She went in search of a pay telephone, found one outside the apartment complex manager's office, and then found that she didn't have any change to feed it.

She went in search of a shopping center, found one, with pay phones outside, and then had to wait in the checkout line to get five dollars' worth of silver for the pay phones.

There was still no ETA on Jack, and Marjorie knew she had hurt Patricia Hanrahan's feelings again when she declined the invitation to come out to the post and wait for him there.

"God, you ought to know, baby, you never know when they're going to show up."

"I'm getting the apartment set up," Marjorie said. "But I really appreciate it."

She went back into the supermarket to buy just enough food to get by until she could really go shopping, and at the commissary at Bragg, of course, to save money. By the time she was finished, the shopping cart was overloaded.

She had a little trouble getting the supermarket to accept check 0002, but finally beat the supermarket's manager down.

Whatever the other virtues of the Jaguar XKS, there is not much trunk space, and what there was was occupied by Marjorie's suitcases. She finally managed to get everything she had bought in the passenger compartment, but not before she had ruptured a milk carton, which gushed milk which would be sour in the morning and all over Jack's precious carpets unless she took them out tonight and washed them.

She telephoned the Hanrahans and General Hanrahan said there was still no ETA on Jack, but if his flight was aborted he would have heard. And why don't you come out and wait here?

She was halfway back to the Foster Garden Apartments complex when she realized that she had a bed and mattress and spring, but no pillows or sheets. And, for that matter, no towels.

Back to the shopping center, where Bed & Bath had some very nice sheets and pillows and nice big thick terry towels, but absolutely refused to take check number 0003.

That left her with $19.40, until she noticed she was almost out of gas. She purchased $9.40 cents of gasoline and drove home.

She put the groceries in her new refrigerator. She slid the pieces of her bed out of their long cardboard box, managed to get them more or less together, and then reached the inevitable conclusion that there was no way she could get her new Simmons Best Quality king size mattress and spring on it by herself, so she took it apart.

When she cut the cardboard box the mattress came in, the mattress fell out as she predicted it would. When she cut the cardboard box the spring came in, the falling spring gouged a hole in the freshly painted wall of the bedroom.

By then, she decided she needed a shower. That reminded her of the suitcases in the car, and she went to get them, which reminded her of the milk-soaked carpet. It took her two trips to get her suitcases from the car up the stairs to B-14, and another trip to get the carpet, which was already starting to smell.

She went down a final time to use the pay phone to call the Hanrahans.

This would be the last call, she decided. I am making a real pain in the ass of myself. I am making a real pain in the ass of myself.

There was no ETA on Jack.

When she started to unpack her clothing and hang things up behind the sliding doors of her new bedroom closet, there were no hangers.

She laid her clothing out as neatly as she could on the floor of Jack's office, then took a shower with Jack's carpet. That was made somewhat more difficult because the only soap in her new apartment came in a plastic bottle and was intended for use on dishes.

When she hung Jack's freshly washed carpet on the shower door, it was sufficiently heavy to cause the screws of its hinges to pull out.

I am not going to scream, and I am not going to cry. I am going to go out there, put my nightie on, get in my bed, and watch television until I hear from Jack.

And there is no reason to modestly wrap a towel around myself. I'm all alone. Oh, God, am I all alone!

She went into her bedroom and then started for Jack's office to get the goddamned nightgown. Halfway through her new living room, she heard a strange thumping noise and looked at the sliding glass door to the balcony.

Jack was standing there, in his flight suit, holding a bottle of champagne, his appreciation of her stark nudity written all over his face.

How did he know how to find the apartment? How the hell did he get up to the balcony? Answer: He's a Green Beret. They can do anything.

She finally managed to operate the door's lock, and slid it open. "Boy, talk about timing!" Jack said. "Shall we do it right here on the balcony, or do we have a bed?"

She threw herself into his arms.

After a moment, he asked, "Hey, baby. What's with the tears?"

"I'm happy," Marjorie said. "That's all. Welcome home, baby."

[ THREE ].

SECRET SECRETCentral Intelligence Agency Langley, VirginiaFROM : Assistant Director For Administration Assistant Director For AdministrationFROM: 7 January 1965 1415 GMT 7 January 1965 1415 GMTSUBJECT : Guevara, Ernesto (Memorandum #32.) Guevara, Ernesto (Memorandum #32.) TO: Mr. Sanford T. Felter Mr. Sanford T. Felter Counselor To The President Room 637, The Executive Office Building Washington, D.C.By CourierIn compliance with Presidential Memorandum to The Director, Subject: "Ernesto 'Che' Guevara," dated 14 December 1964, the following information is furnished:1. (Reliability Scale Five) (From CIA Conraky, Guinea) SUBJECT met at 1945 GMT 6 January 1965 with Guinean President Sekou TOURe at the presidential palace. Also present was Senghor a LABE, President of Senegal.2. (Reliability Scale Three) (From CIA sources) Both TOURe and a LABE expressed sympathy for African liberation movements, but neither requested any kind of assistance from SUBJECT to achieve liberation, nor offered any Guinean or Senegalese help, even though SUBJECT repeatedly suggested Cubans could safely offer aid covertly.

