"That will be along after a while," Lowell said.

"Will you excuse me just a moment, Mr. Lowell?" the desk clerk said.

A moment later a man in formal clothing appeared in front of the desk.

"Mr. Lowell, I am Dominic Frizzelli, the assistant manager. I would like to apologize for our driver not being able to find you."

"A friend met us; it was no problem. And I very much appreciate your courtesy in sending it."

"You are very gracious. If you'll come with me, please?"

He led them to an elevator, which took them directly to the foyer of a suite on the top floor.

The suite was large and elegantly furnished, and its windows provided a view of the ancient trees in Plaza San Martin, and, beyond, of the River Plate. There was a large basket of fruit and a bottle of champagne in a silver cooler. The suite was not as large nor as elegantly furnished as their accommodations in the Circulo Militar.

"This is very nice," Lowell said.

"Mr. Delaplaine of the Bank of Boston personally inspected it, sir, and thought you would find it satisfactory. This is where they often accommodate their distinguished visitors."

"How kind of Mr. Delaplaine," Lowell said. "If you see him before I do, will you express my gratitude?"

"Of course, sir."

"We may not be back tonight," Lowell said. "I suspect we'll be asked to spend the night."

"I understand perfectly, sir."

The Buick was parked exactly where they had left it in the passageway.

"Okay," Lowell said to the driver. "I am now ready to be humiliated by Argentine polo players."

"Oh, I'm sure," the driver said, missing the intended humor completely, "that nothing like that will happen, mi coronel. mi coronel."

"It doesn't look much like Fort Bragg, does it?" Lunsford asked after they had entered the parklike Campo de Mayo. "I'm beginning to think I'm in the wrong army."

Lowell chuckled.

"And I'm really beginning to think you're in the wrong business, " Lunsford went on. "You could really live like that all the time, couldn't you?"

"And be bored out of my mind, sure," Lowell said. "And I'm going to get a large piece of Lieutenant Craig's ass for that suite at the Plaza."

"What's he got to do with it?"

"He's been down here a couple of times with his father, so I told him to get us a nice hotel."

"Well, he did that."

"We didn't need a suite arranged for by the Bank of Boston," Lowell said. "The last thing I need is bankers-worse, journalists-chasing me around asking for my opinion of world economic affairs, or the trends in sow belly futures."

"I get the point," Lunsford said. "Hell, he was probably just trying to be nice."

"I'd feel a lot better if I wasn't beginning to question his smarts," Lowell said.

Lunsford raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

The Buick pulled up before a long, red-tile-roofed building, surrounded by a verandah, and as the driver opened the door, Teniente Coronel Ricardo Fosterwood came off the verandah and down the shrubbery-lined walk toward them.

Fosterwood was dressed for polo, in a white polo shirt, white breeches, and boots. And these, Lowell saw, were the battered boots of a polo player, rather than the glistening boots of a cavalry officer.

"Pray for me," Lowell said softly. "I suspect I am about to get my ass kicked."

"Colonel," Fosterwood said. "I'm glad to see you again, and you, Major."

"It's good to be here."

He waved them toward the building. As they approached the verandah, another man dressed for polo got out of a wicker armchair and waited for them.

"Colonel Lowell," he said, holding out his hand. "How good of you to come. I am Pascual Pistarini."

"It was very good of you to ask us, General," Lowell said. "May I introduce my assistant, Major George W. Lunsford?"

"And it is a pleasure to meet you, Major," Pistarini said. "I understand you are not a polo player?"

"No, sir, I am not," Father said.

"Then may I suggest that you join me here, and I will attempt to explain the game to you, while Ricardo takes your colonel and does his best to get him suited up?"

"You're very kind, sir," Lunsford said.

"And if you will be good enough to come with me, mi coronel mi coronel?" Fosterwood said, motioning toward the door to the building.

"Inasmuch, mi coronel, mi coronel," Lowell said, "as we are both of the same rank, and you are about to learn what a terrible polo player I am, could you find it in your heart to call me by my Christian name? Craig?"

General Pistarini laughed.

"Of course, Craig," Fosterwood said. "My friends-and if I may say so, I consider you one already-call me Ricky."

They shook hands, smiled, and Ricky waved Craig into the building.

Just inside the door were two soldiers in fatigues and web gear carrying automatic rifles, and there were others, officers, in fatigue uniform and armed with pistols and submachine guns in the large foyer of the building.

"Polo fans, no doubt?" Craig said to Ricky.

"There is, as I mentioned, a small internal problem at the moment, " Fosterwood said uneasily. "What is the cliche? 'Better safe than sorry'?"

"Are you a betting man, Ricky?"

"Every once in a while I make a small wager, yes. Why do you ask?"

"I'll give you five to one the Brazilians don't let him leave the country for anywhere but Spain."

Fosterwood, although he tried hard, could not keep his surprise off his face.

"Excuse me?" he said after a moment.

