V

[ONE]
The Daiquiri Lounge
The Army and Navy Club
901 Seventeenth Street NW
Washington, D.C.
2105 4 August 2005

Ambassador Montvale was waiting for them in the lobby. They all walked up the stairs to the second floor, then into the Daiquiri Lounge, taking a table in the bar where Castillo knew he and General Naylor could smoke cigars.

It immediately became apparent that before their conversation could begin, they were going to have to deal with other guests in the lounge.

The commander in chief of Central Command was not only known to—that is to say, a friend of—half a dozen officers and their wives having after-dinner drinks there but, as one of the most powerful officers in the Army, was someone to whom it was necessary to “make manners.”

Once the first old friend walked over to shake General Naylor’s hand, everyone else decided that it was not only all right for them to do so but expected of them.

Each visit—however brief—required that both Ambassador Montvale and Lieutenant Colonel Castillo be introduced. And Lieutenant Colonel Castillo was not used to—and thus made a little uncomfortable by—being addressed by his new title.

Finally, it was over, and the waiter, who had hovered in the background awaiting its end, came to the table.

“Gentlemen, what can I get for you?”

“I’m a scotch drinker,” Montvale answered, looking at Naylor. “Nothing fancy, no single malt. Something like Chivas Regal. That okay with you?”

“Fine,” Naylor said.

What is he trying to do, establish the pecking order by telling Naylor what to drink?

And why did Naylor go along?

Castillo looked at the waiter. “Yes, please,” he said.

When the waiter had left, Montvale asked, “What are you going to do in Paris?”

“Sir, I’m still looking for the people who murdered Mr. Masterson,” Castillo said.

“That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No, sir.”

“Maybe you should. Maybe there’s something I could do to help.”

Castillo didn’t reply.

“Well,” Montvale continued, “if you didn’t want my help, then what is it that you wish to talk about?”

“Mr. Ellsworth, sir.”

“Truman Ellsworth. A good man. What about him?”

“I’m sure he is, but I don’t want a liaison officer.”

“Oh! Right to the bottom line!”

“Yes, sir.”

“I could offer any number of reasons why a liaison officer who enjoys my trust could be very useful to you.”

“I’m sure you could. But, thank you very much just the same, I don’t want Mr. Ellsworth.”

“Because you think he would be spying on you for me?”

Castillo didn’t reply. But he thought of something that might provide an excuse for him not to do so immediately.

Maybe I’ll think of something.

“Sir, excuse me. I have to make a call.”

Montvale looked at him impatiently. Naylor looked at him curiously.

Castillo punched an autodial number on his cellular telephone.

“Dick,” he said a moment later, “I think I can make the 2330 Air France flight to Paris. Can you send my luggage—and the suit and shirt and tie I left on the bed, and my laptop case—to the Army-Navy Club? Just tell the driver to wait outside.”

Castillo listened for a moment, then said, “Actually, I’m having a drink with General Naylor and Ambassador Montvale.” He paused. “Yes, I will. Thanks, Dick. I’ll check in from Paris.”

He pushed the CALL END button and turned to General Naylor.

“Major Miller’s compliments, sir,” he said.

Naylor nodded.

“What’s your objection to having Mr. Ellsworth work with you?” Montvale asked, resuming the conversation as if there had been no interruption.

Castillo met his eyes for a moment.

I might as well go down fighting.

“I’ve been thinking about that, sir,” Castillo said. “I certainly can’t order you to do anything. But if you elect to keep sending Mr. Ellsworth to the Nebraska Complex, I’m afraid what he’s going to be doing is sitting in an office all day without very much to do at all.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Unless Mr. Ellsworth has access to the Presidential Finding establishing the Office of Organizational Analysis, there’s nothing I can tell him about what we’re really doing.”

“That’s ridiculous and you know it,” Montvale snapped. “Ellsworth has had the highest-level security clearances for years.”

Again Castillo didn’t reply and again Montvale took his meaning.

“You’re not actually suggesting, Castillo, that you’re not going to give Truman Ellsworth the necessary security clearance, are you?”

“Sir, I don’t see where Mr. Ellsworth has the Need to Know about the Presidential Finding and my mission.”

“I’ll clear him for the Finding!”

“Sir, I don’t believe you have that authority,” Castillo said. “As I understand it, only the President and I do.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Just who the hell do you think you are? I’m the director of National Intelligence. I decide who is cleared for what.”

“Ambassador, you don’t have the authority to clear anyone for that Presidential Finding,” Castillo said.

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to see what the President has to say about that,” Montvale said, “and about your attitude.”

“Yes, sir. I guess we will,” Castillo said.

“Before this gets out of hand, gentlemen,” General Naylor said, “I’m going to say that neither one of you wants this disagreement to go any further.”

“Nothing is going to get out of hand, thank you very much, General,” Montvale said.

“Good,” Naylor said, “because it would not be in the best interests of the country—or either of you—if it did.”

Montvale looked icily at him.

“Frankly, General, I was hoping that you would help me reason with Major Castillo, help him to understand where he fits into the system.”

“It’s now Colonel Castillo, Mr. Ambassador,” Naylor said.

“Lieutenant colonel, I believe,” Montvale said. “Like Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North, who was also a junior officer given more authority than he was equipped to handle. You remember Lieutenant Colonel North, don’t you, General?”

“I don’t have the feeling, Mr. Ambassador,” Naylor said, “that the President thinks he has given Colonel Castillo more authority than he can handle. Do you?”

Montvale didn’t respond.

“Let me suggest a scenario, Mr. Ambassador,” Naylor said, glancing around the lounge, then, satisfied no one was trying to follow their conversation, continued in a lower voice: “This dispute comes before the President. That would force him to choose between you two. From what I have seen of the President, he doesn’t like to be forced to do anything.”

“Nevertheless…”

“Obviously,” Naylor went on, “you are of far greater importance to the government, to the country, than is Colonel Castillo. Colonel Castillo would be relieved. But he would be replaced, because we know the President likes having an agent—a presidential agent, if you will—answerable only to him. And you and I both know that his replacement would not be anyone you might suggest, however well qualified he might be. That would be giving you too much of a victory.

“So it would be another military officer. And I put it to you, sir, that no matter how well that officer might do, his performance would be compared by the President against that of Colonel Castillo and found wanting. Partially because in the two successful operations Colonel Castillo has run as the President’s agent he was—as he is well aware—incredibly lucky. And partially because it wasn’t all luck. Colonel Castillo has demonstrated that he is obviously extremely well qualified for the duties the President has chosen to give him.

“And I put it to you further, Mr. Ambassador, that always—always—the President is going to be thinking, If Montvale hadn’t gotten on his high horse and forced me to get rid of Castillo, things would have turned out better. You were there. He did everything but beatify Charley in that little post-promotion speech he gave.”

Naylor turned to Castillo.

“And you, Colonel, are going to have to learn something that is not taught at West Point. An accommodation is not a surrender. You are going to have to come to some arrangement, an accommodation, with Ambassador Montvale. And he with you. Or you will both be failing the President, and I’m sure neither of you wants that.”

Montvale was about to reply when the waiter delivered their drinks, stopping the conversation.

After he’d gone, Montvale stirred his for several seconds, then extended the plastic stirrer to Castillo.

“Take it,” the director of National Intelligence said. “Think of it as an olive branch.”

“Make love, not war?” Castillo asked as he took the stirrer. It earned him a dirty look from Naylor.

“I really don’t want to get in a war with you, Charley,” Montvale said.

“Charley”? Not “Castillo”? Not “Colonel”? Or even “Major”?

I’m being charmed again and that’s dangerous.

“Nor I with you, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Shall we lay our cards on the table?”

“I have only one card to play: going to the President and telling him I can’t function with Mr. Ellsworth looking over my shoulder and reporting to you everything I’m doing or planning on doing.”

“I don’t understand why my being kept aware of what you’re doing is wrong,” Montvale said. “Certainly, you confide in General Naylor.”

“He does not,” Naylor said, flatly. “I frankly hoped he would, but he has not.”

Montvale raised an eyebrow. “You both realize, I’m sure, that would put another arrow in my quiver if I have to go to the President? ‘Mr. President, he doesn’t even tell General Naylor what he’s doing. Remember Ollie North?’”

Naylor said, “To which the President might well reply, ‘That’s because Colonel Castillo doesn’t work for General Naylor, he works for me.’”

“Point well taken,” Montvale said after a moment with a smile.

“Are you going to the President, Mr. Ambassador?” Castillo asked.

“Probably, but not right now. That one card of yours—at this moment—is the ace of all spades. General Naylor is right. If the President was the pope, after that session in the apartment tonight you would now be Saint Carlos the Savior of His Country.”

Both Naylor and Castillo chuckled.

“So you are going to find something else for Mr. Ellsworth to do?” Castillo asked.

“Let me show you my cards,” Montvale said. “Okay?”

Castillo nodded.

“I’m very impressed with you.”

“Is that what they call the ‘flattery card’?”

“Hear me out. All it will cost you is a little time.”

“My standard tactic when I’m dealing with someone I know is smarter than me is to run,” Castillo said.

“Is that your flattery card?”

“I am out of my class with you and I know it. Just because it may be flattering doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Castillo said.

“Then why does it have to be untrue that I’m impressed with you?”

“That would depend on why you’re impressed.”

“Like the President, I think you did one hell of a job finding that airplane and then finding this Lorimer fellow. The major problem I have with you—other than that the President thinks you should be beatified—is that I think you should be working for me.”

“Mr. Ambassador, I don’t want to work for you.”

“At the moment, that’s a moot question, isn’t it? The President is very happy with his presidential private agent.”

“All I want from you, sir, is to be left alone to do what the President wants me to do.”

“Until you said that, I was beginning to think you might really be as smart as the President thinks,” Montvale said.

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t afford to be alone, Charley,” Montvale said. “You need me. My assets. My authority. My influence. Think about it. They use your face as a dartboard in Langley and in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. The FBI is starting to hate you as much as they do your friend Howard Kennedy.”

“I wasn’t sure you believed that story,” Castillo said.

“I checked on it,” Montvale said. “I have some friends in the bureau. To a man, they would like to see Kennedy dragged apart by four horses after he was disemboweled.”

Curiosity overwhelmed General Naylor. “Who is this fellow? What did he do?”

Montvale smiled, more than a little condescendingly.

