Otmanio nodded.
“You’re going back when?” Stephens asked.
“Tomorrow morning, we’re going to fly to Córdoba. We should be back here by dark, and then Jack and I are on the 2315 Aerolineas flight to Miami,” Oliver said.
“Córdoba, or Alta Gracia?” Stephens said.
“Alta Gracia,” Oliver said.
“Whose idea is that?”
“Actually, it was a pointed suggestion from Colonel Felter,” Oliver said.
“It’s probably a good idea, but don’t expect to see much,” Stephens said. “I’ve taken that tour myself. You’re going to have a guide, I hope?”
“Oh, sure.”
“I presume the apartments meet your approval?” Stephens asked.
“They’re very nice,” Zammoro said.
“And convenient, too,” Stephens said. “You can probably have lunch with your old buddy a lot.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your old pal’s office is at Leandro Alem, 26. That’s just a couple of blocks from here.”
“What’s that?” Oliver said.
“Large office building,” Stephens said. “Lots of people—in and out of uniform—standing around just inside the door and on the loading dock holding submachine guns. There’s a rumor going around it’s SIDE’s secret headquarters.”
Jack chuckled.
“I’ll send a car to the transient quarters at nine,” Stephens said. “Give my regards to Miami.”
He tossed a large stack of keys to Zammoro and walked out of the apartment.
XVI
[ ONE ]
Córdoba
Córdoba Province, Argentina
0955 6 February 1965
“Córdoba,” Lieutenant Colonel Guillermo Rangio announced, “is the second largest city in Argentina, and the capital of Córdoba province. It is also the site of our aircraft factory, another expensive legacy of General Perón. Everybody knows and admits that it would be cheaper and more efficient to buy all our military aircraft from you Americans, or the British, than to try to make them ourselves, but if we did that, it would put a lot of people out of work here. And, another legacy of the general, the unions here are second in power only to the military, so the politicians throw our money away on our aircraft factory.”
Everyone in the L-23 smiled.
He was sitting in the copilot’s seat beside de la Santiago, wearing, like the others, a green coverall garment officially described as a “US Army Suit, Flight, Summer.”
“There it is,” he said, pointing out the window. “When we land, we will be directed to a hangar. With a little bit of luck, no journalist will see us land.”
“Would that be a problem, Colonel?” Oliver asked.
“It would be all over the front page of CLARIN—which is our New York Daily News—tomorrow that Yankee spies were down here brazenly stealing Argentine technology while SIDE did nothing about it.”
De la Santiago reached for the microphone and requested approach and landing instructions.
They were met at the end of the runway by a follow-me pickup truck, which led them to a hangar whose doors were wide open. De la Santiago shut off the engines and a dozen ground crewmen pushed the airplane into the hangar and turned it around. The hangar doors closed.
Jack Portet, who had ridden in the rearmost seat, opened the door and got out of the airplane. Two men in uniform approached.
“Good morning,” Jack said.
Both replied in English.
“Good morning,” one said.
“Welcome to Córdoba,” the other said.
Otmanio got out next, followed by Oliver, then Rangio, Zammoro, and finally de la Santiago.
The two officers saluted Rangio, then embraced him.
Rangio put his arm around Zammoro.
“This is my dear friend Julio Zammoro,” he said in English. “Formerly Major in the Cuban Army, and now an officer of the United States Army. My wife wept when she learned Castro has her friend Señora Zammoro on the Isla de Pinos.”
Both officers saluted Zammoro, and then, shaking their heads in what could have been compassion or outrage, and was probably both, shook his hand.
Rangio motioned de la Santiago over to him.
“This is Enrico de la Santiago,” he said, “formerly Captain of the Cuban Air Force, now also a U.S. Army officer. Dr. Guevara personally murdered his grandfather with Enrico’s grandmother and mother watching.”
Both officers saluted de la Santiago, and again shook their heads as they shook his hand.
