Hunters

III

[ONE] Office of the Legal Attache The Embassy of the United States of America Lauro Miller 1776 Montevideo, Republica Oriental del Uruguay 1150 2 August 2005 The telephone on the desk of Assistant Legal Attache Julio Artigas buzzed and one of the six buttons on it began to flash.

Artigas, a slim, olive-skinned Cuban American of thirty, who had been a Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation for eight years and assigned to the Montevideo embassy for three, picked up the handset.

"Artigas."

"Julio, this is your cousin Jose," his caller said in Spanish.

Thirty-seven-year-old Chief Inspector Jose Ordonez, of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policia Nacional, was not related to Julio Artigas, but they looked very much alike. They had several times been mistaken for brothers. That wasn't possible without the same surname, but it could have been possible for cousins, and cousins they had become. They also shared a sense of humor.

"And how goes your unrelenting campaign against evil, Cousin Jose?" Julio replied. He had arrived in Uruguay speaking Cuban-inflected Spanish fluently, and with only a little effort he had acquired a Uruguayan inflection. Many Uruguayans were surprised to learn he was not a native son.

"I would hope a little better than yours," Jose said. "How about lunch?"

"Is that an invitation? Or have you been giving your salary away at the blackjack tables again?"

"I will pay," Jose said. "I will put you on my expense sheet."

"Oh?"

"I hope you have, or can make, your afternoon free."

"If you are paying, my entire week is free."

"You are so kind."

"Where shall we meet? Someplace expensive, of course."

"I'm at the port. How about something from a parrilla?"

"Great minds travel similar paths. When?"

"Now?"

"Get out your wallet."

Artigas hung up. He opened a drawer in his desk, took from it a.38 caliber Smith amp; Wesson "Detective Special" revolver, then slipped the gun into a skeleton holster on his hip.

The pistol was his. It was smaller and lighter than the semiautomatic pistol prescribed for-and issued to-FBI agents, and, technically, he was violating at least four FBI regulations by carrying it.

But this was Montevideo, where his chances of ever needing a pistol ranged from very slight to none. Many of Artigas's peers simply went un-armed. The primary mission of the FBI in Uruguay was the investigation of money laundering.

It was a different story for the DEA guys, who often found themselves in hairy situations. While not necessarily successful in stopping the drug flow, they were very successful in costing the drug merchants lots of money and consequently were unpopular with the drug establishment. They went around heavily armed.

Artigas had chosen the middle ground. While it is true that you never need a pistol until you really need one, it was equally true there is no sense carrying a large and hard-to-conceal cannon when a less conspicuous means of self-defense is available.

Artigas walked across the large, open room to the open door of a glass-walled cubicle that was the office of Special Agent James D. Monahan, who was because of his seniority the de facto, if not the de jure, SAC, or Special Agent in Charge, and waited for him to get off the phone.

"Something, Artigas?" Monahan asked, finally.

"I have just been invited to lunch by Chief Inspector Ordonez."

"Shit, I was hoping you were going to tell me you know where the hell Yung is."

FBI Special Agent David W. Yung, Jr., a fellow assistant legal attache, was not held in high regard by his peers. He came to work late-or not at all-and left early. His research into Uruguayan bank records produced about half the useful information that came from the next least efficient of the others. And since he was still here-despite several informal complaints about his performance and back-channel suggestions that he be reassigned to the States-it was pretty clear he had friends in high places.

Another, less flattering rumor had it that Yung had been sort of banished to Uruguay because of his association with Howard Kennedy, the former Ethical Standards Division hotshot who had changed sides and was now working for some Russian mafioso. That rumor had some credence, as it was known that Yung had been assigned to the Ethical Standards Division.

It is a fact of life that people without friends in high places tend to dislike those who have them and that FBI agents do not like FBI agents whose personal integrity is open to question.

"Maybe still asleep?" Artigas asked. "It's not quite noon."

"I let his goddamned phone ring for five minutes. That sonofabitch!" Monahan paused. "Ordonez say what he wanted?"

"Only that he hoped I could make my afternoon free."

"Et tu, Artigas?"

"He's got something on his mind, Jim," Artigas said.

"Ride it out," Monahan said. "But if you happen to run into Yung in a bar or a casino somewhere, would you please tell him that I would be grateful for a moment of his valuable time whenever it's convenient?"

"I will do that."

Artigas went out the front entrance of the embassy, found his car-a blue Chrysler PT Cruiser-got in, and drove to the gate.

The embassy, a four-story, oblong concrete edifice decorated with two huge satellite antennae on the roof, sits in the center of a well-protected compound overlooking the river Plate.

A heavy steel gate, painted light blue, is controlled by pistol-armed Uruguayan security guards wearing police-style uniforms. For reasons Artigas never understood, cars leaving the compound are subjected to just about as close scrutiny as those coming into the compound.

He waited patiently while security guards looked into the interior of the PT Cruiser, looked under it using a mirror mounted on the end of a long pole, and then checked his embassy identification before throwing the switch that caused the gate to slide open sideways.

He drove a hundred yards toward the water and then turned right on the Rambla, the road that runs along the coast from the port to the suburb of Carrasco where many embassy officers lived, including Artigas and the again-missing Yung.

Five minutes later, he pulled the nose of the PT Cruiser to the curb in front of what had been built sometime in the late nineteenth century to house cattle being shipped from the port. It now housed a dozen or more parrilla restaurants and at least that many bars.

He got a very dirty look from the woman charged with collecting parking fees on that section of the street. She had seen the diplomatic license plates on the car. Diplomats are permitted to park wherever they wish to park without paying.

In the interests of Uruguayan-American relations, Artigas handed her a fifty-peso note, worth a little less than two dollars U.S., and earned himself a warm smile.

He entered the building. With the exception of one or two women Julio could think of, there was in his judgment no better smell in the world than that of beef-and, for that matter, chicken and pork and a lot else-being grilled over the ashes of a wood fire.

As he walked to where he knew Ordonez would meet him-one of the smaller, more expensive restaurants in the back of the old building-his mouth actually watered.

Chief Inspector Ordonez was waiting for him and stood up when he saw Artigas coming.

They embraced and kissed in the manner of Latin males and then sat down at the small table. There was a bottle of wine on the table, a bottle of carbonated water, four stemmed glasses, a wicker basket holding a variety of bread and breadsticks, a small plate of butter curls, and a small dish of chicken liver pate.

Jose poured wine for Julio and they touched glasses.

"There must be something on your mind," Julio said. "This is the good Merlot."

"How about seven males, six of them dressed in black, shot to death?"

Artigas thought: I don't think he's kidding.

