“This is going over my head,” Mrs. Helene Craig said.
“All you have to do, my darling,” Porter said, “is sit there and be beautiful and make sure the champagne flows.”
“Go to hell, Porter,” she said.
“They have also set up a Delaware corporation,” Porter went on, “Intercontinental Air Cargo, Inc., which is a wholly owned subsidiary of Intercontinental Air, Ltd., and at the moment has zero assets.”
“What shape is the 707 in?” Lowell asked.
“So-so. The engines are half gone,” Jean-Philippe said. “And it’s getting pretty close to its annual. It was one of the airplanes I looked at when I went out there . . . before Leonard found me. The DC-7s are pretty well down the road to rebuild.”
“Leonard didn’t know that,” Porter said. “I mean he didn’t know there was as much useful life left in the 707 as Jean-Philippe did.”
“What did they propose?” Lowell asked.
“What they proposed was thirty-three percent to Jean-Philippe for his services as president,” Porter said. “What we agreed on was thirty-five percent to Jean-Philippe, who will be in any case the chief operating officer, subject to the orders of the president, who will be elected by the stockholders.”
“You’re losing me here,” Lowell said. “They’ll have sixty-five percent of the votes.”
“Jean-Philippe has the option of purchasing additional stock, when and if the sale of Air Simba goes through, before a sixty-day period has elapsed. They were happy to grant that, inasmuch as they think Mobutu has Jean-Philippe over a barrel, and there won’t be any sale within sixty days, even at distress prices,” Porter said.
“And?”
“Just as soon as the contracts are signed—and they can’t back out; we have a memorandum of agreement; they wouldn’t want us to take that to federal court for noncompliance—Jean-Philippe hands them a check for a million . . . maybe, just to be sure, a million point five. That gives him enough votes to elect himself president. ”
“Where does he get the million point five? From us?” Lowell asked.
“Yes, of course. We loan him a million point five against Air Simba. And then we wait Mobutu out. As long as Mobutu eventually comes through with a million five, and Air Simba’s worth, bottom figure, at least twice that, we can wash our hands. For an investment of a million five, plus his services, Jean-Philippe gets control of Intercontinental Air, Ltd., with assets of over two million. ”
“They’re going to want to buy aircraft for the new company,” Lowell said. “What about that?”
“That can be handled in several ways,” Porter said. “As president, Jean-Philippe will have the authority to either borrow money to purchase aircraft, to lease aircraft, or to offer additional stock to raise the necessary capital. What I think will happen is that if President Portet is unwilling to offer additional stock, and the stockholders go along with him—”
“And he will have the votes to say ‘no way’, won’t he?” Lowell said, smiling. “Porter, I take back most of the unkind things I’ve been saying about you over the years.”
“—Mr. Leonard’s associates will have the choice between leasing aircraft, which I don’t think they’ll want to do, because people who lease aircraft want to know where they’ll be flown and why,” Porter went on, “or finding someone from whom to borrow the money, who won’t ask questions.” He paused and smiled. “I have always wanted to borrow money from my government at a favorable rate.”
“Give Chubby both ears and the tail,” Lowell said.
“The trick is to give Jean-Philippe at least fifty-one percent of the stock immediately after we sign the contracts,” Porter said.
“I owe you more than both ears and the tail,” Jean-Philippe said.
“You don’t owe me a goddamn thing,” Porter Craig said. “You’re family, Jean-Philippe.”
“If someone will hand us the bottle,” Lowell said, “Lieutenant Craig and myself will drink to that.”
[THREE]
Over the River Plate
(Argentine-Uruguayan Border)
2245 2 February 1965
“Buenos Aires approach control,” WOJG Enrico de la Santiago said into his microphone, “this is U.S. Army Eight-seven-seven, a Beechcraft Twin Bonanza, at 7,000 over the River Plate with Buenos Aires in sight. Request approach and landing at Ezeiza, please.”
"U.S. Army Eight-seven-seven, contact Campo de Mayo approach control on 122.9.”
“Buenos Aires, Army Eight-seven-seven, be advised that we are international. IFR from Pôrto Alegre, Brazil. We have been instructed to request Customs and Immigration services at Ezeiza.”