“As Charley told me—and my friends confirmed—after being made privy to the darkest secrets of the FBI, Mr. Kennedy went to work—presumably at a far more generous salary—for a notorious Russian mafioso, a chap named Aleksandr Pevsner, taking with him all the darkest secrets.” He paused. “The reason they hate our friend Charley is because when they sent an inspector to tell him they expected him to notify them immediately of any contact with Kennedy, our friend Charley told them not to hold their breath. They also suspect—correctly—that Charley was behind the President’s order to them to immediately cease and desist looking for Mr. Kennedy.”

“Pevsner and Kennedy have been useful to me in the past,” Castillo said. “And almost certainly will be useful to me in the future.”

Charley saw the look on Naylor’s face.

It’s a look of…sympathetic resignation.

He’s thinking I’m going down Ollie North’s path.

And that I have just lost this confrontation.

Well, what the hell did I expect?

Montvale’s right. I am a junior officer given more authority than I am equipped to handle.

A very small fish in a large pond about to be eaten by a very large shark.

“What are you suggesting, Mr. Ambassador?” Castillo asked.

“Until such time as I can convince the President—and that’s a question of when, not if—that the Office of Organizational Analysis should be under me, I suggest that it would be in our mutual interest to cooperate.”

“Cooperate how?”

“On your part, primarily by keeping me informed of what you’re doing. I really don’t like walking into the Oval Office to have the President greet me with, ‘Charles, you’re not going to believe what Castillo has done, ’ and have no idea what the hell he’s talking about. I want to be able to tell him that I knew what you would be going to try to do and that I did thus and so to help you do it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, just before he was shot down in flames, “but if that means you will insist on your liaison officer, no deal.”

The look on the general’s face now means I have really just shot myself in the foot.

“That’s negotiable,” Montvale said.

“Negotiable?” Castillo blurted. It was not the response he expected.

“That means you offer me something in lieu thereof and I decide if I’m willing to take it.”

“That telephone call I made just now? It was to my chief of staff, Major Richard Miller.”

“What about him?”

“You take Mr. Ellsworth out of my office and I will instruct Major Miller to tell you—promptly—everything he can, without putting the lives of my men at risk, about what I’m doing and why.”

“We are, I presume, talking about the same Major Miller who comes to my mind?”

“Excuse me?”

“The general’s son? The man whose life you saved—at considerable risk to your life and career—in Afghanistan? The man whom Mr. Wilson accused of making improper advances to her when she was in fact at the time making the beast with two backs in your bed? That Major Miller?”

“Yes, sir. That Major Miller.”

“Deal,” Montvale said and got half out of his chair and put out his hand.

Jesus H. Christ!

This is too easy.

When does the other shoe drop?

Montvale’s grip was firm.

“Our new relationship will probably be a good deal less unpleasant for you than I suspect you suspect it will be,” Montvale said, smiling.

“Yes, sir,” Castillo said.

“Okay, why are you going to Paris?” Montvale asked, retaking his seat.

Okay, a deal is a deal. I’ll live up to my end of it.

“I got Ambassador Lorimer, Mr. Lorimer’s father, to give me sort of power of attorney to settle his affairs in Paris and Uruguay. I want to see what I can turn up in his apartment and at his estancia.”

“You’re also going to Uruguay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you think you are qualified to perform searches of that nature?”

“No, sir, I don’t. I’m going to enlist the CIA station chiefs in both places to help me.”

“What makes you think they will?”

“Because I have already dealt with them, sir. They’ll help.”

Montvale nodded.

“Anything else I should know?”

“I have a source in Budapest. I’d rather not identify him. He gave me a list of names of people involved in the oil-for-food business, with the caveat that I do not turn them over to the agency or anyone else. I’m going there to see if I can get him to release me from that agreement.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I will have to see if I can get another list from someone else.”

Montvale nodded but did not respond directly, instead asking, “What’s happened to the money?”

“We got it out of Uruguay, first into an account an FBI agent there had opened in the Caymans…”

“Yung? The one who was with you when Lorimer was terminated?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sending him back to Uruguay to cover our tracks.”

“He’ll be able to do that?”

“I think so, sir.”

“He would probably be useful permanently assigned to you,” Montvale said. “Have you thought about that?”

“Yes, sir. I have. Secretary Hall arranged it.”

“Well, fine. But the next time something like that comes up, I suggest you come to me with it.”

What is he doing, trying to cut Matt Hall out of the loop?

“Yes, sir.”

“You said ‘first’ into Yung’s account?” Montvale pursued.

“And then I moved it into an account I opened in the same bank, the Liechtensteinische Landesbank. That took place today.”

“In your name?”

“In the name of an identity—that of a German national—I use sometimes. I thought that would be best.”

“And you can trust the people at Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H., to keep their mouths shut?” Montvale asked.

“Yes, sir,” Castillo said, as the realization dawned, Jesus Christ, he knows about that, too. And he asked the question in absolutely fluent German.

Montvale switched back to English.

“Goddamn, he is good, isn’t he, General?” Montvale asked.

Naylor didn’t reply. Instead, he asked, “Am I permitted to ask, ‘What money?’”

“You can ask, of course,” Montvale said, smiling. “But getting an answer would depend on the colonel, as he correctly pointed out he and the President are the only ones with the key to the Finding. It would be a felony for me to tell you.”

What’s he doing now? Playing with me? With General Naylor? With both of us?

“General,” Castillo said. “Lorimer had nearly sixteen million dollars in several banks in Uruguay. We took it over. It is now the operating fund for the Office of Organizational Analysis.”

“How did you manage to do that?” Naylor asked.

“He doesn’t need to know that, does he, Colonel?” Montvale asked.

“No, I don’t,” Naylor answered for him. “And I don’t think I want to.”

“I have access to business jets in Europe and in Brazil,” Montvale said. “Would it facilitate your travel if I made them available to you?”

“It would probably draw attention to me,” Castillo replied.

“They’re agency assets, actually,” Montvale said. “The agency owns two charter companies in Europe and one in Brazil. Sort of an aerial version of the Town Car limos that prowl the streets of Manhattan. I don’t think taking a ride in one would draw undue attention to you. All I would really be doing—unless you needed a plane for more than carrying you from point A to point B—would be ensuring you went to the head of the line.”

“Can I have a rain check?”

“When we shook hands, you got your rain check,” Montvale said. “Good for as long as you hold up your end of our deal.”

He took a large wallet from his jacket, took a card from it, and laid the card on the table. Then he took an electronic notebook from another pocket, consulted it, and wrote several numbers on the card. He handed the card to Castillo.

“By the time you get to France, the aerial limo services will understand that when you call, you go to the head of the line. The bottom number on there is mine. Use it if you ever need anything you think I can provide and can’t get through to me through the White House switchboard.”

“Thank you,” Castillo said.

“Can you think of anything else I can do for you?” Montvale asked.

“Mr. Wilson is a now a senior analyst in the agency’s South American Division’s Southern Cone Section,” Castillo said.

Montvale pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“I knew she managed not to get fired, but I didn’t know that,” he said. “We can’t have that, can we?”

“Miller and I ran into her in the lobby of the Mayflower earlier tonight,” Castillo said. “She called me a miserable sonofabitch.”

“Well, I can see how she might feel that way,” Montvale said. “I’ll deal with it first thing tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir, I can’t think of anything else.”

“Well, in that case, I’m afraid I’m going to have to be going,” Montvale said.

He stood up, drained his drink, and offered his hand to Naylor, who had risen to his feet.

“It’s always a pleasure, General Naylor,” he said.

Then he turned to Castillo, shook his hand, and patted his shoulder.

“This turned out better than either of us thought it would, didn’t it?” he asked. “Keep in touch, Colonel.”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

Montvale walked out of the room and Naylor and Castillo sat down.

“Jesus Christ!” Charley said. “Why does his being so cheerful, charming, and accommodating make me so uncomfortable?”

“Maybe because you weren’t asleep when they were lecturing about never under estimating your enemy?”

Castillo chuckled.

“I’m sorry I said that,” Naylor said thoughtfully a moment later. “That was a hell of a session, but I’m not so sure he doesn’t mean exactly what he said. The bottom line is that he got what he wanted.”

“Which was?”

“If you succeed, he can claim credit. If you fail, he can say it wouldn’t have happened if you worked for him.”

Castillo grunted.

“And he was right,” Naylor went on. “You do need his influence and authority. The FBI and the CIA—and everybody else—are afraid of him. And with good reason. Once it becomes known, as it soon will, that he’s standing behind you, people will think very carefully before knifing you in the back.”

“I thought I had the President standing behind me,” Castillo said.

“You do. But the President is a decent fellow. The ambassador, on the other hand, is well known as a follower of the Kennedy philosophy.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t get mad, get even,” Naylor said. “He is not a man to be crossed. But on the other hand, I think he’s a man of his word.”

Castillo looked at his wristwatch.

“I’ve got to change out of my uniform and get out to Dulles,” he said. “But before I do, I really would like another drink.”

“After that, we both need one,” Naylor said. “But there’s one thing you have to do before that.”

“Sir?”

Naylor took out his cellular telephone and punched an autodial number.

“Allan Naylor, Doña Alicia,” he said a moment later. “I’m sitting here in the Army-Navy Club in Washington with Lieutenant Colonel Castillo and we thought we’d call and say hello.

There was a pause.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s what I said.”

He handed the cellular to Castillo.

“Your grandmother would like a word with you, Colonel.”

 

An hour and a half later, as Air France flight 9080 climbed to cruising altitude somewhere over Delaware, Herr Karl Gossinger, the Washington correspondent of the Tages Zeitung, accepted a second glass of champagne from the first-class cabin attendant—and suddenly startled her by bitterly exclaiming, “Oh, shit!”

It had just occurred to him that he had not only not gone to see Special Agent Elizabeth Schneider in her hospital bed but had not even called her to tell her why he couldn’t.

[TWO]
Suite 222
InterContinental Paris
3 rue de Castiglione
Paris, France
1230 5 August 2005

The bellman placed Castillo’s suitcase on the nicely upholstered stand next to the dresser, graciously accepted his tip, and left, pulling the door to the suite quietly closed behind him. Castillo made a beeline for the toilette, voided his bladder, then sat down on one of the double beds. He picked up the telephone and dialed a number from memory.

“United States embassy,” a woman’s pleasant voice answered.

“Monsieur Delchamps, s’il vous plaît.”

The Paris CIA station chief answered on the second buzz: “Delchamps.”

“My name is Gossinger, Mr. Delchamps. Perhaps you remember we met recently in the Crillon?”

Delchamps hesitated just perceptibly.

“Oh, yes. Mr. Gossinger, is it? I’ve been expecting your call. You’re in the Crillon again?”