He took a sip of the Merlot, then spread liver pate on a chunk of hard-crusted bread and waited for Ordonez to go on.

"You don't seem surprised," Jose said.

"I'm an FBI agent. We try to be inscrutable."

A waiter appeared.

Julio ordered a blue cheese empanada, bife chorizo medium rare, papas frit as, and an onion-and-tomato salad.

Jose held up two fingers, signaling the waiter he'd have the same.

"And where are these deceased Ninja warriors?" Julio asked.

Jose chuckled.

"On an estancia-called Shangri-La-near Tacuarembo."

Julio signaled with a quick shake of his head that he had no idea where Tacuarembo was.

"It's about three hundred sixty kilometers due north," Jose said. "On Highway 5." He paused. "I was hoping you might go up there with me."

"That's a long ride."

"Less long in a helicopter."

Julio knew the use of rotary-wing aircraft by Uruguayan police was not common, even for the movement of very senior officers.

"Am I being invited as a friend or officially?" Julio said.

"Why don't we decide that after we have a look around Estancia Shangri-La?" Jose replied.

"Okay." Julio paused. "Tell me, Cousin, would I happen to know-or even have met-the owner of Estancia Shangri-La?"

"You tell me. He is-was-a Lebanese dealer in antiquities by the name of Jean-Paul Bertrand."

Julio shook his head and asked, "And had you a professional interest in Senor…what was his name?"

"Jean-Paul Bertrand," Jose furnished.

"…Bertrand before he was killed?"

Jose shook his head. "He was as clean as a whistle, so far as I have been able to determine."

The waiter returned with their empanadas, and they cut off their conversation. They might have returned to it had not two strikingly beautiful young women come in the restaurant.

They didn't hurry their lunch, but they didn't dawdle over it, either. Twenty-five minutes after Julio had taken his first sip of the Merlot, the bottle was empty and Jose was settling the bill with the waiter.

When they left the former cattle shed, they walked across the street to the Navy base. Julio saw-with some surprise-that the helicopter waiting for them was not one of the some what battered Policia Nacional's Bell Hueys he expected but a glistening Aerospatiale Dauphin. The pilot was a Navy officer. Julio suspected it was the Uruguayan president's personal helicopter.

That meant, obviously, that someone high in the Uruguayan government-perhaps even the president himself-considered what had happened at Estancia Shangri-La very important. [TWO] Estancia Shangri-La Tacuarembo Province Republica Orientale del Uruguay 1405 2 August 2005 As the Dauphin fluttered down onto a field, Julio saw that there were a dozen police vehicles and two ambulances parked unevenly around the main building of the estancia and that there were twenty-five or thirty people-many in police uniform-milling about.

Julio had an unkind thought: Well, so much for preserving the crime scene.

Two portly senior police officers walked warily toward the helicopter. Both saluted Chief Inspector Ordonez as he stepped down from the chopper. He returned their salutes with a casual wave of his hand. Julio remembered seeing him in uniform only once, when Fidel Castro, a year or so before, had come to Montevideo and Ordonez had been head of the protection detail.

"This is Senor Artigas," Chief Inspector Ordonez said. "You will answer any questions he puts to you."

Both of the policemen saluted. Julio responded with a nod and offered them his hand.

"I ordered that nothing be touched?" Ordonez questioned.

"We have covered the bodies, Chief Inspector, but everything else is exactly as it was when we first came here."

Ordonez met Artigas's eyes. It was clear to both they were thinking exactly the same thing: The curious had satisfied their curiosity. The crime scene had been trampled beyond use.

Ordonez gestured with his hand that he be shown.

There were two bodies on a covered veranda. They were covered with heavy black plastic sheeting. Artigas wondered if that was the local version of a body bag or whether the sheeting had just been available and put to use.

A large pool of blood, now dried black, had escaped the plastic over the first body. When, at Ordonez's impatient gesture, the plastic sheeting was pulled aside, the reason was clear. This man had died of a gunshot wound to the head. There is a great deal of blood in the head.

And not a pistol round, either, I don't think. His head had exploded.

The body was dressed in dark blue, almost black, cotton coveralls, the sort worn by mechanics.

What looked like the barrel of a submachine gun was visible in the pool of dried blood. The dead man had fallen on his weapon.

Artigas felt a gentle touch on his arm and looked down to see that Ordonez was handing him disposable rubber gloves.

"This has been photographed?" Ordonez asked.

"Yes, Chief Inspector, from many angles."

Ordonez squatted and pulled the weapon out from under the body. It was a submachine gun, its stock folded. He held it out for Artigas to see.

"Madsen, right?" he asked.

"Yes," Artigas said. "That's the 9mm, I think."

Ordonez raised the barrel so that he could see the muzzle, then nodded.

Artigas looked around and saw a glint in the grass just beyond the veranda. He walked to it. It was a cartridge case.

"Have you got a position on this? And photographs?"

"My sergeant must have missed that, senor," the heftier of the two local police supervisors said and angrily called for the sergeant.

When Artigas went back on the veranda he saw that Ordonez had replaced the black plastic over the body and had moved ten meters down the veranda, where another police officer was pulling the plastic off another body. This one, too, was dressed in nearly black coveralls.

Another large pool of dried black blood from another exploded head.

As he squatted by the body, Ordonez looked at Artigas and asked, "What did you see?"

"A cartridge casing. Looks like a 9mm."

"I wonder where this one's weapon went to?" Ordonez asked, studying the body.

He pointed to a disturbance in the blood that could have been the marks left when someone had dragged a weapon from it.

"Looks like somebody took it," Artigas agreed.

"Yeah, but who?"

The implication was clear. Ordonez would not have been surprised if one of the local cops had taken it, for any number of reasons having nothing to do with the investigation of a multiple homicide.

I'm not going to comment on that, Ordonez thought.

"Both head shots," Artigas said.

Ordonez nodded and then, raising his voice, asked, "Where's the other five?"

The second police supervisor made a vague gesture away from the house. "Four out there, Chief Inspector," he said. "Senor Bertrand's body is in the house, in his office."

Ordonez gestured for him to lead the way into the house.

The body lying on its back behind a large, ornate desk and next to the open door of a safe was that of a some what squat, very black man in his late forties. There were two entrance wounds in the face, one on the right side of the forehead, the second on the upper lip.

A section of the skull had been blown outward. There was brain tissue on the safe and on the wall beside it.

Artigas sensed Ordonez's eyes on him.

"Two entrance wounds that close," Artigas said, "maybe a submachine gun?"

Ordonez nodded.

"But from a distance," he said, pointing to the window. One of the panes was broken. "If he had been shot in here, for example, the moment he obligingly opened the safe, I think there would have been powder burns on the face."

