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  “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 Deuxième 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, República 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 Señora 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.

  * * *

  SECRET

  ASLA 3445-4 1745 4AUG05

  FROM: DEPUTY ASSISTANT SECRETARY OF STATE FOR LATIN AMERICA

  TO: US EMBASSY, MONTEVIDEO, URUGUAY

  PERSONAL ATTENTION: AMBASSADOR MCGRORY

  CONFIRMING TELECON BETWEEN ASSTSECTLATAM AND THEODORE J. DETWEILLER, JR., C/M USEMB MONTEVIDEO 1705 4 AUGUST 2005

  MR. DAVID W. YUNG, JR., A SPECIAL AGENT OF TH
E FBI ON THE PERSONAL STAFF OF SECSTATE, IS CURRENTLY EN ROUTE TO MONTEVIDEO AND SHOULD ARRIVE THERE AFTERNOON 5 AUGUST 2005.

  SECSTATE COHEN HAS DIRECTED AND AUTHORIZED Mr. YUNG TO ASSUME AND DISCHARGE ALL CONSULAR DUTIES RELATING TO THE LATE DR. JEAN-PAUL LORIMER INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO REPATRIATION OF THE REMAINS AND THE PROTECTION OF ASSETS.

  SECSTATE FURTHER DIRECTS USEMB MONTEVIDEO TO PROVIDE Mr. YUNG WITH WHATEVER ASSISTANCE HE REQUIRES, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO TURNING OVER TO HIM ANY AND ALL USEMB RECORDS AND FILES CONCERNING Mr. LORIMER AND ANY AND ALL MATERIAL REGARDING JEAN-PAUL BERTRAND WHOSE IDENTITY Mr. LORIMER HAD APPARENTLY ASSUMED. THIS SPECIFICALLY INCLUDES ALL INFORMATION REGARDING THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF Mr. LORIMER’S DEATH KNOWN TO EMB AND/OR OBTAINED FROM URUGUAYAN GOVERNMENT SOURCES.

  SECSTATE AUTHORIZES AND DIRECTS Mr. YUNG TO, AT HIS DISCRETION, SHIP ALL SUCH MATERIALS VIA DIPLOMATIC POUCH TO STATE DEPT, PERSONAL ATTENTION SECSTATE, OR TO MAKE SUCH OTHER ARRANGEMENTS FOR THEIR SHIPMENT TO SECSTATE AS HE DESIRES.

  BARBARA L. QUIGLETTE

  DEPUTY ASSISTANT SECRETARY OF STATE FOR LATIN AMERICA

  SECRET

  * * *

  The sonofabitch interrupts my breakfast to tell me the deputy foreign minister wants to talk to him unofficially and didn’t mention this?

  Goddamn him! He should have called me the moment he got off the phone from talking to the under secretary! Last night!

  McGrory pushed himself out of his high-backed, blue-leather-upholstered chair and walked quickly to his office door, still holding the radio teletype printout.

  “Susanna,” he ordered, “I want to see, right now, in this order, and separately—in other words, one at a time—Mr. Detweiller, Mr. Monahan, and Mr. Howell.”

  “Yes, sir,” Señora Obregon replied.

  Three minutes later Señora Obregon reported that neither Mr. Detweiller nor Mr. Howell had yet come in but that Mr. Monahan was on his way to the ambassador’s office and asked if she should send him in or make him wait until he’d seen the others.

  “Send him in, please,” McGrory ordered.

  Monahan appeared at the office door moments later.

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. Ambassador?”

  McGrory waved him into the office but not into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  “I’m a little curious, Monahan, why you did not elect to tell me Yung is on the personal staff of the secretary of state,” McGrory said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You are the special agent in charge, are you not? And you were aware, were you not, of Yung’s status?”

  “That’s two questions, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Answer them one at a time.”

  “I’m the senior FBI agent here, Mr. Ambassador, but not the SAC.”

  “What’s the others?”

  “A SAC is in charge of the special agents,” Monahan replied and then clarified: “It stands for Special Agent in Charge.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “No, sir. I’m the senior agent. I’ve been with the bureau longest. But I was never appointed the SAC.”

  “You’re telling me you’re not in charge of the other FBI agents? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sort of in charge, because, like I say, I’m the senior agent. But not really, if you take my meaning.”

  “If you’re not really in charge, Monahan, who is?”

  Monahan seemed puzzled by the question for a moment, then answered it: “You are, Mr. Ambassador.”

  McGrory thought: Sonofabitch! Is he stupid or just acting that way?

  He went on: “And Special Agent Yung, who does he work for?”

  “When he was here, he worked for you, sir.”

  “Not the secretary of state?”

  “Up the chain of command, maybe,” Monahan said. “I never thought about that. I mean, he worked for you and you work for the secretary of state, if you follow me. In that sense, you could say he worked for the secretary of state.”

  Señora Obregon put her head in the door.

  “Mr. Howell is here, Mr. Ambassador.”

