“If you bought a rib roast, that’d do,” Castillo said.
Agnes stood up.
“You want a look around before the ambassador gets here?” she asked.
“Please,” Castillo said. “How many beds do we have?”
“How many do you need?”
“That many,” Castillo said, pointing to the others, who were now standing around the Yukons. “Less Doherty, who’ll probably go home.”
Agnes used her index finger to count Colonel Jake Torine, USAF; First Lieutenant Edmund Lorimer, USA; Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC; Sergeant Major John K. Davidson, USA; Colonel Alfredo Munz; Edgar Delchamps; Special Agent David W. Yung of the FBI; Sándor Tor; and Eric Kocian.
“Not counting Inspector Doherty,” she computed aloud, “that’s nine, plus you and Dick. That’s a total of eleven. No problem. There’s six bedrooms all with double beds. One of you will actually be alone.”
“That would be me, madam,” Eric Kocian announced, advancing on her. “The sacrifices I am willing to make to contribute to this enterprise do not include sharing a bedroom.”
“Mrs. Forbison, Eric Kocian,” Castillo said.
“I am charmed, madam,” Kocian said, taking the hand Agnes extended and raising it to his lips.
From the look on her face—the pleased look—I think it’s been some time since she has had her hand kissed.
“I hope you will not take offense, madam,” Kocian went on, “if I say I have urgent need of a restroom, preferably one inside?”
“We’ll put you in my room, Billy,” Castillo said. “I’ll bunk with Miller.”
“Splendid!” Kocian said.
“Has this place got a fenced backyard?” Castillo asked.
“Uh-huh,” Agnes said.
“If you’ll show me that, I’ll put Max and Mädchen out, and Tom can show the old gentleman to his quarters—”
“Old gentleman!” Kocian snorted.
“—and then we can get everybody settled in before we have to face the dragon.”
Agnes’s tour of the house ended in a small study. Bookcases lined three of its walls. A stuffed mallard and two stuffed fish—a trout and a king mackerel—were mounted on the remaining wall. There were a few books scattered on the shelves, mostly ten-year-old and older novels. Windows opened to the left and rear. Through it, Castillo saw that floodlights around a decent-sized swimming pool had been turned on. Max was happily paddling about in the pool while Mädchen stood on the side and barked at him.
The study was furnished with a small desk, a well-worn blue leather judge’s chair, and a soiled, well-worn chaise lounge, none of which had obviously struck the heirs as worth taking.
There was a telephone on the desk, but Castillo didn’t pay much attention to it until it buzzed and a red light began to flash on its base. Then he saw the thick cord that identified it as a secure telephone.
Agnes picked it up.
“C. G. Castillo’s line,” she said, then, “Yes, the colonel is available for Ambassador Montvale,” and handed him the phone.
“Castillo.”
“Charles Montvale, Colonel. We will be at your door in approximately five minutes.”
“I’m looking forward to it, sir,” Castillo replied, and then, when a click told him that Montvale had hung up, added, “about as much as I would visiting an Afghan dentist with a foot-powered drill.”
Agnes looked at him.
“I gather you’re speaking from experience?”
“Painful experience,” Castillo said. “With both.”
“How do you want to handle this?”
“I will receive the ambassador in here, where he will find me carefully studying my computer, which I will close when he enters. Have everybody but Kocian, Tor, Bradley, and, of course, Lieutenant Lorimer in the living room. We’ll have to bring chairs from the kitchen or someplace else for them, I guess.”
The living room had a beamed ceiling, a brick fireplace, and hardwood floors. There were two small and rather battered carpets that the children of the former owner also had apparently decided were not of value to them. Marks on the floor showed where the valuable carpets had lain, and marks on the wall showed where picture frames had hung.
There were four red leather armchairs and a matching couch that also had apparently missed the cut, although they looked fine to Castillo. Another stuffed trout was mounted above the fireplace, and there was some kind of animal hoof—maybe an elk’s, Castillo guessed—converted into an ashtray that sat on a heavy and battered coffee table scarred with whiskey glass rings and cigarette burns.