"Yeah," Artigas said.

"The photo album?" Ordonez asked.

"On the desk, Chief Inspector," the police supervisor said.

"While Captain Cavallero was leaving everything exactly as it was when he first came here," Ordonez said, drily, "he happened to notice and then scan through a photo album. I think you may find it interesting."

The Moroccan leather-bound photo album on the desk was open to an eight-by-ten-inch color photograph of a wedding party standing on the steps of a church large enough to be a cathedral. Everyone was in formal morning clothing. Senor Bertrand was standing at the extreme right. The bride, a tall, slim woman, was standing beside an extraordinarily tall, broadly smiling young man.

"Julio," Ordonez asked, softly, "do you think the bridegroom is who Captain Cavallero thought it might be?"

Well, Artigas thought, now I know why I'm here.

"That's Jack the Stack, all right. No question about it," he said.

"'Jack the Stack'?"

"Before he was J. Winslow Masterson of the United States State Department, he was Jack the Stack of the Boston Celtics," Artigas said.

"Really? A professional basketball player? I didn't know that. From the Celtics to the State Department?"

"He got himself run over by a beer truck as he was leaving a stadium," Artigas said. "No more pro ball. And the settlement-the truck driver had been sampling his wares-made Jack the Stack a very wealthy man. I heard sixty million dollars."

"Now that I think about it, I remember hearing that story. But I didn't connect it with an American diplomat in Buenos Aires," Ordonez said and then asked, "I wonder what Senor Bertrand's relationship to Senor Masterson was?"

"That's not all I'm wondering about Senor Bertrand," Artigas replied. [THREE] Office of the Ambassador The Embassy of the United States of America Lauro Muller 1776 Montevideo, Republica Oriental del Uruguay 2035 2 August 2005 The Honorable Michael A. McGrory, minister extraordinary and plenipotentiary of the President of the United States to the Republic of Uruguay, was a small, wiry well-tailored man of fifty-five with a full head of curly gray hair. He was held in varying degrees of contempt by many members of the "embassy team," the very ones who referred to him-behind his back, of course-as "SenorPompous."

This was especially true of those members of the embassy team who were not members of the Foreign Service of the United States. These included the twenty-one employees of the Justice Department assigned to the Montevideo embassy. Fourteen of them carried the job description of "Assistant Legal Attache," although they were in fact special agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The other seven were special agents of the Drug Enforcement Administration.

There were others-the CIA station chief, for example, representatives of the Federal Aviation Agency, the Department of Homeland Security, and even employees of the Department of Agriculture-assigned to the embassy. The latter were charged with ensuring that Uruguayan foodstuffs exported to the United States-primarily, meat and dairy products-met the high standards of purity established by the U.S. government.

Although all of these specialists enjoyed diplomatic status, they were not really diplomats-and this was often pointed out to them in varying degrees of subtlety by SenorPompous.

All the specialists would, after several years, return to the States and whatever governmental agency had, so to speak, loaned them to the Department of State.

The Foreign Service people, on the other hand, regarded themselves as professionals trained in the fine art of diplomacy who could look forward to other foreign assignments after Uruguay and to increasingly senior positions within the Department of State. Presuming, of course, that the hired hands from the Justice Department or the FAA or-especially-the CIA didn't do something violating the rules of diplomatic behavior that would embarrass the embassy and the Foreign Service personnel who were supposed to keep the hired hands under control.

Ambassador McGrory, for example, had begun his Foreign Service career as a consular officer in Nicaragua. As he over the years had moved from one United States embassy to another in South America, he had risen-some what slowly but steadily-upward in the State Department hierarchy. He had been a commercial attache in Peru, a cultural attache in Brazil, and, before his appointment as ambassador to Uruguay, he had been deputy chief of mission in Asuncion, Paraguay.

With the exception of the Agriculture Department people-who did their job, kept him abreast of what was going on, and stayed out of trouble-Ambassador McGrory had trouble with just about everyone else who was not a bonafide diplomat.

There were several reasons for this, and, in Ambassador McGrory's opinion, the most significant was their inability to understand that they were in fact answerable to him. The regulations were clear on that. As the senior official of the United States government in Uruguay, all employees and officers of the United States were subject to his orders.

Many-perhaps most-of the problems caused were by the DEA agents, whom McGrory privately thought of as hooligans. They often went around "undercover," which meant that not only were they unshaven and unshorn but dressed like Uruguayan drug addicts. And under their shabby clothing they carried a variety of weaponry. It was only a matter of time, in McGrory's professional opinion, before they shot some Uruguayan and he would have to deal with all the ramifications.

He had issued an order a year before that required that the DEA agents go armed only when necessary. When it became apparent that the DEA agents considered it was necessary all the time, he had modified the order so that they would have to have his permission before arming themselves on any specific occasion. That order had been in effect fewer than seventy-two hours when the assistant secretary of state for Latin America had telephoned him to politely but firmly order him to refrain from interfering with the DEA agents' rights to defend themselves.

The FBI agents were far better dressed than those of the DEA but, if anything, less willing to keep him abreast of what they were doing and when. Their primary function was the detection of money laundering. Uruguay was known as the South American capital of money laundering. McGrory was naturally interested to know what they were doing, but they rarely told him any specifics.

And half of them, at least, also went about armed to the teeth.

Ambassador McGrory was thus concerned when the senior of the FBI agents, a man named James D. Monahan, telephoned him as he was about to leave the embassy and requested an immediate audience.

"Will this wait until the morning, Monahan?"

"Sir, I really think you should hear this now."

"Very well," the ambassador replied. "You may come up."

Monahan and Julio Artigas arrived at McGrory's office three minutes later. The ambassador did not offer them chairs.

"Artigas has run into something I thought should be brought to your attention as quickly as possible, Mr. Ambassador," Legal Attache James D. Monahan said, politely.

"Really?" McGrory replied and looked at Assistant Legal Attache Artigas.

"Ordonez called me just before lunch-"

McGrory raised his hand to stop him, and asked, "Ordonez is?"

"Chief inspector of the Interior Division of the Policia Federal, Mr. Ambassador."

McGrory nodded and waved his fingers as a signal for Artigas to go on.

"And asked that I meet him for lunch. I did so, and almost immediately he told me there had been a multiple murder-"

"Multiple murder?" McGrory interrupted. "How many did he mean by multiple?"

"Seven, Mr. Ambassador."

"Seven?"

"Yes, sir. Seven."

"And this massacre occurred here in Montevideo?"

"No, sir. On an estancia near Tacuarembo."

"And where, refresh me, is 'Tacuarembo'?"

"It's about three hundred sixty kilometers north of Montevideo, Mr. Ambassador."

