“What have you got, Doug?”
Both were in civilian clothing, Harris in a well-cut poplin suit, and Wilson in a seersucker jacket and khaki—civilian khaki— trousers. Perón was gone, but there was still a good deal of leftover anti-American feeling in the Argentine capital, and uniforms were worn only when they were necessary. And poplin and seersucker because December in Argentina is the beginning of summer.
“This just came in,” Wilson said, “and if I’m reading this right, boss, Santa Claus is being very good to us this year.”
He handed a sheet of teletype paper to Colonel Harris.
HQ DEPT OF THE ARMY WASH DC 1305 22 DEC 1964
ROUTINE
CONFIDENTIAL
TO: ASSISTANT CHIEF OF STAFF FOR PERSONNEL, HQ DEPT OF THE ARMY
ASSISTANT CHIEF OF STAFF FOR LOGISTICS, HQ DEPT OF THE ARMY
INFO: US ARMY ATTACHÉ US EMBASSY BUENOS AIRES ARGENTINA
REFERENCE IS MADE TO “SPECIAL TABLE OF ORGANIZATION AND EQUIPMENT, OFFICE OF ARMY ATTACHÉ US EMBASSY, BUENOS AIRES ARGENTINA” AS APPROVED 15 SEPTEMBER 1964.
1. REFERENCED TO&E IS AMENDED AS FOLLOWS:
SECTION 13A COMMISSIONED AND WARRANT OFFICERS IS AMENDED TO ADD 1 (ONE) CAPT OR LT BRANCH IMMATERIAL MULTI-ENGINE FIXED-WING INSTRUMENT QUALIFIED ARMY AVIATOR AND 1 (ONE) WARRANT OFFICER GRADE IMMATERIAL MULTI-ENGINE FIXED WING INSTRUMENT QUALIFIED ARMY AVIATOR.
SECTION 13B ENLISTED PERSONNEL IS AMENDED TO ADD ONE MASTER SERGEANT OR SERGEANT FIRST CLASS QUALIFIED AS CREW CHIEF L-23 SERIES AIRCRAFT; ONE SERGEANT FIRST CLASS OR STAFF SERGEANT QUALIFIED AS AIRCRAFT AND ENGINE MECHANIC L-23 SERIES AIRCRAFT AND ONE SERGEANT FIRST CLASS OR STAFF SERGEANT QUALIFIED AS DEPOT LEVEL AVIONICS TECHNICIAN.
SECTION 19 SPECIAL EQUIPMENT IS AMENDED TO ADD 1 (ONE) L-23 SERIES AIRCRAFT.
1. DCSLOG AND DCSPERS WILL EXPEDITE THE IMPLEMENTATION OF THE AMENDED TO&E. PRIORITY AAAA-1 IS ASSIGNED. DIRECT COMMUNICATION WITH US ARMY ATTACHÉ BUENOS AIRES IS AUTHORIZED TO DETERMINE AND PROVIDE NECESSARY SUPPORT. DCSLOG WILL MAKE EVERY EFFORT TO ENSURE THAT OFFICER AND ENLISTED PERSONNEL ASSIGNED WILL POSSESS KNOWLEDGE OF THE SPANISH LANGUAGE. A WEEKLY REPORT OF PROGRESS WILL BE FURNISHED TO THE OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF STAFF.
FOR THE CHIEF OF STAFF, US ARMY
CHARLES M. SCOTT, JR.
LT GEN US ARMY
DEPUTY CHIEF OF STAFF
“I will be damned,” Colonel Harris said. “When I asked for a Beaver, they as much as laughed at me.”
“I remember,” Master Sergeant Wilson said.
“If something is too good to be true, it usually is,” Harris said.
“You want me to get on the horn and see if I can find out anything? ”
“No. It’s Christmas Eve, and nobody who knows anything will be working in the Pentagon anyhow. We’ll wait a couple of days, at least until 2 January, and then if we don’t hear anything more, we can give them a call.”
“Yes, sir.”
“At the risk of repeating myself, it’s Christmas Eve. Why don’t you take off?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Colonel. Merry Christmas, sir.”
“Same to you,” Colonel Harris said, getting out of his chair to shake Wilson’s hand.