“And this is Sergeant First Class Otmanio,” Rangio said. Otmanio saluted. “He is in the United States Special Forces, as are these gentlemen, Captain Oliver and Lieutenant Portet.”
Salutes and handshakes were again exchanged.
“They are all here at the request of General Pistarini,” Rangio went on. “To help us with a certain problem. Since you know we are going to Alta Gracia, I don’t think I have to put a name on the problem, nor point out the importance of discretion vis-à-vis their presence here.”
“No, sir,” the two said, almost in unison.
“The ugly one, gentlemen,” Rangio said, “is my deputy for this area, Major Ricardo Javez. And the other, really ugly one, Colonel Paolo Lamm, heads the Policía Federal in Córdoba Province. He is my wife’s cousin.”
Hands were shaken all around again.
“The cars are ready? And luncheon is arranged for?” Rangio asked.
“Yes, sir,” the two said, again almost in unison.
“Well, then, gentlemen,” Rangio said. “I suggest we get on with the tour.”
He started taking off his flight suit, and the others followed. Under them, they were in civilian clothing. They tossed the flight suits into the L-23.
Three cars were waiting outside the hangar, a 1963 Buick and two 1962 Chevrolets. Rangio got behind the wheel of one of the Chevrolets and motioned Zammoro and Oliver to get in with him. Major Javez got behind the wheel of the second Chevrolet, and Jack, de la Santiago, and Otmanio got in with him. Colonel Lamm got in the Buick alone and, leading the little convoy, drove off.
There were signs all along the two-lane highway, posting a 110-km (about 70-mph) speed limit, and there were two gendarmerie posts along the thirty-mile road to Alta Gracia. The speed limits were ignored, and the little convoy sailed past the gendarmerie so fast the gendarmes barely had time to recognize the Policía Federal chief’s Buick and salute.
They came to Alta Gracia, a town of about 30,000 people, and drove through its streets until they came to a residential area. The right turn signal on Colonel Lamm’s Buick flashed. The two Chevrolets pulled to the curb and stopped. The Buick continued on.
Rangio got out of the his car and walked to the car behind him.
“The house directly across from here is where Dr. Guevara spent his childhood and early manhood,” he said, indicating a small, well-cared-for house with a covered verandah behind a fence. “His parents still live in that house. From here, we will go to his parish elementary school, San Tomas Aquinas; and to his secondary school, San Pedro y San Paolo; and the football field where he tried to play football. He had asthma, which made it difficult for him, but he tried. He went from here to Buenos Aires, where he attended the university—which I have already shown you—and earned the degree of doctor of medicine.”
A man came out of the house to the right of the Guevara de la Serna residence, and stood by the door and watched them.
Rangio got back in his car, gave them two minutes to study the house, and then drove off on the tour he had promised. They went into both schools, and into both churches. In the parish church of Saint Thomas Aquinas, Rangio led them down the aisle to the altar.
“Dr. Guevara was an altar boy here,” he said. “What he has become very much distresses the priests and the good sisters, and they have no excuse for it.”
There were high-school-aged boys playing soccer on the soccer field, and they watched the game in sile
nce for several minutes before Rangio walked wordlessly back to his car and they drove off, back to Córdoba. Jack wondered what had happened to Colonel Lamm in the Buick, and decided that Lamm had felt his duties were over once he had shown them Guevara’s home.
They drove up to the Hotel Crillon in Córdoba and went inside.
They were shown to a private dining room off the main dining room. Colonel Lamm was already there, and so was the man who had come onto the porch of the house next to Guevara’s.
Rangio pointed to a table laden with wine bottles.
“I understand that Enrico will be flying,” Rangio said, nodding at de la Santiago, “so he gets no wine. But for the rest of us . . . Unless someone would prefer whiskey?”
A waiter pulled a cork and poured a sample for Rangio’s approval. He sipped it, nodded his approval, and the waiter began to fill glasses.
“The wine is from Córdoba Province,” Rangio said. “We like to think our Argentine wine is as good as any.”