Lowell smiled at him.

"How good a polo player is General Pistarini?" he asked.

"He has a six-goal handicap," Fosterwood said, almost visibly relieved the subject had been changed.

"The locker room is right this way, Craig," he went on. "Unless you would like a little something to drink first?"

"I think, under the circumstances, that alcohol would not be wise," Craig said. "After the game . . ."

When Craig rode onto the field-which he saw was manicured, but bore the marks of frequent use-he saw that the tile-roofed building also had a verandah on the polo field side. Officers and their wives were sitting, waiting for the game to begin, at tables on it.

There was also a balcony cut into the attic of the building, providing a better view of the field, obviously for senior officers and their wives. There were four tables under umbrellas. No one was sitting at any of the tables.

And he saw, standing at maybe thirty-yard intervals against the ten-foot-high shrubbery that lined both sides of the field, more soldiers in field gear and carrying automatic rifles.

Peron really has these people worried. What if he manages to get back in, and takes over the country again? Where's that going to leave me?

Your immediate problem, Craig, my boy, is not to fall off your horse while playing far out of your league. Worry about that.

Not only is this a first-class shower room, Lowell thought an hour and a half later, standing in a large, tile-walled shower stall under a powerful stream of hot water, Lowell thought an hour and a half later, standing in a large, tile-walled shower stall under a powerful stream of hot water, but there is obviously an even better one reserved for the commander-in-chief of the Argentina Army. I don't see him here, and he needed a shower just about as bad as I do. but there is obviously an even better one reserved for the commander-in-chief of the Argentina Army. I don't see him here, and he needed a shower just about as bad as I do.

Fosterwood, now wearing a polo shirt and slacks, was waiting for him in the locker room.

"You are too modest, Craig," he said. "Of our five goals, two were yours."

"God takes care of fools and drunks, Ricky, and I qualify on both counts."

Fosterwood laughed delightedly.

That's a funny line, but not that funny.

"I will have to remember that," Fosterwood said. "When you're finished dressing, the general asks that you join him."

Fosterwood led him up a stairway to the upper-level balcony. Pistarini, dressed in slacks and a polo shirt like Fosterwood, was sitting in a wicker chair at one of the tables with Father Lunsford and a ruddy-faced man of forty-odd in a suit. There were glass mugs of beer sitting in front of Lunsford and the ruddy-faced man.

And there were two soldiers in field gear with automatic rifles, standing in the inside corners of the area, simultaneously scanning the area and trying to make themselves inconspicuous.

Pistarini rose to his feet, smiled, and offered Lowell his hand.

"We have a rule that anyone who scores two or more goals can cut the dust of the trail with absolutely anything he desires," he said.

"In that case, I will have a large glass of water, followed by a glass, perhaps two, of your excellent Argentine champagne," Lowell said.

Fosterwood went to fill the order.

"Oh, excuse me, Hans," Pistarini said, in German, to the ruddy-faced man and then switched to English. "Lieutenant Colonel Lowell, may I present my friend Colonel Hans Friedrich Stumpff, the German military attache?"

Lowell rose from his wicker chair.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Herr Oberst," Lowell said in German.

"And I you, Herr Oberstleutnant. Are you with the U.S. Embassy? "

"No, Herr Oberst, Major Lunsford and I are just visiting the army attache," Lowell said, shook Stumpff's hand, and sat down again.

"You must be a cavalryman," Stumpff said. "You're a very good polo player."

"I'm an armor officer, Herr Oberst. As I'm sure you know, our cavalry now rides helicopters."

"I have been watching that development with great interest," Stumpff said.

"As have I," Pistarini said, now in German. "It is one of the things I look forward talking to Colonel Lowell about."

Fosterwood reappeared, trailed by a young soldier in a white jacket carrying a tray with glasses, and a second carrying a champagne cooler.

The glasses were filled, and touched together.

"To old friends and new," Pistarini said.

"Hear, hear," Fosterwood said.

Pistarini took a sip of his champagne and looked at his watch.

"I really had no idea it was so late," he said. "Hans, I need a word with Colonel Lowell, and we are both pressed for time. Would you be offended if I asked Teniente Coronel Fosterwood to take you and Major Lunsford to the bar?"

"Absolutely not," Stumpff said, immediately getting to his feet.

Lunsford looked at Lowell for guidance. Lowell just perceptibly nodded his head.

"Ricky, I think we'll need another bottle of the champagne," Pistarini said. "And then will you see we're not disturbed?"

"Yes, sir," Fosterwood said.

When they had gone, and another champagne cooler had been delivered, Pistarini looked directly at Lowell.

"You had never met my friend Stumpff before, had you, Colonel?"

"I never had the privilege of meeting the colonel before, sir."

"Interesting man," Pistarini said. "As is Major Lunsford. Stumpff and I both tried to draw him out, and got hardly anywhere. What is it he does in the Army, Colonel?"

"He's a Special Forces officer, sir."