“The Continental. I was wondering if you were free for lunch.”

“Yes, I am. How does a hamburger sound?”

“You’re not suggesting McDonald’s?”

“No. What you get in McDonald’s is a frenchified hamburger. You can still get a real hamburger in Harry’s New York Bar. It’s right around the corner from the Continental. You want to meet me in the lobby? I can leave here right now.”

“A real hamburger sounds fine. I’ll be waiting. Thank you.”

“Your wish is my command, Herr Gossinger,” Delchamps said and hung up.

 

Delchamps—a nondescript man in his late fifties wearing a some what rumpled suit—came around the corner from the rue de Rivoli ten minutes later.

He offered Castillo his hand.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Gossinger. How may I be of service?”

“Why don’t we wait until we get to Harry’s?” Castillo replied.

“Whatever you wish, sir,” Delchamps said.

Castillo eyed him a moment. My chain is being pulled. What’s he up to?

“The Continental has an interesting history, Mr. Gossinger,” Delchamps said as they started down rue de Castiglione toward the Ritz and the Place de l’Opera. “Are you interested?”

“Fascinated,” Castillo said, smiling and playing along.

“There was once a monastery where it now stands,” Delchamps said. “Louis XVI and his girlfriend—‘Let them eat cake’ Marie Antoinette—were staying there just before they were taken over to the Place de la Concorde and had their heads removed in the name of liberty.”

“You don’t say?”

“It’s absolutely true.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Delchamps said. “But let me continue since you seem to find this of interest.”

“Please do,” Castillo said.

The conversation was momentarily interrupted by the sight of an incredibly beautiful, long-legged blonde coming out of the Hotel Ritz. She was surrounded by four muscular men who might as well have had SECURITY stamped on their large foreheads. She got into the rear seat of a Maybach, in the process revealing a good deal of thigh. One of the gorillas with her got in the front seat of the car, another trotted quickly to a Mercedes in front of it, and the other two trotted to an identical Mercedes behind it. The convoy rolled majestically away toward the rue de Rivoli.

“I regret being unable to identify that young woman for you, Mr. Gossinger, as I can see you are really interested,” Delchamps said after they had passed the entrance to the Ritz. “But I’m sure she’s someone famous.”

“Either that or a high-class hooker,” Castillo said.

“The two possibilities are not mutually exclusive,” Delchamps said.

Castillo chuckled.

“But I was telling you about the Continental, wasn’t I?” Delchamps asked and then went on without waiting for a reply. “And it was in the Continental—I seem to remember in 1880, but don’t hold me to that—that what many regard as the advertising coup of all time took place.”

“I’ve always been interested in advertising,” Castillo said. “Tell me about that.”

“Tourism was just beginning to blossom and become big business,” Delchamps said. “The British, the Italians, the Germans, and of course the French were in hot competition for the Yankee tourist dollar. There was hardly a building on Manhattan Island without a billboard urging the Yankees to come to England, Italy, Germany, or France. There were so many of them that not one of them really caught people’s attention. And the advertising was really expensive, which really bothered the French.

“The matter was given a great deal of thought, and, in studying the problem the French realized that the ideal advertisement would be something that incorporated novelty. Edison had just given us the lightbulb, you will recall, so the new advertisement had to include one of those. Yankees, the French knew, also liked amply bosomed females, so the advertisement would have to have one of those, too. How about an amply breasted woman holding an electric light over her head?”

Castillo laughed aloud.

“You sonofabitch, you had me going. The Statue of Liberty.”

Delchamps smiled and nodded.

“And if we give it to the Yankees, the clever Frogs realized, call it a ‘gift of friendship’ or something, not only will the Yankees never take it down but—desperate as they are to have people like them—they’ll put it someplace where it can’t be missed. And if we give it to them, they’ll pay to maintain it. If we play our cards right, we can probably even get them to pay for part—maybe most—of it.”

“God, isn’t history fascinating?” Castillo said.

“That meeting took place right in your hotel,” Delchamps said. “And here we are on rue Danou, site of the legendary Harry’s New York Bar. Would you be interested to learn that Ernest Hemingway used to hang around in Harry’s?”

“Absolutely,” Castillo said as Delchamps held open the door to the bar for him.

“Paris was known in those days as the intellectual center of the world. The truth is that before we sent Pershing over here to save their ass, they had emptied the French treasury and wiped out a generation of their male population in a standoff with the Krauts…”

He paused to direct Castillo, pointing to the stairway to the basement. When he had followed Castillo down the narrow, winding stairway and they had taken stools at the bar, he picked up where he had left off.

“And, presuming you had the Yankee dollar, it was one of the cheapest places to live. Not to mention that since most of the young Frogs had been killed in the trenches, there was no shortage of places for you to hide your salami.”

The bartender appeared.

“They have other stuff, but they make a really good hamburger,” Delchamps said.

“Sounds fine,” Castillo said.

Delchamps ordered—in fluent Parisian French, Castillo noted—the hamburgers, medium rare, and two bottles of Dortmunder Union beer.

“Do you find it interesting, Herr Gossinger, that your tail is resting where very possibly Hemingway’s tail once rested?”

“Yes, I find that interesting,” Castillo said.

“And would you be interested in hearing the true story of Hemingway’s war service as an officer?”

“I would be interested.”

“He drove an ambulance in the Italian Army Medical Corps,” Delchamps said. “Normally, as you know, Herr Oberst, ambulance drivers are privates. Oh, every once in a while there’s a PFC, and maybe even a corporal after long and faithful service, but usually a private.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Castillo said.

“Hemingway was a lieutenant,” Delchamps said. “The Italian government decided it wouldn’t be good if all the starry-eyed American boys who rushed to do their part in the war to end all wars wrote home to Mama about how privates driving ambulances in the Italian Army were treated and fed, so they made them all second lieutenants.”

“Really?”

“True story. You found it interesting, I hope?”

“Absolutely! But you know what I would really find interesting to know?”

“And what is that?”

“Please tell me if you deliver these fascinating, interesting lectures on little-known facts of history to everyone who comes to Paris or if you have some interesting—possibly nefarious—purpose in relating them to me.”

“In your case, Herr Oberst Gossinger, I was ordered to do so,” Delchamps said as he took a sheet of paper from his pocket.

That’s the second time he called me “Herr Oberst.” I wonder what’s that all about?

“This came in at six this morning, Colonel,” Delchamps said, handing the paper to Castillo, “making it necessary for me to get out of bed at that obscene hour and go to the fucking embassy to get it. I was, as you can imagine, more than a little pissed, for several reasons.”

Castillo unfolded the sheet of paper and read it.

---

TOP SECRET

 

URGENT

 

DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN

 

DELIVER IMMEDIATELY TO EDGAR J. DELCHAMPS ONLY AND REPORT TIME OF DELIVERY OR REASONS FOR FAILURE TO DO SO

 

FROM: DIRECTOR NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE

 

TO: EDGAR J. DELCHAMPS

 

CIA STATION CHIEF PARIS

 

COPIES TO: (EYES ONLY) SECSTATE, SECHOMELANDSEC; DIRCIA

 

COLONEL C. G. CASTILLO, USA, IS PRESENTLY EN ROUTE PARIS ON A MISSION FOR THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES WHICH HE MAY AT HIS SOLE DISCRETION ELECT TO CLARIFY FOR YOU.

 

COLONEL CASTILLO WILL BE FURNISHED WHATEVER ASSISTANCE AND INTELLIGENCE HE REQUESTS, TO INCLUDE, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, ACCESS TO AGENCY-OWNED AVIATION ASSETS. FURTHER, IT IS DIRECTED THAT YOU FURNISH HIM WITH ANY INTELLIGENCE NOT SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED BUT IN WHICH YOU FEEL HE MAY BE INTERESTED.

 

CHARLES W. MONTVALE

 

DIRECTOR OF NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE

 

TOP SECRET

---

“When Montvale called the last time you came here, he told me you were a major, Ace,” Delchamps said, accusingly.

“I’m a lieutenant colonel as of yesterday,” Castillo said.

“Then permit me to be among the very first to congratulate you.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with this,” Castillo said, handing the message back. “But it does explain the interesting history lectures, doesn’t it?”

“You going to tell me about this presidential mission you’re on or are we going to fuck around with each other in the dark?”

“It’s more than a mission. There’s been a Presidential Finding,” Castillo said. “The bottom line of which is, I’m supposed to find and ‘render harmless’ whoever whacked Jack the Stack Masterson in Buenos Aires.”

“And you’re working for who? Montvale directly?”

“The President directly. Montvale thinks I should be working for him.”

“Well, that explains that little middle-of-the-night billet-doux, doesn’t it?”

“He makes me feel like a sixteen-year-old virgin with some thirty-year-old guy chasing me who won’t take no for an answer.”

“I take your point, even if I don’t think you were ever a sixteen-year-old virgin,” Delchamps said. “The UN notified the embassy that Lorimer was killed during a robbery in Uruguay, of all goddamned places. That’s obviously bullshit. You have the real skinny on that?”

“He was whacked, with a Madsen, at an estancia he owned down there.”

“Your source reliable?”

“I was there. I had just told Lorimer he was about to be returned to the bosom of his family when somebody stuck a Madsen through the window, put two bullets in his head, and wounded one of the guys with me.”

“You do get around, don’t you, Ace?”

“The bad guys also garroted one of my guys, a Delta Force sergeant who wasn’t easy to get to. They were real professionals.”

“Who all unfortunately left this vale of tears before they could tell you who they worked for?”

Castillo nodded. “There were six of them, all dressed in black, no identification.”

“Sounds like Spetsnaz or Mossad,” Delchamps said. “Or maybe even Frogs from Rip-em.”

“From where?”

The bartender delivered their Dortmunder Union. Delchamps waited until he was out of earshot before answering.

“Le premiere Régiment de Parachutistes d’Infanterie de Marine,” Delchamps explained. “Rip-em, from the acronym, are pretty good. The French version of the English SAS, which is where they got started. Rumor has it that they’ve got a bunch of ex-Spetsnaz. From Spetsnaz to Légion Etrangère to Rip-em.”

“French?” Castillo thought aloud.

“Why not? The Frogs were up to their ears in the oil-for-food business and, from what I hear, Lorimer knew which ones.”

“I never even thought of the French,” Castillo admitted.

“You didn’t learn anything from Lorimer? Jesus, how the hell did you find him? In Uruguay?”

“I did find what we believe to be almost sixteen million skimmed from the bribe funds, but, as you put it, he passed from this vale of tears before I could ask him about it.”

