The Shooters

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Your name, I understand, is Montvale. Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  “I’ll wager you’re about to tell me,” Montvale said, icily. “Something more, I mean, than that you’re a midlevel officer of the CIA.”

  “I wondered how long it would take you to get around to that,” Delchamps said. “Christ, you’re all alike.”

  “Who’s all alike?” Montvale challenged.

  “What the good guys in the clandestine service call the ‘Washington assholes,’” Delchamps said, matter-of-factly.

  “I will not be talked to like that,” Montvale flared. “‘Washington asshole’ or not, I’m the director of National Intelligence.”

  Delchamps smiled. “You won’t be DNI long if this Presidential Finding blows up in your face. The President will feed you to Senator Johns. The term for that is ‘sacrificial lamb.’ You, Montvale, not Charley. Charley is not fat enough to be fed as a sacrificial lamb to the Senate committee on intelligence. They like large, well-known sacrificial lambs for the headlines and sound bites with their names.”

  They locked eyes for a moment, then Delchamps went on, calmly, “As I was saying, it is my professional assessment, and that of Inspector Doherty, that Lieutenant Lorimer did not, at any time, share with anyone anything that he suspected might be classified.

  “What he did, as I said before, Mr. Montvale, was listen. And, with a skill belying his youth and experience, put together a rather complete picture of what Colonel Castillo has done in compliance with the Presidential Finding.

  “And then he made a mistake, which, considering his youth and inexperience, is perfectly understandable. He’s naïve, in other words. He believed that there had to be someone in the system somewhere who would really care about his pal Timmons and do the right thing.”

  “The right thing?” Montvale repeated, drily.

  “Do something but wring their hands.”

  “Such as?”

  Delchamps ignored the question.

  Instead, he said, “Let me paint the picture for you, Mr. Montvale. The Paraguayan authorities notified our ambassador that an embassy vehicle had been found parked against the fence surrounding Silvio Pettirossi International Airport, directly across the field from the terminal building.

  “In the backseat of the SUV, on the floor, was the body of one Franco Julio César, thirty-nine years old, a Paraguayan national, employed as a chauffeur by the U.S. embassy. El Señor César was dead of asphyxiation, caused by a metallic garrote having been placed around his neck by party or parties unknown—”

  “This guy had been garroted?” Castillo interrupted. “A metal garrote?”

  “Yeah, Ace, that’s what the Paraguayan cops reported,” Delchamps said.

  “Is that of some significance?” Montvale asked.

  Delchamps ignored him again.

  “A check of embassy records revealed that Señor César had been dispatched to drive Special Agent Byron J. Timmons, Jr., of the DEA to the airport. Nothing was known of Agent Timmons at that time.

  “Late the next morning, however, a motorcycle messenger delivered an envelope to the embassy, which contained a color photograph of Special Agent Timmons. It showed him sitting in a chair, holding a copy of that day’s Ultima Hora, one of the local newspapers. There were four men, their faces concealed by balaclava masks, standing with Special Agent Timmons. One of them held the tag end of a metallic garrote which was around Timmons’s neck—one yank on that, and he’d wind up like el Señor César.”

  “Sonofabitch!” Castillo muttered.

  “There was no message of any kind,” Delchamps went on. “At this point, the senior DEA agent in charge summoned Lieutenant Lorimer to his office. When Lorimer got there he found the consul general, who Lorimer suspected was in fact the CIA station chief, and the legal attaché.

  “They asked Lieutenant Lorimer, who was known to be Timmons’s friend and who occupied an apartment immediately next to Timmons’s, if he had any idea who might have kidnapped Special Agent Timmons.

  “To which Lorimer replied, ‘Gypsies? You know—blasphemy omitted—well who kidnapped him,’ or words to that effect, and then asked, ‘So what are we going to do about getting him back?’

  “To which the CIA station chief replied, ‘The matter is, of course, being handled by the Paraguayan Capital Police Force, which has promised to notify us promptly of any developments, and there is every reason to believe that Timmons will be ultimately freed.’ Or words to that effect.