"U.S. Army Eight-seven-seven, you have been diverted to Campo de Mayo. Contact Campo de Mayo approach control on 122.9.”
“Understand 122.9,” de la Santiago said. “Thank you.”
He began to tune his radio.
“What the hell is that all about?” Jack Portet asked.
“More important, where is Campo de Mayo?” de la Santiago said.
“Johnny,” Jack called, “we have been diverted to Campo de Mayo.”
Oliver got out of his seat and knelt between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats as Jack searched for an approach chart to Campo de Mayo.
“There it is,” Oliver said, pointing to a Jeppesen Aerial Chart.
“Right in the middle of a restricted zone, and clearly marked closed to all but ArgMil traffic,” Jack added.
“Mayo approach control, U.S. Army Eight-seven-seven.”
“Ocho-siete-siete aqui, Campo de Mayo, ¿cual es su posición? ”
“Dos mil metros sobre el Río de la Plata Creo que diviso Jorge Newbery.”
“Roger, Ocho-siete-siete. Lo tengo en el radar. Asuma curso 310 grados, y descienda a 1000 metros en este momento.”
“Enrico, what’s going on?”
“I told him where we were—that I was over the river at 6,000; that I thought I had Jorge Newbery, the city airport, in sight. He said he has us on radar and we are to descend to 3,000 feet on a course of 310 degrees.”
The plane was in a gentle bank to the right. The compass needle was pointing almost to 310 degrees.
“Call him and tell him our chart shows a restricted zone,” Oliver ordered.
“Campo de Mayo, conteste . . . conteste . . .” de la Santiago said into his microphone, “Campo de Mayo, aqui U.S. Army Ocho-siete -siete. Mi mapa muestra que su campo está en una zona restringida. Éste es un avión del Ejército de los Estados Unidos.”
“Roger, Ocho-siete-siete. Éste es un aeropuerto restringido. Lo tengo a 2,000 metros en un curso de 310. Está aproximadamente a ocho kilometros de esta estación. Empiece su descenso ahora por una recta de aproximacion a la pista de aterrizaje 31. El altimetro es dos nueve nueve. Los vientos son insignificantes. Informe cuando tiene la pista de aterrizaje a la vista.”
“What was all that?” Oliver asked.
“Yes,” de la Santiago reported, chuckling, “this is a restricted airfield. We have you on radar. You are cleared for a straight-in to Runway 31.”
“What the hell is going on?” Oliver asked, chuckling.
“We’re about to find out,” Jack said. “I suspect those lights dead ahead are Runway 31.”
“Gear down, flaps twenty,” de la Santiago ordered.
Jack reached for the controls.
“Mayo, Ocho-siete-siete,” de la Santiago said to his microphone. “Tengo pista de aterrizaje treinta y uno a la vista.”
“Gear down and locked,” Jack reported. “You have twenty degrees of flaps. Johnny, go back and strap yourself in.”
“Ocho-siete-siete, tiene permiso para aterrizar. Tome la primera calle de aproximacion conveniente a su izquierda. Dirijase a la base de operaciones, debajo de la torre de Control, donde se estacionará.”
“I really have to take a piss,” Jack announced.
“Mayo, Ocho-siete-siete, en tierra a cinco minutos de la hora. Somos IFR Internacional de Puerto Allegre. ¿Puede c
errar nuestro plan de vuelo?”
“Ocho-siete-siete, Su plan de vuelo ha sido cerrado. Bienvenidos a Campo de Mayo.”
“The tower says welcome to Campo de Mayo,” de la Santiago reported.
“My mother was right,” Oliver said. “I should have paid more attention to Spanish in high school.”
Uniformed ground crewmen appeared with wands and directed de la Santiago in parking the airplane.
“Shut the sonofabitch down,” Jack said. “I really need to take a leak.”
“Here comes somebody. Here come a lot of people,” de la Santiago said.
A large man in a blue sport coat and an open-collared yellow polo shirt walked across the tarmac toward the L-23. Four steps behind him came four men, two in what looked like Air Force uniforms, and two in what suggested they were Customs or Immigration officers.