He waited until everyone had a glass, then raised his glass to the man who had come out on his porch to watch them.
“I would like to thank Señor Manuelo Frotzi for joining us,” he said. “I happen to personally know that he is both a good Catholic and a patriot. He is in the difficult position of liking Ernesto Guevara de la Serna, who he watched grow up as the friend of his son Reynaldo, who is now a captain in the 1st Regiment of Grenadiers, stationed in Buenos Aires. I will arrange for Zammoro, de la Santiago, and Otmanio to meet with Capitán Frotzi in the next few days.”
Señor Frotzi smiled uneasily at them.
“Unfortunately, Señor Frotzi doesn’t speak English very fluently, ” Rangio went on, “but Colonel Lamm has explained to him who you are and what you are doing here, and thought he might be of some service to you.”
Everybody shook Frotzi’s hand.
Jack wondered if Frotzi really wanted to be helpful, or whether it was an invitation he couldn’t refuse.
Over lunch, it quickly became apparent that Rangio’s description of him was accurate. Frotzi was torn between his affection for Guevara, whom he had obviously looked upon as sort of another son, and at least embarrassment, and possibly shame, that “his” nice young man had turned into a communist revolutionary.
The picture Frotzi painted—his English was much better than Rangio had suggested; only an occasional translation was necessary—was that Che Guevara had had a perfectly normal childhood, marred only by the restrictions his asthma imposed on his athletics. There had been no indication, even, of leftist leanings, although his father and mother had supported the socialist-like programs of Juan Perón.
In the last serious talk he had had with him, Frotzi related, when Guevara was nearing the end of his medical education, he had candidly told him that he intended to stay in Buenos Aires, because doctors in the country had a hard time making a living, much less a lot of money.
The luncheon meeting lasted over two hours, and the array of wine bottles had just about been depleted when Rangio ended it.
“The norteamericano officers are flying home tonight; we’re going to have to start back to Buenos Aires.” He looked around the table. “Any last questions?”
No one replied.
“Sergeant Otmanio, you haven’t said very much,” Rangio said. “No questions?”
“Colonel,” Otmanio said, just a little thickly. “I been sitting here trying to figure this clown out.”
By the end of the sentence, it was obvious that Otmanio had done more than his fair share of depleting the wine supply.
“How is that, Sergeant?” Rangio said, not quite able to restrain a smile.
“I grew up in Spanish Harlem in New York, Colonel,” Otmanio said. “Compared to what I had, Guevara has had it really knocked all of his life. He lives in a nice house, he goes to church, he doesn’t do dope, he goes to medical school, and he wants to turn this country communist? From what I’ve seen, Colonel, all you Argentines want to do is eat, drink wine, and make babies. He knows what happens when the Communists take over. The first thing they do—I saw this all the time in Vietnam, and so did you, Captain Oliver—is blow away the nice people—like de la Santiago’s grandfather, like Señor Frotzi, like his own father and mother, for Christ’s sake! Where’s he coming from? What the fuck is wrong with the sonofabitch?”
Oliver rolled his eyes. Otmanio saw this.
“Well, shit, Captain,” Otmanio said. “He asked me.”
Rangio chuckled.
’’’Eat, drink wine, and make babies’?” Rangio quoted. “An astute observation of the Argentine people, Sergeant.” He paused, then went on seriously. “I have asked myself the same question—why? why?—many times, and never found an answer. If I had an answer, maybe it would be easier for people like you and me to stop him. And others like him. But then, Sergeant, what would people like you and me do for a living?”
Rangio stood up and looked at his watch.
“It’s time we were going,” he said.
[ TWO ]
Ezeiza International Airport
Buenos Aires, Argentina
2310 6 February 1965
Army Regulations provide that when junior officers such as Captain John S. Oliver and Lieutenant Jacques Portet are traveling on official business, they will be provided with the most economical passage. This translated to mean that Oliver was in Aerolineas Argentina’s flight 7201’s seat 39B, separated from the window on his left by one fellow passenger, and from the aisle on his right by another fellow passenger. Lieutenant Porter was similarly seated in 39E, on the other side of the aisle, one seat away from the window and one seat from the aisle.
