"White House Secure," a male voice said.

"Two-two-seven, please."

"Mr. Finton speaking, sir."

"Finton, Lowell."

"Yes, sir?"

"Is he there?"

"I can reach him in ninety seconds, sir."

"Get a message to him. Ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Life insurance sold, but the defense attache here, an Air Force absolute asshole colonel named McGrory, is going to screw things up, and he has to be told firmly and immediately to butt out."

"I'll take care of it, Colonel."

"The operative word, Finton, is immediately."

"I'll take care of it, Colonel," Mr. Finton said. "Anything else, sir?"

"No. That's it."

"Yes, sir," Mr. Finton said.

There was a click on the line.

"White House Secure. Have you finished?" the male operator asked.

"Yes, I have, thank you," Lowell said, and hung the telephone up.

He looked at Colonel Harris.

"Sir, I regret my intemperate language."

"Colonel, I think that's what's known as calling a spade a spade," Colonel Harris said. "Do you think it's going to work?"

"I devoutly hope so," Lowell said.

"Why don't you take a few minutes to collect your thoughts before reporting to Colonel McGrory?" Colonel Harris suggested. "Can I offer you and the major a cup of coffee?"

"That would be very kind, sir. And if you happen to have an Alka-Seltzer, something like that?"

"The colonel and the major were out until the wee hours last night," Stephens said.

"Coming right up," Harris said.

"For two, please, sir," Father chimed in.

"So you sold our friend the life insurance, huh?" Stephens asked. "I didn't have a clue whether you were going to get away with that."

"You're curious about that, are you, Mr. Stephens?" Lowell asked.

"What I'm curious about is what's inside that building," Stephens said. "It sure doesn't look a place for an all-night party."

"Just some old soldiers sitting around swapping war stories," Lowell said. "You know how that goes."

Stephens chuckled.

I'm probably not thinking too clearly, Lowell thought, Lowell thought, but obviously Stephens has put together (a) Felter has got the CIA doing a "where-is-he" on Guevara with (b) that I'm in that loop and with (c) that I'm talking about it with Pistarini and SIDE and with (d) that I reported to Felter that I sold the life insurance. And he's come up with Felter's surrogate has sold the Argentines on not blowing Guevara away. Langley will hear about that, and probably within the next fifteen minutes. but obviously Stephens has put together (a) Felter has got the CIA doing a "where-is-he" on Guevara with (b) that I'm in that loop and with (c) that I'm talking about it with Pistarini and SIDE and with (d) that I reported to Felter that I sold the life insurance. And he's come up with Felter's surrogate has sold the Argentines on not blowing Guevara away. Langley will hear about that, and probably within the next fifteen minutes.

You don't get to be the CIA station chief anywhere unless you're bright as hell, and this guy's brighter than most, and that selling life insurance line didn't need a rocket scientist to figure out. selling life insurance line didn't need a rocket scientist to figure out.

Question: Why didn't Felter arrange for me to have access to that secure radiotelephone? Why did he send that CIA report to Stephens to give to me?

Answer: (Probably severely influenced by most of a bottle of Argentine cognac, which went down as smoothly as Martel's best) Sandy Felter does not share my high opinion of the CIA or its station chiefs. He wanted the CIA to know I'm down here, hoped they would send the station chief a heads-up. And since that might not happen, and in any case the presumption was this guy couldn't find his ass with both hands, he set it up for him to find out himself. It would come to the CIA's attention that a visiting officer was sending classified material, and he would want to know what that's all about.

The CIA will now know that Pistarini-the C-in-C of the Argentina Army-is going along with him, and they can't bitch that he's interfering with their mission of making deals like this, because they don't officially know about it.

Felter, you Machiavellian sonofabitch!

"We do that in the U.S. Information Agency, too," Stephens said. "Sit around over a couple of drinks and tell propaganda stories, come up with the best way to win hearts and minds. You know how it is."

"Yeah." Lowell chuckled.

Colonel Harris handed him a glass with an Alka-Seltzer fizzing in its bottom.

"Sir," Lowell said. "You may just have saved my life."

"For example, apropos of nothing whatever, one of the times we were sitting around," Stephens said, "one of the guys said that Che Guevara . . . you know who I mean? The guy with the beard and the beret?"

"I've heard the name," Lowell said.

"Anyway, one of the guys said Guevara was going to give us hearts-and-minds problems, but maybe we would get lucky and he would have a fatal accident or something."

"And what did you say to that?"

"I said if the sonofabitch had an accident, he would become an international saint, and that would really give us hearts-and-minds problems."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, of course, Mr. Stephens, but as a shot in the dark, I'd say you're right on the money," Lowell said.

From the smile that just flickered across your lips, Colonel Harris, I don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that despite our cutesy-poo talking around the subject, you know exactly what Stephens and I are talking about. And if there are any questions unanswered, Stephens will answer them. And just as soon as Lunsford and I are out the door, you will tell Stephens what the L-23 is really for, and who the players are.