Castillo had decided he probably would have liked the former owners. He was already feeling comfortable in their house.
“Ambassador Montvale, Colonel,” Agnes announced from the study door five minutes later.
Castillo closed the lid of his laptop and stood up.
“Please come in, Mr. Ambassador,” he said.
Montvale wordlessly shook his hand.
“I haven’t had a chance to make this place homey,” Castillo said. “The chaise lounge all right? Or would you rather sit in that?”
He pointed to the judge’s chair.
“This’ll be fine, thank you,” Montvale said, and sat at the foot of the chaise lounge.
It was a very low chaise lounge. Montvale’s knees were now higher than his buttocks.
“Getting right to it, Charley,” Montvale said. “How bad is the compromise situation?”
“I think it’s under control.”
“I’d be happier if you said you’re confident it’s under control.”
“Think is the best I can do for now. Sorry.”
“Tell me what’s happened, and then I’ll tell you why it’s so dangerous.”
“We were all watching Hurricane Katrina on the television when Corporal Bradley marched in with a guy at gunpoint, a guy Max had caught coming through the fence—”
“Max?” Montvale interrupted. “Who the hell is Max?”
Castillo walked to the window and pointed.
Less than gracefully, Montvale got to his feet, joined him at the window, and looked out.
Max had tired of his swim, climbed out of the pool, and in the moment Montvale looked out, was shaking himself dry.
“You could have said, ‘Our watchdog,’ Charley,” Montvale said disapprovingly. Then curiosity overwhelmed him. “God, he’s enormous! What is he?”
“They are Bouvier des Flandres. There’s a pretty credible story that Hitler lost one of his testicles to one of them when he was Corporal Schickelgruber in Flanders. It is a fact that when he went back to Flanders as Der Führer he ordered the breed eliminated.”
“Fascinating,” Montvale said as he walked to the judge’s leather chair and sat down. “It is also a fact that when Hitler was a corporal he was Corporal Hitler. That Schickelgruber business was something the OSS came up with during World War Two. It’s known as ridiculing your enemy.”
“Really?” Castillo said, then thought: You sonofabitch, you grabbed my chair!
Well, I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to sit on that chaise lounge and look up at you.
Castillo leaned on the wall beside the window and folded his arms over his chest.
“Trust me,” Montvale said. “It’s a fact. Now, getting back to what happened after that outsized dog caught the guy…”
“He turned out to be an assistant military attaché in our embassy in Asunción, Paraguay. First Lieutenant Edmund Lorimer. Formerly of Special Forces, now of Intelligence. One of his pals, a DEA agent—”
“Name?”
“I can get it from Lorimer, if it’s important to you.”
“Lorimer? Any connection with our Lorimers?”
“Just a coincidence.”
“Where is this chap?”
“Upstairs.”
“Go on.”
“Well, Lorimer is clever. He put together all the gossip, and when the drug guys kidnapped his DEA agent pal, he decided that Colonel Costello—getting
my name wrong was about the only mistake he made—was just the man who could play James Bond and get back his pal. And he came looking for me. And found me.”
“Charley, how would you go about getting this DEA agent back?”
“I don’t know how—or if—that could be done. And I haven’t given it any thought because it’s none of my business.”
“You have no idea how pleased I am that you realize that,” Montvale said. “It is none of your business, and I strongly recommend you don’t forget that.”
Castillo didn’t reply, but his face clearly showed that Montvale’s comment interested him.
Montvale nodded in reply, indicating that he was about to explain himself.
“Senator Homer Johns came to see me several days ago,” Montvale said. “The junior senator from New Hampshire? Of the Senate Intelligence Committee?”
Castillo nodded to show that he knew of Johns.