When the sergeant had gone, Harris started to sit down again, but changed his mind, picked up the teletype message, and walked down the third-floor corridor to the office of Colonel H. Robert McGrory, USAF, the defense attaché of the U.S. Embassy.
He already had a difficult relationship with Colonel McGrory, and he suspected the L-23 was going to make it worse.
Buenos Aires was an “air force post.” That is to say, the defense attaché was always an air force officer, and the army and navy officers, called the “army attaché’ and the “naval attaché,” were subordinate to him. Other embassies were “army posts,” or “naval posts,” and the defense attaché was an army officer or a navy officer.
Harris had no idea where the stupid idea had started, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it, so he tried to live with it as best he could. Which was difficult for a number of reasons, starting with the fact that Colonel Bob McGrory, who had spent most of his career driving airplanes, knew very little about anything else.
He spent most of his lunches, and the afternoons following, in the Argentine air force officers’ club, where he regaled his Argentine peers with flying stories, which he could afford to do because he delegated just about all of his duties to Colonel Richard J. Harris, Jr., the army attaché, and Captain Sam Duckworth, USN, the naval attaché.
The problem was further compounded by seniority. Harris outranked McGrory by more than a year. Harris had been asked, when offered the Argentine assignment, if he could deal with that, and almost without thinking about it, had said it would pose no problem.
Certainly, there would be little problem between two officers with nearly thirty years of service simply because one of them outranked the other. And Harris had wanted to come to Buenos Aires because he thought he could do some good in the assignment, build a relationship between the Argentine officer corps and the American, among other things.
But McGrory, who was led around by the nose by his wife, had made it very clear from the beginning that he regarded Dick Harris and Sam Duckworth as not only subordinate officers on his staff, but junior officers. And Mrs. Constance McGrory held the belief that she was in command of the military and naval ladies.
Joanne Harris had put up with that for a while, but had finally told Constance McGrory where to head in, about which Constance had complained to Bob. Bob McGrory had called Harris in for a little chat, during which—to his lasting chagrin—Harris had lost his temper.
McGrory had referred to Constance as the “senior military lady, deserving of more respect than your wife is apparently paying her,” and that had pushed Harris over the edge.
“I don’t think wives wear their husbands’ rank, Bob, but if we’re going to play that game, Joanne is the ‘senior military lady,’ as I’m the senior military officer attached to the embassy. I outrank you by a year, which means I can order you around, and I’m ordering you to keep your wife away from my wife.”
From that moment on, it had been “Colonel Harris” and “Colonel McGrory” when they spoke, and Harris spoke to McGrory as little as possible.
But the assignment of an airplane to the embassy was clearly of legitimate interest to the defense attaché, and Dick Harris knew he had to tell the stupid sonofabitch about it.
The door to McGrory’s office was open, and the defense attaché, who was in uniform, complete with attaché aiguillette, and of course wearing his wreath-starred command pilot’s wings, was at his desk, reading the Buenos Aires Herald.
Harris debated, and decided against, knocking at his door.
I’m not a goddamn PFC.
“Have you got a minute for me, Colonel?” he called.
McGrory raised his eyes from the Herald.
“Come in, Colonel. What’s on your mind?”
Harris walked in and laid the teletype on his desk.
McGrory read it.
“Why wasn’t I advised of this previously?” McGrory asked when he had finished reading it.
“It was delivered to me ten minutes ago, Colonel.”
“If there is to be an aircraft at this embassy, it should be an air force aircraft,” McGrory said.
When Harris didn’t reply, McGrory added: “Wouldn’t you agree, Colonel? An air force aircraft for an air force post?”
“Colonel, I get my orders from the chief of staff of the U.S. Army. And I have never questioned one of his orders before, and I am not going to start now.”
“I would hate to think, Colonel, that you have gone over my head with this,” McGrory said.
“I don’t know how it is in the air force, Colonel, but in the army we can’t go over another officer’s head unless he’s senior.”
“Be advised, Colonel,” McGrory said, his face flushed, “that I intend to get to the bottom of this.”
&nb
sp; “I stand so advised,” Harris said.
“Is there anything else, Colonel?” McGrory asked.
