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

COLONEL C. G. CASTILLO, USA, IS PRESENTLY EN ROUTE PARIS ON A MISSION FOR THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES WHICH HE MAY AT HIS SOLE DISCRETION ELECT TO CLARIFY FOR YOU. COLONEL CASTILLO WILL BE FURNISHED WHATEVER ASSISTANCE AND INTELLIGENCE HE REQUESTS, TO INCLUDE, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, ACCESS TO AGENCY-OWNED AVIATION ASSETS. FURTHER, IT IS DIRECTED THAT YOU FURNISH HIM WITH ANY INTELLIGENCE NOT SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED BUT IN WHICH YOU FEEL HE MAY BE INTERESTED.

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

"I'm a lieutenant colonel as of yesterday," Castillo said.

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

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

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

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

"And you're working for who? Montvale directly?"

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

"Well, that explains that little middle-of-the-night billet-doux, doesn't it?"

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

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

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

"Your source reliable?"

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

"You do get around, don't you, Ace?"

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

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

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

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

"From where?"

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

"Le premiere Regiment de Parachutistes d'Infanterie de Marine," Delchamps explained. "Rip-em, from the acronym, are pretty good. The French version of the English SAS, which is where they got started. Rumor has it that they've got a bunch of ex-Spetsnaz. From Spetsnaz to Legion Etrangere to Rip-em."

"French?" Castillo thought aloud.

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

"I never even thought of the French," Castillo admitted.

"You didn't learn anything from Lorimer? Jesus, how the hell did you find him? In Uruguay?"

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

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

"We've got it," Castillo said.

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

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

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

"Reporter from where?"

"A German newspaper."

"That makes me wonder about Gossinger," Delchamps said.

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

"You going to tell me who Castillo is?"

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

Delchamps met his eyes for a moment but didn't respond directly. Instead, he said, "I would say that maybe the KSK is involved, but-"

"The KSK?"

"Die Kommando Spezialkrafte, KSK, German Special Forces. You didn't know?"

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

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

Which was pretty goddamned stupid of me.

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

"Say it," Castillo said.

Delchamps looked at him for a moment, then shrugged.

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

"I should have thought of that," Castillo said.

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

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

"So what do you want to do in Paris?"

"Can you get me into Lorimer's apartment?"

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

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

Inspector Clouseau fucks up again.

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

"Nothing special. Anything that'll point me in the direction of whoever whacked Masterson."

"And that's all you came to Paris for?"

Castillo nodded.

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

"To his newspaper. I want to talk to his editor."

"Where's that?"

"Fulda."

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

Castillo nodded.

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

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

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

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

"Worried about owing Montvale?"

Castillo nodded.

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

"Why do you make me feel so stupid, Delchamps?"

"You're not stupid, Ace. A little short on experience, maybe, but not stupid."

"I don't suppose you'd be interested in reasonably honest employment in our nation's capital, would you?"

Delchamps met his eyes for a long moment.

"Why don't we talk about that again, Ace, after you find out who these people are?"

"That presumes I will."

"Rephrase: After you have your best shot at it. The first thing a wise spook has to admit is that failure is the norm. You seem to have learned that, so maybe there is some hope for you in this business." [THREE] The Residence of the Ambassador of the United States of America 1104 La Rambla Carrasco, Republica Oriental del Uruguay 0805 5 August 2005 As the Honorable Michael A. McGrory, still in his bathrobe, was sipping at a cup of coffee while looking some what glumly out his dining-room window at what looked like a drizzle that would last all day, Theodore J. Detweiller, Jr., his chief of mission, telephoned.

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

"What's up, Ted?" McGrory responded.

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

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

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

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

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

"At your home, presumably?"

"Yes, sir. At my home."

"And what did Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez want?"

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

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

Instead, he asked: "He didn't say what he wanted, huh?"

"No, sir. He didn't. And I thought the call to my home, at this hour…"

"A bit unusual, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir, I thought so."

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

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

"Of course."

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

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

"I haven't a clue, but that's my gut feeling and I thought I should mention it."

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

"Yes, sir, of course."

"Anything else, Ted?"

"No. That's it. Again, sorry to have to disturb you at home, Mr. Ambassador."

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

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

"Goddamn it," he exclaimed, then returned the cup to the table with a bang and walked briskly out of the dining room and to his bedroom to get dressed. Since he really wanted a cup of fresh hot coffee when he got to his office, McGrory was not surprised to find that Senora Susanna Obregon, his secretary, had not yet prepared any.

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

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

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