”
“Hold one.”
“Felter.”
“Oliver, sir.”
“I know.”
“Sir, I’ve been talking
to Colonel Lowell’s friend from Virginia. ”
“The CIA station chief? Stephens?”
The CIA station chief was sitting behind his desk, smiling. He had made it plain from the beginning that he intended to listen to the conversation. Oliver didn’t like it, but it was Stephens’s radio link to the White House secure switchboard, and there was nothing that could be done about it.
“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
“It would make things easier for Otmanio if his wife was here. Otherwise, he’s going to have to live with the Marine Guards, and can’t have a private automobile.”
There was a fifteen-second pause before Felter replied.
“No problem with that,” Felter said. “As soon as I can get DA to cut orders, she’ll be on a plane. What about Rangio? Any contact with him?”
“We were supposed to land at Ezeiza. We were diverted to the military field at Campo de Mayo. Rangio was there. It turns out he and Zammoro are old, and apparently close, friends.”
“Shit,” the CIA station chief said bitterly. Oliver wondered if Felter could hear him.
The pause this time was longer.
“That got by me somehow,” Felter said. “Well, what do you want to do?”
Oliver didn’t expect the question. He expected a decision, orders, not a request for his opinion.
“That association could be very valuable, sir,” he said.
“That occurred to me. I asked what you want to do?”
“I would like to use his connection, sir.”
“Why do you think he didn’t tell us?”
“De la Santiago thinks he was afraid if you knew you wouldn’t have sent him down here.”
“De la Santiago’s right. The question was, what do you think?”
“I agree with de la Santiago, sir.”
“Then the question becomes, is he down there as a team player or because it’ll give him a clear shot at Guevara?”
“I’d vote for team player, sir.”
Jesus, that was my mouth on full automatic! I didn’t consider that response, I just made it.
There was another pause before Felter replied.
“Your call, Oliver,” Felter said. “Anything else?”
“Diplomatic status for him and de la Santiago.”
Special Ops Page 49