But we didn't tell Stephens, and he probably won't tell Langley, because if it came out they knew, Harris would have his ass in a crack. And if I can get Felter to keep that Air Force asshole out all of this, that's going to be very useful.

And you had that all figured out, Sandy, didn't you?

"How long are you going to be down here visiting Colonel Harris, Colonel?" Stephens asked. "I mean, if that's not classified and you can tell me?"

"Another couple of days, but not long."

"If there's anything I can do for you-like set up a tour of the sights of Buenos Aires for you-or anything else, let me know."

"I don't think there's going to be time for that," Lowell said. "But I'm sure the officers and noncoms who are going to be coming down here to join Colonel Harris would really like something like that."

"Consider it done," Stephens said. "Well, I'll leave you fellows alone. I know you've probably got military secrets and stuff like that to talk about."

He held out his hand.

"It's been a pleasure, Colonel," he said, and then we walked to Lunsford and tapped Lunsford's Silver Star.

"I heard where the last one came from, Major," he said. "If you ever want to change employers, give me a call."

He shook Lunsford's hand and walked out the door.

Major Charles Daley, USAF, knocked at the door of the defense attache, waited until permission to enter was granted, and then opened the door and stood in the center, almost at attention.

"Lieutenant Colonel Lowell to see you, sir."

"Permission granted," Colonel H. Robert McGrory said.

Lowell marched into the office, stopped thirty inches from Colonel McGrory's desk, came to attention, saluted, and said, "Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Lowell reporting to the defense attache as ordered."

McGrory crisply returned the salute.

"Major, I do not wish to be disturbed," he said.

"Yes, sir," Major Daley said, and left the office.

"You took your time getting here, Colonel," McGrory said. "I will want, of course, to get into the nature of your business with Mr. Stephens, but we will get to that in a moment."

Lowell, who was still standing at attention, his eyes focused six inches over McGrory's head, did not reply.

McGrory had a yellow lined pad on his desk. Lowell dropped his eyes very quickly, long enough to see that it was a list of his sins, which Colonel McGrory was arranging sequentially.

The door opened. Major Daley was standing in it.

"You may stand at ease, Colonel," McGrory said.

You sonofabitch, you didn't "forget" to put me at ease. If that major hadn't shown up, I'd still be at attention.

"Major Daley, I thought I made it clear that I did not wish to be disturbed."

"Sir, it's the vice chief of staff," Major Daley said.

"What?"

"It's the vice chief of staff of the Air Force, sir."

"Would you like me to step outside, Colonel?" Lowell asked.

"You stand right where you are!" McGrory flared, and added, "At attention."

Lowell popped to attention.

Colonel McGrory picked up his telephone.

"Colonel McGrory speaking, General," he said.

"Yes, sir. He's in my office at this moment, General."

"Yes, sir," Colonel McGrory said.

He repeated this at least ten times in the next ninety seconds, and then put the telephone back in its cradle.

He looked at Lowell. His face was white.

"My orders, Colonel, are to ask of you how I may be of service to your mission here. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, sir."

"In that case, we have nothing to discuss, do we?"

"I don't believe we do, sir."

"You may take your post, Colonel."

"Yes, sir," Lowell said. He saluted. The salute was returned. Lowell executed an about-face movement and walked out of Colonel McGrory's office.

As he passed Major Daley, he winked.

[ TWO ].

Dependent Services Branch Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff for Personnel Headquarters, XVIII Airborne Corps and Fort Bragg, North Carolina 0830 5 January 1965 It was not the first time she had registered a car on a post, and when Mrs. Marjorie Portet walked into the rambling, one-story frame building (built in 1940 and intended to last no more than ten years), she was reasonably convinced that she had everything that she would need with her.

First, a copy of Jack's orders assigning him (them, as she now thought of it) to Fort Bragg. The car's title. The certificate of insurance. A Xerox of his driver's license, and a just-issued-by-the -provost-marshal certificate that the Jaguar's headlights and stoplights worked and were properly adjusted; that the tires had an adequate amount of tread depth; that the brakes had an adequate amount of lining; that the horn made a proper amount of noise and the exhaust system did not make an excessive amount of noise and did not emit a cloud of noxious fumes. as she now thought of it) to Fort Bragg. The car's title. The certificate of insurance. A Xerox of his driver's license, and a just-issued-by-the -provost-marshal certificate that the Jaguar's headlights and stoplights worked and were properly adjusted; that the tires had an adequate amount of tread depth; that the brakes had an adequate amount of lining; that the horn made a proper amount of noise and the exhaust system did not make an excessive amount of noise and did not emit a cloud of noxious fumes.

There were people in line ahead of her, women "getting stickers" for the family car, and a half-dozen lower-ranking enlisted men, younger men who did not have a wife, a helpmate, a life's partner to get a sticker for them. It took her about fifteen minutes to reach the sergeant behind the desk.

She laid all the documentation out for him, including the neatly-filled-out-in-block-letters-with-ballpoint-pen Request for Privately Owned Vehicle Registration, in triplicate.