“I don’t think so, Colonel,” Harris said, and leaned over and took the teletype from McGrory’s desk.
“I’d like a copy of that, Colonel,” McGrory said. “If you don’t mind.”
“I’ll get you one, Colonel,” Harris said.
He walked to the door and turned around.
“There is one more thing, Colonel, now that I think of it.”
“Which is?”
“Merry Christmas, Colonel McGrory,” Colonel Harris said, and walked out of the office before McGrory could reply.
He was almost back at his own office when he had the thought, That dumb sonofabitch is right. This is an air force post. So how come I’m getting an army airplane, and army pilots and mechanics?
What the hell is this all about?
[ SEVEN ]
SECRET
Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia
FROM: Assistant Director For Administration
FROM: 27 December 1964 1805 GMT
SUBJECT : Guevara, Ernesto (Memorandum #5.)
TO: Mr. Sanford T. Felter
Counselor To The President
Room 637, The Executive Office Building
Washington, D.C.
By Courier
In compliance with Presidential Memorandum to The Director, Subject: “Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara,” dated 14 December 1964, the following information is furnished:
1. (Reliability Scale Two) (From CIA sources in Bamako, Mali) SUBJECT met with President Modibo KEITA of Mali at 1105 GMT 26 December 1964 for one hour and fifteen minutes. No details of their conversation or identities of other (if any) personnel attending are available.
2. (Reliability Scale Four) SUBJECT held a press conference at 1605 GMT 26 December, during which he expressed his belief that Africans and Cubans have a common goal in defeating U.S. Imperialism.
Howard W. O’Connor
HOWARD W. O’CONNOR
SECRET
[ EIGHT ]
Office of the Commander-in-Chief
The Army of Argentina
Edificio Libertador
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1015 28 December 1964
Lieutenant General Pascual Angel Pistarini, the commander-in -chief of the Argentine Army, was sitting behind his huge, ornately carved desk, his back turned to it, his glistening riding boots resting on the sill of the window of his ninth-floor office, sipping a coffee as he looked out over the River Plate.
Pistarini, was a tall, slim, rather sharp-featured man of forty-six. He had intelligent blue eyes (his maternal grandmother was German), and when he smiled—rarely—he displayed a set of teeth so perfect some people suspected they were not his. They were. He attributed this to his mother, who had listened to her mother, and fed all of her five children as much milk as possible, well into their teenage years. This was not common in Argentina, where most children went from their mother’s breast to coffee, but Pistarini’s children were fed cow’s milk and they all had fine teeth.
What General Pistarini was thinking, when his aide-de-camp came into his office, was that he had made a serious error in agreeing to take the parade of the First Regiment of Cavalry—the Húsares de Pueyrredón; named after the Pampas estanciero who had turned two-hundred-odd gauchos into cavalrymen and run the English out of Buenos Aires—at Campo de Mayo that afternoon.
It was hot as hell, and humid, and after sitting for an hour or so on a horse in the afternoon sun, he was going to be sunburned, dehydrated, and his fresh-from-the-dry-cleaner’s-uniform sweat-soaked.
There was nothing that could be done about it now, it was too late, and he consoled himself with thinking that it was his duty, as a cavalry officer, as former colonel commanding, and commander-in-chief.
“Mi general?” Teniente Coronel Ricardo Fosterwood, his aide-de-camp, called from the office door.
Pistarini waved him into the office without turning around or taking his boots off the windowsill.
“Mi general, el Coronel Stumpff is in the office, and asks to see you.”
Colonel Hans-Friedrich Stumpff was the military attaché of the German embassy.
“Do I have an appointment with him?” Pistarini asked.
“No, sir.”
“Can’t you deal with him?”
“Sir, he apologizes for the intrusion, but says that it is important that he see you personally at your earliest convenience.”
“Give me a minute, then send him in. Bring him in. And after three minutes, if he is still here, remind me of a meeting.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pistarini reluctantly took his boots off the windowsill, turned around, opened a drawer in his desk, put the coffee cup and saucer into it, and then opened one of the folders on his desk and pretended to read it.
“Mi general,” Fosterwood announced, “El Coronel Stumpff.”
Colonel Stumpff marched into the office, came to attention, and saluted.