  “To which Lieutenant Lorimer replied, ‘As a—blasphemy deleted—junkie you mean, providing we don’t do our—blasphemy deleted—job.’ At which point, after being admonished to get his emotions under control and ordered not to discuss the kidnapping with anyone, Lorimer was dismissed. And so he went looking for Colonel Costello, in the belief that this Costello was not your typical candy-ass.”

  “Ed, what’s that about ‘as a junkie’?” Castillo asked.

  “Well, Ace, according to Lorimer—and Doherty agrees with me that Lorimer probably isn’t making this up—the way things work down there—there have been four other kidnappings Lorimer says he knows about—what the bad guys do is snatch a DEA guy—or an FBI guy or a DIA guy—then let the embassy know he’s alive. If shortly thereafter some heavy movement of cocaine goes off all right, they turn him loose. Payment for everybody looking the other way.”

  “But what’s with the ‘junkie’?” Castillo pursued.

  “I’m getting to that. To show their contempt for gringos generally, and to keep their prisoner captive and quiet, by the time they turn him loose, his arm is riddled with needle tracks. He’s lucky to have a vein that’s not collapsed. They’ve turned him into a coke—sometimes a crack—junkie.”

  Castillo shook his head in amazement.

  “And if their movement of drugs is interdicted?” he asked softly.

  “According to Lorimer, there have been four kidnappings of DEA agents in Paraguay since he’s been there—five, counting Timmons. Three have been turned loose, full of drugs. One was found dead of an overdose, shortly after about five hundred kilos—more than half a ton—of refined coke was grabbed in Argentina on a fruit boat floating down the Paraguay River.”

  “Not garroted?” Castillo asked.

  Delchamps shook his head.

  “Full of cocaine,” he said.

  “What happens to the ones who are turned loose?”

  “They are quietly given the best medical attention available for drug addiction,” Delchamps said, “‘in anticipation of their return to full duty.’” He paused. “Want to guess how often that works?”

  “Probably not very often,” Ambassador Montvale said.

  “And that doesn’t bother you?” Castillo snapped.

  “Of course it bothers me.”

  “But we have to look at the big picture, right?” Delchamps said, sarcastically. “DEA agents know their duties are going to place them in danger?”

  Montvale nodded.

  He said, “How likely do you think it is that this DEA agent—”

  “His name is Timmons,” Delchamps said.

  “Very well,” Montvale replied. “How likely do you think it is that Special Agent Timmons—and every other DEA agent, DIA agent—Lieutenant Lorimer, for example—and CIA officer in the embassy in Asunción volunteered for the assignment?”

  Delchamps looked at him for a moment, then said, “And that means Lorimer is an unimportant little lieutenant, and Timmons is an unimportant little DEA agent, right?”

  “That was an unfortunate choice of words,” Montvale said, “but isn’t ‘important’ a relative term? Which would you say is more important, Mr. Delchamps: preserving the confidentiality of the Presidential Finding, the compromise of which would embarrass the President and just about destroy the fruits of the investigation you and Inspector Doherty and the others are about to complete, or sending an unimportant little lieutenant to a weather station in the Aleutian Islands for a year or two to m
ake sure he keeps his mouth shut?”

  Delchamps didn’t reply.

  Montvale went on: “Or which would be less wise: to send Colonel Castillo and his merry band to Paraguay to take on a drug cartel, which could carry with it, obviously, the very real risk of compromising the Finding, and, in addition, render the OOA impotent, or letting the people for whom Special Agent Timmons works in Paraguay deal with the matter?”

  “No one is suggesting that Charley’s guys go rescue Timmons,” Delchamps said. “We all know that wouldn’t work.”

  “I’m glad you realize that,” Montvale said.

  “Lorimer is not going to be sent to the Aleutian Islands,” Castillo said, “or anything like that.”

  Both Montvale and Delchamps looked at him, surprised that he had gone off on a tangent.