"Never heard of it," the ambassador said. "Go on, Artigas."

"Yes, sir. Chief Inspector Ordonez asked me if I would be willing to go there with him-"

"I don't think that's a very good idea, Artigas," the ambassador said. "Do you, Monahan? We don't want the embassy splattered with the water from Uruguay's dirty laundry, do we?"

"Sir, I accepted Ordonez's invitation. I went there," Artigas said.

"And who did you check with before you did so? I can't believe Monahan would give you the go-ahead to do something like that. You didn't, Monahan, did you?"

"I didn't check with anyone, sir. I wasn't aware that I was required to."

"There is a difference, Artigas, between a requirement and the exercise of prudent conduct," the ambassador said. "Perhaps you should keep that in mind."

"Yes, sir."

"Go on."

"We flew to Tacuarembo in what I believe was the president's helicopter," Artigas said. "Which suggested to me that someone very senior in the Uruguayan government was really interested to see that Inspector Ordonez got there in a hurry, that there was interest at high levels in whatever had transpired at Tacuarembo."

"Several things, Artigas," the ambassador said. "First, I thought you said Chief Inspector Whatever…"

"It is Chief Inspector Ordonez, sir."

"Second, what makes you think you went flying in the president's helicopter?"

"It was a nearly new Aerospatiale Dauphin, sir. The police have old Hueys."

"In which you have flown?"

"Yes, sir. Many times."

"I wasn't aware of that," the ambassador said. "Were you, Monahan?"

"Yes, sir, I was. We try very hard to work closely with the Uruguayan authorities and-"

"Working closely with the Uruguayan authorities, of course, is a good idea. But riding in their helicopters? I shudder when I think of how well they are maintained. Or not maintained. I'll have to give that some thought. And until I have had the chance to do just that, I don't think there should be any more helicopter joyrides. Pass that word, won't you, Monahan?"

"Yes, sir."

"You flew to Tacuarembo, is that what you're saying, Artigas?"

"Yes, sir."

"And why did Chief Inspector Ordonez want you to do that, do you think?"

"He wanted to show me a photograph of one of the dead men, Mr. Ambassador."

"And why would he do that?"

"Probably because the photograph was of one of the dead men standing in a wedding party with J. Winslow Masterson."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Probably because the photograph was of one of the dead men standing in a wedding party with J. Winslow Masterson."

Now I have your attention, Artigas thought, you pompous little asshole!

"That's difficult to believe," Ambassador McGrory said after a moment. "You're sure it was our Mr. Masterson?"

"Yes, sir, it was Jack the Stack, all right."

"The late Mr. Masterson's athletic accomplishments are long past. You don't think it is disrespectful of you to refer to him that way?"

"No disrespect was intended, sir. I was a great admirer of Mr. Masterson."

"Still, Artigas…" McGrory said, disapprovingly. He went on: "Do we know the name of the man in the photograph with Mr. Masterson?"

"Chief Inspector Ordonez identified him to me as Senor Jean-Paul Bertrand, the owner of the estancia, sir."

"And he was dead, you said?"

"Shot twice, sir. In the head."

"By whom?"

"I have no idea, sir."

"And you think your good friend Chief Inspector Ordonez, if he had suspects in the case, would confide them to you?"

"Yes, sir, I think he would."

"But he has not done so, has he?"

"What the chief inspector has done, sir, is to request our assistance."

"What kind of assistance?"

"There were seven dead men in all, sir. Senor Bertrand and six others."

"Who were they? Who killed them?"

"We have no idea, sir. There was no identification of any sort on their bodies. What the chief inspector has asked me to do, Mr. Ambassador, is to send their fingerprints to Washington to see if the FBI has them on file."

Ambassador McGrory thought that over for a moment.

"I can see no problem with doing that," he said, finally. "But what makes you-or Chief Inspector Ordonez-think their fingerprints would be in the FBI's files? These are not Americans, presumably."

"We don't know that, sir."

"Is there any reason to think they might be?"

"No, sir. I don't think there is. On the other hand, there is no reason to presume they are not."

Ambassador McGrory considered that a moment.

"Do we know anything about the murdered man? The murdered man in the photograph?"

"His name was Bertrand, sir. Jean-Paul Bertrand."

"You already told me that," McGrory said. "My question was: Do we know anything about the murdered man?"

"He was Lebanese, sir, resident in Uruguay. Chief Inspector Ordonez told me that. He was an antiquities dealer."

"And for the third time, do we-as opposed to your friend the chief inspector-know anything about the murdered antiques dealer?"

Monahan said, "Special Agent Yung is maintaining a file on him, sir."

"And what does the file say?"

"I don't know, sir. The file is not in the file cabinet."

"Well, where is it?"

"I don't know, sir," Monahan said. "Possibly Yung took it home with him."

"He took an official file home with him?"

"I don't know that, sir. It is possible."

"Well, get him on the phone and tell him to bring the file to my office immediately."

"I tried to call him, sir. He doesn't answer the telephone at his apartment."

"Well, where is he?"

"I don't know, sir."

"You don't know?" Ambassador McGrory parroted, incredulously.

"He didn't come in today, sir. Possibly he's in Puente del Este."

"He had the day off, in other words?"

"I meant to say he may be working in Puente del Este, sir."

"But you don't know?"

"No, sir. I don't."

"What you're going to do, Monahan, while Artigas is preparing his draft report on this matter, is find Special Agent Yung and have him bring his files here."

"Yes, sir."

"I must say, Monahan, that until just now I thought you ran a tighter ship than is apparently the case." [FOUR] Office of the Ambassador The Embassy of the United States of America Lauro Muller 1776 Montevideo, Republica Oriental del Uruguay 0805 3 August 2005 Special agents/assistant legal attaches James D. Monahan and Julio Artigas were sitting on the chrome-and-leather couch outside the office of the minister extraordinary and plenipotentiary of the President of the United States to the Republic of Uruguay when the ambassador arrived.

They both looked worried. The Honorable Michael A. McGrory took no pity on them. Without speaking, he waved them some what imperiously into his office. He went to his desk, sat down, and, with another grand gesture, gave them permission to seat themselves in the two chairs facing his desk.

"Well," McGrory said, "what more do we know about the massacre in Tacuarembo than we did when last we met? Have you heard, for example, Artigas, from your good friend, Chief Inspector Ordonez?"

"I spoke with him last night, sir, to report that I had faxed the fingerprints to the bureau. But he didn't pass on any other information to me."

"I cannot help but wonder if your good friend has learned-or perhaps already knew-something he has elected not to pass on to you."

"I really don't think that's the case, Mr. Ambassador," Artigas replied.

"And you, Monahan? What have you to contribute?"

