“Yes, sir.”
“If you and Major Lunsford are free for dinner tonight, Colonel, I would be pleased if you would dine with Coronel Rangio and me.”
“We would be honored, sir,” Lowell said. “Where and when?”
“Probably about ten,” Pistarini said. “I think I should have some word as to how things are going in Brazil by then. Is ten too late for you?”
“No, sir. Dress?”
“This will be very informal,” Pistarini said.
“Yes, sir.”
“And as to where, the driver will know. If you wouldn’t mind, if you would either be in the Círculo Militar from nine-thirty—or in the car, there’s a radio in the car—it would make things easier for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pistarini got quickly to his feet.
“And if you will excuse me before I give in to the temptation to have the rest of the champagne?”
Lowell jumped to his feet.
“Thank you very much, General,” he said.
“I will send another of my aides up here with the Major and Colonel Stumpff, and you can finish it,” Pistarini said, and walked off the balcony.
Both of the soldiers with the automatic rifles followed him.
[ TWO ]
Círculo Militar
Plaza San Martín
Buenos Aires, Argentina
2105 3 January 1965
“Would you please see who that is, Major Lunsford?” Lieutenant Colonel Craig Lowell asked. “Your beloved colonel’s ass is really dragging.”
Lunsford pushed himself out of his armchair and walked to the door of the suite. An elderly steward in a white jacket extended a silver tray to him. It held a calling card. Lunsford picked it up.
“Beloved Colonel, sir,” he called. “Mr. J. F. Stephens is downstairs and seeks audience with you.”
“Who?”
“According to his card, Mr. Stephens is the administrative officer for housing and medical services of the United States Information Service.”
“Jesus!” Lowell said.
“He probably wants to ask you about hog belly futures.”
“Let him come up,” Lowell said.
When he stepped into the suite, it was impossible to tell if Mr. Stephens was an old-looking twenty-five-year-old or a young-looking thirty-five-year-old. He stood about five feet seven in his mussed seersucker suit, was pale-skinned and starting to bald, and his shoes needed both heels and a shine.
“My name is Lowell, Mr. Stephens,” Lowell called from what he thought of as his overstuffed red leather chair of pain. “You wanted to see me?”
Stephens walked to Lowell and handed him a curling sheet of paper from a photo transmission machine.
“I was asked to get this to you, Colonel,” he said. His voice sounded as he looked: soft, inoffensive, and more than a little tired.
Obviously, Lowell thought as he started to read it, a secure photo transmission machine.
SECRET
Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia
FROM : Assistant Director For Administration
FROM: 3 January 1965 1005 GMT
SUBJECT : Guevara, Ernesto (Memorandum #11.)
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, and in consideration of the fact that SUBJECT holds Argentinian citizenship by birth, the following information is furnished:
1. (Reliability Scale Five) (From CIA Rio de Janeiro, Brazil) Under threat of loss of Brazilian landing rights for non-compliance, the pilot of the Iberian Airlines aircraft which carried Former Argentine President Juan D. PERÓN to Rio was ordered by the Brazilian Air Force authorities to fly nonstop to Madrid with PERÓN and party aboard.
2. (Reliability Scale Five) (From CIA Rio) PERÓN and party were placed aboard Iberian aircraft by Brazilian Air Force authorities, and denied access to the more than 100 members of the press who had gathered at the airfield, apparently informed of PERÓN’s presence by party or parties unknown. The aircraft took off immediately, with PERÓN and party, three of whom were armed, the only passengers.
3. (Reliability Scale Two) (From CIA Rio) Brazilian military aircraft (possibly a DC- 8) will accompany Iberian aircraft over Atlantic Ocean until the Point Of No Return.
4. (Reliability Scale Five) (From CIA Buenos Aires, Argentina) Borders remain closely watched by Army augmented authorities. ARG Foreign Minister Miguel A.Z. ORTIZ stated PERÓN travel was “a maneuver in a campaign of provocation and subversion.”
Howard W. O’Connor
HOWARD W. O’CONNOR
SECRET
“Thank you, Mr. Stephens,” Lowell said, handing the document to Father Lunsford. “Can we repay your courtesy by offering you a small libation of your choice?”
“Right about now, I’d kill for a martini,” Stephens said, surprising both Lowell and Lunsford. “It’s been a lousy day for me.”
“Among his many other talents, Major Lunsford is known for making wicked martinis,” Lowell said. “If you please, Major Lunsford?”
“Sit down, please,” Lowell said.
“Thank you.”
Stephens sat on the edge of a couch.
He looks, Lowell thought, somewhat unkindly, like a none-too -hopeful applicant for a job selling life insurance.
“Clever, if battered, bruised, and exhausted, fellow that I am, I deduce you have access to a secure photo transmission line.”
“I believe there is one somewhere around the embassy, Colonel.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that, Mr. Stephens,” Lowell said.
He pushed himself out of his armchair, grunting with the pain, walked into his bedroom and came back a moment later with an envelope, and handed it to Stephens.
