“Oh?”
“Yes, they did. I told Alvarez in no uncertain terms that what they had done was tantamount to accusing me, and thus the government of the United States, of not only conducting an illegal operation but of lying about it and that I was personally and officially insulted, and then I said, ‘Good morning, gentlemen, this visit is terminated.’”
“Well, that certainly let them know how you felt,” Silvio said.
“And they’re really going to be embarrassed when they finally realize that what happened out there was drug connected and their idea that Green Berets were involved was simply preposterous.”
“If that’s what happened, Mike, you’re right.”
“And if I take this to Washington,” McGrory said, “by the time they actually get around to recalling me for consultation Alvarez more than likely will come to me with his tail between his legs to apologize. I’ll accept it, of course, but I’ll be one up on him, that’s for damned sure. There’s no sense bothering the secretary with this.”
“I agree,” Silvio said and picked up the bottle of Tempus and poured wine into both their glasses.
When they tapped glasses again, McGrory said, “I really appreciate your advice, Juan. Thank you.”
[SIX]
Office of the Ambassador
The Embassy of the United States of America
Avenida Colombia 4300
Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina
1605 5 August 2005
“That’s essentially what Howell told me, sir,” Alex Darby said to Ambassador Silvio, “that Ordóñez found the cartridge casing, put it together with the chopper’s skid marks and all those bodies, and decided it was something more than a robbery.”
“Ambassador McGrory is now just about convinced it was a drug shoot-out,” Silvio said. “I sowed the seed of that scenario and he really took it to heart. Between you and me, Alex, I felt more than a little guilty—ashamed of myself.”
“Sir, you didn’t have much of an option,” Darby said. “Castillo was operating with the authority of a Presidential Finding. He had the authority to do what we did and not tell McGrory about it.”
“Granting that,” Silvio said, “I still felt very uncomfortable.”
“You shouldn’t feel that way, sir. With all due respect to Ambassador McGrory, can you imagine how out of control things would get if he knew? Or worse, if Castillo had gone by the book and asked his permission?”
Silvio didn’t respond to that. Instead, he asked, “Where in the world did Castillo get that helicopter? I asked him, but he evaded the question.”
“So did I and he wouldn’t tell me, either. I didn’t know about the money either.”
“You don’t think that it will be traceable?”
“The money or the helicopter?”
Silvio chuckled and shook his head. “Both. Neither.”
“The helicopter, no. Castillo filed a local flight plan from Jorge Newbery to Pilar, closed it out over Pilar, and then flew over there about five feet off the water. He came back the same way, then got on the horn over Pilar and filed a local flight plan to Jorge Newbery. Nothing suspicious about that.”
“If somebody had the helicopter’s numbers,” Silvio said, “it wouldn’t be hard to learn whose machine it is, would it?”
“I thought about that, sir, and decided it was information I would just as soon not have.”
Silvio nodded. “You’re right, of course. What about the money?”
“Before this happened, Yung was working on finding Americans—and other people—who had decided to secretly invest money down here. I don’t know who he was doing that for, but he wasn’t just looking for dirty money being laundered. He is therefore an expert on how to move large amounts of money around without anyone knowing. I suspect the reason Castillo sent him back down here was to make really sure there are not racks.”
“I think Ambassador McGrory is going to give him a hard time when he gets to Uruguay. For concealing his special status from him. And I find myself thinking McGrory has the right to be annoyed.”
“He shouldn’t be annoyed at Yung,” Darby said. “Yung was just following orders.”
“That ‘just following orders’ philosophy covers a lot of sins, doesn’t it?”
“Mr. Ambassador, I’m pretty sure before you tell somebody something, you consider who you’re telling it to, how trustworthy they are. And that’s how it should be. I’ve never understood why people don’t seem to understand that works both ways.”
“I’m not sure I follow you, Alex.”
“How much the guy in charge—a corporal in a rifle squad, a station chief in the agency, an ambassador—gets told, official rules be damned, depends on how much the underling thinks the guy in charge can be trusted.”
Silvio considered that a moment and then said, “I have to ask, Alex. How much do you tell me?”
“When I got here, Mr. Ambassador, based on my previous experience with people in your line of work, I was careful when I told you what time it was. After a while, when I got to know you, I started telling you everything.”
“Thank you,” Silvio said, simply.
“Mr. Ambassador, I’d like to get on a secure line and let Castillo know what’s happened in Montevideo and here.”
“He should know, of course, and right away. But I can do it, Alex. You don’t have to.”
“Why don’t you let me do it, sir?” Darby replied. “I don’t feel guilty about going behind McGrory’s back.”
“Ouch!” Ambassador Silvio said. He paused thoughtfully. “Obviously what has happened, Alex, is that my close association with you has corrupted me. I just realized that I was happy that you offered to make the call. Thank you.”
He pushed the secure phone toward Darby.
VI
[ONE]
Executive Offices
Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H.
Fulda, Hesse, Germany
1105 6 August 2005
Otto Görner, managing director of Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H., reached for his private line telephone with his right hand without taking his eyes off the editorial on his desk. It was anti-American, blasting the President of the United States of America personally and the policies of the U.S.A. generally.
