He reached into the station wagon and came out with a battered pair of binoculars.
After a moment, he said, “It says, ‘Danger: Biological Hazard.’ What the fuck?”
He handed the binoculars to Hernandez, who took a close look.
He exhaled audibly, then reached for his cell phone and hit a speed-dial number.
“Hernandez here,” he said into it. “I need a supervisor out here, right now, at mile thirty-three.”
There was a response, to which Hernandez responded, “I’ll tell him when he gets here. Just get a supervisor out here, now.”
Ten minutes later, a Bell Ranger helicopter settled to the ground at mile thirty-three.
Two men got out. Both had wings pinned to their uniforms. One was a handsome man with a full head of gray hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. He had a gold oak leaf pinned to his uniform collar points. In the Army, it would be a major’s insignia. Field Operations Supervisor Paul Peterson was known, more or less fondly, behind his back as “Our Gringo.”
The second man, who had what would be an Army captain’s “railroad tracks” pinned to his collar points, was Supervisory Border Patrol Agent Domingo García. He was known behind his back as “Hard Ass.”
Both men walked to Hernandez and Amarilla, who were leaning against their Jeep station wagon.
“What have you got?” Hard Ass inquired not very pleasantly.
Hernandez pointed to the obstruction in the road, then handed the binoculars to Peterson.
Peterson peered through them and studied the obstruction. After a long moment, he said, “What in the fuck is that?”
[TWO]
Ministro Pistarini International Airport
Ezeiza
Buenos Aires Province, Argentina
1135 5 February 2007
At the same moment that Supervisory Border Patrol Agent Domingo “Hard Ass” García had put the binocs to his eyes—when it was 0835 in McAllen, Texas, it was 1135 in Buenos Aires—Roscoe J. Danton of The Washington Times-Post stepped off the ramp leading from Aerolíneas Argentinas Flight 1007. As he entered the Ezeiza terminal proper, he thought for a moment that he had accidentally gone through the wrong door. He found himself in a large duty-free store, complete with three quite lovely young women handing out product-touting brochures.
“Clever,” he said, admiringly and out loud.
Someone down here has figured out a good way to get the traveling public into the duty-free store: place the store as the only passage between the arriving passenger ramp and the terminal.
But screw them. I won’t buy a thing.
He started walking through the store.
Fifty feet into it, though, he had a change of heart. He had come to a display of Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch whisky, and remembered what he had learned as a Boy Scout: “Be Prepared.”
Three boxes of his favorite intoxicant were cellophane-wrapped together and offered at a price he quickly computed to be about half of what he paid in Washington, D.C.
He picked up one of the packages and went through the exit cash register, charging his purchase to his—actually, The Washington Times-Post’s—American Express corporate credit card. He examined his receipt carefully and was pleased. It read that he had charged $87.40 for unspecified merchandise in the store.
If it had said “three bottles Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch,” there would have been a note from Accounting reminding him that intoxicants could be charged to The Washington Times-Post only when connected to business entertaining, and as he had not identified on his expense report whom he had entertained, it was presumed that the whisky was for his personal consumption and therefore the $87.40 would be deducted from his next paycheck, and in the future, please do not charge personal items to the corporate credit card.
Accounting, he theorized, would probably give him the benefit of the doubt in this instance because it didn’t say “whisky” and assume he had purchased, for example, items of personal hygiene, which were considered legitimate expenses when he was traveling.
Or maybe a battery for his—The Washington Times-Post’s—laptop computer.
He would not lie on his expense account. But he would take full advantage of the provisions regarding business travel in his employment contract.
He was entitled, for example, to first-class accommodations on airliners when traveling outside the continental United States on a flight lasting six hours or longer. On flights under six hours in length—say, Washington-London—his contract provided for business class.
It was for that reason that he had traveled on Aerolíneas Argentinas. When The Washington Times-Post Corporate Travel department had told him that only business class was available on Delta and American, he made them, per his contract, book him first-class seating on the Argentine carrier. His experience had taught him that once he accepted less than that to which he was entitled, the bastards in Corporate Travel henceforth would try to make it the rule.
Danton also was entitled by his contract, when on travel lasting more than twenty-four hours, to a hotel rated at four stars or better and, therein, a two-room suite rather than a simple room.
In the case of this trip, Corporate Travel had suggested they make a reservation for a two-room suite for him at the four-star-rated Plaza Hotel in Buenos Aires. The Plaza wasn’t a five-star hotel but boasted that it contained the oldest restaurant in Buenos Aires, a world-famous bar, and was directly across Plaza San Martín from the Argentine foreign ministry. To Danton, that suggested that it wasn’t going to be the Argentine version of a Marriott, and he had accepted Corporate Travel’s recommendation.
Carrying the Johnnie Walker, he went through the immigration checkpoint without any trouble. His luggage, however, took so long to appear on the carousel that he became genuinely worried that it had been sent to Havana or Moscow. But it did finally show up, and he changed his suspicions toward the officers of the Transportation Security Administration back in Miami, who were, he thought, entirely capable of putting some clever chalk mark on his luggage signaling everyone in the know that it belonged to an “uncooperative traveler” and, if it couldn’t be redirected to Moscow or Havana, then to the absolute end of whatever line it was in.
