He would not lie on his expense account. But he would take full advantage of the provisions regarding business travel in his employment contract.
He was entitled, for example, to first-class accommodations on airliners when traveling outside the continental United States on a flight lasting six hours or longer. On flights under six hours in length-say, Washington-London-his contract provided for business class.
It was for that reason that he had traveled on Aerolineas Argentinas. When The Washington Times-Post Corporate Travel department had told him that only business class was available on Delta and American, he made them, per his contract, book him first-class seating on the Argentine carrier. His experience had taught him that once he accepted less than that to which he was entitled, the bastards in Corporate Travel henceforth would try to make it the rule.
Danton also was entitled by his contract, when on travel lasting more than twenty-four hours, to a hotel rated at four stars or better and, therein, a two-room suite rather than a simple room.
In the case of this trip, Corporate Travel had suggested they make a reservation for a two-room suite for him at the four-star-rated Plaza Hotel in Buenos Aires. The Plaza wasn't a five-star hotel but boasted that it contained the oldest restaurant in Buenos Aires, a world-famous bar, and was directly across Plaza San Martin from the Argentine foreign ministry. To Danton, that suggested that it wasn't going to be the Argentine version of a Marriott, and he had accepted Corporate Travel's recommendation.
Carrying the Johnnie Walker, he went through the immigration checkpoint without any trouble. His luggage, however, took so long to appear on the carousel that he became genuinely worried that it had been sent to Havana or Moscow. But it did finally show up, and he changed his suspicions toward the officers of the Transportation Security Administration back in Miami, who were, he thought, entirely capable of putting some clever chalk mark on his luggage signaling everyone in the know that it belonged to an "uncooperative traveler" and, if it couldn't be redirected to Moscow or Havana, then to the absolute end of whatever line it was in.
When the customs officials sifted through his suitcase and laptop briefcase with great care-and especially when they asked him if he was sure he was not trying to carry into the Republica Argentina more than ten thousand U.S. dollars in cash or negotiable securities or any amount of controlled substances-he was sure he saw the stealthy hand of the TSA at work.
Corporate Travel had told him that he should take a remise rather than a taxi from the airport to his hotel, explaining that Buenos Aires taxis were small and uncomfortable, and their drivers well-known for their skilled chicanery when dealing with foreigners. Remises, Travel had told him, which cost a little more, were private cars pressed into part-time service by their owners, who were more often than not the drivers. They could be hired only through an agent, who had kiosks in the terminal lobby.
The remise in which Roscoe was driven from Ezeiza international airport to Plaza San Martin and the Plaza Hotel was old, but clean and well cared for. And the driver delivered a lecture on Buenos Aires en route.
When the remise door was opened by a doorman wearing a gray frock coat and a silk top hat, and two bellmen stood ready to handle the baggage, Roscoe was in such a good mood that he handed the remise driver his American Express card and he told him to add a twenty-percent tip to the bill. Ten percent was Roscoe's norm, even on The Washington Times-Post 's dime.
The driver asked if Roscoe could possibly pay in cash, preferably dollars, explaining that not only did American Express charge ten percent but also took two weeks or a month to pay up. He then showed Roscoe the English language Buenos Aires Herald, on the front page of which was the current exchange rate: one U.S. dollar was worth 3.8 pesos.
"If you give me a one-hundred-dollar bill, I'll give you three hundred and ninety pesos," the remise driver offered.
Roscoe handed him the bill, and the driver counted out three hundred and ninety pesos into his hand, mostly in small bills.
Roscoe then got rid of most of the small bills by counting out two hundred pesos-the agreed-upon price-into the driver's hand. The driver thanked him, shook his hand, and said he hoped el senor would have a good time in Argentina.
Roscoe liked what he saw of the lobby of the Plaza-lots of polished marble and shiny brass-and when he got to reception, a smiling desk clerk told him they had his reservation, and slid a registration card across the marble to him.
On the top of it was printed, WELCOME TO THE MARRIOTT PLAZA HOTEL.
Shit, a Marriott!
Corporate Travel's done it to me again!
Roscoe had hated the Marriott hotel chain since the night he had been asked to leave the bar in the Marriott Hotel next to the Washington Press Club after he complained that it was absurd for the bartender to have shut him off after only four drinks.
At the Plaza, though, he felt a lot better when the bellman took him to his suite. It was very nice, large, and well furnished. And he could see Plaza San Martin from its windows.
He took out the thick wad of pesos the remise driver had given him and decided that generosity now would result in good service later. He did some quick mental math and determined the peso equivalent of ten dollars, which came to thirty-eight pesos, rounded this figure upward, and handed the bellman forty pesos.
The bellman's face did not show much appreciation for his munificence.
Well, fuck you, Pedro! he thought as the bellman went out the door.
Ten bucks is a lot of money for carrying one small suitcase!
Roscoe then shaved, took a shower, and got dressed.
The clock radio beside the bed showed that it was just shy of two o'clock. As he set his wristwatch to the local time, he thought it was entirely likely that the U.S. embassy ran on an eight-to-four schedule, with an hour or so lunch break starting at noon, and with any luck he could see commercial attache Alexander B. Darby as soon as he could get to the embassy.
Miss Eleanor Dillworth had told him that Darby was another CIA Clandestine Service officer, a good guy, and if anybody could point him toward the shadowy and evil Colonel Castillo and his wicked companions, it was Darby.
Roscoe took out his laptop and opened it, intending to search the Internet for the address and telephone number of the U.S. embassy, Buenos Aires.
No sooner had he found the plug to connect with the Internet and had turned on the laptop than its screen flashed LOW BATTERY. He found the power cord and the electrical socket. His male plug did not match the two round holes in the electrical socket.
The concierge said he would send someone right up with an adapter plug.
Roscoe then tipped that bellman twenty pesos, thinking that the equivalent of five bucks was a more than generous reward for bringing an adapter worth no more than a buck.
This bellman, like the last one, did not seem at all overwhelmed by Roscoe's generosity.
Roscoe shook his head as he plugged in the adapter. Ninety seconds later, he had the embassy's address-Avenida Colombia 4300-and its telephone number, both of which he entered into his pocket organizer. "Embassy of the United States."
"Mr. Alexander B. Darby, please."
"There is no one here by that name, sir."
"He's the commercial counselor."
"There's no one here by that name, sir."
"Have you a press officer?"
"Yes, sir."
"May I speak with him, please?"
"It's a her, sir. Ms. Sylvia Grunblatt."
"Connect me with her, please."
"Ms. Grunblatt's line."
"Ms. Grunblatt, please. Roscoe-"
"Ms. Grunblatt's not available at the moment."
"When will she be available?"
"I'm afraid I don't know."
"May I leave a message?"
"Yes, of course."
"Please tell her Mr. Roscoe J. Danton of The Washington Times-Post is on his way to the embassy, and needs a few minutes of her valuable time. Got that?"