He had known from the first couple of sentences that he would not permit it to run in any of the Tages Zeitung newspapers. The author would then think—and more than likely share with his peers—unkind thoughts about the Amizaertlich editor in chief of the Tages Zeitung newspapers for killing a well-thought-out piece about what the Gottverdammt Amis had done wrong again.
By the fourth paragraph, Görner had realized—with some relief—that he would have killed the piece anyway based on its departure from what he regarded as the entirely Germanic editorial principles of the newspaper chain—in essence, to be fair—and not solely because running it would have offended the Ami who was the sole stockholder of Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H.
“Görner,” he growled into the telephone.
“Have you got any influence with the storm trooper guarding the parking lot?” a very familiar voice inquired in English. “He won’t let me in.”
“Speak of the devil,” Görner said.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Put him on, Karlchen,” Görner said as he rose quickly from his desk and went to his window, which overlooked the parking lot.
Carlos Guillermo Castillo, born Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger, was standing by the red-and-white-striped barrier pole to the parking lot and extending a cellular telephone to the guard there of.
As the guard some what suspiciously put the cellular to his ear, Castillo looked up at the window, saw Görner, and blew him a kiss. The guard followed that gesture, too, with interest.
“In the future,” Görner said to the telephone, “you may admit Herr von und zu Gossinger to our parking lot at any time, even if his car doesn’t have an identification stick
er.”
“Jawohl, Herr Görner,” the guard said.
He handed the cellular back and hurried to the switch that would cause the barrier pole to rise.
Castillo bowed toward the window and then got in his car, a Mercedes-Benz 220, which Görner decided he had rented at an airport.
Görner had mixed feelings on seeing Castillo. On one hand, he was—and had been since Castillo’s birth—extremely fond of the boy born to the sister of his best friend. He had long ago realized that there was little difference between the paternal feelings he had for Karlchen—“Little Karl”—and those he felt for his own children.
If Erika von und zu Gossinger would have had him, either when it first became known that the seventeen-year-old girl was pregnant with the child of an American helicopter pilot she had known for only four days or, later, until the hour of her death twelve years later, he would have married her and happily given the child his name.
But Erika would not have him as her husband, although she had been perfectly willing for him to play Oncle Otto to the boy as he grew up.
And over the last three or four days, Görner had been genuinely concerned about Castillo’s safety—indeed, his life. Karlchen had called from the States and suggested Görner “might take a look at the Reuters and AP wires from Uruguay starting about now.”
Görner had done so, and the only interesting story—about the only story at all—from Uruguay had been a Reuters report that the Lebanese owner of a farm, a man named Jean-Paul Bertrand, and six other men, unidentified, had been found shot to death on Bertrand’s farm.
There had been no question at all in Görner’s mind that Bertrand was Jean-Paul Lorimer, for whom he knew Karlchen had been looking. Confirmation of that had come yesterday, with an Agence France-Presse wire story that Dr. Jean-Paul Lorimer, Chief, European Directorate of UN Inter-Agency Coordination in Paris, had been murdered during a robbery while vacationing in Uruguay.
He had not been surprised to learn that Lorimer was dead. He had been in Budapest with Karlchen when Billy Kocian had told both of them that he thought Lorimer was probably fish food in either the Danube or the Seine and he didn’t believe the robbery spin at all. Lorimer had been killed because he knew too much about the oil-for-food scandal.
But Uruguay? What was that all about?
He wondered how Karlchen had learned what had happened to Lorimer so quickly.
His thoughts were interrupted when Frau Gertrud Schröder put her head in the door and cheerfully announced, “Karlchen’s here. They just called from the lobby.”
“Warn my wife, lock up anything valuable, and pray,” Görner said.
“You’re as glad to see him as I am,” she said.
“Yes. Of course,” Görner agreed with a smile.
That’s only half true. I am glad to see him, but I don’t think I’m going to like what he tells me, or giving him what he asks for.
Castillo came to the door forty-five seconds later.
He hugged Frau Schröder and kissed her wetly on the forehead.
She beamed.
“Do I call you ‘colonel’?” Görner said.
“Not only do you call me colonel but you pop to attention, click your heels, and bow,” Castillo said as he went to Görner and hugged him. He would have kissed him on the forehead, too, had Görner not ducked. Then he added, “How did you hear about that?”
“You’re an oberst, Karlchen?” Frau Schröder asked.
“Oberstleutnant, Frau Schröder,” Castillo said.
Görner went behind his desk and sat down.
The old man was Oberstleutnant Hermann Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger at Stalingrad. The first time I met him, I was terrified of him. And now his grandson is one. In the American Army, of course. But an oberstleutnant. The old man would have been ecstatic.
“I’m so proud of you, Karlchen!” Frau Schröder said.
“Thank you,” Castillo said.
He looked at Görner and asked again, “How did you hear about that?”
“The American embassy called. A man who said he was the assistant consul general said he had reason to believe Lieutenant Colonel Castillo would be coming here and, if you did, would I be good enough to ask you to call?”
“We have a name and a number?”