  “What are you going to do with him, Ace?” Delchamps asked after a moment.

  “The first thing that comes to mind is to send him to Bragg. Let him be an instructor or something.”

  “That’ll work?” Delchamps asked.

  “I think so.”

  “I don’t think that’s a satisfactory solution,” Montvale said. “How can you guarantee he won’t do something irrational at Fort Bragg?”

  “I can’t. But since the decision about how to deal with him is mine to make, that’s where he’s going. He may in fact be an unimportant little lieutenant in your big picture, but in mine he’s a dedicated soldier who did exactly what I would have done in the circumstances.”

  “You told me something like that before,” Montvale said. “You remember my response?”

  Castillo nodded. “Something to the effect that his having done what I would have done made you uncomfortable. The implication was that I’m also a loose cannon.”

  “There is that matter of the Black Hawk helicopter you ‘borrowed’ in Afghanistan,” Montvale said. “That might make some people think that way.”

  “Yeah, I’d agree with that,” Delchamps said. “But on the other hand, the bottom line is the President doesn’t think he is.”

  Montvale glared at him.

  Delchamps went on: “I hate to be a party pooper, Mr. Montvale, but unless you want to kick the can around some more, it’s now about one in the morning, and an old man like me needs his rest.”

  “Yes, and I would agree that we’re through here,” Montvale said. “Eight o’clock in the apartment, Colonel Castillo. Based on what you and these gentlemen have told me, I don’t think we need concern the President that the Southern Cone operations may have been compromised, do you?”

  “I don’t think it has, or will be, Mr. Ambassador,” Castillo said.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Montvale said. “Thank you for your time.”

  He nodded at all of them and walked out of the room.

  [THREE]

  The Breakfast Room

  The Presidential Apartments

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW

  Washington, D.C.

  0755 2 September 2005

  The only person in the breakfast room when the Secret Service agent opened the door for Ambassador Montvale and Lieutenant Colonel Castillo was Secretary of State Natalie Cohen, a small, slight, pale-skinned woman who wore her black hair in a pageboy cut.

  She was standing by the window, holding a cup of coffee, as she watched the Presidential helicopter flutter down to the lawn. When she saw Montvale and Castillo, she smiled, set her coffee cup on a small table, and walked to them.

  “I was hoping I’d have a moment alone with you, Charles,” she said, “so that I could ask you where our wandering boy was.”

  “Natalie,” Montvale said, as the secretary of State walked to Castillo and kissed his cheek.

  “Welcome home, Wandering Boy,” she said. “When did you get back?”

  “Last night, Madam Secretary,” Castillo said.

  “We have a little problem, Charley,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Katrina has put fifteen feet of water over Ambassador Lorimer’s home in New Orleans,” she said. “He and his wife are at the Masterson plantation—which is apparently just outside the area of mass destruction along the Mississippi Gulf Coast—and he called me to ask if I could give him the precise address of his late son’s plantation—estancia—in Uruguay, at which he intends to live until he can move back into his house in New Orleans.”

  “Jesus!” Castillo said.

  “When I told him I didn’t have the address, he said that Mr. Masterson had told him that you know where it is, and asked how he could get in touch with you.”

  “At the risk of repeating myself, Madame Secretary,” Castillo said, “Jesus!”

  “May I reasonably infer from your reaction that there’s a problem with this?”

  “Yes, ma’am, there’s a problem with that,” Castillo said. “Why can’t he just stay with the Mastersons?”

  “That question occurred to me, too, but of course, I couldn’t ask it. What’s the nature of the problem?”

  “What about the apartment in Paris?” Castillo said. “He inherited that, too.”

  “I suggested to the ambassador that he would probably be more comfortable in an apartment in Paris than on a ranch—an estancia—in Uruguay. His response to that suggested he’s about as much a Francophobe as you are, Charley. He wants to go to the estancia and there’s not much we can do to stop him. Except, of course, you talking him out of going down there. I asked you what the problem is?”