McGrory really disliked Monahan. The only reason he wasn't absolutely sure that Monahan was the so-called wit who had installed a decalcomania of an Irish leprechaun named McGrory in a urinal in the visitor's men's room was that he couldn't believe one Irishman would do that to another.

"Sir…" Monahan began uncomfortably. He cleared his throat and began again. "Sir, I have been unable to locate Mr. Yung. I even went to Puente del Este last night and checked all the hotels where he usually stays."

"That's probably because Mr. Yung is no longer with us," the ambassador said.

"Sir?"

"I received, at the residence, a telephone call at half past nine last night from the assistant director of the FBI. He said that it had been necessary to recall Mr. Yung to Washington. He informed me that Mr. Yung had actually already left Uruguay. It apparently has something to do with Mr. Yung being needed to testify in court. The assistant director said he was reluctant to get into details on a nonsecure telephone connection."

"I wonder what that's all about?" Monahan mused aloud.

"And so do I. I'm sure the assistant director will explain the situation to me when he calls, which he has promised to do as soon as he gets to a secure telephone in his office this morning."

"That won't be before ten-thirty our time," Monahan said. "There's a one-hour difference between here and D.C. and I never knew an assistant director who came to work before nine-thirty."

"And whenever he calls, I won't be here. We won't be here."

"Sir?"

"When thinking this matter through last night, I decided I should, as soon as possible, bring it to the attention of Ambassador Silvio in Buenos Aires. The late Mr. Masterson was, after all, the chief of mission there."

"Yes, sir."

"I decided (a) that I should do so personally and (b) that you, Artigas, should come with me. I can see no reason for you to go to Buenos Aires, Monahan. Can you?"

"No, sir."

"We are on the nine-ten Austral flight," McGrory said. "Mr. Howell will be going with us. He has some cultural business to transact in Buenos Aires, if you take my meaning."

"I understand, sir," Artigas said.

Mr. Robert Howell was the cultural attache of the embassy. That he was also the CIA station chief was just about as much of a secret as was the identity of the Irish FBI agent who had put the McGrory leprechaun decal in the urinal.

"While we are gone, Monahan, I want you to do two things," the ambassador went on. "One, keep yourself available to take the call from the assistant director. Tell him where I am and ask him to call me at the embassy in Buenos Aires."

"Yes, sir."

"Two, it will probably be a waste of your time, but see if you can find out anything else from Artigas's friend, Chief Inspector Ordonez, or anyone else."

"Yes, sir." [FIVE] Office of the Ambassador The Embassy of the United States of America Avenida Colombia 4300 Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina 1025 3 August 2005 "Please come in, Mr. Ambassador," Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio, the American ambassador in Buenos Aires, said to Ambassador Michael McGrory. "It's always a pleasure to see you."

Silvio was a tall, lithe, fair-skinned, well-tailored man with an erect carriage and an aristocratic manner. He was younger than Ambassador Michael McGrory and, despite five years less service in the Foreign Service than McGrory, had a far more important embassy. McGrory didn't like him.

He was honest enough to admit to himself, however, that his rationale for bringing the Tacuarembo whatever it was to Silvio went beyond the fact that he had a photograph of the late Mr. Masterson, who had been Silvio's deputy. He suspected that, whatever it was, he was liable to see egg on his face when the matter got to the State Department. McGrory knew it was better that there be egg on two faces rather than his alone.

The two shook hands.

Silvio then offered his hand to Julio Artigas and said, "I don't believe I've had the pleasure?"

"My name is Artigas, sir. How do you do?"

"Artigas is one of my legal attaches," McGrory said. "And this is my cultural attache, Mr. Howell."

"We've met," Silvio said. "Nice to see you again, Mr. Howell. I know you know Alex, but I'm not sure if Mr. Artigas does."

"No, sir," Artigas said and shook hands with a small, plump man with a pencil-thin mustache.

"Alex Darby," the man said.

"And I know Howell and Darby know each other," Silvio said. "What is it that they say about birds of a feather?"

McGrory thought: He might have just as well come out and said, "These two are CIA."

"Hey, Bob," Darby said. "Long time no see."

"Too long," Howell replied. "We're really going to have to get together."

Silvio's secretary rolled in a coffee tray.

"Unless it's someone important like my wife or the secretary, no calls, please," Silvio said.

When the door had closed, Silvio went on: "You said you'd come across something that might have a bearing on what happened to Jack Masterson, Mr. Ambassador?"

"Artigas," McGrory ordered, "show Ambassador Silvio the picture."

Artigas opened his briefcase and took out the photograph of the wedding party. He stood up, walked over to Silvio, and handed it to him. Silvio looked at it, then handed it to Darby.

"Where'd you get this?" Darby asked.

"Do you recognize the people?" McGrory said.

"Yeah, I do. That's Jack and Betsy at their wedding. And her parents, and Jack's, and her brother."

"You know who that man is?" McGrory asked.

"Yes, I do," Darby said. "He's Betsy Masterson's brother. Where did you get this?"

"Artigas," McGrory ordered.

"Yes, sir. It's from an estancia called Shangri-La in Tacuarembo. I was taken there by an officer of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policia Nacional."

"Why did he do that?" Darby asked.

"I now believe it was because a Uruguayan police officer on the scene recognized Mr. Masterson," Artigas said. "The photo was in a scrapbook at the scene."

"You've used the word 'scene' twice," Darby said. "Is there an implication that something had happened at this estancia, that it was, maybe, a crime scene?"

"That's something of an understatement, Darby," McGrory said. "According to Artigas, there were seven bodies at that estancia."

"Seven bodies?" Darby asked. "Seven bodies?"

"Seven bodies, including that of the man in the photograph," McGrory said. "All shot to death."

"And who were the others?" Darby asked.

Artigas saw that Darby was looking at Howell. The hair on Artigas's neck curled.

"That seems to be the mystery," McGrory said.

"You don't know who they are?" Darby asked.

"According to Artigas, none of them had any identification on them, and they were all dressed in black."

"Really?" Darby said and looked at Howell again-not for long, but long enough for Artigas to see it. "That sounds like something from a James Bond movie."

"Or a Ninja movie," Howell said. "All dressed in black."

"Well, who shot them?" Darby asked.

"No one seems to have any idea," Artigas said.

"No one seems to have any idea?" Darby parroted, incredulously.

Artigas suddenly had a number of thoughts, one right after the other:

You know all about this, don't you, Mr. Darby?

Did Howell call you last night, after McGrory told Howell?

The CIA sticks together?

Jesus, did Howell know about this before McGrory told him?

Did they both know about it?

Were they both involved?

You're letting your imagination run away with you, Julio!