  McGrory thought, There’s no sense going any further with this.

  he said, “Monahan, I have to see Mr. Howell right now. Please keep yourself available.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ask Mr. Howell to come in, please, Señora Obregon,” McGrory said.

  “Interesting,” Cultural Attaché Robert Howell said, handing the message back to McGrory. “I wonder what it means?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” McGrory said.

  “Well, all I can do is guess. Mr. Masterson’s father-in-law is a retired ambassador. We heard in Buenos Aires that the father-in-law has heart problems and perhaps Secretary Cohen—”

  “I mean about Yung being on the personal staff of the secretary,” McGrory interrupted.

  “Mr. Ambassador, you never elected to tell me about that. I simply presumed Yung was one more FBI agent.”

  “I didn’t know he was on the secretary’s personal staff, Robert,” McGrory said.

  “You didn’t? Even more interesting, I wonder what he was doing down here that even you didn’t know about? Does Monahan know?”

  McGrory didn’t answer the question.

  Instead, he said, “Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez telephoned Ted Detweiller at eight this morning. He wanted to know if Detweiller would be in his office at nine and, if so, if Detweiller would be kind enough to offer him a cup of coffee.”

  “I wonder what that’s all about?” Howell said.

  “I intend to find out. As soon as Detweiller gets here, I’m going to tell him he has the flu and is going home. Since he is unfortunately not able to give Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez his cup of coffee, I will. And I want you to be here when I do so.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Señora Obregon announced from his door, “Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez and another gentleman to see you.”

  McGrory rose quickly from his desk and walked quickly to the door, smiling, his hand extended.

  “Señor Alvarez,” he said. “What an unexpected pleasure!”

  Alvarez, a small, trim man, returned the smile.

  “Mr. Detweiller has developed a slight case of the flu,” McGrory went on, “which is bad for him, but—perhaps I shouldn’t say this—good for me, because it gives me the chance to offer you the cup of coffee in his stead.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Ambassador,” Alvarez said, enthusiastically pumping McGrory’s hand. “I only hope I am not intruding on your busy schedule.”

  “There is always time in my schedule for you, Señor Alvarez,” McGrory said.

  “May I present my friend, Señor Ordóñez of the Interior Ministry?” Alvarez said.

  “A privilege to make your acquaintance, señor,” McGrory said, offering Ordóñez his hand. “And may I introduce my cultural attaché, Señor Howell?”

  Everybody shook hands.

  “I understand from Señor Detweiller that this is a purely social visit?” McGrory asked.

  “Absolutely,” Alvarez said. “I knew Ordóñez and I were going to be in the area, and since I hadn’t seen my friend Detweiller for some time I thought he might be kind enough to offer me a cup of coffee.”

  “He was really sorry to miss you,” McGrory said.

  “Please pass on my best wishes for a speedy recovery,” Alvarez said.

  “Since this is, as you say, a purely social visit, may I suggest that Señor Howell share our coffee with us?”

  “Delighted to have him,” Alvarez said.

  “Please take a seat,” McGrory said, waving at the chairs and the couch around his coffee table. Then he raised his voice, “Señora Obregon, would you be good enough to bring us all some coffee and rolls?”

  Howell thought: Whatever this is—it almost certainly has to do with the blood bath at Tacuarembó—it is not a purely social visit and both Alvarez and McGrory know it.

&
nbsp; Alvarez knows that Detweiller “got sick” because McGrory wanted to talk to him himself, which is probably fine with Alvarez. He really wanted to talk to him, anyway, but the deputy foreign minister couldn’t call the American ambassador and ask for a cup of coffee.

  That’s known as protocol.

  Ordóñez is not just in the Interior Ministry; he’s chief inspector of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policía Nacional and McGrory knows that.

  And Ordóñez knows—and, since he knows, so does Alvarez—that I’m not really the cultural attaché.

  I know just about everything that happened at Tacuarembó, but Señor Pompous doesn’t even know that Americans—much less his CIA station chief—were involved, because Castillo decided he didn’t have the Need to Know and ordered me—with his authority under the Presidential Finding—not to tell him anything at all.

  Everybody is lying to—and/or concealing something from—everybody else and everybody either knows or suspects it.

  That’s known as diplomacy.

  I wonder how long it will take before Alvarez decides to talk about what he wants to talk about?

  It took less time—just over five minutes—than Howell expected it to before Alvarez obliquely began to talk about what he had come to talk about.

  “While I’m here, Mr. Ambassador,” Alvarez said, “let me express my personal appreciation—an official expression will of course follow in good time—for your cooperation in the Tacuarembó matter.”

  “Well, no thanks are necessary,” McGrory replied, “as we have learned that the poor fellow was really an American citizen. We were just doing our duty.”

  Alvarez smiled as if highly amused. McGrory looked at him curiously.

  “Forgive me,” Alvarez said. “My wife is always accusing me of smiling at the wrong time. In this case, I was smiling at your—innocent, I’m sure—choice of words.”

  “What words?” McGrory said.

  “‘The poor fellow,’” Alvarez said.

  “I’m not sure I follow you, Señor Alvarez,” McGrory said.