That morning, when he had reported to Coronel Martín for duty, Sargento Lascano had been issued a leather-bound photo identification card identifying him as an agent of the Bureau of Internal Security. He had also been issued a .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol manufactured in Argentina under license from Colt Firearms of Hartford, Connecticut, USA, and a shoulder holster.
“Sí, Señor.”
“I’ll probably be about fifteen minutes, Manuel,” Martín said. “With a little luck, ten.”
“Sí, Señor.”
Martín entered the men’s locker room, resisted the temptation to have a beer at the bar just inside, and went to his locker and stripped off his clothing.
The man he was looking for was not in the locker room.
I’m going to need a shower anyway. Why not?
Five minutes later, he came out of the tile-walled shower room, a towel around his waist. The man he was looking for, middle-aged, muscular, balding, was now in the locker room, sitting by his open locker, also wearing only a towel.
“Well, look who’s here,” Santiago Nervo said, almost sarcastically cordial. “Buenas tardes, mi Coronel.”
Commissario Santiago Nervo was, more or less, Martín’s peer in the Policía Federal, in charge of their Special Investigations Division.
Martín did not particularly like him, and he was sure that Nervo felt much the same way about him. Policemen don’t like soldiers, particularly soldiers in the intelligence business, which they believe should be their responsibility. And intelligence officers don’t like policemen whose jurisdiction sometimes conflicts with their own.
“Putting on a little weight, aren’t you, Santiago?” Martín said, offering his hand.
“Screw you,” Nervo said without rancor, and turned to his locker and took an envelope from it.
“You can have that,” he said. “You owe me.”
Martín opened the envelope. It contained a single sheet of paper.
* * *
1623 ARENALES
APARTMENT 5B
45-707
MARIA TERESA ALSINA
2103 SANTA FE
APARTMENT 4H
DOB 16 MAY 1928
* * *
It was the address and telephone number of an apartment building. Martín searched his memory a moment and came up with a mental image. It was at the corner of Arenales and Coronel Díaz in Barrio Norte, a northern suburb of the city.
“You’re sure about this, Santiago?” Martín asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure. I saw el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón go in there myself.”
“Sixteen May 1928. That makes her fifteen,” Martín said.
“Next month, she’ll be fifteen,” Nervo said. “Well, you know what they say, if they’re big enough to bleed, they’re big enough to butcher.”
“Who else knows about this?”