There is time.
"Manuel," he said kindly. "A little less militarily, if you would. We're in civilian clothing."
"Si, mi Coronel," Sargento Manuel Lascano said, still at attention.
Though Sargento Lascano was also wearing a business suit, he had spent five of his twenty-three years in the Army, and almost all of that in the infantry, and almost all of that in remote provinces. Two weeks earlier (after selection by the man in the well-cut suit as the most promising among ten candidates), he had been transferred to the Edificio Libertador
Headquarters of the Ejercito Argentine (Argentine Army) for "special duty."
The criteria for selection had been high intelligence, an absolutely clean service record, a stable marriage, a simple background, and, importantly, a reputation for keeping his mouth shut.
"And when we're in civilian clothes, Manuel," Coronel
Bernardo Martin said, "please try to remember not to call me 'coronel.' "
"Si, Senor," Sargento Lascano said.
"You'll get used to it all, Manuel," Martin said, meaning it. He had already decided that he had made the right choice in
Sargento Lascano. Lascano didn't know much about what was expected of him, but he wanted the promised-"if this works out, Sargento"-promotion to Warrant Officer, which meant he wanted to learn. So far, it hadn't been necessary to tell him anything twice.
Teaching him, Martin thought, is like writing on a clean blackboard.
"When you drop me off at a place like this," Martin said,
"try to find a parking place that leaves the door I went in vis ible. Try to be inconspicuous, but failing that, park where you have to, and if anyone questions you, show them your identification and tell them you're on duty."
That morning, when he had reported to Coronel Martin for duty, Sargento Lascano had been issued a leather-bound photo identification card identifying him as an agent of the
Bureau of Internal Security. He had also been issued a.45 caliber semiautomatic pistol manufactured in Argentina under license from Colt Firearms of Hartford, Connecticut,
USA, and a shoulder holster.
"Si, Senor."
"I'll probably be about fifteen minutes, Manuel," Martin said. "With a little luck, ten."
"Si, Senor."
Martin entered the men's locker room, resisted the temp tation to have a beer at the bar just inside, and went to his locker and stripped off his clothing.
The man he was looking for was not in the locker room.
I'm going to need a shower anyway. Why not?
Five minutes later, he came out of the tile-walled shower room, a towel around his waist. The man he was looking for, middle-aged, muscular, balding, was now in the locker room, sitting by his open locker, also wearing only a towel.
"Well, look who's here," Santiago Nervo said, almost sar castically cordial. "Buenas tardes, mi Coronel."
Commissario Santiago Nervo was, more or less, Martin's peer in the Policia Federal, in charge of their Special Investi gations Division.
Martin did not particularly like him, and he was sure that
Nervo felt much the same way about him. Policemen don't like soldiers, particularly soldiers in the intelligence busi ness, which they believe should be their responsibility. And intelligence officers don't like policemen whose jurisdiction sometimes conflicts with their own.
"Putting on a little weight, aren't you, Santiago?" Martin said, offering his hand.
"Screw you," Nervo said without rancor, and turned to his locker and took an envelope from it.
"You can have that," he said. "You owe me."
Martin opened the envelope. It contained a single sheet of paper.
1623 ARENALES
APARTMENT 5B
45-707
MARIA TERESA ALSINA
2103 SANTA FE
APARTMENT 4H
DOB 16 MAY 1928
It was the address and telephone number of an apartment building. Martin searched his memory a moment and came up with a mental image. It was at the corner of Arenales and Coronel Diaz in Barrio Norte, a northern suburb of the city.
"You're sure about this, Santiago?" Martin asked.
"Yeah, I'm sure. I saw el Coronel Juan Domingo Peron go in there myself."
"Sixteen May 1928. That makes her fifteen," Martin said.
"Next month, she'll be fifteen," Nervo said. "Well, you know what they say, if they're big enough to bleed, they're big enough to butcher."
"Who else knows about this?"
"One of my lieutenants, two of my sergeants, and me."
"Can you keep it that way?"
"Of course."
"You're right, Santiago, I owe you."
"Yeah, you do," Nervo said.
Martin offered him his hand, then went to his locker and dressed quickly.
The moment he stepped into the street outside the men's locker room, he heard the starter of the Dodge grind, and a moment later the car started moving toward him. He signaled to Sargento Lascano to stay behind the wheel and climbed into the backseat. "The officer's sales store, please, Manuel," he ordered.
"Senor, I don't know where-"
"On the Avenida 9 de Julio, across the avenue from the
French Embassy."
"Si, Senor."
"You'll learn these places soon enough, Manuel," Martin said.
But I think it will be some time before I start telling you things like what I have just learned. That the new Assistant to the Minister of War, the distinguished el Coronel Juan
Domingo Peron, has rented an apartment and installed in it his new mistress, who will be fifteen years old next month.
Lascano returned to Avenida Libertador by turning right onto Calle Arribenos, then making a right when the street dead-ended at one of the parks scattered throughout the Bar rancas del Belgrano. As he did, Martin happened to glance up and saw the miniature Statue of Liberty that had been erected there about the same time the real one was going up in New
York Harbor.
I wonder ifCletus Frade knows that's there? For that matter,
I wonder if the American Ambassador does?
Lascano drove downtown at a shade under the speed limit.
By the time they had passed the Hipodrome, and the
Frade family's guest house, a medium-size, turn-of-the century mansion, which was across the street from it, Martin became aware of their pace.
The police are not going to stop this car, much less issue a summons to any car carrying me, or any other officer of the
Bureau of Internal Security. So what do I do? Tell him to go faster? And give him the idea that he can ignore the speed limits?
"Manuel, pick it up a little, will you? Fm running late."
"Si, Senor."
The speed increased another five miles an hour.
"A little more, please, Manuel."
Manuel added another five miles per hour to their velocity.
Martin was pleased.
Lascano errs on the side of caution. That's a desirable characteristic in the intelligence business. The trick is know-ing when to take a chance.
The officers' clothing store was in a turn-of-the-century mansion much like the Frade place on Libertador.
"Where should I park, Senor?" Lascano asked. "There are no-parking signs."