Görner nodded, lifted the leather cover of a lined tablet on his desk, and then flipped through several pages. By the time Frau Schröder had walked to the desk, he had found what he was looking for and had his finger on it.
She punched in numbers on one of the three telephones on Görner’s desk.
A moment later, she said in almost accentless English, “I have Colonel Castillo for you, Mr. Almsbury. Will you hold, please?”
She handed the handset to Castillo.
He spoke into it:
“My name is Castillo, Mr. Almsbury. I’m returning your call.
“My father’s name was Jorge Alejandro Castillo.
“Who’s it from?
“The sender is classified?
“Well, how do I get to see this message?
“And if I can’t come to Berlin, then what?
“Well, then, I guess I just won’t get to see it.
“Yes, I’ll take your assurance that the sender is a very important person. But I still can’t come to Berlin and I won’t be here long enough for you to come deliver the message.
“I’d rather not share that with you, Mr. Almsbury. What I suggest you do is send a message to the sender that you couldn’t get the message to me and that if the message is important that they try to send it to me through my office.
“Yes, I’m sure they know how to get in contact with my office.
“Yeah, I’m sure that this is the way I wish to handle this. Thank you very much, Mr. Almsbury. Good-bye.”
He hung up.
“That sonofabitch,” he said, shaking his head.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell us what that was all about, Karl?” Görner asked.
Castillo looked between them and then said, “A couple of years ago—maybe longer—somebody said—maybe wrote a book—saying, ‘The medium is the message.’”
“I don’t understand,” Görner confessed.
“For the first time, I understand what that means,” Castillo said.
“You’re talking in tongues, Karl.”
“Mr. Almsbury, who is more than likely the CIA station chief in Berlin, has a message for me. For a number of reasons, I think that message is from Ambassador Charles Montvale. You know who he is?”
Görner nodded.
Frau Schröder said, “Your new chief of intelligence?”
“Close,” Castillo replied. “He’s the new director of National Intelligence.”
“You work for him? Can I ask that?” Görner said.
“You can ask. No, I don’t work for him. He wishes that I did. The President told him no, I told him no, but Montvale doesn’t like no for an answer—”
“Karl,” Görner interrupted and then stopped.
Castillo smiled at him. “I read minds, you know. What you were about to ask is, ‘Why are you telling us this?’ And/or, ‘Aren’t you liable to get in trouble talking so freely to us?’ Am I close?”
Görner shook his head in disbelief and then nodded in resignation.
“I’m telling you because I think you should know certain things, and because both of you are on my short list”—he held up his left hand with the fingers spread widely and his right hand with three fingers held upward—“of people I trust absolutely. And, no, I won’t get in trouble. The President gave me the authority to tell anyone anything I want to tell them.”
Görner met his eyes for a moment and thought: He means that. He’s telling the truth. But I now understand there is a third reason. Karlchen has just put both Onkle Otto and Tante Gertrud in his pocket. And I think he knows that. My God, he’s so much like the old man!
“And the final reason I’m going to tell you about what I’m doing is because
I’m going to need your help and I want you to understand why I need that help; why you’re doing what I’m going to ask you to do.”
Görner started to speak, then stopped—Goddamn it, I have to say this—then said what was on his mind: “Karl, what we do here is publish newspapers, newspapers started by your great-great-grandfather. I can’t stand idly by while you turn it into a branch of the CIA.”
“The simple answer to that, Otto,” Castillo said, “is you’re right. It’s a newspaper. But let’s not forget, either, that I own Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H.” He let that sink in a moment, then went on: “A more complicated answer is that I’ve thought about Grosspappa. And the Tages Zeitung newspapers. I’m not turning them into a CIA asset. For one thing, I don’t work for the CIA. And from all I remember about him, all I’ve heard about him, he was a very moral man. I think he would be as annoyed—as disgusted—with the greedy bastards behind this oil-for-food scandal as Eric Kocian is. And I think if he was still alive and Ignatz Glutz came to him with CIA tattooed on his forehead and said he was trying to do something about those greedy, murderous bastards, Grosspappa would have helped. Within certain boundaries, of course. Anyway, that’s the way I’m going to play it. Carlos Castillo is going to ask certain things of the Tages Zeitung and if Karl von und zu Gossinger thinks his grandfather would have given Castillo what he’s asking for, the Tages Zeitung is going to give it to him.”
“It says in the Bible, Karlchen, that a man cannot serve two masters,” Görner said.
“It also says in the Bible that Jonah was swallowed whole by a whale and lived through it,” Castillo said. “Aren’t you the man who told me to be careful about what you read? Not to believe something just because it’s in print?”
“‘Within certain boundaries’ covers a lot of ground, Karl,” Görner said, softly. “Who defines those boundaries?”
“I do. But it should also go without saying that if I step over the line, you are free to tell me how I am over that line.”
Görner stared at him intently for a long moment.
“The older I get, the more I believe in genetics,” he said, finally. “So I’m going to go with my gut feeling that there’s a hell of a lot more of Oberst Hermann Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger running through your veins than there is Texas cowboy, Colonel Carlos Castillo.”
The Hunters Page 22
