Choosers of the Slain

33

Dr. Towers pushed aside the curtain and peered out.

"That's funny," she commented.

"What, Doctor?" Steve Rosario inquired from across their sitting room/office.

"Pardon me if I'm making a cultural assumption here, but I'd always believed that South Americans were a bit more… volatile in matters of politics and statesmanship. I was expecting to see something like the anti-British demonstrations during the Falklands War. But for us, nothing. No rock throwing. No 'Yankee go home!' The streets are almost deserted."

"There's a reason for it."

The State Department man joined her at the window. "Take a look at the roof of the building down at the corner. The one on the other side of the intersection."

Dr. Towers spotted the two men crouched down behind the roof parapet. One was armed with a scope-sighted assault rifle. The other was systematically scanning the surrounding area with a pair of binoculars.

"National Police antisnipers. There's one on every facing block around the Embassy."

Rosario smiled grimly. "I took a little walk earlier this afternoon. I saw at least ten plainclothes officers down at ground level, and I probably missed about twice that number. There's a SWAT team and a couple of armored cars stationed over on the other side of the park, and if you go out a little farther, you start to see the Army patrols. Sparza's brought in an entire airborne regiment equipped for antiriot work. The entire city is locked down tight."

"I didn't think we were that scary."

"I think it's being done for our benefit, and indirectly for the Argentine plan of operations. Sparza is smart enough to know that it's in his best diplomatic interest to maintain a state of extreme propriety when it comes to American citizens just now. If you were local, you'd probably be jumped for raising your voice on the street."

"Could that explain the very low-keyed editorial stance of most of the local media?" Dr. Towers said, turning back into the room. "Government censorship?"

"I suspect so," Rosario replied, lingering at the window. "I also suspect that's why neither we nor the Argentines have gone public with the word that we're already shooting at each other. Everyone wants a nice, quiet, little war."

A black Lincoln town car turned into the Embassy gates, preceded and trailed by a pair of mud-colored Ford Explorers, the ubiquitous "war wagons" of the Secret Service.

"Secretary Van Lynden is back."

The Secretary of State passed through the door of the suite a few minutes later. Setting his briefcase down beside one of the room's easy chairs, he sank down into it, his head cradled in his hands.

"What's the word from the United Nations, Steve?"

"Ambassador DeSantis reports that it looks as if we have a solid majority block assembled for a condemnation vote against Argentina. The downside is that the Argentines have gotten the extension on their recess. All votes on the Antarctic issue have been put off for another two days."

"Aah, God. Why not?"

"Could I get you a drink, Mr. Secretary?" Dr. Towers asked, with sympathy.

"Yes, Doctor. Thank you. You could. A rye on the rocks, please."

"How did it go, sir?" Rosario inquired.

"I've spent the past five hours sitting across the table from the Argentine Minister of State and, for all intents and purposes, we've just been staring at each other. We've hit the wall, Steve. Everybody's made their brag, and now they're stuck with it."

"What happens next?" Dr. Towers asked from the suite's small wet bar.

"Good question. Diplomatically speaking, we've entered a holding pattern. Both sides have established a set of absolute crisis parameters they won't go beyond. Until somebody yields on a point, we've got nothing to talk about. We'll just have to wait until some outside event changes the scenario and kicks the door open again."

"Like the outcome of things down south?" The scientist crossed the room and passed Van Lynden a bar tumbler.

"Exactly," he replied, swirling the glass and staring at the ice as it danced in the amber liquor.