"Right in front," Martin said. "I won't be a moment. I have to pick up a uniform."
"Senor, I'd be happy to go in for you."
I wonder if he volunteered to go in for me because he would rather not sit at the wheel of an illegally parked car on the busiest street in Buenos Aires? Or because he is sim-ply trying to please me?
"It will be quicker if I go," Martin said, giving him the benefit of the doubt. "But thank you, Manuel."
The uniform was waiting for him inside, with its new insignia in place.
This is the third time in three years I've been here. The last time was yesterday, when I came to see if they could take care of the insignia overnight. The time before that was three years ago, when I picked up this uniform, my present to myself, on my promotion to teniente coronel. I don't think
I've worn it a dozen times in three years.
And if I am growing middle-aged flab, the way Santiago
Nervo is, and can't get into this, then what?
Martin got back into the Dodge and ordered Lascano to take him to the Edificio Libertador.
When the car had stopped at a side entrance to the large, eleven-story building, Martin permitted Lascano to open the car's door for him.
"Manuel, have you ever heard of Estancia San Pedro y
San Pablo?" Martin asked when he was standing by the side of the car.
"Si, Senor."
"Do you know where it is?"
"Si, Senor. Near Pila, in Buenos Aires Province."
"And how would you get there from here?"
"Senor, I would need a map."
"Where would you go for mat?"
"To an ACA station, Senor," Lascano replied, referring to the Automobile Club of Argentina.
Martin was again pleased with his choice of driver/body guard.
"Go to an ACA station now. Buy every road map they have on sale. Get a receipt. Turn in an expense voucher. You have cash?"
"Si, Senor."
"Personal or official?"
"Both, Senor."
"When you have the maps, bring the one for Buenos Aires
Province to my office, and I'll mark Estancia San Pedro y
San Pablo and the best way to get there. The estancia is not on the ACA map."
"Si, Senor," Lascano said. "Senor, are we going to
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo? I will need fuel-"
"We may. In this business, one never knows where one might have to go, or when. So whenever there is the oppor tunity, make sure you have fuel, et cetera, et cetera."
"Si, Senor."
Martin turned, and climbed a short flight of stairs to a metal door, carrying the bag with his uniform in it over his arm. A soldier in field gear, wearing a German-style steel helmet and with a Mauser rifle slung from his shoulder, pulled it open for him and came to attention, clicking his heels as Martin entered the building.
It made Martin a little uncomfortable, although he smiled at the soldier.
The soldier thinks he knows who 1 am, and that I am authorized to enter the building. The operative word is thinks. One of his officers-or more likely one of the ser geants of the guard-has apparently told him that a "civil ian" entering the building through this door, of such and such a height and description, is actually a coronet of the
Bureau of Internal Security, and should not be subjected to close scrutiny.
But how does he know, without actually checking my cre dentials at least once-and if this soldier had done that, I would have remembered-that I am that BIS officer?
The answer is he doesn't. It is one of the problems of the
Army… and, for that matter, of Argentina. Even before he entered the Army, he was taught that it is not wise to question your superiors. That it is wise to give your superiors-and to this country boy in uniform, the fact that I am wearing a suit and have a car with a driver makes me a superior-the benefit of the doubt.
Martin walked down a long corridor almost to the center of the building, then rode an elevator to the ninth floor.
There two BIS men in the elevator foyer did in fact examine him carefully before popping to attention in their civilian clothing.
"Buenas tardes, mi Coronel," the older of them, Warrant
Officer Federico Attiria, said.
"Has Mayor [Major] Delgano come up recently?" Martin asked.
"Haven't seen him, mi Coronel."
"Do me a favor. Call El Palomar, and see if and when he's landed out there. If he hasn't, call Campo de Mayo, and see if he's taken off from there, and if not, why not."
El Palomar (literally, "The Dove") was Buenos Aires's civilian airport. Campo de Mayo, on the outskirts of Buenos
Aires, was the country's most important military base, and the Army Air Service kept a fleet of aircraft there.
"Si, mi Coronel."
"If I ask Senora Mazza to do it, they give her the ranaround," Martin said. "They'll tell you."
Senora Mazza was the private secretary to the Director of the Bureau of Internal Security. It was said, not entirely as a joke, that she knew more of Argentina's military secrets than any half-dozen generals.
Attiria chuckled.
"Anyone dumb enough to give her the runaround will sud denly find himself up to his ass in ice and penguin shit in
Ushuaia," he said. "I'll let you know what I find out."
Because of its isolation and bitterly cold weather,
Ushuaia, in Tierra del Fuego, at the southern-Cape
Horn-tip of South America, was regarded as the worst pos sible place to be stationed.
Martin smiled at him, then walked down the wide, pol ished marble corridor. Near its end, hanging over a standard office door, was a sign reading, "Ethical Standards Office."
The corridor ended fifty feet farther down, at a pair of twelve-foot-high double doors, suspended in a molded bronze door frame. On them was lettered, in gold, "Office of the Director, Bureau of Internal Security."
At the moment, there was no Director.
In Martin's judgment, El Almirante Francisco Montoya, the former Director, had done a magnificent-and nearly successful-job of straddling the fence between supporting the government of President Ramdn S. Castillo and the
Grupo de Oficiales Unidos (GOU), which had, under El
Coronel (Retired) Jorge Guillermo Frade, been planning its overthrow. When the revolution came, it had been far less bloody than it could have been, largely because of the careful planning of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade. Frade had been determined that the Argentine revolution would not emulate the bloody Spanish Civil War.
Frade himself had been assassinated shortly before the revolution began, and his friend and ally, General de Divi sion (Major General) Arturo Rawson, had stepped into the presidential shoes Frade had been expected to fill. Rawson was a good man, Martin thought. But he was neither as smart nor as tough as Coronel Frade.
He wasn't alone in this assessment. It was clear to Martin that the Germans had arranged for the assassination of Frade because he was smart enough and strong enough not only to control Argentina but to tilt his nation toward the Anglo American alliance.
Montoya's careful neutrality had not sat well with the new
Presidente Rawson, and he had ordered Montoya into retire ment within an hour of the occupation by the revolutionaries of the Casa Rosada (the Pink House-the seat of government) and the Edificio Libertador.
He had at the same time offered the post to Martin, who had, with some difficulty, managed to turn it down.
As Chief of the Ethical Standards Office of the BIS (an office that made him directly subordinate to the Director),
Teniente Coronel Martin had been responsible for keeping an eye on the GOU. Though he had regularly provided Admiral
Montoya with intelligence that made the intentions of Frade and the GOU quite clear, Montoya had been unwilling-or unable; he was not a man of strong character-to bring himself to either suppress the revolutionaries or join them.
Shortly before the revolution began-after much thought, some of it prayerful, and for reasons he really hoped were for the good of Argentina-Martin had decided that his duty required him to support the revolutionaries. From that moment, he had worked hard-and at great personal risk-to conceal the plans of the GOU and the names of its members from Admiral Montoya and the Castillo government.