When the customs officials sifted through his suitcase and laptop briefcase with great care—and especially when they asked him if he was sure he was not trying to carry into the República Argentina more than ten thousand U.S. dollars in cash or negotiable securities or any amount of controlled substances—he was sure he saw the stealthy hand of the TSA at work.
Corporate Travel had told him that he should take a remise rather than a taxi from the airport to his hotel, explaining that Buenos Aires taxis were small and uncomfortable, and their drivers well-known for their skilled chicanery when dealing with foreigners. Remises, Travel had told him, which cost a little more, were private cars pressed into part-time service by their owners, who were more often than not the drivers. They could be hired only through an agent, who had kiosks in the terminal lobby.
The remise in which Roscoe was driven from Ezeiza international airport to Plaza San Martín and the Plaza Hotel was old, but clean and well cared for. And the driver delivered a lecture on Buenos Aires en route.
When the remise door was opened by a doorman wearing a gray frock coat and a silk top hat, and two bellmen stood ready to handle the baggage, Roscoe was in such a good mood that he handed the remise driver his American Express card and he told him to add a twenty-percent tip to the bill. Ten percent was Roscoe’s norm, even on The Washington Times-Post ’s dime.
The driver asked if Roscoe could possibly pay in cash, preferably dollars, explaining that not only did American Express charge ten percent but also took two weeks or a month to pay up. He then showed Roscoe the English language Buenos Aires Herald, on the front page of which was the current exchange rate: one U.S. dollar was worth 3.8 pesos.
“If you give me a one-hundred-dollar bill, I’ll give you three hundred and nine
ty pesos,” the remise driver offered.
Roscoe handed him the bill, and the driver counted out three hundred and ninety pesos into his hand, mostly in small bills.
Roscoe then got rid of most of the small bills by counting out two hundred pesos—the agreed-upon price—into the driver’s hand. The driver thanked him, shook his hand, and said he hoped el señor would have a good time in Argentina.
Roscoe liked what he saw of the lobby of the Plaza—lots of polished marble and shiny brass—and when he got to reception, a smiling desk clerk told him they had his reservation, and slid a registration card across the marble to him.
On the top of it was printed, WELCOME TO THE MARRIOTT PLAZA HOTEL.
Shit, a Marriott!
Corporate Travel’s done it to me again!
Roscoe had hated the Marriott hotel chain since the night he had been asked to leave the bar in the Marriott Hotel next to the Washington Press Club after he complained that it was absurd for the bartender to have shut him off after only four drinks.
At the Plaza, though, he felt a lot better when the bellman took him to his suite. It was very nice, large, and well furnished. And he could see Plaza San Martín from its windows.
He took out the thick wad of pesos the remise driver had given him and decided that generosity now would result in good service later. He did some quick mental math and determined the peso equivalent of ten dollars, which came to thirty-eight pesos, rounded this figure upward, and handed the bellman forty pesos.
The bellman’s face did not show much appreciation for his munificence.
Well, fuck you, Pedro! he thought as the bellman went out the door.
Ten bucks is a lot of money for carrying one small suitcase!
Roscoe then shaved, took a shower, and got dressed.
The clock radio beside the bed showed that it was just shy of two o’clock. As he set his wristwatch to the local time, he thought it was entirely likely that the U.S. embassy ran on an eight-to-four schedule, with an hour or so lunch break starting at noon, and with any luck he could see commercial attaché Alexander B. Darby as soon as he could get to the embassy.
Miss Eleanor Dillworth had told him that Darby was another CIA Clandestine Service officer, a good guy, and if anybody could point him toward the shadowy and evil Colonel Castillo and his wicked companions, it was Darby.
Roscoe took out his laptop and opened it, intending to search the Internet for the address and telephone number of the U.S. embassy, Buenos Aires.
No sooner had he found the plug to connect with the Internet and had turned on the laptop than its screen flashed LOW BATTERY. He found the power cord and the electrical socket. His male plug did not match the two round holes in the electrical socket.
The concierge said he would send someone right up with an adapter plug.
Roscoe then tipped that bellman twenty pesos, thinking that the equivalent of five bucks was a more than generous reward for bringing an adapter worth no more than a buck.
This bellman, like the last one, did not seem at all overwhelmed by Roscoe’s generosity.
Roscoe shook his head as he plugged in the adapter. Ninety seconds later, he had the embassy’s address—Avenida Colombia 4300—and its telephone number, both of which he entered into his pocket organizer.
“Embassy of the United States.”
“Mr. Alexander B. Darby, please.”
“There is no one here by that name, sir.”
“He’s the commercial counselor.”
“There’s no one here by that name, sir.”
“Have you a press officer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“May I speak with him, please?”
“It’s a her, sir. Ms. Sylvia Grunblatt.”
“Connect me with her, please.”
“Ms. Grunblatt’s line.”
“Ms. Grunblatt, please. Roscoe—”
“Ms. Grunblatt’s not available at the moment.”