“Sit on that, and see who tries to get it.”

“We’ve got it,” Castillo said.

“Good for you!” Delchamps said and took his beer glass and, in a toast, clinked it against Castillo’s.

Delchamps took a sip, then continued: “You were going to tell me how you found Lorimer. I was convinced—as I told you—that he was feeding the fish in either the Seine or the Danube.”

“I have a source, a reporter, who’s been running down the transfer of money from oil-for-food profits from Germany to South America—Uruguay and Argentina—and I got some names from him. I was showing them to an FBI agent in Montevideo who was working money laundering. He opened one of his files and Jean-Paul Lorimer’s picture was in it. He had another identity—Jean-Paul Bertrand, Lebanese passport, antiquities dealer—and what I’m guessing is that when they stopped looking for Lorimer, he was going to move elsewhere…with the sixteen mil.”

“Reporter from where?”

“A German newspaper.”

“That makes me wonder about Gossinger,” Delchamps said.

“I was born in Germany to a German mother. So far as the Germans are concerned, that makes me a German forever and eligible for a German passport. It’s a handy cover.”

“You going to tell me who Castillo is?”

“My father was a Huey pilot who got killed in Vietnam before he got around to marrying my mother. When I was twelve, my father’s parents found out about me and off I went to the States, with my father’s name on my American passport.”

Delchamps met his eyes for a moment but didn’t respond directly. Instead, he said, “I would say that maybe the KSK is involved, but—”

“The KSK?”

“Die Kommando Spezialkräfte, KSK, German Special Forces. You didn’t know?”

His German pronunciation is perfect. He sounds like he’s a Berliner. Well, he told me he’d done time in Berlin.

“Two of the guys in black were black-skinned,” Castillo said. “I never even thought they might be German.”

Which was pretty goddamned stupid of me.

Delchamps looked as if he had been going to say something but had changed his mind.

“Say it,” Castillo said.

Delchamps looked at him for a moment, then shrugged.

“Some of the kids—hell, thousands of them—in situations like yours had black fathers whose family didn’t take them to the States. When they grew up—and being a black bastard in Germany couldn’t have been a hell of a lot of fun—they found getting jobs was hard, but they were German citizens and could join the army. A lot of them did. And, by and large, most of them weren’t fans of anything American.”

“I should have thought of that,” Castillo said.

“That said, I think it’s unlikely that KSK would be involved in anything like what happened in Uruguay. Unlikely but not impossible. They keep them on a pretty tight leash.”

“There were some German Special Forces people in Afghanistan,” Castillo said. “I didn’t see any black ones.”

“So what do you want to do in Paris?”

“Can you get me into Lorimer’s apartment?”

“I can, but you’re not going to find anything there,” Delchamps said. “The Deuxième Bureau and the UN guys went through it as soon as he turned up missing. And so did I, when I learned there was interest in the bastard.”

He’s right. This has been a wild-goose chase.

Inspector Clouseau fucks up again.

“I just remembered,” Delchamps went on, “that I’m the guy who assured you that Lorimer had already been taken care of. So, okay. We’ll have another look. You looking for anything special?”

“Nothing special. Anything that’ll point me in the direction of whoever whacked Masterson.”

“And that’s all you came to Paris for?”

Castillo nodded.

“Where are you going from here, to see the German reporter?”

“To his newspaper. I want to talk to his editor.”

“Where’s that?”

“Fulda.”

“Well, I can’t get you in the apartment until after dark. So what I suggest is that when we finish our hamburgers—if we ever get them—we go over to the embassy and have another look at what I’ve got. Maybe you’ll see something I don’t. You’ve got your American passport?”

Castillo nodded.

“And while we’re there, I’ll get on the horn to Brussels and have Eurojet taxi pick you up at Charles de Gaulle in the morning. What’s closest to Fulda, Rhine-Main?”

Castillo nodded. “But it’s no longer Rhine-Main; we gave it back to the Germans a couple of weeks ago. It’s now all Frankfurt International.”

“The old order changeth and giveth way to the new. Write that down.”

Castillo chuckled. “Ed, I’m not sure about using that Eurojet whatever you said. Why don’t I catch a train after we do the apartment?

“Worried about owing Montvale?”

Castillo nodded.

“On the other hand, if he hears you used his airplane—and he will—he’ll presume he has you in his pocket. Having him think that is known as disarming your enemy.”

“Why do you make me feel so stupid, Delchamps?”

“You’re not stupid, Ace. A little short on experience, maybe, but not stupid.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in reasonably honest employment in our nation’s capital, would you?”

Delchamps met his eyes for a long moment.

“Why don’t we talk about that again, Ace, after you find out who these people are?”

“That presumes I will.”

“Rephrase: After you have your best shot at it. The first thing a wise spook has to admit is that failure is the norm. You seem to have learned that, so maybe there is some hope for you in this business.”

[THREE]
The Residence of the Ambassador of the United States of America
1104 La Rambla
Carrasco, República Oriental del Uruguay
0805 5 August 2005

As the Honorable Michael A. McGrory, still in his bathrobe, was sipping at a cup of coffee while looking some what glumly out his dining-room window at what looked like a drizzle that would last all day, Theodore J. Detweiller, Jr., his chief of mission, telephoned.

“I’m sorry to bother you at home, Mr. Ambassador, but I thought I should bring this to your attention immediately.”

“What’s up, Ted?” McGrory responded.

There were two ways to look at a chief of mission who would not take any action without being absolutely sure it was what the ambassador wanted.

On one hand, Ambassador McGrory thought it was a good thing. He didn’t have to spend much time or effort rescinding Detweiller’s bad decisions and repairing the collateral damage they may have caused because Detweiller rarely—almost never—made any decisions on his own.

On the other, having a de facto deputy ambassador who would not blow his nose until he found in the Standing Operating Procedure when and under what circumstances doing so was specifically authorized or, failing that, until he had asked permission of the ambassador to do so was often a pain in the you-know-where.

Detweiller, too, often considered things that could well wait until the next day—or the next week—important enough to bring them to the ambassador’s immediate attention, even if that meant disturbing the ambassador’s breakfast, lunch, or golf game.

“I just now had a telephone call from Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez, Mr. Ambassador.”

“At your home, presumably?”

“Yes, sir. At my home.”

“And what did Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez want?”

“He asked if I was going to be in the office about nine,” Detweiller reported, “and, if so, if I would be kind enough to offer him a cup of coffee.”

McGrory stopped himself just in time from saying, “Well, give him one, Ted. And offer my best regards.”

Instead, he asked: “He didn’t say what he wanted, huh?”

“No, sir. He didn’t. And I thought the call to my home, at this hour…”

“A bit unusual, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, I thought so.”

“You did tell Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez that you’d give him a cup of coffee, Ted, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I did. Mr. Ambassador, may I give you my gut feeling?”

“Of course.”

“I have the feeling, sir, that this is not a social call, but that Alvarez wants to keep it unofficial, if you take my meaning.”

“I see. And why would he want to do that?”

“I haven’t a clue, but that’s my gut feeling and I thought I should mention it.”

“And you should have. And just as soon as you find out what he wanted, if anything, besides a cup of coffee, let me know.”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“Anything else, Ted?”

“No. That’s it. Again, sorry to have to disturb you at home, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Not at all, Ted,” Ambassador McGrory said and hung up.

The ambassador picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, and found that it was tepid.

“Goddamn it,” he exclaimed, then returned the cup to the table with a bang and walked briskly out of the dining room and to his bedroom to get dressed.

 

Since he really wanted a cup of fresh hot coffee when he got to his office, McGrory was not surprised to find that Señora Susanna Obregon, his secretary, had not yet prepared any.

He did not remonstrate with her. It would be a waste of his time. She would have some excuse, ranging from she liked to time the preparation of it so that it would be fresh and hot when he got to the office (and today he was almost an hour early) to the fact that her second cousin’s wife had just given birth to quadruplets.

He went into his office and sat at his desk. There was only one sheet of paper in his in-box, which meant that for a change there had not been radioed overnight at least a dozen friendly suggestions from the under secretary of state on how he could better do his job.

Having nothing else to do until his coffee arrived, he reached for the message in the in-box, slumped back in his chair, and began to read it.

---

SECRET

ASLA 3445-4 1745 4AUG05

 

FROM: DEPUTY ASSISTANT SECRETARY OF STATE FOR LATIN AMERICA

 

TO: US EMBASSY, MONTEVIDEO, URUGUAY

PERSONAL ATTENTION: AMBASSADOR MCGRORY

 

CONFIRMING TELECON BETWEEN ASSTSECTLATAM AND THEODORE J. DETWEILLER, JR., C/M USEMB MONTEVIDEO 1705 4 AUGUST 2005

 

MR. DAVID W. YUNG, JR., A SPECIAL AGENT OF THE FBI ON THE PERSONAL STAFF OF SECSTATE, IS CURRENTLY EN ROUTE TO MONTEVIDEO AND SHOULD ARRIVE THERE AFTERNOON 5 AUGUST 2005.

 

SECSTATE COHEN HAS DIRECTED AND AUTHORIZED Mr. YUNG TO ASSUME AND DISCHARGE ALL CONSULAR DUTIES RELATING TO THE LATE DR. JEAN-PAUL LORIMER INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO REPATRIATION OF THE REMAINS AND THE PROTECTION OF ASSETS.

 

SECSTATE FURTHER DIRECTS USEMB MONTEVIDEO TO PROVIDE Mr. YUNG WITH WHATEVER ASSISTANCE HE REQUIRES, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO TURNING OVER TO HIM ANY AND ALL USEMB RECORDS AND FILES CONCERNING Mr. LORIMER AND ANY AND ALL MATERIAL REGARDING JEAN-PAUL BERTRAND WHOSE IDENTITY Mr. LORIMER HAD APPARENTLY ASSUMED. THIS SPECIFICALLY INCLUDES ALL INFORMATION REGARDING THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF Mr. LORIMER’S DEATH KNOWN TO EMB AND/OR OBTAINED FROM URUGUAYAN GOVERNMENT SOURCES.

 

SECSTATE AUTHORIZES AND DIRECTS Mr. YUNG TO, AT HIS DISCRETION, SHIP ALL SUCH MATERIALS VIA DIPLOMATIC POUCH TO STATE DEPT, PERSONAL ATTENTION SECSTATE, OR TO MAKE SUCH OTHER ARRANGEMENTS FOR THEIR SHIPMENT TO SECSTATE AS HE DESIRES.

