least in Michael’s training.
Lofton lit a cigarette, bent forward, and held his temples between two fingers. “Amazing, really, the trouble they’ve gone to trying to keeping her hidden.”
“Who?”
“Evita.”
Michael was back up at the camera. The foursome was laughing it up now, getting touchy-feely.
“Maybe they just want to protect her.” Michael tried to keep his eye on the lens, but his sweat kept fogging the view finder.
“From what?”
“Themselves.”
And just like that the clothes came off. No preamble. One minute chat, next buttons working their way down, exposing pale flesh. “The clothes are coming off.”
Lofton groaned as he stood and leaned against the window frame. “Lovely.”
“Don’t let them see you.”
“Don’t think their attention’s on me, butch.”
Their skin looked pocked through the lens’s ground glass. Mouths on breasts, buttocks dimpled with carpet indentations.
“Did you know even President Aramburu doesn’t know where she is? Nobody at Casa Rosada does. It’s Argentina’s only secret.”
Except for whoever brings those flowers. Every night.
“I’m sure someone there knows.”
“You mean Hector?”
Hands groped into pants. You could see sweat on the women’s backs. “Whoever.”
“We all know that means Hector. Anything that happens after midnight in this country has Hector’s name on it. Coups rise and fall, but Hector always endures. Casa Rosada’s resident demon. Just comes with the furniture.” Federov was climbing atop the blonde now. Lofton let out a sigh. “I was hoping for something a little more exotic from our communist friends.”
“Four on four isn’t enough for you?”
“You haven’t lived in Argentina long enough.”
Yes he had. Strangers’ sweat in unventilated Buenos Aires rooms brought up foul memories of his own, not involving his wife. It was an ugly association.
“How’d you like it, someone photographing you?” Lofton said it right against Michael’s ear, and the alcohol rot of the man’s body pushed him to the edge. He took his eye from the lens. Rubbed it. “It’s just for the SPR files.”
“Millions of pictures of humping Russians. That’ll change the world.” Lofton straightened up, looked out on the clumsy orgy. “Your bosses must be proud.”
They’d all been switched from FBI to CIA down here since ’47. Eight years and still they were
Michael’s
bosses.
Them
.
Michael clicked off a few more shots without even looking through the lens, then sat down on the carpet with his back against the window.
“You’re missing the big finish.”
“I got enough.”
Michael would have to wait, though, for the obligatory sidewalk shots. He wanted to go home, get away from sweating Russians and Lofton. Yet he craved Lofton’s approval, craved one—just one—accepting face among his spook partners.
“Why do you think Hector picked you out, Mike?”
“Who says he did?”
“C’mon. I read the cables. The guy likes you. Ever since your belly flop at the Polack ambassador’s house, he’s been giving you stuff.”
“Maybe I’m the only one that’s interested.”
“Oooh. FBI bashing. Wondered how long it was going to take before your right hook came up.” Lofton winked and took a long, leisurely drag on his pocket flask. “No, I don’t think that’s it. Want to hear my theory? Isn’t that you used to live here. It’s because you’re the only one of us that wants
out
—your Sovs are on the sidewalk, butch.”
Michael rose to a crouch and squeezed off a few more. Federov had a stain on his pants that no one was going to mistake for coffee. The others weaved and faded into the sidewalk crowds. A last shutter frame of the back of someone’s head and he was done.
Michael started breaking down the camera. “Hector likes you, Mike. He tells you things. Things he doesn’t tell his own government.” Michael slipped the 400-mm lens into its cut-foam suitcase. “Think he’d tell you
Lofton lit a cigarette, bent forward, and held his temples between two fingers. “Amazing, really, the trouble they’ve gone to trying to keeping her hidden.”
“Who?”
“Evita.”
Michael was back up at the camera. The foursome was laughing it up now, getting touchy-feely.
“Maybe they just want to protect her.” Michael tried to keep his eye on the lens, but his sweat kept fogging the view finder.
“From what?”
“Themselves.”
And just like that the clothes came off. No preamble. One minute chat, next buttons working their way down, exposing pale flesh. “The clothes are coming off.”
Lofton groaned as he stood and leaned against the window frame. “Lovely.”
“Don’t let them see you.”
“Don’t think their attention’s on me, butch.”
Their skin looked pocked through the lens’s ground glass. Mouths on breasts, buttocks dimpled with carpet indentations.
“Did you know even President Aramburu doesn’t know where she is? Nobody at Casa Rosada does. It’s Argentina’s only secret.”
Except for whoever brings those flowers. Every night.
“I’m sure someone there knows.”
“You mean Hector?”
Hands groped into pants. You could see sweat on the women’s backs. “Whoever.”
“We all know that means Hector. Anything that happens after midnight in this country has Hector’s name on it. Coups rise and fall, but Hector always endures. Casa Rosada’s resident demon. Just comes with the furniture.” Federov was climbing atop the blonde now. Lofton let out a sigh. “I was hoping for something a little more exotic from our communist friends.”
“Four on four isn’t enough for you?”
“You haven’t lived in Argentina long enough.”
Yes he had. Strangers’ sweat in unventilated Buenos Aires rooms brought up foul memories of his own, not involving his wife. It was an ugly association.
“How’d you like it, someone photographing you?” Lofton said it right against Michael’s ear, and the alcohol rot of the man’s body pushed him to the edge. He took his eye from the lens. Rubbed it. “It’s just for the SPR files.”
“Millions of pictures of humping Russians. That’ll change the world.” Lofton straightened up, looked out on the clumsy orgy. “Your bosses must be proud.”
They’d all been switched from FBI to CIA down here since ’47. Eight years and still they were
Michael’s
bosses.
Them
.
Michael clicked off a few more shots without even looking through the lens, then sat down on the carpet with his back against the window.
“You’re missing the big finish.”
“I got enough.”
Michael would have to wait, though, for the obligatory sidewalk shots. He wanted to go home, get away from sweating Russians and Lofton. Yet he craved Lofton’s approval, craved one—just one—accepting face among his spook partners.
“Why do you think Hector picked you out, Mike?”
“Who says he did?”
“C’mon. I read the cables. The guy likes you. Ever since your belly flop at the Polack ambassador’s house, he’s been giving you stuff.”
“Maybe I’m the only one that’s interested.”
“Oooh. FBI bashing. Wondered how long it was going to take before your right hook came up.” Lofton winked and took a long, leisurely drag on his pocket flask. “No, I don’t think that’s it. Want to hear my theory? Isn’t that you used to live here. It’s because you’re the only one of us that wants
out
—your Sovs are on the sidewalk, butch.”
Michael rose to a crouch and squeezed off a few more. Federov had a stain on his pants that no one was going to mistake for coffee. The others weaved and faded into the sidewalk crowds. A last shutter frame of the back of someone’s head and he was done.
Michael started breaking down the camera. “Hector likes you, Mike. He tells you things. Things he doesn’t tell his own government.” Michael slipped the 400-mm lens into its cut-foam suitcase. “Think he’d tell you
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