You've seen too many spy movies-bad spy movies.

Yeah. But you always were a good interrogator, able to pick up things like the looks between Darby and Howell.

What the hell is going on here?

"According to Artigas, the Uruguayan police have no idea, either," Howell said.

"What do you think it was, Mr. McGrory?" Darby asked. "A robbery? An attempted kidnapping?"

That's "Mr. Ambassador," thank you very much, Darby!

"I have no idea what it was," McGrory said. "The question, it would seem to me, is, what do we do about this photograph?"

"Alex?" Silvio asked.

"I would suggest, Mr. Ambassador…"

Silvio is Mr. Ambassador, McGrory thought, and I'm not? You sonofabitch!

"…that we get this information into the hands of Mr. Castillo. Or that Mr. McGrory should. The photo turned up in Uruguay. On Mr. McGrory's watch, so to speak."

"Who's Castillo?" McGrory asked.

"This is classified information, Mr. Ambassador," Silvio said. "When Mr. Masterson was abducted, the President told me he had appointed Mr. Castillo to supervise the investigation. And later, the President charged him with the security of the Masterson family and with their repatriation to the States."

"Who's he?"

"He's the President's agent."

"What does that mean?"

"I can only tell you what the President told me," Silvio said.

"Is that the same man who came to Montevideo to see Special Agent Yung?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"What's his connection with Yung?" McGrory asked.

Silvio shrugged.

Artigas wondered: And what's the connection between this and Yung suddenly being ordered to the States?

"What we can do, if you'd like, Mr. Ambassador," Silvio said, "is send the photograph to the secretary, together with the information that Darby positively identified this man as Mr. Masterson's brother. You are sure, are you not, Alex?"

"Yes, sir, I'm sure. I met him several times when Jack and I were in Paris."

Just in time, McGrory stopped himself from saying he would take care of notifying the secretary, thank you just the same.

I am not going to be twisting alone in the wind, he thought.

"Yes, I think that's the way to go," he said.

Artigas thought: Senor Pompous, I think you're wondering if, without having any idea why, you're in the deep do-do.

God, I hope so. [SIX] Hacienda San Jorge Near Uvalde, Texas 1330 3 August 2005 Major C. G. Castillo stood by a barbecue grill constructed from a fifty-five-gallon barrel, his eyes stinging from the smoke of the mesquite fire. He had a long, black cigar clamped in his teeth and was attired in khaki pants, a T-shirt printed with the legend YOU CAN ALWAYS TELL A TEXAS AGGIE, BUT NOT MUCH, battered western boots, and an even more battered Stetson hat, its brim curled.

He saw Estella, a short, massive, swarthy woman who had been helping at the ranch as long as he could remember, come out of the big house carrying a walk-around telephone and he had the unpleasant premonition that the call was going to be for him.

But then Estella gave the phone to Abuela and he saw her smile and say, "How good it is to hear your voice," and he returned his attention to the steaks broiling on the grill.

He had just annoyed Maria, his cousin Fernando's wife, by solemnly proclaiming that only males could be trusted to properly grill a steak and challenged her to name one world-class female chef. Or, for that matter, one world-class female orchestra leader.

Castillo didn't believe any of this, but there was something in Maria that had always made him really like to ruffle her feathers. He thought of her as his sister-in-law, but technically that wasn't accurate. Fernando was his cousin, not his brother. But if there was a term to describe the wife of your cousin, who was really more like your brother, he didn't know it.

He felt a tug at his trouser leg and looked down to see Jorge Carlos Lopez, who was seven, his godchild and the fourth of the five children of Fernando and Maria. Jorge was holding up a bottle of Dos Equis beer to him.

"You have saved my life, Jorge," Charley said solemnly, in Spanish. "You will be rewarded in heaven."

He looked around, saw Fernando standing by the table set for lunch on the shaded veranda of the big house, and gave him a thumbs-up to express his appreciation for the beer.

He then surreptitiously reached in his trousers pocket and came out with a small computerized meat thermometer, which gave an almost immediate and very accurate indication of temperature.

There was nothing wrong in getting scientific confirmation of what your thumb suggested when pressed into a broiling steak, especially if no one saw you use the device and remained convinced you had an educated thumb.

He stabbed each of the steaks with the thermometer-there were eight inch-and-a-half-thick New York strips-and saw they all had interior temperatures of just over 140 degrees Fahrenheit.

He put the thermometer back in his pocket, then turned and faced the veranda.

"I proclaim these done!"

Fernando applauded, and several of the rugrats joined in.

At that point, Charley saw Abuela advancing on him holding out the walk-around telephone.

"It's for you," she said. "Dick."

Shit! I knew it.

"Thank you," he said. "Wait until I get the steaks on the platter."

Abuela laid the telephone on the table beside the grill, then picked up the platter-a well-used, blood-grooved wooden board with horseshoe handles-and held it out for him to put the steaks on it. Then she started for the veranda.

"I'll carry that, Abuela," he called after her.

"I am old, tired, and decrepit, but I can still carry this," she said.

Charley picked up the telephone.

"Why do I think I'm not going to like this?" he asked by way of greeting.

"Dona Alicia was glad to hear my voice," Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., said. "She told me."

"As you well know, she is too kind for her own good, especially where cripples are concerned. What's up?"

"I think you better get back here, Charley."

"Jesus, I haven't been here thirty-six hours."

And not only that, I really wanted to have a closer look at that Gulfstream. Surprising Charley, Fernando had met him at San Antonio International Airport.

"To what do I owe the honor?" Castillo said.

"I want to show you something."

"And it wouldn't wait until we were at San Jorge?"

"No. You have any checked luggage?"

Castillo shook his head.

Fernando's car, a new twelve-cylinder black Mercedes-Benz S600, was in the short-term parking lot. Castillo remembered reading in a magazine that the sedan had a sticker price somewhere north of $140, 000.

"Is this what you wanted to show me?"

"No."

"Nice wheels."

"It's Maria's," Fernando said.

"You must have been a really bad boy."

"Fuck you, Gringo."

"What exactly did you do wrong?"

"Well, for example, I went to Europe and South America without taking her along."

"She didn't like that?"

"No, she did not."

"I can't understand that."

Fernando shook his head but didn't reply.

He then drove them around the airport to Lemes Aviation, a large business-aviation operation.

"Don't tell me you pranged the Lear?"

"No. But it's in here for a hundred-hour maintenance a lot sooner than I thought it would be."

"You'll get a check, eventually, from the Secret Service. You know the deal: They chartered it."

"I know the deal," Fernando said.