 

BARBARA L. QUIGLETTE

 

DEPUTY ASSISTANT SECRETARY OF STATE FOR LATIN AMERICA

 

SECRET

---

The sonofabitch interrupts my breakfast to tell me the deputy foreign minister wants to talk to him unofficially and didn’t mention this?

Goddamn him! He should have called me the moment he got off the phone from talking to the under secretary! Last night!

McGrory pushed himself out of his high-backed, blue-leather-upholstered chair and walked quickly to his office door, still holding the radio teletype printout.

“Susanna,” he ordered, “I want to see, right now, in this order, and separately—in other words, one at a time—Mr. Detweiller, Mr. Monahan, and Mr. Howell.”

“Yes, sir,” Señora Obregon replied.

 

Three minutes later Señora Obregon reported that neither Mr. Detweiller nor Mr. Howell had yet come in but that Mr. Monahan was on his way to the ambassador’s office and asked if she should send him in or make him wait until he’d seen the others.

“Send him in, please,” McGrory ordered.

Monahan appeared at the office door moments later.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Ambassador?”

McGrory waved him into the office but not into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“I’m a little curious, Monahan, why you did not elect to tell me Yung is on the personal staff of the secretary of state,” McGrory said.

“Excuse me?”

“You are the special agent in charge, are you not? And you were aware, were you not, of Yung’s status?”

“That’s two questions, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Answer them one at a time.”

“I’m the senior FBI agent here, Mr. Ambassador, but not the SAC.”

“What’s the others?”

“A SAC is in charge of the special agents,” Monahan replied and then clarified: “It stands for Special Agent in Charge.”

“And you’re not?”

“No, sir. I’m the senior agent. I’ve been with the bureau longest. But I was never appointed the SAC.”

“You’re telling me you’re not in charge of the other FBI agents? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sort of in charge, because, like I say, I’m the senior agent. But not really, if you take my meaning.”

“If you’re not really in charge, Monahan, who is?”

Monahan seemed puzzled by the question for a moment, then answered it: “You are, Mr. Ambassador.”

McGrory thought: Sonofabitch! Is he stupid or just acting that way?

He went on: “And Special Agent Yung, who does he work for?”

“When he was here, he worked for you, sir.”

“Not the secretary of state?”

“Up the chain of command, maybe,” Monahan said. “I never thought about that. I mean, he worked for you and you work for the secretary of state, if you follow me. In that sense, you could say he worked for the secretary of state.”

Señora Obregon put her head in the door.

“Mr. Howell is here, Mr. Ambassador.”

McGrory thought, There’s no sense going any further with this.

he said, “Monahan, I have to see Mr. Howell right now. Please keep yourself available.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ask Mr. Howell to come in, please, Señora Obregon,” McGrory said.

 

“Interesting,” Cultural Attaché Robert Howell said, handing the message back to McGrory. “I wonder what it means?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” McGrory said.

“Well, all I can do is guess. Mr. Masterson’s father-in-law is a retired ambassador. We heard in Buenos Aires that the father-in-law has heart problems and perhaps Secretary Cohen—”

“I mean about Yung being on the personal staff of the secretary,” McGrory interrupted.

“Mr. Ambassador, you never elected to tell me about that. I simply presumed Yung was one more FBI agent.”

“I didn’t know he was on the secretary’s personal staff, Robert,” McGrory said.

“You didn’t? Even more interesting, I wonder what he was doing down here that even you didn’t know about? Does Monahan know?”

McGrory didn’t answer the question.

Instead, he said, “Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez telephoned Ted Detweiller at eight this morning. He wanted to know if Detweiller would be in his office at nine and, if so, if Detweiller would be kind enough to offer him a cup of coffee.”

“I wonder what that’s all about?” Howell said.

“I intend to find out. As soon as Detweiller gets here, I’m going to tell him he has the flu and is going home. Since he is unfortunately not able to give Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez his cup of coffee, I will. And I want you to be here when I do so.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Mr. Ambassador,” Señora Obregon announced from his door, “Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez and another gentleman to see you.”

McGrory rose quickly from his desk and walked quickly to the door, smiling, his hand extended.

“Señor Alvarez,” he said. “What an unexpected pleasure!”

Alvarez, a small, trim man, returned the smile.

“Mr. Detweiller has developed a slight case of the flu,” McGrory went on, “which is bad for him, but—perhaps I shouldn’t say this—good for me, because it gives me the chance to offer you the cup of coffee in his stead.”

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Ambassador,” Alvarez said, enthusiastically pumping McGrory’s hand. “I only hope I am not intruding on your busy schedule.”

“There is always time in my schedule for you, Señor Alvarez,” McGrory said.

“May I present my friend, Señor Ordóñez of the Interior Ministry?” Alvarez said.

“A privilege to make your acquaintance, señor,” McGrory said, offering Ordóñez his hand. “And may I introduce my cultural attaché, Señor Howell?”

Everybody shook hands.

“I understand from Señor Detweiller that this is a purely social visit?” McGrory asked.

“Absolutely,” Alvarez said. “I knew Ordóñez and I were going to be in the area, and since I hadn’t seen my friend Detweiller for some time I thought he might be kind enough to offer me a cup of coffee.”

“He was really sorry to miss you,” McGrory said.

“Please pass on my best wishes for a speedy recovery,” Alvarez said.

“Since this is, as you say, a purely social visit, may I suggest that Señor Howell share our coffee with us?”

“Delighted to have him,” Alvarez said.

“Please take a seat,” McGrory said, waving at the chairs and the couch around his coffee table. Then he raised his voice, “Señora Obregon, would you be good enough to bring us all some coffee and rolls?”

Howell thought: Whatever this is—it almost certainly has to do with the blood bath at Tacuarembó—it is not a purely social visit and both Alvarez and McGrory know it.

Alvarez knows that Detweiller “got sick” because McGrory wanted to talk to him himself, which is probably fine with Alvarez. He really wanted to talk to him, anyway, but the deputy foreign minister couldn’t call the American ambassador and ask for a cup of coffee.

That’s known as protocol.

Ordóñez is not just in the Interior Ministry; he’s chief inspector of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policía Nacional and McGrory knows that.

And Ordóñez knows—and, since he knows, so does Alvarez—that I’m not really the cultural attaché.

I know just about everything that happened at Tacuarembó, but Señor Pompous doesn’t even know that Americans—much less his CIA station chief—were involved, because Castillo decided he didn’t have the Need to Know and ordered me—with his authority under the Presidential Finding—not to tell him anything at all.

Everybody is lying to—and/or concealing something from—everybody else and everybody either knows or suspects it.

That’s known as diplomacy.

I wonder how long it will take before Alvarez decides to talk about what he wants to talk about?

 

It took less time—just over five minutes—than Howell expected it to before Alvarez obliquely began to talk about what he had come to talk about.

“While I’m here, Mr. Ambassador,” Alvarez said, “let me express my personal appreciation—an official expression will of course follow in good time—for your cooperation in the Tacuarembó matter.”

“Well, no thanks are necessary,” McGrory replied, “as we have learned that the poor fellow was really an American citizen. We were just doing our duty.”

Alvarez smiled as if highly amused. McGrory looked at him curiously.

“Forgive me,” Alvarez said. “My wife is always accusing me of smiling at the wrong time. In this case, I was smiling at your—innocent, I’m sure—choice of words.”

“What words?” McGrory said.

“‘The poor fellow,’” Alvarez said.

“I’m not sure I follow you, Señor Alvarez,” McGrory said.

“What is that delightful American phrase? ‘Out of school’?”

“That is indeed one of our phrases, Señor Alvarez. It means, essentially, that something said was never said.”

“Yes. All right. Out of school, then. Actually, two things out of school, one leading to the other.”

“There’s another American phrase,” McGrory put in. “‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’ Boys—and maybe girls, too—say that to each other as they vow not to reveal something they are told in confidence. Cross my heart and hope to die, Señor Alvarez.”

Howell thought: My God, I can’t believe you actually said that!

“How charming!” Alvarez said. “Well, Señor Ordóñez, who is really with the Policía Nacional—he’s actually the chief inspector of the Interior Police Division—was telling me on the way over that Mr. Lorimer—or should I say Señor Bertrand?—was a very wealthy man until just a few days ago. He died virtually penniless.”

“Oh, really?” McGrory said. “That’s why you smiled when I called him a ‘poor fellow’?”

Alvarez nodded. “And I apologize again for doing so,” he said, and went on: “Señor Ordóñez found out late yesterday afternoon that Señor Bertrand’s bank accounts were emptied the day after his body was found.”

“How could that happen?” McGrory asked. “How does a dead man empty his bank account?”

“By signing the necessary withdrawal documents over to someone several days before his death and then having that someone negotiate the documents. It’s very much as if you paid your Visa bill with a check and then, God forbid, were run over by a truck. The check would still be paid.”

“Out of school, was there much money involved?” McGrory asked.

“Almost sixteen million U.S. dollars,” Ordóñez said. “In three different banks.”

 

This was the first Howell had heard anything about money.

When Alex Darby, the Buenos Aires CIA station chief who had driven Howell’s “black” Peugeot to Tacuarembó so that it could be used to drive Castillo and Munz to the estancia, returned the car to Howell in Montevideo, he had reported the operation had gone bad.

Really bad, but not as bad as it could have been.

Darby’s report of what had happened at Hacienda Shangri-La had been concise but complete—not surprisingly, he had been a CIA agent, a good one, for a longtime.

But no mention at all of any money.

Hadn’t Darby known?

Hadn’t he been told?

Or had he been told, and decided I didn’t have the Need to Know?

Jesus Christ, sixteen million dollars!

Did Castillo get it?

Or the parties unknown—parties, hell, with that kind of money involved, it was probably a government—who had sent the Ninjas after Lorimer?

 

“My God!” McGrory said. “Out of school, who was the someone to whom Mr. Lorimer wrote the checks?”

“We don’t know,” Alvarez said. “They were presented to the Riggs National Bank in Washington. All three of the banks here use Riggs as what they call a ‘correspondent bank.’”

“Let me see if I have this right,” McGrory said. “Somebody walked into the Riggs National Bank in Washington, handed over whatever these documents were, and they handed him sixteen million dollars?”

Ordóñez said, “What the Riggs Bank did was send—they have a satellite link—photocopies of the promissory notes to the banks here to verify Señor Bertrand’s signature. When the banks had done that, they notified the Riggs Bank that the signature was valid and the transaction had been processed.”

“So then they handed the man in Washington sixteen million dollars?”

“No. What the man in Washington wanted was for the money to be wired to his account in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank in the Cayman Islands. That was done. It takes just a minute or two.”

