The uniform was waiting for him inside, with its new insignia in place.
This is the third time in three years I’ve been here. The last time was yesterday, when I came to see if they could take care of the insignia overnight. The time before that was three years ago, when I picked up this uniform, my present to myself, on my promotion to teniente coronel. I don’t think I’ve worn it a dozen times in three years.
And if I am growing middle-aged flab, the way Santiago Nervo is, and can’t get into this, then what?
Martín got back into the Dodge and ordered Lascano to take him to the Edificio Libertador.
When the car had stopped at a side entrance to the large, eleven-story building, Martín permitted Lascano to open the car’s door for him.
“Manuel, have you ever heard of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo?” Martín asked when he was standing by the side of the car.
“Sí, Señor.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Sí, Señor. Near Pila, in Buenos Aires Province.”
“And how would you get there from here?”
“Señor, I would need a map.”
“Where would you go for that?”
“To an ACA station, Señor,” Lascano replied, referring to the Automobile Club of Argentina.
Martín was again pleased with his choice of driver/bodyguard.
“Go to an ACA station now. Buy every road map they have on sale. Get a receipt. Turn in an expense voucher. You have cash?”
“Sí, Señor.”
“Personal or official?”
“Both, Señor.”
“When you have the maps, bring the one for Buenos Aires Province to my office, and I’ll mark Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and the best way to get there. The estancia is not on the ACA map.”
“Sí, Señor,” Lascano said. “Señor, are we going to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo? I will need fuel—”
“We may. In this business, one never knows where one might have to go, or when. So whenever there is the opportunity, make sure you have fuel, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Sí, Señor.”
Martín turned, and climbed a short flight of stairs to a metal door, carrying the bag with his uniform in it over his arm. A soldier in field gear, wearing a German-style steel helmet and with a Mauser rifle slung from his shoulder, pulled it open for him and came to attention, clicking his heels as Martín entered the building.
It made Martín a little uncomfortable, although he smiled at the soldier.
The soldier thinks he knows who I am, and that I am authorized to enter the building. The operative word is thinks. One of his officers—or more likely one of the sergeants of the guard—has apparently told him that a “civilian” entering the building through this door, of such and such a height and description, is actually a coronel of the Bureau of Internal Security, and should not be subjected to close scrutiny.
But how does he know, without actually checking my credentials at least once—and if this soldier had done that, I would have remembered—that I am that BIS officer?
The answer is he doesn’t. It is one of the problems of the Army…and, for that matter, of Argentina. Even before he entered the Army, he was taught that it is not wise to question your superiors. That it is wise to give your superiors—and to this country boy in
uniform, the fact that I am wearing a suit and have a car with a driver makes me a superior—the benefit of the doubt.
Martín walked down a long corridor almost to the center of the building, then rode an elevator to the ninth floor. There two BIS men in the elevator foyer did in fact examine him carefully before popping to attention in their civilian clothing.
“Buenas tardes, mi Coronel,” the older of them, Warrant Officer Federico Attiria, said.