He pulled the Mercedes into a parking slot at the Lemes building and they got out. But instead of going in the building, Fernando marched purposefully toward a hangar. Castillo followed him expecting to see the Lear, on which he was sure Fernando was going to show him something that had happened that was going to require expensive repair.

The Lear wasn't in the hangar. There were four Beech craft turboprops and one jet, a Gulfstream III.

"What are we looking at?" Castillo asked.

Fernando pointed to the Gulfstream.

"Jesus, don't tell me you bought that!"

"I didn't. I think maybe you should," Fernando said.

A smiling man wearing a leather aviator's jacket and aviator's sunglasses walked quickly up to them before Castillo had a chance to respond.

"How are you, Mr. Lopez?" he asked.

"Do you know my cousin, Charley Castillo?"

"I have not had that privilege," the man said. "Brewster Walsh, Mr. Castillo."

He enthusiastically pumped Castillo's hand.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" Mr. Walsh inquired, then added, "And a steal at seven million nine ninety-nine."

"In other words, eight million, right?" Castillo asked, innocently.

"Can we have a look inside?" Fernando asked.

"It would be my pleasure," Mr. Walsh said.

Castillo, who was tired and wanted to get out to Hacienda San Jorge, was just about to politely decline the offer when he remembered what Fernando had said: "I didn't. I think maybe you should."

He meant that. He thinks I should buy this with Lorimer's money.

He wouldn't have said that unless he meant it. Jesus!

Castillo allowed himself to be waved up the stair door. He looked into the cockpit.

"Are you a pilot yourself, Mr. Castillo?" Mr. Walsh inquired, and, when Castillo nodded, went on, "Well, then you'll really appreciate that panel."

Castillo examined the flight instruments carefully. It was a nice panel, mostly Honeywell and Collins. It wasn't on a par with the panel in the Lear, but then the Lear was nearly brand-new and this wasn't.

"How old is this?" Castillo asked.

"I'm sure you're aware that it isn't how old an airplane is but rather how hard it's been ridden."

"Which makes it how old?"

"Total time, just over eight thousand hours," Mr. Walsh replied. "Just over forty-five hundred landings, which means the average flight was less than two hours. And-and-the engines were replaced at eight thousand hours and are practically brand-new."

"Which makes it how old by the calendar?" Castillo pursued.

"Twenty-three years," Mr. Walsh replied, some what reluctantly. "Hard to believe looking at it, isn't it?"

Yeah, it is. Jesus, it doesn't look that old. It looks practically brand-new.

"And there was a complete refurbishment of the interior just six months ago," Mr. Walsh added.

"Does 'refurbished' mean cleaned and shined?"

"Everything that showed the slightest signs of wear was replaced," Mr. Walsh said.

Castillo looked down the luxuriously fitted-out passenger compartment. When he breathed in, he smiled at the rich smell of fine glove leather.

"It looks new," he admitted.

"It has a maximum range of thirty-seven hundred nautical miles," Mr. Walsh offered, "at four hundred fifty knots."

"That would get you across the Atlantic in a hurry, wouldn't it?" Fernando asked, over Mr. Walsh's shoulder. "I mean, if a person had some reason to go to Europe. Me, if I had my way, I'd never leave Texas, much less the good ol' USA."

"Well, if you wanted to go to Europe," Mr. Walsh said, "this little beauty would take you and twelve of your friends-and their golf clubs and their overnight bags."

"In case you wanted to play a quick round at St. Andrews, for example, Carlos," Fernando said, and then looked at Mr. Walsh. "Ol' Carlos is quite a golfer."

"Me, too," Mr. Walsh said. "I just love the game."

"Anytime anyone's looking for ol' Carlos, I just tell them to check out the nearest golf club," Fernando said.

"What business are you in, Mr. Castillo? If you don't mind my asking?"

"Investments," Castillo said.

"Buy low and sell high, right, Carlos?" Fernando asked.

"I try."

"Word of a steal like this gets around quickly," Mr. Walsh said. "Frankly, I've got several people really interested."

"Well, Mr. Walsh, if you can get somebody to give you eight million for this old airplane I suggest you take the offer. On the other hand, if you'd be willing to shave half a million off your asking price I might be interested. With several other caveats."

"For example, Mr. Castillo?"

"My golfing buddy, Jake Torine, is a much better pilot than I am. I'd have to have him check it out. He lives in Charleston."

"We'd be happy to have your friend fly here at our expense and give him a test hop. He's checked out in the Gulfstream, I presume?"

"Yes, he is."

"But so far as lowering the price is concerned…"

"What I meant was, you would take the airplane-and Fernando-to Charleston and let my friend fly it there," Castillo said. "But if you can't lower the price, I guess that doesn't matter."

"Perhaps-one never knows what will happen, does one?-something could be worked out. If you'd be willing to pay the standard hourly charter rate for the G-III, for example, for the hours it took to fly to Charleston…"

"Which is how much?"

"Ballpark figure, about three thousand an hour."

"Since we're playing what-if," Castillo said, "what if you flew this airplane to Charleston, gave my friend a test hop, all at three thousand an hour, and what if he said the old bird was worth the money, and what if I said, 'Okay, I'll buy it, ' you'd take how many hours at three thousand per it came to off your price of seven million five, right?"

"Mr. Castillo, I'm not at all sure I can shave the price even a little, much less half a million dollars."

"I understand," Castillo said. "You go ahead and sell to whoever is willing to pay that much money for a twenty-four-year-old airplane. Thanks for letting me have a look."

"It's only twenty-three years old, Mr. Castillo."

"Okay. Twenty-three-year-old airplane."

"At the risk of repeating myself," Mr. Walsh said, "one never knows what's going to happen. How would I get in touch with you, Mr. Castillo, if-"

"Fernando usually knows where I'm swatting the ol' ball around at any given time, so just call him. You have his number, right?" When they were on the highway to Uvalde, Fernando said, "I wonder if he'll call today or wait until tomorrow."

"I hope he waits longer than that," Castillo said. "That looks like such a good deal, I can hear Grandpa say, 'Anytime you're offered a really good deal you'd be a fool to turn down, take a cold shower every day for a week and then have another look, a very close look.'"

Fernando chuckled.

"I have something serious to say, Gringo."

"Uh-oh."

"I really should not be playing James Bond with you as much as I have been."

"And is the rest of the sentence 'and I won't in the future'?"

"Hey, Gringo. You need me, I'm there. You know that. But I have Maria and the kids and Abuela to think of."

"Touche."

"All I'm saying is you now have people working for you. Please don't call me unless you really need me."

"Done."

"And you need an airplane. Maybe not that G-III, but an airplane. A bigger one than the Lear. And not just because Maria and Abuela are not only going to smell a rat if you keep using the Lear but are going to start nosing around. Neither of us wants that."

