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[b][center]THE REPUBLIC OF ARGENTINA[/center][/b][/h1][/sup][/color]
[indent][right][COLOR=white][i]July, 1955[/i][/color][/right][/indent][hr]

[b]REVOLUTION: PART II[/b]

BUENOS AIRES - Presidential Golf Course

There were some men in power who changed the score when it suited them, President General Dictator for Life Hipólito Yrigoyen however, preferred to actually be good at things, even golf. He had a sixteen handicap, better than virtually his entire staff, and never missed his Friday afternoon game. Those who were invited to play knew well to play their best for Yrigoyen suffered no fools. A Colonel had once let him win and paid for it with a posting to the Antarctic. 

On this particular day, clad in a pair of black slacks, a plain white collared shirt, and swinging a custom made set of American golf clubs, he was waiting for a visitor. His toe scuffed at the sand beneath his feet as he glanced toward the pin held by a uniformed caddy. Thirteen or so yards with no wind, barely any slope on the green, and only the twittering of birds to distract him. 

"Pitching wedge." He called back to a second caddy and hid a smile as the man tossed him the club he had been holding already. He appreciated a good caddy; it saved a lot of grief. Not so different than having a good advisor in politics.

A small knot of uniformed officers, their shoulders a blaze of golden lace, stood off to one side. None had been invited to play today, but all of them knew that being close at hand would ensure job security. Beyond them, manned by patiently sweating guardsmen, were a dozen white golf carts; their appearance made grotesque by the weapons strapped to the sides. 

He eyed the ball again, touching the edge with the face of the club, like a lover kissing his lady. Then a quick twist of his body, flex of his elbows, and a short follow through shot the ball up onto the green. It bounced twice and rolled to a stop a foot from the hole.

"Damn..." He tossed the club back to his caddy and climbed from the sand trap.

"Still a fine shot, sir." The caddy wiped the club head clean with a silk rag and slid it back into the white bag; Yrigoyens named was monogrammed onto the side in black lettering. "You'll be under par at this rate. Might even best your handicap."

Yrigoyen nodded but didn't reply. His caddy, Paco Gomez, had been with him for six years now and was as the subject matter expert when it came to golf. Once a year he was permitted to play against Yrigoyen and if he won, he received a years pay that same day. In six years he had beaten Yrigoyen twice.

"Incoming vehicle!" The word was quiet but firm from a nearby guardsman and four of them unlimbered their weapons, gazing down the long fairway. Two more golf carts were racing toward them along the cart path. Nobody, and that meant NOBODY, drove on the Presidents grass. They slipped beneath the shade thrown by handsome trees along the edge of the fairway and over a small stone bridge. A manicured creek banked with imported marble burbled happily into a small pond that held at least one alligator. 

"Friendlies." The guard commander growled and everyone relaxed. 

Yrigoyen ignored them completely as he took a putter from Paco and walked onto the green. The surface had a slight spring under foot and the shadows of clouds raced across the lush surface. He stepped up to the ball, eyed the hole for a short second, and then tapped the ball forward. It dropped into the hole with the satisfying plastic clatter that he found so rewarding. He scooped the ball out before handing it, and the club, off to Paco and turning to where the two carts had finished their journey after pausing while he took his shot.

The lead two were guardsmen, while the second two were different entirely. One was male, and was most certainly a secret policeman of some sort. The third was a woman, her hands cuffed behind her back and what looked like underwear shoved into her mouth. Her eyes were wide as they stared at him and he could feel the fear. No matter how old he got, he found it intoxicating and very attractive; now was not the time to indulge his desires. 

A nod to the policeman and the girl was dragged from the cart and across the grass toward Yrigoyen. She was pushed to her knees at the edge of the green, her head turning wildly from side to side before finally fixing on his face again. She had gone quite white with terror. Yrigoyen held out a hand and Paco passed him a water bottle that he slowly drained, his throat bobbing as he held her eye contact. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and he could see a bruise starting to form on her temple.

He finished the water, passed the bottle back and then went and crouched in front of the woman who was weeping silently now. Some dictators, most of them in fact, were given to dramatic gestures and dungeons with all sorts of nifty tools. Yrigoyen couldn't be bothered with the theatrics. Not for this conversation anyway.

"María Laura Santillán. A Journalist. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that you are mixed up in some sort of plot against me."

Muffled protestations and furious head shaking greeted the comment. In that moment he wasn't sure what made him angrier, the noises she was making, or the look in her eyes that told him she had no idea what he was talking about. He reached out a gloved hand and pulled the underwear from her mouth, letting it hang from two fingers as he stared at her. 

"Your Excellency, I swear to you I have no idea what you are talking about!" Her voice was several octaves above normal and he made a soothing gesture. He hated loud noises, especially while golfing. She brought herself under control with masterful skill and repeated what she had said. 

"I believe you, I really do." Yrigoyen said and there was brief flash of relief followed by suspicion, and then fear once again. "However, I think you know someone who does."

The policeman handed Yrigoyen a photo and he held it up in front of her. Her eyes widened even more, and a dozen emotions fought for control of her features; he couldn't help a thin-lipped smile. 

"Yes, our mutual friend, Lieutenant Osvaldo Soriano. I believe you and the young doctor have a bit of a, how did the Americans say, "Thing"?"

All she could do was nod.

"Good. So, this is how we are going to help each other today. I understand your parents are in poor health and you cannot afford their treatment?"

Another nod, and despair. 

"Your brother, one Sergeant Menem Santillán, is currently serving in Chile?”

She simply stared at him now and he knew she would do whatever he wanted of her. People always did when you reminded them they had something to lose. 

“I want to know everything your boyfriend gets up to. In return, I shall ensure your parents, who by now have already been transferred to a private hospital here in the city, get what they need to stay alive. I’ll even make sure the young men who I have sent to keep an eye on your brother do their best to keep him alive, where possible. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes sir…” She managed to whisper the words as the consequences of any failure slowly settled on her shoulders.

“So make our Doctor friend happy, let him do whatever he wishes to you, keep him close, and don’t foget to share the little details with us.”  Yrigoyen nodded toward the secret policeman. “This fine fellow and some of his associates will keep an eye on you, for your safety of course, and you will report to them. The details can be worked out before they drop you off at home.”

“Yes Excellency.” There was no fight in the girl, and Yrigoyen found that a bit disappointing. He enjoyed a woman who had some spirit to her and he loved a struggle. It seemed there was neither here.

“Take her home. Make sure you don’t hurt her, and give her a decent cover story for that bruise.” He glanced at the purpling on her temple and the secret policeman had the good grace to look abashed. That was the issue with being an undercover thug; you sometimes got carried away in the moment.  “Goodbye, Maria.”

The girl didn’t utter a sound as she was pulled to her feet, her face a mask of sorrow as she was led back to the golf cart. The two vehicles pulled away again and Yrigoyen turned his attention back to more important matters. 

“Right, how are we doing?”

“Twelve under par and four holes to go, Excellency.” Paco didn’t miss a beat as he held up the scorecard. “I’ve got it noted down.”

“Excellent! Well, lets not let the day waste away. I’ll meet you at the next hole, gentlemen.” He paused, realizing he was still holding the girls underwear. It was frilly, the type of thing she might wear for a lover. If only she knew how close they would become for the next little while. It would be rather fitting in the end. He laughed and held them out to a guardsman that hurried forward to take them.

“Keep those. I will enjoy taking them off her another time.”