Hunters pa-3

by W. E. B Griffin

  "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.