"You're right. So to hell with Grandpa's advice. Let's hope Smiley calls you tonight instead of tomorrow."

"I don't like the way you're agreeing with me so easily."

"What should I do, agree with you hardly? You're right, Fernando, it's as simple as that. I wasn't thinking."

"You're making me feel like a shit, you know that?"

"What I was just thinking was how lucky I am to have you as my brother."

"I'm not your brother, Cuz."

"If you won't tell, I won't."

"What I want from you, Gringo, is your word that when you need me you'll call me."

"Done." "No rest for the weary," Dick Miller now said over the phone. "You never heard that?"

"Something specific?" Castillo asked.

"Well, how about the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security sticking his head in the door and saying, 'I really hate to do this to him, but I think you better get Charley on the horn and tell him to get back here as soon as he can.'"

"Well, that's certainly specific enough. Did he say why?"

"No. But it may have something to do with General Naylor having called him five minutes before-they put that call on your line by mistake."

"I wonder what he wants?"

"Or it may have something to do with our new liaison officer," Miller said.

"Our new what?"

"Ambassador Montvale has been kind enough to assign a liaison officer to the Office of Organizational Analysis. He was here first thing this morning, just bubbling over with enthusiasm to get right to work liaising things."

"That's the last thing we need! Montvale's surrogate's nose in our business."

"Or it may have something to do with what Mr. Ellsworth-our new liaison officer's name is Truman C. Ellsworth-brought with him when he came over this morning to start liaising."

"Which is?"

"This isn't even classified. It's just a standard interoffice memorandum from the director of National Intelligence to the chief of the Office of Organizational Analysis. It says that he thought you might be interested to know that he has learned from, quote, Central Intelligence Agency officers in Montevideo, Uruguay, and Buenos Aires, Argentina, end quote, that a man named Bertrand who was murdered in the course of a robbery in Uruguay has been tentatively identified as really being a UN diplomat named Lorimer and that Mr. Lorimer was the brother-in-law of the late J. Winslow Masterson."

"That's interesting, isn't it?" Castillo said. "Did the memo say anything about who might have robbed or murdered this man?"

"It says that, quote, the aforementioned officers have been directed to investigate this matter and to report their findings to the undersigned, end quote."

Castillo considered that a minute, then asked, "What do we hear about the world of high finance?"

"There's been a very nervous Chinaman asking about you every hour on the hour. I think he thinks he is about to be swooped upon by the IRS and carried off to Leavenworth for having too much money in his offshore account."

Castillo chuckled. "Given all that, yeah, I better come back. I don't know when I can catch a plane."

"If you can fit it into your busy schedule, you have a reservation on Continental 5566 departing San Antone at five forty-five. It will put you into Dulles, after only three stops and one change of planes, at half past eleven."

"Oh, shit!"

"Just a little jerk on your chain, Charley. Relax. It's nonstop. Mr. Forbison got the reservation for you."

"Okay. I will be sure to wake you when I come in, presuming I can get a cab at Dulles within three or four hours."

"You will be met by your own personal Yukon," Miller said. "She set that up, too. Look for a heavily armed man wearing a strained smile."

"You can call that off. I can catch a cab."

"Actually, Tom McGuire told Mr. F. to set it up. Get used to it, hotshot. You now really are a hotshot."

"I'll see you shortly, Dick. Thank you."

He broke the connection and carried the telephone to the veranda. Everyone there was waiting, patiently, sitting with a steak on a plate before him.

"What'd Dick want?" Fernando asked.

"Enjoy your steak. You're going to need your strength for the trip."

"Fernando, you're not going anywhere," Maria announced, firmly.

"You're going to leave him here when you go home?" Castillo asked, innocently.

"He's not going anywhere with you, period," Maria said.

"Who said anything about him going anywhere with me, question mark? I was thinking of the trip between here and Casa Lopez, period. What are you talking about, question mark?"

Fernando chuckled.

"You've been zinged, my dear," he said.

"Jorge, comma," Fernando M. Lopez, Jr., aged ten, asked his brother, "would you please pass the butter, question mark?"

"No, comma, I won't, exclamation point!" Jorge Lopez replied and giggled.

Abuela, who had been frowning, now smiled.

"I don't know why I even try," Maria said. "I should know better. I should just sit here and let Carlos make a fool of me while my husband and children laugh at me."

"The Gringo only makes fools of people he loves," Fernando said.

"Please don't call him that," Fernando Junior and Jorge said in unison, looking at their great-grandmother. "You know I don't like it."

Immediately, Fernando Junior added, "I don't like it, exclamation point!"

"My father warned me I was making a mistake marrying into this family," Maria said, but she was smiling. When the car came, Abuela went out to it with him.

It was a silver Jaguar XJ8.

"Nice wheels, Abuela," Charley said. "New, huh?"

"Fernando sent a Mercedes out here," she said. "A twelve-cylinder one. Black. I made him take it back. I felt like a Mafia gangster. This one I can drive myself."

"Ah, the truth about how Maria came into her Mafia mobile!"

"Well, it just made sense to let Maria have it. Otherwise, he would have lost a lot of money. You just can't turn a new car back in."

"And Maria doesn't mind feeling like a Mafia gangster?"

"I'm glad this didn't come up while she was here," Abuela said. "Darling, do you really have to tease her all the time?"

"Hey, I saw you smiling when the boys started to speak the punctuation."

"They are clever, aren't they? They remind me so much of you and Fernando."

"That should be a frightening prospect."

She didn't respond to that.

"That's what you need, Carlos. Boys of your own. A nice family."

"I have a nice family. I just don't have a wife."

"And there have been no developments along that line that you'd like to tell me about?"

"Has Fernando been running off at the mouth again?"

"How is the lady Secret Service agent?"

"She has her jaws wired shut. If I can get her to agree to leave the wires in, maybe something could be worked out."

"I don't think that's funny, Carlos."

He looked down at his feet.

"The wires in her jaw aren't," he said. "I'm sorry I said that."

"You should be."

He looked Abuela in the eyes.

"I'm going to have to go to Europe for a couple of days. I'll go from New York and stop off in Philadelphia to see her."

"Fernando said she's very nice."

"She is."

She nodded at him, then leaned up and kissed him.

"Via con Dios, mi amor," she said.

He got in the front seat with the driver.

As the car rolled away from the sprawling, red-tile-roofed Spanish-style big house, he turned in the seat and looked out the back window. Abuela was standing where he had left her.

She's right. I do need boys like Fernando's, and a wife-a family.

He watched Abuela until the road curved and then he thought of Betty Schneider.

Maybe the time has come. God knows I've never felt about any other woman the way I feel about Betty.