“I believe you’re senior, Captain,” Jack said. “You deal with the natives.”
Oliver got out of the airplane first and walked to the older of the Air Force officers and saluted.
“Good evening, sir,” he said. “I am Captain John S. Oliver, U.S. Army.”
The salutes were returned.
“Welcome to Campo de Mayo,” one of the officers said in good English.
Warrant Officer Junior Grade Julio Zammoro was next off the plane.
He walked toward Oliver and the uniformed officers, obviously to provide his services as an interpreter. He raised his hand in a salute.
“Hola, Julio,” the man in the sport coat said softly.
Zammoro turned to see who had spoken. Then he stopped walking, his hand still at his forehead.
“Willi,” he said softly.
WOJG Enrico de la Santiago was now out of the plane, and Jack Portet and Otmanio followed a moment later.
Zammoro and the man in the sport coat walked to each other and embraced.
“Madre de Dios, me alegro de verlo, mi amigo,” the man in the sport coat said. “He oído distintos comentarios sobre usted. Uno decia que usted estaba muerto, el otro que usted estaba en la Isla de Pinos.”
“Ricky,” Jack asked de la Santiago softly, “what’s going on?”
“They must be friends,” de la Santiago replied. “The Argentine said he was glad to see him, that he had heard both that Zammoro was dead and on the Isle of Pines.” He paused and then added, “The Isle of Pines is Castro’s worst prison.”
“Estoy vivo y punto.”
"¿Y Dolores?”
“Está en la Isla de Pinos.”
“¡Mi Dios! ¿Y los niños?”
“Lo último que oí de ellos, es que están con Maria, la hermana de Dolores.”
De la Santiago, his voice tight with emotion, translated the essence of the exchange: “He asked Zammoro about his wife; Zammoro said she’s on the Isle of Pines and that their children are with his wife’s sister.”
The man in the sport coat gave Zammorro a final kiss on the cheek and let him go.
“You’re the only captain,” he said to Oliver in perfect English, “so you must be Captain Oliver. I am Lieutenant Colonel Rangio, and it is my privilege to welcome you to Argentina.”
Oliver saluted.
“How do you do, sir?”
Rangio turned to the uniformed officers.
“Gracias. No se requerirán sus servicios. Estos señores están conmigo. Mande a alguien al Casino en media hora, para que se encargue de todo lo relacionado a los pasaportes.”
“We’re with him,” de la Santiago translated softly. “We’re going to the officers’ club. He told the immigration officers to come there in half an hour.”
The uniformed officers all saluted and marched away.
“I will take pleasure in meeting you all individually,” Rangio said, “but I suggest we do that at the casino. I’m sure you all would like to visit a men’s room.” He paused. “In fact, there is a men’s room in the hangar, if that is a pressing problem.”
“Sir,” Jack said. “It is a pressing problem for me.”
“Then, if you will follow me, Lieutenant?” Rangio said.
“Sir,” Oliver said. “Our luggage?”
“I’ll have someone bring it to the casino,” Lieutenant Colonel Rangio said.
“And sir,” Oliver said, nodding toward Otmanio, “Sergeant First Class Otmanio is . . . not an officer.”
“In a flight suit, who will notice?” Rangio replied with a shrug.
Twenty minutes later, they were all sitting around a very large, very low, round, glass-topped table in a room off the main dining room of the Campo de Mayo Casino, the officers’ club.
White-jacketed waiters had laid an array of bottles—in case anyone preferred something other than champagne—and trays of cold cuts on the table, and then left, closing the door after them.
“When your manifest came into my hands,” Rangio said, “and I saw Julio’s name, I wasn’t sure, of course, that he was my Julio, but I thought it possible, even likely. So I asked them to chill a little wine, in case there was occasion to celebrate.”
Oliver thought: If you saw the manifest, which was classified Confidential, Colonel, that means that you have access to Confidential messages addressed to our military attaché. Did you get the manifest from the attaché, or do you have someone in the embassy?
Oliver smiled.
“Colonel, if Zam had said something about knowing you, I’m sure Colonel Felter would have advised you.”