“He told me that the day before he had spoken with his brother-in-law…” Montvale paused for dramatic effect, then went on. “…who is the President’s envoy plenipotentiary and extraordinary to the Republic of Uruguay, Ambassador Michael A. McGrory.”
He paused again.
“I think I now have your full attention, Charley, don’t I?”
Castillo chuckled and nodded.
“This is not a laughing matter,” Montvale said, waited for that to register, and then went on: “There are those who think McGrory owes his present job to the senator. His career in the State Department had been, kindly, mediocre before he was named ambassador to Uruguay.
“The senator said he was calling to send his sister best wishes on her birthday. In the course of their conversation, however, the ambassador just happened to mention—possibly to make the point that there he was on the front line of international diplomacy, proving he indeed was worthy of the influence the senator had exercised on his behalf—the trouble he was having with the Uruguayan Foreign Ministry.
“Specifically, he said that shortly after a drug dealer, one Dr. Jean-Paul Lorimer, an American employed by the UN, had been assassinated on his estancia, the deputy foreign minister had made an unofficial call on him, during which he as much as accused the ambassador of concealing from him that the assassins were American Special Forces troops.”
“Ouch!” Castillo said.
“Indeed,” Montvale replied. “According to Senator Johns, the ambassador proudly related how he had dealt with the situation. McGrory apparently threw the deputy foreign minister out of his office. But then Johns—the senator said his curiosity was piqued—had a chat with the Uruguayan ambassador here in D.C., who assured him Lorimer’s murder had been thoroughly investigated by the Uruguayan authorities, who were convinced that it was drug related, as was the death of another American, one Howard Kennedy, who was found beaten to death in the Conrad Hotel in Punta del Este. The ambassador told the senator, off the record, that there was reason to believe Kennedy was associated with your good friend Aleksandr Pevsner, who he had heard is in that part of the world, and that Pevsner was probably behind everything.”
“And what do you think Senator Johns believes?” Castillo asked.
“I don’t know what he believes. I think he suspects that something took place down there that his brilliant brother-in-law doesn’t know, something that the government of Uruguay would just as soon sweep under the rug. And I suspect that the senator would love to find out that the President sent Special Forces down there.”
“He didn’t. He sent me.”
“That’s splitting a hair, Charley, and you know it. The question, then, is is your operation going to be blown?”
“I don’t think so—”
“There’s that word ‘think’ again,” Montvale interrupted.
“I don’t think there will be any trouble starting in Uruguay,” Castillo said. “The head of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policía Nacional, Chief Inspector José Ordóñez—I thought I told you this.”
“Tell me again,” Montvale said.
“Ordóñez was at the Conrad when we got there. He actually took us to see the bodies—”
“Bodies? Plural?”
“Plural. The other one was Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Zhdankov of the FSB’s Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight against Terrorism. Delchamps told Ordóñez who it was, and Ordóñez made the point that Delchamps was wrong, that Zhdankov was a Czech businessman. Quietly, Ordóñez said it would provide problems for him, and the Uruguayan government, if he had to start investigating the murders of a senior Russian intelligence officer and a man known to have close ties to Aleksandr Pevsner.”
Now it was Castillo’s turn to let what he had said sink in.
After a moment, Montvale nodded thoughtfully.
Castillo went on: “Ordóñez then said his investigation of the bodies at Lorimer’s estancia had made him believe that it was another drug deal gone wrong, that he doubted that any arrests would be made, and that for all practical purposes the case was closed. He added that he thought it would be a good idea for us to leave Uruguay right then and stay away until all the, quote, bad memories, unquote, had a chance to fade.”
“And you think he knows the truth?”
“The first time I told you about this—and now I remember when I did—I told you that he’s a very smart cop and has a very good idea of exactly what happened. That’s why I—here comes that word again, sorry—think that we’re safe as far as Uruguay is concerned.”
“And in Argentina? You left bodies lying around there, too.”