  Castillo looked at Montvale, then raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Things happened down there, Natalie,” Montvale said, “which suggested the possibility the Presidential Finding might be at risk of compromise. Castillo thinks, operative word thinks, that his shutting down his operation there has removed the threat. But Lorimer going down there would pose problems.”

  “Why, Charley?” the secretary asked simply. “More important, what things happened down there?”

  “A too-clever young DIA officer assigned to our embassy in Asunción has pretty well figured out what’s taken place down there,” Montvale answered for him.

  “Oh, God!”

  “Castillo has brought this young officer back with him, and intends to send him to Fort Bragg in what I think is the rather wishful belief that there he will keep what he has learned to himself.”

  “I’ve also taken steps to shut mouths in Montevideo, Buenos Aires, and Asunción,” Castillo said. “And I think the threat of compromise is pretty well reduced.”

  “Again the operative word is thinks,” Montvale said. “Although I don’t believe we should worry the President with the situation at this time.”

  “But Ambassador Lorimer going down there might change that?” she replied, and then, before anyone could answer, she asked, “Why, Charley?”

  “There is a very clever Uruguayan cop, Chief Inspector José Ordóñez, who has figured out just about everything that happened down there,” Castillo said. “I talked with him in Punta del Este, right after they found the bodies of Howard Kennedy and Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Zhdankov of the FSB beaten to death in the Conrade—a plush hotel and casino. He said he believed Kennedy was a drug dealer, and Zhdankov the Czech businessman that his passport said he was. And that the bodies at Shangri-La, Lorimer’s estancia, including Lorimer’s, were also the result of a drug deal gone wrong, and that he doubted if anyone would ever be arrested. And then he suggested that I leave Uruguay as quickly as possible and not return until, quote, the bad memories had time to fade, unquote. Which, of course, I did.”

  “And Ambassador Lorimer going down there would possibly pull the scab off this?” she asked.

  Castillo nodded.

  “There’s more, Natalie,” Montvale said. “Senator Johns came to see me, and implied that he thinks his brother-in-law the ambassador was kept in the dark about a Special Forces team operating in Uruguay.”

  “God!” she said. “How bad is that?
”

  “At the moment, under control. But if Lorimer goes down there…”

  “If Lorimer goes down where?” the President of the United States asked as he walked into the breakfast room heading for the coffee service.

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” the secretary of State, the director of National Intelligence, and Lieutenant Colonel Castillo said almost in unison.

  “Good morning,” the President said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. Then he turned. “I’m especially glad to see you, Charley. You have this wonderful ability to show up at the exact moment I need you. When did you get back?”

  “Last night, Mr. President.”

  “‘If Lorimer goes down there’ what?” the President asked.

  Natalie Cohen said, “Ambassador Lorimer’s home in New Orleans is under the water, Mr.—”

  “His and several hundred thousand other people’s,” the President interrupted. “My God, what a disaster!”

  “—and he called me and asked for directions to his son’s ranch in Uruguay in which, or at which, he intends to live until he can get back in his home.”

  “And that poses problems?”

  “It may, sir,” Montvale said.

  “How bad problems?” the President asked.

  “Not catastrophic, Mr. President,” Montvale said, “but potentially dangerous.”

  “I can’t imagine why the hell…yeah, now that I think about it, I can imagine why he’d want to go down there. Far from the mess in New Orleans, and it’s cheap—right, Charley?—to live down there.”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “If it’s not going to cause catastrophic problems for us, I don’t think it’s any of our business what he does,” the President said. “We have other problems to deal with. Aside from Katrina, I mean.”

  “Sir?” Natalie Cohen asked.

  The President sipped his coffee, then said, “Two days ago, the mayor of Chicago called me. Now, I know you two are above sordid politics, but I’ll bet Charley can guess how important Cook County is to me. Right, Charley?”

  “I think I have an idea, Mr. President,” Castillo said.

  “And knowing that, you’ll all understand why I responded in the affirmative when the mayor asked me to do him a personal favor.”