It was going to be a long—nine-hours-plus in the air—and somewhat crowded flight to Miami.
A white-jacketed steward came down the aisle and stopped at row 39.
“Captain Oliver?”
“That’s me.”
“Will you come with me, please, Captain?”
“What’s up?” Oliver asked.
The steward turned across the aisle and asked Lieutenant Portet if he would come with him.
Captain Oliver and Lieutenant Portet met in the aisle.
“What the hell is going on?” Portet asked. Oliver shrugged.
They followed the steward up the aisle to the door, where he turned and bowed them into the first-class compartment.
A man they had never seen before smiled.
“I am sure if Colonel Rangio were here, he would be mortified that there was some sort of mix-up,” he said. “Your seat change should have been made before you boarded.”
He pointed to two large, leather-upholstered first-class seats. “That’s for us?” Oliver asked.
“Colonel Rangio hopes that you have a pleasant flight, and will see you soon again,” the man said. “And he thought that since you liked our Argentine wine, you might like to try some of our champagne.”
He thrust a large paper bag at Oliver, who looked in and saw four foil-necked champagne bottles.
“He also hopes that you will be good enough to take a bottle to Colonel Lowell and Major Lunsford,” the man said.
“Certainly,” Oliver said.
“And that you will be good enough to deliver this to Colonel Lowell,” the man said.
He handed Oliver a white envelope. It was not sealed and was not addressed.
“Certainly,” Oliver said. “I’d be happy to.”
He put the envelope in his suit jacket pocket.
The man put out his hand.
“I, too, hope you have a very pleasant flight,” he said, shook their hands, and walked to the aircraft door.
Johnny bowed Jack into the window seat, then sat down himself.
A stewardess appeared with two glasses of champagne.
“Champagne? Or would you rather wait until we’re in the air?”
“Seize the opportunity, I always say,” Jack said, taking a glass. “Thank you very much.”
There was a whining noise.
“He’s starting Inboard Two,” Jack said. “Drink up.”
“I wonder what’s in the envelope?” Oliver said when they were still climbing to cruise altitude and the champagne had been replaced with a glass of Johnny Walker Black.
“It wasn’t sealed,” Jack said.
“I noticed,” Oliver said. “On one hand, it would be reading somebody else’s mail.”
“And on the other,” Jack said, “I’m sure you remember what Mr. Stephens said about lying, stealing, cheating, and worse, being part of this territory.”
“You are a corrupting influence, Lieutenant,” Oliver said, and took the envelope from his jacket pocket.
It contained two typewritten pages.
This is list of some of the personnel who will participate in the Cuban operation in the former Belgian Congo. I understand the American CIA rates the reliability of information of this nature on a scale of one to five, five being the most reliable. By that criteria, this information would be FIVE.
With the exception of Guevara, who is believed to be in or en route to Paris, all of the officers and most of the enlisted men are in one of the training camps secretly established in Pina del Rio Province, and identified as Pita 1, Pita 2, and Pita 3. Pita 2 and Pita 3 are still under construction.
In the parentheses following the officer’s rank is the Swahili name these individuals will use in the Operation. One might logically deduce they have someone fluent in Swahili available to them.
1. Guevara, Ernesto de la Serna Major (Tatu)No comment considered necessary
2. Dreke, Victor Major (Moja)Although he is not a professional officer, Dreke is a highly skilled guerrilla, who served with Castro and Guevara in the Sierra Maestra. He is a dedicated Communist, and a close and trusted friend of both Guevara and Castro.
Until this assignment, he has been Deputy Commandant of the Fight Against Bands of Counterrevolutionaries (Acronym from the Spanish, LCB). He is not adverse to executing persons believed to be counterrevolutionaries on the spot when and where detected.
Special Ops Page 51