“Munz says he thinks the Argentine government would like the whole business—Masterson’s murder in particular, but what happened in the Sheraton garage, too—forgotten. Munz—and I remember telling you this, too—says he thinks the Argentine government is perfectly happy to chalk up the Sheraton shooting to drug dealers; their alternative being investigating what Lieutenant Colonel Yevgeny Komogorov of the FSB was doing with a Uzi in his hand when he got blown away in the garage. They couldn’t keep that out of the newspapers.”
Montvale considered that, grunted, and asked. “Where is Munz?”
“In the living room with the others.”
“Delchamps, too?”
“You said ‘everybody,’ Ambassador.”
“Let’s go talk to them,” Montvale said, and then, as if remembering Castillo didn’t like being ordered around, added: “I’d like confirmation of what you told me, Charley. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“Or would you rather ask them to come in here?”
Castillo pushed himself away from the wall and gestured toward the door.
The battered coffee table in the living room now held a bottle of Famous Grouse, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and a cheap plastic water pitcher, telling Castillo the odds were that he now was entertaining everybody with his liquor stock from his vacated suite in the Mayflower Hotel.
“Keep your seats, gentlemen,” Montvale ordered somewhat grandly and entirely unnecessarily, as nobody in the room showed the slightest indication of wanting to stand up for any reason.
They all looked at him, however, as he scanned the room and finally selected the fireplace as his podium. He was tall enough so that he could rest his elbow on the mantel. He was seeking to establish an informal, friendly ambience. He failed. Everyone knew what his relationship with Castillo was.
“The situation is this, gentlemen,” Montvale began. “Senator Johns has an inkling of what went on in Uruguay and Argentina. Colonel Castillo tells me that he doesn’t think the operation has been compromised. I’m concerned about a possible serious embarrassment to the President, and therefore I’d like to be sure that it’s not going to blow up in our faces.”
No one responded.
“Mr. Delchamps? Would you care to comment?”
Delchamps took a healthy swallow of his drink.
“I vote with Charley,” he said simply. “Thirty minutes after the kid
marched Lorimer into the living room, Charley ordered the shutdown, and we were out of Argentina within hours. Charley ordered what I thought were exactly the right actions to shut the mouths of anyone else who might be theorizing. But shit happens. This may get compromised. I just don’t think it will.”
Delchamps looked at the others in the room, who nodded their agreement.
Montvale chuckled.
“Did I say something funny?” Delchamps challenged.
“Oh, no. Not at all,” Montvale said quickly. “What I was thinking was it’s really a rather amusing situation. What we have in this room are very skilled, highly experienced intelligence officers, enjoying the confidence of the President, who were nonetheless forced to shut down their operation—what did you say, you were ‘out of Argentina within hours’?—because of one unimportant little lieutenant who had no idea what he was sticking his nose into. You’ll have to admit, that is rather amusing.”
No one else seemed to find it amusing.
Delchamps took another swallow of his drink, looked thoughtful—if not annoyed—for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.
“Let me tell you about that unimportant little lieutenant, Mr. Montvale,” he said, an edge to his tone.
“Please do,” Montvale said sarcastically.
“Jack Doherty and I had a long talk with him on the trip from B.A.,” Delchamps said. “It’s not that he was running at the mouth…even willing to talk. What it was, Mr. Montvale, is that Jack and I, between us, have more experience pulling things from reluctant people than you are old.”
Montvale’s face showed no response to that.
“We started out to learn who he’d been running his mouth to,” Delchamps went on, “and what he’d said. The first impression we got was that he had been listening, not running his mouth, and that was the impression we had when we finished. Right, Jack?”
“That’s it,” Doherty agreed. “He’s one hell of a young man, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Who talks too much,” Montvale said, “and has come close to compromising your operation.”
“Listen to what I’m saying, for Christ’s sake!” Delchamps said.
“Just who do you think you’re talking to?” Montvale demanded.
The Shooters Page 14