“Is that what they call you, Julio? ‘Zam’?”
“Usually, Willi, they call me something more profane,” Zammoro said.
“I thought perhaps that our friendship was something you didn’t want known,” Rangio said. “And I thought that it might prove awkward at Ezeiza if it suddenly came out. I knew that my friend Colonel Harris planned to meet you at Ezeiza, so I had you diverted here.”
“I understand,” Oliver said. “But what do we do about Colonel Harris? Our orders are to report to him.”
“At this very moment, Colonel Harris and his very competent Sergeant Major Wilson, probably cursing the unpredictable Argentines, are en route from Ezeiza here to pick you up,” Rangio said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“And at this very moment, my good wife is sitting by the telephone to learn whether your Julio is our Julio,” Rangio said. “So I have a favor to ask of you. If I swear to deliver him to the embassy transient quarters at eight tomorrow morning, may I take him home with me?”
“Absolutely,” Oliver said. “And it doesn’t have be 0800, either, Colonel. I plan to sleep most of tomorrow . . .”
Rangio took a card from his wallet and wrote a number on it.
“Call this, night or day, and I will have Julio where you want him within the hour.”
“Thank you,” Oliver said.
“And now, if you will excuse us? Colonel Harris knows where you all are.”
Zammoro stood up and saluted.
“Thank you, Captain,” he said.
“Don’t be silly, Zam. Have a good time. See you tomorrow, or the day after.”
Oliver waited until Rangio and Zammoro had left, then rapped his knuckles on the glass tabletop to get everyone’s attention.
“Our orders, you will recall, are to tell Colonel Harris only what he has to know. And I don’t think he has to know that Zammoro and Rangio are old friends. Any questions?”
Everyone shook their heads in understanding, and SFC Otmanio said, “Yes, sir.”
“I wonder why Zammoro didn’t say anything . . . back in the States?” Jack asked.
“I don’t know,” de la Santiago said. “But it could be because he was afraid they wouldn’t send him down here knowing he and the SIDE guy are old pals.”
“Yeah,” Oliver agreed thoughtfully. “Anyway, Zam asked permission to spend the night with an old friend, name unknown, and I gave it to him. Okay?”
[ FOUR ]
Apartment 10-B
Malabia 2350 Palermo
(U.S. Embassy Transient Quarters)
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1130 3 February 1965
“Señor,” the maid who came with the apartment said to Captain John S. Oliver, who was sharing a cup of coffee with Lieutenant Jacques Portet on a narrow balcony, “there is a gentleman from the U.S. Embassy to see you.”
“Ask him to come out here, please,” Oliver said.
Thirty seconds later, Mr. J. F. Stephens walked onto the balcony.
“Captain Oliver?” he asked, and when Oliver nodded, went on: “I’m J. F. Stephens, the embassy’s administrative officer for housing and medical services.”
“Sure you are,” Oliver said, unable to restrain a smile. Colonel Lowell had told him to expect that the CIA station chief would make himself known, but not that he would be a CIA version of Felter, an absolutely unimpressive man in a mussed suit, who looked like anything but an intelligence agent.
“I really am,” Stephens said. “Maybe you expected an American Michael Caine?”
Oliver and Jack Portet chuckled.
“How about a cup of coffee before you tell us what we can do for you?” Oliver said, offering his hand. “This is Lieutenant Jack Portet.”
“I’d love some coffee,” Stephens said, and gave his hand to Jack. “Welcome to Buenos Aires.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. He ordered coffee for all of them from the maid with sign language.
“No Spanish, huh?”
“Not a word.”
“You really only need three,” Stephens said. “Baño, cerveza, and bife de chorizo. Bathroom, beer, and New York strip steak.”
Johnny and Jack chuckled dutifully.
“I really am, the admin officer for housing, I mean,” Stephens said. “I came by to discuss housing with Warrant Officers de la Santiago and Zammoro and Sergeant Otmanio. You two can stay here, of course, until you go back to the States. Which will be when?”
“I wonder who wants to know,” Oliver said. “The admin officer for housing or curious people in Langley?”
“Would you settle for both?”
The maid held out a tray with cups of coffee on it.
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