Howard W. O'Connor HOWARD W. O'CONNORSECRET [ FOUR ].

Room 637, The Executive Office Building Washington, D.C.

1505 10 January 1965 Room 637 actually was a small suite. There was an outer office, with room for two desks, facing each other, with room to pass between them; two filing cabinets against one wall, and a battered leather couch against the other. Next to the couch there was a clothes tree and a door leading to a small washroom. Directly across from the door to the corridor was a door leading to the inner office. It was smaller than the outer office, and held a desk pushed up against the wall, two straight-backed chairs, and a clothes tree.

Chief Warrant Officer James L. Finton sat at one of the desks in the outer office, and Miss Mary Margaret Dunne at the other.

Five minutes before one of the telephones-the one connected to the White House Secure telephone switchboard-had rung, and when she answered it, a male voice had demanded, without any other preliminaries, "Is Felter there?"

"Yes, Mr. President," Mary Margaret had replied.

The line had gone dead.

Mary Margaret had immediately informed the colonel of the call and she had been keeping one eye on the telephone ever since, expecting a second call, ordering the colonel to immediately report to the Oval Office, or the Presidential Apartments, or the private entrance to the White House, or the lawn, where the helicopters landed.

The door to 637 opened, and the President of the United States walked in.

"Afternoon," he said to Mary Margaret.

"Wait here," he said to the two Secret Service agents who followed him into the office.

"Stand at ease, son," he said to CWO Finton, who had popped to rigid attention behind his desk.

"There?" he asked of Mary Margaret, pointing to the washroom door.

"There, Mr. President," Mary Margaret said, pointing to the door to the colonel's office.

The President walked to the door and opened it without knocking.

The three men in the room, two of them in uniform, stood up.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President," Felter said. "I didn't know you were coming here, sir."

"I needed a breath of fresh air," Johnson said, "and I realized I had never seen your office. So here I am."

"Yes, sir."

"This is a pretty shitty office," Johnson said. "You want me to get you a better one?"

"This serves my needs very well, sir. But thank you."

Johnson turned to look at the two men in uniform.

"Well," the President said, offering his hand to one of them. "Look who's here! And looking a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you. How are you, Major?"

"Very well, thank you, sir," Father Lunsford said.

"Who are you?" the President inquired of the other man in uniform.

"My name is Lowell, Mr. President," Craig Lowell said.

"I've been hearing about you," he said. "You don't look like an investment banker."

"I try not to, Mr. President," Lowell replied.

"They told me about that," the President said, and then stabbed at Lowell's chest with his finger. "But not about that. I guess the Distinguished Service Cross doesn't fit in with the picture somebody was-just a couple of minutes ago-trying to paint of you as a Wall Street investment banker playing at being a soldier."

Lowell didn't respond directly.

"Permission to withdraw, Mr. President?" he asked.

"I'll tell you when you can, Colonel," Lyndon Johnson said sharply.

"Yes, sir."

"Your uniform looks like you slept in it, Colonel," Johnson said.

"Yes, sir, I did," Lowell said.

"You just flew up here from Buenos Aires?"

"Yes, sir."

Johnson turned to Lunsford.

"You were with him, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"I heard that Lowell was down there with another guy; they didn't have your name. What the hell were you doing down there?"

Lunsford looked uncomfortable, as if he was phrasing his reply.

"You can tell me," Johnson said sarcastically. "I'm the President. "

"Sir, we were seeking the cooperation of the Argentine government with regard to Che Guevara," Lunsford said.

"The last I heard, Colonel Felter," Johnson said, looking at him, "we have an ambassador down there who's paid to deal with the Argentine government."

"I'm afraid Major Lunsford misspoke, Mr. President," Felter said. "Colonel Lowell and Major Lunsford met, unofficially, with General Pistarini."

"Who's he?"

"Commander-in-chief of the Argentine Army, sir."

"Doesn't the chief of the Army down there take his orders from the President?"

"In a manner of speaking, Mr. President, President Illia of Argentina serves at the pleasure of General Pistarini," Felter said.

"He's another Peron, in other words?"

"No, sir," Felter said. "From what I know of him, and from what Colonel Lowell and Major Lunsford have been telling me about him, he is not at all like Juan Peron."

"In what way different?" Johnson asked.

"For one thing, if he considers a coup to remove President Illia necessary in the best interests of Argentina, he will order the coup with great personal reluctance, and appoint someone else-probably General Ongania-to the presidency. Peron, on the other hand, would like to be president for the sake of Juan Peron."

Johnson turned to Lowell.

"You talked to this guy-Pistarini, you said?-and he told you this?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you believed him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why?"

"It was in the wee hours of the morning, Mr. President, and we'd all had a good deal to drink."

"You were drinking with this Pistarini at three, four o'clock in the morning?" Johnson parroted wonderingly. He chuckled. "You got along with him pretty good, huh?"

"Yes, sir," Lowell said, and then blurted, "It was all I could do to keep him from giving me a medal."

"Why would he want to do that?" Johnson asked.

"That was never made clear, sir," Lowell said. "But at three o'clock in the morning, General Pistarini seemed to think that decorating both Major Lunsford and myself was a splendid idea."

Johnson shook his head and smiled.