He was in uniform. Pistarini privately thought the two-tone blue uniform of German officers made them look like pilots of some third-rate airline.
Pistarini returned the salute.
“Thank you for seeing me, mi general,” Stumpff said in Spanish.
“Always a pleasure to see you, Colonel,” Pistarini replied, then, extending his hand, switched to German. “Wie geht’s, Hans?”
The German was another inheritance from his maternal grandmother, who to her dying day proclaimed that German was the only language of precision, and that someone who did not speak German could not consider himself educated.
“Gut, und Sie?” Stumpff said, smiling, as he shook Pistarini’s hand.
Then he reached into his briefcase and took from it a large manila envelope. He opened this and took from it a smaller, letter-size envelope and handed it to Pistarini.
“What have we here?” Pistarini asked.
“It was in this morning’s diplomatic pouch, General,” Stumpff said.
Pistarini tore open the crisp, expensive embossed envelope.
Schlöss Greiffenberg Marburg an der Lahn
22 December 1964
Teniente General Don Pascual Angel Pistarini
Commander-in-Chief
Argentine Army
Edificio Libertador
Buenos Aires
By Hand of Officer Courier
My dear friend Pascual:
I had the privilege of receiving here over the weekend my dear American friend Sanford T. Felter, and Lieutenant Colonel Craig W. Lowell, U.S. Army.
It came out that Colonel Lowell will shortly be visiting the military attaché of the U.S. Embassy in Buenos Aires, and I would regard it as a personal service if you would receive him while he was there, and perhaps even see that he has the opportunity to sample some of your magnificent Argentine beef.
Colonel Lowell, as you and me, is a Cavalry /Armor officer and very nearly as good a polo player as you are. I’m sure you will find that you have many interests in common.
With the warmest possible fraternal greetings, and my most sincere best wishes for a joyous Christmas and a happy and prosperous New Year,
Von Greiffenberg
VON GREIFFENBERG
Pistarini’s eyebrows rose, and his lips pursed thoughtfully as he read the letter.
“It was very kind of you to bring me this, Hans,” he said.
“Not at all, General.”
“May I offer you cup of coffee?”
“I won’t take any more of your valuable time, mi General.”
“Well, if I can’t get you to change your mind, then auf Wedersehn, Hans,” Pistarini said, putting out his hand.
Fosterwood showed Stumpff out of office and then returned. Pistarini held out the letter to him. Fosterwood read it.
“I don’t believe I know this gentleman, sir,” he said.
“It would perhaps be a good idea, Ricardo, if you remembered t
hat my good friend Lieutenant General Count Peter-Paul von Greiffenberg is the chief of West German intelligence. Sometimes knowing odd little facts like that can be useful.”
Fosterwood flushed.
“Yes, sir.”
“Call the American attaché—what’s his name?”
“Colonel McGrory, sir.”
“No. Not him. McGrory’s that Irish Air Force idiot. The other one.”
“Colonel Harris, sir. The American army attaché.”
“Right. See when he expects this Colonel Lowell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“From today, any invitations to the American military will include Colonel Lowell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call the Círculo Militar and have them prepared to put Colonel Lowell in the best available of the general officer’s suites.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And call SIDE and see what they have on Colonel Lowell, in addition to what you’re going to find out for me by checking the U.S. Army Register.” SIDE was the acronym of the Argentine Secret Intelligence Service.
“Yes, sir.”
“And have the sergeant bring me another coffee, would you, please?”
“Yes, sir. Sir, may I ask a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Would it be helpful for me to know something about the other gentleman in the letter, Señor Felter?”
“It certainly would,” Pistarini said. “I’ll tell you all I know about him. He’s an American, with obvious ties to the intelligence community, and with many high-placed friends around the world. That’s it. That’s all anyone seems to know about him.”
“Central Intelligence Agency, sir?”
“I don’t think so,” Pistarini said. “I once had a conversation with a senior CIA official. The name Felter came up, and I was left with the distinct impression that he is cordially detested by the CIA.”
“Perhaps that was disinformation, sir.”
“I don’t think so. My CIA official had too much to drink to try to be clever in that way. He really hates Señor Felter, whoever he is.”
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