“And what was this fellow’s name?”

“We don’t know. For that matter it could just as easily have been a woman. The money went into a numbered account.”

“But it was Lorimer’s signature on the promissory notes? You’re sure of that?”

“There was no question at any of the banks—and, with that kind of money involved, you can imagine they were very careful—that Señor Bertrand had indeed signed the promissory notes.”

“I’m baffled,” McGrory said.

“So are we,” Alvarez said.

“Can we find out from the bank in the Cayman Islands…what did you say It was?”

“The Liechtensteinische Landesbank,” Ordóñez furnished.

“Can we find out from them who owns the numbered account?” McGrory pursued.

“I don’t think that will be easy,” Ordóñez said. “They have stricter banking secrecy laws in the Cayman Islands than in Switzerland.”

“Well, perhaps I can do something,” McGrory said, looking at Howell. “I’ll ask Washington.”

“We would of course appreciate anything you can do, Mr. Ambassador. Officially or otherwise,” Alvarez said.

“I suppose if you had any idea who murdered Mr. Lorimer, you would tell me?”

“Of course,” Alvarez said. “Who murdered Mr. Lorimer or who was responsible for the deaths of the other men we found at Estancia Shangri-La.”

“We’re working very hard on it,” Ordóñez said. “I think in time we’ll be able to put it all together. But it will take time and we would appreciate anything you could do to help us.”

“But so far, nothing, right?” McGrory asked.

“There are some things we’re looking into that will probably be valuable,” Ordóñez said. “For one thing, we are now pretty sure that a helicopter was involved.”

“A helicopter?” Howell asked.

“A helicopter,” Ordóñez said. “Not far from the farm, we found barrels of jet fuel. And, beside it, the marks of…what’s the term for those pipes a helicopter sits on?”

“I don’t know,” McGrory confessed after a moment.

“Skids,” Howell furnished, earning him a dirty look from McGrory.

“Right,” Ordóñez said. “There were marks in the mud which almost certainly came from a helicopter’s skids. Strongly suggesting that the helicopter came some distance to the estancia and that the fuel was placed there before the helicopter arrived.”

“Where would a helicopter come from?” Howell asked. “Brazil?”

“Brazil or Argentina,” Ordóñez said. “For that matter, from Montevideo. But I’m leaning toward Argentina.”

“Why?” McGrory asked.

“Because that’s where the fuel drums came from,” Ordóñez said. “Of course, that doesn’t mean the helicopter came from Argentina, just that the fuel did. The helicopter could just as easily have come from Brazil, as you suggest.”

“You haven’t been able to identify any of the bodies?” McGrory asked.

“The only thing we have learned about the bodies is that a good deal of effort went into making them hard to identify. None of them had any identification whatever on them or on their clothing. They rented a Mercedes Traffik van at the airport in Carrasco—”

“Don’t you need a credit card and a driver’s license to rent a car?” Howell asked. “And a passport?”

That earned him another dirty look from McGrory.

And when this is over, I will get a lecture reminding me that underlings are not expected to speak unless told to by the ambassador.

Sorry, Mr. Ambassador, sir, but I didn’t think you were going to show any interest in that, and it damned well might be useful in finding out who the Ninjas were and where they came from.

“Both,” Ordóñez said. “The van was rented to a Señor Alejandro J. Gastor, of Madrid, who presented his Spanish passport, his Spanish driver’s license, and a prepaid MasterCard debit card issued by the Banco Galicia of Madrid. The Spanish ambassador has learned that no passport or driver’s license has ever been issued to anyone named Alejandro J. Gastor and that the address on the driver’s license is that of a McDonald’s fast-food restaurant.”

“Interesting,” Howell said.

He thought: Ordóñez is pretty good.

I wonder if anyone spotted my car up there?

Or the Yukon from the embassy in Buenos Aires that took the jet fuel there?

We put Argentinean license plates on it.

Is that another reason Ordóñez is “leaning toward Argentina” as the place the chopper came from?

“And so is this,” Ordóñez said, and handed Howell a small, zipper-top plastic bag. There was a fired cartridge case in it.

“This is one of the cases found at the estancia,” Ordóñez went on. “There were, in all, one hundred and two cases, forty-six of them 9mm, seventy-five .223, and this one.”

“Looks like a .308 Winchester,” Howell said, examining the round through the plastic, then handed the bag to McGrory, who examined it carefully.

Howell watched with masked amusement. Señor Pompous doesn’t have a clue about what he’s looking at.

Ordóñez did not respond directly to the .308 comment.

Instead, he said, “The 9mm cases were of Israeli manufacture. And the .223 were all from the U.S. Army. Which means, of course, that there is virtually no chance of learning anything useful from either the 9mm or the .223 cases. Or from the weapons we found on the scene, which were all Madsen submachine guns of Danish manufacture. We found five submachine guns, and there were six men in the dark coveralls. There were also indications that something—most likely a sixth Madsen, but possibly some other type of weapon taken because it was unusual—was removed from under one of the bodies found on the veranda.

“I think it’s reasonable to assume this casing came from the rifle which killed the two men we found on the veranda. They were both shot in the head. We found one bullet lodged in the wall—”

“I’m afraid I’m missing something,” McGrory interrupted. “Is there something special about this bullet?”

There you go again, McGrory! The bullet is the pointy thing that comes out the hole in the barrel after the “bang.”

What you’re looking at is the cartridge case.

“Mr. Ambassador, what you’re holding is the cartridge case, not the bullet,” Ordóñez said. “And, yes, there is something special about it.”

Now I know I like you, Chief Inspector Ordóñez. You’re dangerous, but I like you.

“And what is that?” McGrory asked, his tone indicating he did not like to be corrected.

“If you’ll look at the headstamp, Mr. Ambassador,” Ordóñez said.

“Certainly,” McGrory said, and looked at Ordóñez clearly expecting him to hand him a headstamp, whatever that was.

“It’s on the bottom of the cartridge casing in the bag, Mr. Ambassador,” Ordóñez said.

That’s the closed end, Señor Pompous, the one without a hole.

McGrory’s lips tightened and his face paled.

With a little bit of luck he’s going to show everybody his fabled Irish temper. Does hoping that he does make me really unpatriotic?

“What about it?” McGrory asked, holding the plastic bag with his fingers so he could get a good look at the bottom of the cartridge casing.

“The headstamp reads ‘LC 2004 NM,’ Mr. Ambassador,” Ordóñez said. “Can you see that, sir?”

Oh, shit! I didn’t see that.

I didn’t look close at the case because I knew what it was and where it had come from: the sniper’s rifle.

That’s an explanation, not an excuse.

Darby said the kid fired only two shots, so why didn’t they pick up both cases?

Is that one lousy cartridge case going to blow the whole thing up in our faces?

McGrory nodded.

“If I’m wrong,” Ordóñez said, “perhaps you can correct me, but I think the meaning of that stamping is that the cartridge was manufactured at the U.S. Army Lake City ammunition plant—I believe that it’s in Utah—in 2004. The NM stands for ‘National Match,’ which means the ammunition is made with a good deal more care and precision than usual because it’s intended for marksmanship competition at the National Matches.”

McGrory looked at him but didn’t say anything.

“That sort of ammunition isn’t common, Mr. Ambassador,” Ordóñez went on. “It isn’t, I understand, even distributed throughout the U.S. Army. The only people who are issued it are competitive marksmen. And snipers. And, as I understand it, only Special Forces snipers.”

“You seem to know a good deal about this subject, Chief Inspector,” McGrory said.

“Only since yesterday,” Ordóñez said, smiling. “I called our embassy in Washington and t hey called your Pentagon. Whoever they talked to at the Pentagon was very obliging. They said, as I said a moment ago, that the ammunition is not issued to anyone but competitive marksmen. And Special Forces snipers. And has never been sold as military surplus or given to anyone or any foreign government.”

“You are not suggesting, are you, Chief Inspector,” McGrory asked, coldly, “that there was a U.S. Army Special Forces sniper in any way involved in what happened at that estancia?”

“I’m simply suggesting, sir, that it’s very unusual…”

The storm surge of righteous indignation overwhelmed the dikes of diplomacy.

“Because if you are,” McGrory interrupted him, his face now flushed and his eyes blazing, “please let me first say that I find any such suggestion—any hint of such a suggestion—personally and officially insulting.”

“I’m sure, Mr. Ambassador, that Chief Inspector Ordó—” Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez began.

“Please let me finish, Señor Alvarez,” McGrory said, cutting him off. “The way the diplomatic service of the United States functions is the ambassador is the senior government official in the country to which he is accredited. Nothing is done by any U.S. government officer—and that includes military officers—without the knowledge and permission of the ambassador. I’m surprised that you didn’t know that, Señor Alvarez.

“Further, your going directly to the Pentagon via your ambassador in Washington carries with it the implication that I have or had knowledge of this incident which I was not willing to share with you. That’s tantamount to accusing me, and thus the government of the United States, of not only conducting an illegal operation but lying about it. I am personally and officially insulted and intend to bring this to the immediate attention of the secretary of state.”

“Mr. Ambassador, I—” Alvarez began.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” McGrory said, cutting him off again. “This visit is terminated.”

Alvarez stood up, looking as if he was going to say something else but changing his mind.

“Good morning, Mr. Ambassador,” he said, finally, and walked out of the office with Ordóñez on his heels.

Howell thought: Well, that wasn’t too smart, McGrory. But, on the other hand, I think both Alvarez and Ordóñez walked out of here believing that you know nothing about what happened at Tacuarembó. The best actor in the world couldn’t turn on a fit like you just threw.

That doesn’t mean, however, that Ordóñez thinks I’m as pure as the driven snow.

“I regret that, of course, Howell,” McGrory said. “But there are times when making your position perfectly clear without the subtleties and innuendos of diplomacy is necessary. And this was one of those times.”

“Yes, sir,” Howell said.

“If this has to be said, I don’t want what just happened to leave this room.”

“I understand, sir.”

“What is your relationship with Mr. Darby?” McGrory asked.

“Sir?”

“Are you close? Friends? If you asked him, would he tell you if he knew anything about anything that went on at that estancia?”

“We’re acquaintances, sir, not friends.”

“But you both work for the CIA. Don’t you exchange information?”

“As a courtesy, sir, I usually send him a copy of my reports to the agency—after you have vetted them, sir. And he does the same for me.”

“Nevertheless, I think you should ask him about this. I’m going to catch the next plane to Buenos Aires to confer with Ambassador Silvio. I want you to go with me.”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“I don’t want to go to Washington with this until I hear what Ambassador Silvio has to say.”

