Hunters

BARBARA L. QUIGLETTE

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," Senora Obregon replied. Three minutes later Senora 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."

Senora 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, Senora Obregon," McGrory said. "Interesting," Cultural Attache 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," Senora 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.

"Senor 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, Senor Alvarez," McGrory said.

"May I present my friend, Senor Ordonez of the Interior Ministry?" Alvarez said.

"A privilege to make your acquaintance, senor," McGrory said, offering Ordonez his hand. "And may I introduce my cultural attache, Senor Howell?"

Everybody shook hands.

"I understand from Senor Detweiller that this is a purely social visit?" McGrory asked.

"Absolutely," Alvarez said. "I knew Ordonez 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 Senor 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, "Senora 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 Tacuarembo-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.

Ordonez is not just in the Interior Ministry; he's chief inspector of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policia Nacional and McGrory knows that.

And Ordonez knows-and, since he knows, so does Alvarez-that I'm not really the cultural attache.

I know just about everything that happened at Tacuarembo, but Senor 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 Tacuarembo 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, Senor Alvarez," McGrory said.

"What is that delightful American phrase? 'Out of school'?"

"That is indeed one of our phrases, Senor 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, Senor Alvarez."

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

"How charming!" Alvarez said. "Well, Senor Ordonez, who is really with the Policia 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 Senor 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: "Senor Ordonez found out late yesterday afternoon that Senor 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," Ordonez 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 Tacuarembo 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?"

Ordonez said, "What the Riggs Bank did was send-they have a satellite link-photocopies of the promissory notes to the banks here to verify Senor 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 Senor 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," Ordonez furnished.

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

"I don't think that will be easy," Ordonez 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," Ordonez 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," Ordonez said. "For one thing, we are now pretty sure that a helicopter was involved."

"A helicopter?" Howell asked.

"A helicopter," Ordonez 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," Ordonez 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," Ordonez said. "For that matter, from Montevideo. But I'm leaning toward Argentina."

"Why?" McGrory asked.

"Because that's where the fuel drums came from," Ordonez 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," Ordonez said. "The van was rented to a Senor 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: Ordonez 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 Ordonez is "leaning toward Argentina" as the place the chopper came from?

"And so is this," Ordonez 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," Ordonez 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. Senor Pompous doesn't have a clue about what he's looking at.

Ordonez 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," Ordonez said. "And, yes, there is something special about it."

Now I know I like you, Chief Inspector Ordonez. 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," Ordonez said.

"Certainly," McGrory said, and looked at Ordonez 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," Ordonez said.

That's the closed end, Senor 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," Ordonez 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," Ordonez 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," Ordonez 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," Ordonez 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 Ordo-" Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez began.

"Please let me finish, Senor 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, Senor 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 Ordonez on his heels.

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

That doesn't mean, however, that Ordonez 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 Jose, 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 Senor 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-a-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 Ordonez 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 attache 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 attache 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 Ordonez 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.