HEAD QUARTERS
United States Strike Command McDill Air Force Base, Tampa, Florida
28 December 1964
Special Orders:
Number 360:
EXTRACT
6. Lt Col LOWELL, C.W., this hq, and Maj LUNSFORD, G.W. Hq USASWC Ft Bragg NC are placed on TDY and WP to Buenos Aires, Argentina, and such other places as their mission requires for a period not to exceed thirty days. Travel by US Govt and Commercial Air, Land, and Sea T and POV is auth. Off possess TOP SECRET security clearances, and are authorized to transmit material up to TOP SECRET over US Govt facilities. Off will remain under command of their respective units during this TDY.
EXTRACT
OFFICIAL:
Rupert K. McNeil
Brigadier General
“Do you have any trouble understanding the last two sentences of our orders?” Lowell asked.
Stephens shook his head, no.
“I went by the embassy about an hour ago,” Lowell said. “Asked to see the military duty officer. I got an Air Force captain. I showed him the orders, and told him that I had a very short message, classified Secret, to send, and would he do that for me? And he wouldn’t. Said he couldn’t. Said the defense attaché had to sign off on any classified messages, and he wouldn’t be available until the morning. My most persuasive arguments fell on deaf ears.”
“I think I can find someone to send your message, Colonel,” Mr. Stephens said.
Father came back in the sitting room with a squat glass.
“Mr. Stephens is going to send our message,” Lowell said.
“What’s with this defense attaché, anyway?” Lunsford asked. “Catch-22. We can’t send a message without his approval, and he’s not available to give his approval.”
“His name is McGrory,” Stephens said. “He likes to know everything that’s going on.”
Lowell handed him a sheet of paper.
“This is the message,” he said.
“May I read it?”
“How nice of you to ask! I can tell just by looking at you that someone like yourself would never dream of reading other people’s mail under any circumstances.”
What could have been the hint of a smile appeared on Stephens thin, pale lips.
SECRET
To White House Signal Agency
Buenos Aires 1900 3 Jan
Mr. Sanford T. Felter
Room 637, Executive Office Building
I played polo with Peter’s friend this afternoon, and he’s buying Father and me dinner later. He is reluctant to talk about life insurance, but we will work on him.
Craig
SECRET
“I’m pretty sure I can get this off for you, Colonel,” Stephens said.
“Tonight?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was in the Executive Office Building within the hour.”
“You’re an amazing man,” Lowell said. “Whatever would the country do without the U.S. Information Agency?”
Stephens stood up and drained his martini.
“So are you,” he said. “Most of the people watching you play polo this afternoon couldn’t believe you were an American.”
Then he nodded at Lunsford, turned, and walked out of the room.
[ THREE ]
Círculo Militar
Plaza San Martín
Buenos Aires, Argentina
2305 3 January 1965
Lieutenant Colonel Craig W. Lowell and Major George Washington Lunsford were both asleep in armchairs in the sitting room of their suite when the driver of the Buick appeared at the door and in British-accented English announced that if it was convenient for them, General Pistarini wished them to join him for dinner.
The Buick, again trailed by a black Ford Falcon, drove between the tall buildings of downtown Buenos Aires, crossed the Avenida de 9 Julio, supposed to be the widest avenue in the world, passed the Colón Opera House on the far side, and then moved again between tall office buildings.
“For your general fund of cultural knowledge, Major Lunsford,” Lowell said. “That building is the Colón Opera House, built 1896-99, and it is larger than both the Paris and Vienna opera houses.”
“You’re a cornucopia of information, aren’t you, mi coronel?”
“There was a book in English in my bathroom providing all sorts of information about Buenos Aires. Are you an opera fan, by any chance, Major Lunsford? This Wednesday they’re doing The Flying Dutchman.”
“Would you be surprised if I told you, mi coronel, that I am very fond of Die Fleigende Hollander?”
“Nothing about you would surprise me, Major,” Lowell said.
Lowell glanced out the window and saw they had doubled back and were headed back toward the bright lights of the Avenida de 9 Julio.
Then the Buick braked suddenly and turned off the street into what looked like the service entrance to one of the office buildings. The headlights picked out two soldiers in uniform, with 9-mm Uzi submachine guns slung around their necks.
There was a whining of electric motors, and then the large metal door to the street began to close. When it was just about closed, lights came on, and Lowell saw that the black Falcon that had been trailing them had pulled in beside them.
And then he saw Teniente Coronel Fosterwood, in uniform, coming down a flight of steps set into the concrete loading dock toward the car. The driver of Buick barely beat him to the door and opened it.
“Ah, Craig, so sorry we’re so late,” he said. “I understand that Americans like to eat in what we call the afternoon.”
“Frankly, Ricky, we have just about emptied that magnificent basket of fruit,” Lowell said. They shook hands.
He waved them up the concrete steps to the landing dock and down a corridor to an elevator and into it.
The elevator operator had an Uzi slung under his arm.
The elevator stopped, and Fosterwood led them down a paneled corridor, in which there was another man with an Uzi, and waved them through a double door.
It was an office. The large sturdy man who had met them at Ezeiza was seated behind a large, ornately carved desk. There were two Argentine flags against the wall behind the desk, on either side of an antique sword—a cavalry saber, Lowell corrected himself—in a glass case.