“Yes, sir.”

Why do I think that you’re having second thoughts about throwing Alvarez out of your office?

[FOUR]
Office of the Director
The Central Intelligence Agency
Langley, Virginia
1205 5 August 2005

John Powell, the DCI, a trim fifty-five-year-old who had given up trying to conceal his receding hairline and now wore what was left of his hair closely cropped to his skull, rose from behind his desk and walked across his office with his hand extended to greet his visitor.

“It’s good to see you, Truman,” he said as they shook hands. “We haven’t been seeing much of each other lately.”

“The ambassador keeps me pretty busy,” Truman Ellsworth replied. He was also in his midfifties but with thirty pounds and six inches on Powell. He also had a full head of carefully coiffured silver hair. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

Powell gestured to indicate thanks were not necessary.

“And your coming gave me a much nicer alternative to eating alone or with five people with an agenda, not food, in mind. I ordered grilled trout avec beurre noir. How does that sound?”

“It sounds wonderful,” Ellsworth said and obeyed the DCI’s gesture to precede him into the DCI’s private dining room.

The table, with room for eight, had been set for two, across from one another, at the head of table.

A waiter in a stiffly starched jacket asked what they would like to drink.

“Unsweetened iced tea, please,” Ellsworth said.

“The same,” the DCI ordered.

 

“So what can I do for you, Truman? Or the ambassador?” the DCI asked when the trout had been served and the waiter had left the room.

“The president has taken a personal interest in the Argentine affair,” Truman said.

“There’s a rumor that there has even been a Presidential Finding,” the DCI said.

“One wonders how such rumors get started,” Ellsworth said. “And, consequently, the ambassador has taken a very personal interest in that unfortunate business.”

“You don’t want to tell me about the Finding?” the DCI asked.

“If there is a Finding, John, I really don’t think you would want to know the details.”

The DCI pursed his lips thoughtfully but didn’t respond.

“And as the ball bounces down from the pinnacle, I now have a personal interest in the Masterson affair,” Ellsworth said.

“Well, that’s certainly understandable,” the DCI said.

“I don’t suppose there have been any developments in the last couple of hours?”

“No. And since I have made it known that I also have a personal interest in this matter, I’m sure I would have heard,” the DCI said.

“Yes, I’m sure you would have,” Ellsworth said. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here. Should there be any developments—and I’m sure there will be—the ambassador would like to hear of them immediately after you do. I mean immediately, not through the normal channels.”

“Consider it done, Truman.”

“If the ambassador is not available, have the information passed to me.”

The DCI nodded.

“Does the name Castillo ring a bell, John?”

“Major C. G. Castillo?”

Ellsworth nodded.

“Oh yes indeed,” the DCI said. “The chap who stumbled upon the missing 727. Odd that you should mention his name. That rumor I heard about a Finding said that he was somehow involved in the Masterson business.”

“Well, if there were a Finding, I wouldn’t be surprised. The ambassador was at the White House last night where Castillo was promoted to lieutenant colonel by the President himself. Not to be repeated, entre nous, the ambassador told me that if the President were the pope he would have beatified Colonel Castillo at the ceremony.”

“How interesting!” the DCI said. “I wonder why that brings to mind Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North?”

“Possibly because they are both good-looking, dashing young officers who somehow came to bask in the approval of their commander in chief,” Ellsworth said.

“That’s probably it.”

“The ambassador is personally interested in Colonel Castillo,” Ellsworth said. “I have the feeling he likes him and would like to help him in any way he can.”

“Is that so?”

“Now, to help him—which would also mean keeping him from getting into the same kind of awkward situation in which North found himself—the more the ambassador knows about where the colonel is and what he’s up to, the better. Even rumors would be helpful.”

“I understand.”

“The problem, John, is that both Colonel Castillo and the President might misinterpret the ambassador’s interest. It would be best if neither knew of the ambassador’s—oh, what should I say?—paternal interest in Colonel Castillo and his activities.”

“Well, I certainly understand it. And I hear things from time to time. If I hear anything, I’ll certainly pass it on to you. And I’ll spread the word, discreetly of course, of my interest.”

“Not in writing, John. Either up or down.”

“Of course not. Have you any idea where Colonel Castillo might be?”

“The last I heard, he was on his way to Paris. And he’s liable to go anywhere from there. Germany. Hungary. The Southern Cone of South America.”

“He does get around, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he does.”

“Well, as I said, I’ll keep my ear to the rumor mill and keep you posted.”

“Thank you. I know the ambassador will be grateful.”

“Happy to be of whatever assistance I can. Is that about it?”

“There’s one more thing, John. For some reason, the ambassador thinks your senior analyst in the South American Division’s Southern Cone Section may not be quite the right person for the job.”

“Oh really? Well, I’m sorry to hear that. And you can tell the ambassador I’ll have a personal look at the situation immediately.”

“Her name is Wilson. Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson,” Ellsworth said.

“You know, now that I hear that name, I seem to recall that it came up not so long ago in connection with Castillo’s.”

“Really?”

“I seem to recall something like that.”

“I think the ambassador would be pleased to have your assurance that you’re going to put someone quite top-notch in that job and do so in such `a manner that, when she is replaced, Mr. Wilson will have no reason to suspect the ambassador—or even the DCI—was in any way involved with her reassignment.”

“Of course.”

“And I think he would be even more pleased if I could tell him you said that that would be taken care of very soon.”

“How soon is ‘very soon,’ Truman?”

“Yesterday would be even better than today.”

The DCI nodded but didn’t say anything.

[FIVE]
Restaurante Villa Hipica
The Jockey Club of San Isidro
Buenos Aires Province, Argentina
1340 5 August 2005

Ambassador Michael A. McGrory was not at all pleased with where Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio had taken him for lunch.

McGrory had suggested they go somewhere they could have a quiet, out-of-school conversation. If Silvio had made a similar suggestion to him in Montevideo, he would have taken Silvio either to his residence or to a restaurant where they could have a private room.

Instead, he had brought them all the way out here—a thirty-minute drive—to a wide-open restaurant crowded with horse fanciers.

Well, perhaps not wide open to every Tom, Dick, and José, McGrory thought, surveying the clientele. I suspect membership in the Jockey Club is tied in somehow with the restaurant.

Their table by a window provided a view of the grandstands and there was a steady parade of grooms leading horses—sometimes four or five at a time—right outside the window.

Certainly, a fine place to have lunch if you’re a tourist—if they let tourists in—but not the sort of place to have a serious conversation about the business of the United States government!

A tall, well-dressed man with a full mustache approached the table with a smile and a bottle of wine.

“Your Excellency, I was just now informed you are honoring us with your presence,” he said, in Spanish.

“I’ve told you, Jorge,” Silvio replied, “that if I want you to call me that, I will wear my ermine robes and carry my scepter.” He shook the man’s hand and then said, “Jorge, may I present Ambassador Michael McGrory, who came here from Uruguay to get a good meal? Mike, this is Señor Jorge Basto, our host.”

“My little restaurant is then doubly honored,” Basto said. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Excellency.”

“I’m happy to be here and to make your acquaintance,” McGrory replied with a smile.

“And look what just came in this morning,” Basto said, holding out the bottle.

“You’re in luck, Mike,” Silvio said. “This is Tempus Cabernet Sauvignon. Hard to come by.”

“From a small bodega in Mendoza,” Basto said. “May I open it, Mr. Ambassador?”

“Oh, please,” Silvio said.

Goddamn it, McGrory thought, wine! Not that I should be drinking at all. I am—we both are—on duty. But these Latins—and that certainly includes Silvio—don’t consider drinking wine at lunch drinking, even though they know full well that there is as much alcohol in a glass of wine as there is in a bottle of beer or a shot of whiskey.

I would really like a John Jamison with a little water, but if I ordered one I would be insulting the restaurant guy and Silvio would think I was some kind of alcoholic, drinking whiskey at lunch.

A waiter appeared with glasses and a bottle opener. The cork was pulled and the waiter poured a little in one of the glasses and set it before Silvio, who picked it up and set it before McGrory.

“Tell me what you think, Mike,” he said with a smile.

McGrory knew the routine, and went through it. He swirled the wine around the glass, stuck his nose in the wide brim and sniffed, then took a sip, which he swirled around his mouth.

“Very nice indeed,” he decreed.

McGrory had no idea what he was supposed to be sniffing for when he sniffed or what he was supposed to be tasting when he tasted. So far as he was concerned, there were two kinds of wine, red and white, further divided into sweet and sour, and once he had determined this was a sour red wine he had exhausted his expertise.

The waiter then filled Silvio’s glass half full and then poured more into McGrory’s glass. Silvio picked up his glass and held it out expectantly until McGrory realized what he was up to and raised his own glass and touched it to Silvio’s.

“Always a pleasure to see you, Mike,” Silvio said.

“Thank you,” McGrory replied. “Likewise.”

Silvio took a large swallow of his wine and smiled happily.

“The wines here are marvelous,” Silvio said.

“Yes, they are,” McGrory agreed.

“Don’t quote me, Mike, but I like them a lot better than I like ours, and not only because ours are outrageously overpriced.”

“I’m not much of a wine drinker,” McGrory confessed.

“‘Use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake,’” Silvio quoted, “‘and thine other infirmities.’ That’s from the Bible. Saint Timothy, I think, quoting Christ.”

“How interesting,” McGrory said.

The waiter handed them menus.

McGrory ordered a lomo con papas frit as—you rarely got in trouble ordering a filet mignon and French fries—and Silvio ordered something McGrory had never heard of.

When the food was served, McGrory saw that Silvio got a filet mignon, too.

But his came with a wine-and-mushroom sauce that probably tastes as good as it smells, and those little potato balls look tastier—and probably are—than my French fries will be.

“You said you wanted to have a little chat out of school, Mike,” Silvio said after he had masticated a nice chunk of his steak. “What’s on your mind?”

“Two things, actually,” McGrory said, speaking so softly that Silvio leaned across the table so that he would be able to hear.

McGrory took the message about FBI Special Agent Yung and handed it to Silvio, who read it.

“Isn’t this the chap you sent here when Mr. Masterson was kidnapped?” Silvio asked.

“One and the same.”

“You never said anything to me, Mike, about him being on Secretary Cohen’s personal staff.”

“I didn’t know about that,” McGrory confessed.

Silvio pursed his lips thoughtfully but didn’t say anything.

