The red telephone—one of three—on Martín’s desk buzzed, and he picked it up.
“Coronel Martín,” he said, listened, then said, “Muchas gracias,” and hung up.
He met Delgano’s eyes. “El General Obregon has just driven up downstairs,” he said.
“And what do you want me to do?”
“I would rather he didn’t know we’re friends,” Martín thought aloud. “So stay here, in the outer office. I’ll try to avoid your meeting him right now, but that may not be possible.”
Delgano nodded.
Martín walked quickly down the corridor to the bank of elevators, and was standing there when the door opened and General de Division Manuel Federico Obregon stepped off.
He was a large, heavily built man whose dark skin and other features made it quite clear that Indian blood was in his veins. That was unusual in the Argentine officer corps, almost all of whom belonged to the upper class, if not the aristocracy. Almost by definition, that meant they were of European stock, unmixed with Indian.
Obregon was accompanied by his aide-de-camp, a major whose features also suggested mixed blood. Martín had seen him before but could not recall his name.
Martín came to attention and saluted. “Coronel Martín,” he said. “A sus órdenes, mi general.”
Obregon returned the salute. “You knew I was coming, Coronel?” he asked, but it was a statement.
“I didn’t know, Señor. But I am not surprised. President Rawson telephoned to tell me of your appointment, and mentioned he thought you would come by for a quick visit to your new command.”
Will it hurt for him to know I have a connection with Rawson? It can’t be helped. I do. And it would come out anyway.
“You’ve been waiting for me on Saturday afternoon?”
“No, Sir. Actually, Sir, I came in to see if I could still fit in my uniform. I thought perhaps you might prefer that I work in uniform.”
Obregon grunted noncommittally. “You know Hugo, of course?” he asked, nodding at his aide.
“Of course,” Martín said. “It’s good to see you, Mayor.”
“And you, Señor,” the aide said.
The name came: Molina, Hugo, Class of 1934. Infantry.
“May I show you your office, mi General?”
“You’re very kind, Coronel.”
Martín motioned the two of them down the corridor to the double doors of the Office of the Director, Bureau of Internal Security, where he stepped ahead of Obregon and pushed on the left door. Despite its enormity and weight, it opened effortlessly.
The Edificio Libertador had been designed and constructed under the supervision of a team of architects and engineers sent as a gesture of friendship to the Republic of Argentina by the German Reich.
And also, Martín believed, to demonstrate German engineering genius and efficiency. They had made their point with the Edificio Libertador. Everything was massive, impressive, and smooth-functioning, including the Seimens telephone system and the elevators. And the hinges on the massive doors.
Suboficial Mayor José Cortina, who had the duty, was sitting at the ornate desk ordinarily occupied by Señora Masa. He stood up quickly and popped to attention when he saw Obregon.
It was obvious that Cortina did not expect to see the General. His tunic was unbuttoned, his tie was pulled down, and a half-eaten piece of chocolate cake and a coffee thermos were on the desk beside his holstered pistol and the Thompson .45-caliber submachine gun that served almost as the insignia of whoever had the duty.
“This is Sergeant Major Cortina, General,” Martín said. “He has the duty.”
“Stand at ease, Sergeant,” Obregon said, and offered his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“I apologize for my appearance, Sir,” Cortina said.
“I don’t suppose you get many visitors here on Saturday afternoon, do you?” Obregon said.