“When will she be available?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“May I leave a message?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Please tell her Mr. Roscoe J. Danton of The Washington Times-Post is on his way to the embassy, and needs a few minutes of her valuable time. Got that?”
“Will you give it to me again, please? Slower?”
[THREE]
The Embassy of the United States of America
Avenida Colombia 4300
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1410 5 February 2007
It was a ten-minute drive from the Plaza Hotel to the American embassy.
The taxicab meter showed that the ride had cost fifteen pesos. Roscoe dug out his wad of pesos, handed the driver a twenty-peso note, and waited for his change.
Five pesos is too much of a tip.
Two pesos ought to be more than enough.
The driver looked at the twenty and then up at Roscoe. When Roscoe didn’t respond, the driver waved his fingers in a “give me more” gesture.
Roscoe pointed to the meter.
The cab driver said, “Argentine pesos.”
He then pointed to the note Roscoe had given him, and said, “Uruguay pesos.”
He then held up his index finger, and went on: “One Argentine peso is”—he held up all his fingers—“five Uruguay pesos. You pay with Uruguay pesos, is one hundred Uruguay pesos.”
Roscoe looked at his stack of pesos. They were indeed Uruguayan pesos.
That miserable sonofabitch remise driver screwed me!
He counted the Uruguayan pesos he had left. He didn’t have enough to make up the additional eighty pesos the cab driver was demanding.
He took a one-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet.
The cab driver examined it very, very carefully, and then first handed Roscoe his twenty-peso Uruguayan note, and then three one-hundred-peso Argentine notes. He stuck the American hundred in his pocket.
Roscoe was still examining the Argentine currency, trying to remember what that sonofabitch remise driver had told him was the exchange rate, when the cab driver took one of the Argentine hundred-peso bills back. He then pointed to the meter, and counted out eighty-five Argentine pesos and laid them in Roscoe’s hand.
Roscoe then remembered the exchange rate. It was supposed to be 3.8 Argentine pesos to the dollar, not 3.0.
“Muchas gracias,” the cab driver said, and drove off.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Roscoe said as he began walking toward the small building guarding access to the embassy grounds.
“My name is Roscoe Danton,” he said to the rent-a-cop behind a thick glass window. “I’d like to see Mr. Alexander B. Darby, the commercial counselor.”
“You got passport? American passport?” the rent-a-cop asked in a thick accent suggesting that he was not a fellow American.
Roscoe slid his passport through a slot below the window.
The rent-a-cop examined it carefully and then announced, “No Mr. Darby here.”
“Then I’d like to see Miss—” What the fuck was her name? “—Miss Rosenblum. The press officer.”
“No Miss Rosenblum. We got Miss Grunblatt, public affairs officer.”
“Then her, please?”
“What your business with Miss Grunblatt?”
“I’m a journalist, a senior writer of The Washington Times-Post.”
“You got papers?”
Have I got papers?
You can bet your fat Argentine ass, Pedro, that I have papers.
One at a time, Roscoe took them from his wallet. First he slid through the opening below the window his Pentagon press pass, then his State Department press pass, and finally—the ne plus ultra of all press credentials—his White House press pass.
They failed to dazzle the rent-a-cop, even after he had studied each intently. But finally he picked up a telephone receiver, spoke briefly into it—Roscoe could not hear what he was saying—and then hung up.
He signaled for Roscoe to go through
a sturdy translucent glass door.
Roscoe signaled for the return of his passport and press passes.
The rent-a-cop shook his head and announced, “When you come out, you get back.”
Roscoe considered offering the observation that at the Pentagon, the State Department, and the White House they just looked at press passes and gave them back, but in the end decided it would probably be counterproductive.
He went through the translucent door, on the other side of which were two more rent-a-cops behind a counter, and another sturdy glass door, this one transparent, and through which he could see neatly trimmed grass around a pathway leading to the embassy building itself.
It’s just as unbelievably ugly as the embassy in London, Roscoe decided.
Obviously designed by the same dropout from the University of Southern Arkansas School of Bunker and Warehouse Architecture.
The door would not open.
Roscoe looked back at the rent-a-cops.
One of them was pointing to the counter. The other was pointing to a sign on the wall:
NO ELECTRONIC OR INCENDIARY DEVICES BEYOND THIS POINT
Incendiary devices? Are they talking about cigar lighters?
“What in there?” one of the rent-a-cops demanded, pointing at Roscoe’s laptop case.
“My laptop. I’m a journalist. I need it to take notes.”
“Not past this point. You got cellular phone, organizer, butane lighter?”
“Guilty on all points.”
“You got or not got?”
“I got,” Roscoe said, and then put them on the counter.
“Keys set off wand,” one of the rent-a-cops said. “You got keys, better you leave them, too.”
Roscoe added his key chain to everything else.
One of the rent-a-cops came from behind the counter, waved the wand around Roscoe’s body, and then gestured toward the glass door.
This time it opened.
A U.S. Marine in dress trousers and a stiffly starched open-collared khaki shirt was waiting for him outside the main entrance to the embassy building. He had a large revolver in a holster suspended from what looked like a patent-leather Sam Browne harness.
The Outlaws: a Presidential Agent novel Page 15