“Something else happened vis-à-vis Special Agent Yung,” McGrory went on. “The same day—the night of the same day—that the bodies were found at what turned out to be Lorimer’s estancia, I received a telephone call from the assistant director of the FBI telling me that it had been necessary to recall Yung to Washington, and that he had, in fact, already left Uruguay.”

“He say why?”

“We were on a nonsecure line and he said he didn’t want to get into details. He gave me the impression Yung was required as a witness in a trial of some kind. He said he would call me back on a secure line but never did.”

Silvio cut another slice of his steak, rubbed it around in the sauce, and then forked it into his mouth. When he had finished chewing and swallowing, he asked, “Did you try to call him?”

“I was going to do that this morning when that message came and then I found out the deputy foreign minister, Alvarez, had called my chief of mission and asked if he could come by the embassy for a cup of coffee.”

“Sounds like he wanted to have an unofficial chat,” Silvio said.

“That’s what I thought. So when he showed up, I told him that my man had the flu and I would give him his coffee.”

“What did he want?”

“He had Chief Inspector Ordóñez of the Interior Police with him,” McGrory said. “The man in charge of the investigation of what happened at that estancia. After they beat around the bush for a while, he as much as accused me of not only knowing that there were Green Berets involved in the shooting but of not telling them.”

“Were there?” Silvio asked.

“If there were, I have no knowledge of it.”

“And as the ambassador, you would, right?”

“That’s the way it’s supposed to be, Silvio. We’re the senior American officers in the country to which we are assigned and no government action is supposed to take place that we don’t know about and have approved of.”

“That’s my understanding,” Silvio agreed. “So where did he get the idea that Green Berets were involved?”

“He had two things,” McGrory said. “One was a—I don’t know what you call it—what’s left, what comes out of a gun after you shoot it?”

“A bullet?” Silvio asked.

“No, the other part. Brass. About this big.”

He held his fingers apart to indicate the size of a cartridge case.

“I think they call that the ‘cartridge case,’” Silvio said.

“That’s it.”

“What was special about the cartridge case?”

“It was a special kind, issued only to U.S. Army snipers. And the reason he knew that was because he called the Uruguayan ambassador in Washington, who called the Pentagon, who obligingly told them. They didn’t go through me. And when a foreign government wants something from the U.S. government, they’re supposed to go through the ambassador.”

“On the basis of this one cartridge case, they have concluded that our Green Berets were involved? That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“They also found out that a helicopter was involved. People heard one flying around and there were tracks from the skids—those pipes on the bottom?—in a nearby field, where it had apparently been refueled. You don’t have a helicopter, do you?”

“I have an airplane—the Army attaché does, an Army King Air—out at Campo Mayo, but no helicopter. The King Air is so expensive to fly that most of the time it just sits out there.”

How come Silvio’s Army attaché gets an airplane, McGrory thought, and mine doesn’t?

he said, “Well, according to them, whoever left all the bodies had a helicopter. And they think it was a Green Beret helicopter.”

“Maybe they’re just shooting in the dark,” Silvio said. “They must be getting pretty impatient. Seven people killed and they apparently don’t know why or by whom.”

“Do you have any idea what that massacre was all about?”

Silvio shook his head, took a sip of wine, then said, “What I’d like to know is what this Lorimer fellow was doing with a false identity in Uruguay. Do you have any idea?”

McGrory shook his head. “No, I—oh, I forgot to mention that. Lorimer had a fortune—sixteen million dollars—in Uruguayan banks. It was withdrawn—actually, transferred to some bank in the Cayman Islands—the day after he was killed. By someone using the Riggs National Bank in Washington.”

“Really? Where did Lorimer get that kind of money?”

“Most of the time, when large sums of money like that are involved, it’s drug money,” McGrory confided.

“Do they know who withdrew it?”

“Transferred it. No, they don’t.”

“Well, if you’re right, Mike, and I suspect you are, that would explain a good deal, wouldn’t it? Murder is a way of life with the drug cartels. What very easily could have happened at that estancia is that a drug deal went wrong. The more I think about it…”

“A fortune in drug money, a false identity…” McGrory thought aloud. “Bertrand, the phony name he was using, was an antiques dealer. God knows, being an established antiques dealer would be an easy way to move a lot of cocaine. Who would look in some really valuable old vase, or something, for drugs?”

“I suppose that’s true,” Silvio agreed.

“I’m thinking it’s entirely possible Lorimer had a room full of old vases stuffed with cocaine,” McGrory went on, warming to his new theory. “He had already been paid for it. That would explain all the money. When his customers came to get it, some other drug people—keeping a secret like that is hard—went out there to steal it. And got themselves killed. Or maybe they did steal it themselves. May be there were more than six guys in black overalls. The ones that weren’t killed loaded the drugs on their helicopter and left, leaving their dead behind. They don’t care much about human life, you know. They’re savages. Animals.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Ambassador McGrory sat thoughtfully for a long moment before going on: “If you were me, Juan, would you take the insult to the department?”

Silvio paused thoughtfully for a moment before answering.

“That’s a tough call, Mike,” he said. “If I may speak freely?”

“Absolutely,” McGrory said.

“Alvarez’s behavior was inexcusable,” Silvio said. “Both in not going through you to get to the Pentagon and then by coming to your office to as much as accuse you of lying.”

“Yes, It was.”

“Incidents like that in the past have been considered more than cause enough to recall an ambassador for consultation, leaving an embassy without an ambassador for an extended period.”

“Yes, I know. Insult the ambassador of the United States of America at your peril!”

McGrory heard himself raising his voice and immediately put his wineglass to his lips and discreetly scanned the restaurant to see if anyone had overhead his indiscretion.

“The question is,” Silvio said, reasonably, “you have to make the decision whether what happened is worth, in the long haul, having you recalled for consultation. Or if there is some other way you can let them know you’re justifiably angry.”

“They left my office, Juan, let me tell you, knowing that I was pretty damned angry.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, they did. I told Alvarez in no uncertain terms that what they had done was tantamount to accusing me, and thus the government of the United States, of not only conducting an illegal operation but of lying about it and that I was personally and officially insulted, and then I said, ‘Good morning, gentlemen, this visit is terminated.’”

“Well, that certainly let them know how you felt,” Silvio said.

“And they’re really going to be embarrassed when they finally realize that what happened out there was drug connected and their idea that Green Berets were involved was simply preposterous.”

“If that’s what happened, Mike, you’re right.”

“And if I take this to Washington,” McGrory said, “by the time they actually get around to recalling me for consultation Alvarez more than likely will come to me with his tail between his legs to apologize. I’ll accept it, of course, but I’ll be one up on him, that’s for damned sure. There’s no sense bothering the secretary with this.”

“I agree,” Silvio said and picked up the bottle of Tempus and poured wine into both their glasses.

When they tapped glasses again, McGrory said, “I really appreciate your advice, Juan. Thank you.”

[SIX]
Office of the Ambassador
The Embassy of the United States of America
Avenida Colombia 4300
Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina
1605 5 August 2005

“That’s essentially what Howell told me, sir,” Alex Darby said to Ambassador Silvio, “that Ordóñez found the cartridge casing, put it together with the chopper’s skid marks and all those bodies, and decided it was something more than a robbery.”

“Ambassador McGrory is now just about convinced it was a drug shoot-out,” Silvio said. “I sowed the seed of that scenario and he really took it to heart. Between you and me, Alex, I felt more than a little guilty—ashamed of myself.”

“Sir, you didn’t have much of an option,” Darby said. “Castillo was operating with the authority of a Presidential Finding. He had the authority to do what we did and not tell McGrory about it.”

“Granting that,” Silvio said, “I still felt very uncomfortable.”

“You shouldn’t feel that way, sir. With all due respect to Ambassador McGrory, can you imagine how out of control things would get if he knew? Or worse, if Castillo had gone by the book and asked his permission?”

Silvio didn’t respond to that. Instead, he asked, “Where in the world did Castillo get that helicopter? I asked him, but he evaded the question.”

“So did I and he wouldn’t tell me, either. I didn’t know about the money either.”

“You don’t think that it will be traceable?”

“The money or the helicopter?”

Silvio chuckled and shook his head. “Both. Neither.”

“The helicopter, no. Castillo filed a local flight plan from Jorge Newbery to Pilar, closed it out over Pilar, and then flew over there about five feet off the water. He came back the same way, then got on the horn over Pilar and filed a local flight plan to Jorge Newbery. Nothing suspicious about that.”

“If somebody had the helicopter’s numbers,” Silvio said, “it wouldn’t be hard to learn whose machine it is, would it?”

“I thought about that, sir, and decided it was information I would just as soon not have.”

Silvio nodded. “You’re right, of course. What about the money?”

“Before this happened, Yung was working on finding Americans—and other people—who had decided to secretly invest money down here. I don’t know who he was doing that for, but he wasn’t just looking for dirty money being laundered. He is therefore an expert on how to move large amounts of money around without anyone knowing. I suspect the reason Castillo sent him back down here was to make really sure there are not racks.”

“I think Ambassador McGrory is going to give him a hard time when he gets to Uruguay. For concealing his special status from him. And I find myself thinking McGrory has the right to be annoyed.”

“He shouldn’t be annoyed at Yung,” Darby said. “Yung was just following orders.”

“That ‘just following orders’ philosophy covers a lot of sins, doesn’t it?”

“Mr. Ambassador, I’m pretty sure before you tell somebody something, you consider who you’re telling it to, how trustworthy they are. And that’s how it should be. I’ve never understood why people don’t seem to understand that works both ways.”

“I’m not sure I follow you, Alex.”

“How much the guy in charge—a corporal in a rifle squad, a station chief in the agency, an ambassador—gets told, official rules be damned, depends on how much the underling thinks the guy in charge can be trusted.”

Silvio considered that a moment and then said, “I have to ask, Alex. How much do you tell me?”

“When I got here, Mr. Ambassador, based on my previous experience with people in your line of work, I was careful when I told you what time it was. After a while, when I got to know you, I started telling you everything.”

“Thank you,” Silvio said, simply.

“Mr. Ambassador, I’d like to get on a secure line and let Castillo know what’s happened in Montevideo and here.”

“He should know, of course, and right away. But I can do it, Alex. You don’t have to.”

“Why don’t you let me do it, sir?” Darby replied. “I don’t feel guilty about going behind McGrory’s back.”

“Ouch!” Ambassador Silvio said. He paused thoughtfully. “Obviously what has happened, Alex, is that my close association with you has corrupted me. I just realized that I was happy that you offered to make the call. Thank you.”

He pushed the secure phone toward Darby.