There was a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label scotch on the desk, and a water pitcher.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” General Pascual Angel Pistarini said, rising from a leather armchair. “Thank you for joining us.”
He put out his right hand. His left held a large square glass dark with something Lowell suspected had come from the bottle on the SIDE guy’s desk.
“We’re honored to be here, General,” Lowell said, shaking his hand.
“Let me first formally present Teniente Coronel Guillermo Rangio, the deputy director of SIDE,” Pistarini said. “You have met both of these gentlemen, Guillermo.”
Rangio rose from behind the large desk and shook hands, wordlessly, with both of them.
“That out of the way,” Pistarini said, “I think under the circumstances we should address one another by our Christian names, or better still, what is your phrase, our ‘nicknames’?”
Craig Lowell had an immediate flashback to Bad Nauheim, Germany, in 1946. Major General Porterman K. Waterford, commanding general of the U.S. Constabulary, had assembled his newly formed polo team in a stable.
“Gentlemen, on the polo field, we will relax somewhat military courtesy,” he said. “I will address you by your Christian names, or your nicknames, whichever you prefer, and you, in turn, may address me either as ‘Sir’ or ’General.’ ”
Lowell had laughed then, and he barely managed to suppress a laugh now. No one in this room was about to call Pistarini “Pascual. ”
“Craig knows that Ricky is Ricky, Willi,” Pistarini said to Rangio. “But I don’t know what Major Lunsford is called by his friends.”
“Father, sir,” Lunsford.
Pistarini’s face tightened. “Isn’t that how one refers to priests in English?”
“Yes, sir,” Lunsford said. “But in my case, it makes reference to my Christian names George Washington, as in ‘Father of his Country.’ ”
“I see,” Pistarini said, visibly relieved. “Well, then, Father, that’s what we’ll call you, with your permission, of course.”
“I would be honored, sir,” Father said.
Fosterwood nudged Lowell’s arm, and when Lowell looked, handed him one of the square glasses. Then he handed Lunsford one.
“I thought we should drink to the successful transoceanic flight of a man who once sat behind that desk,” Pistarini said. “Have you heard about that, Craig?”
“Yes, sir. Did you hear, General, that the Brazilian Air Force is accompanying the plane to the Point of No Return?”
“No, I didn’t,” Pistarini admitted.
And that got your attention, didn’t it, Willi? Lowell thought. There was a visible crack in your studiously stern countenance.
“Would you say, Craig,” Pistarini asked, “that your government had something to do with the departure of the man we’re talking about?”
“I don’t know that, sir. But I would certainly think so. We don’t want him back here any more than you do.”
“Let’s drink to his successful, nonstop transoceanic flight,” Pistarini said, and raised his glass.
There was nothing in the filled glass but Johnny Walker Black and ice, and not much of that.
“We are going to be completely open with you, Craig, in the belief you will be the same to us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is the office of the deputy director of SIDE,” Pistarini said. “Willi’s office. SIDE’s director, who has rarely been a career intelligence officer, serves at the pleasure of the President, and maintains his office in the Casa Rosado, our White House, near the office of the President. The deputy directors of SIDE— including Willi—are customarily career intelligence officers who serve at the pleasure
of the commander-in-chief of the Army.”
He let that sink in, then went on.
“The director of SIDE very rarely comes to this building. Very few people do. Willi and I were talking before, and we really think that you and Father are the first Americans, and very probably the only foreign officers, ever to be where you are now.”
“Then we are very honored, sir.”
“There are in this office two symbols of what has been great about Argentina, and what has been very, very disgraceful and bad for the country,” Pistarini said. “The sword is that of General Simón Bolívar. He was, I’m sure you will agree, a great man, who at the risk of his life, his fortune, and his honor did great things not only for Argentina but for the entire Western Hemisphere. ”
“He is one of our heroes, too, sir. One of General MacArthur’s most trusted lieutenants was General Simón Bolívar Buckner.”
“So I have heard,” Pistarini said. “The other symbol is the desk behind which Willi sits. It was formerly used by Juan Domingo Perón.”
“I don’t know what to say, sir, except that it’s a beautiful desk.”
“There are many objects of beauty in Argentina, Craig,” Pistarini said. “Unfortunately, Perón thought—probably still thinks— they all belonged to him, and/or to the woman he married.”
He walked across the office and pulled open a door.
“I think you should see this,” he said, “although I hope you won’t tell anyone you did.”
Lowell and Lunsford walked across the room and into the small room beyond.
“I don’t think there are one hundred Argentines who know this,” Pistarini said. “But this is where, after God took pity on Argentina and removed Evita from our midst, SIDE held her body for six weeks. Perón had it specially embalmed—he had a Spaniard come here to do it—in the manner of Lenin, and it was the intention of the Peronists to build a enormous monument to Señora de Perón, in which her body would be on permanent display. ”
“I’d never heard that before,” Lowell said.
“We knew that once the parasites around Perón got their hands on her body, very little could be done to stop the Leninization of her, so we took control of the body to prevent that from happening. A young SIDE major was given the duty, with orders to guard the remains with his life.”
Special Ops Page 26
