The Hunters Read online

  “Ask him to wait, please,” Ambassador McGrory replied and held up his hand, fingers and thumb extended, to remind her of how many minutes he wanted Yung to wait.

  He then punched a button on his chronometer wristwatch, starting the timer.

  “The ambassador will see you now, Mr. Yung,” McGrory’s secretary announced.

  Yung got up off the chrome-and-plastic couch, laid on the coffee table the Buenos Aires Herald he had been reading, and walked to McGrory’s door.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Welcome back to Uruguay, Yung,” the ambassador said, waving him first into the room, then into one of the chairs facing his desk. “You know Mr. Howell, of course?”

  “Yes, sir. Good to see you, Mr. Howell.”

  “May I offer you some coffee?” McGrory asked.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  McGrory flipped the switch on his intercom and ordered coffee.

  “Long flight?” McGrory inquired as they waited.

  “It didn’t seem as long, sir, as the ride from Ezeiza to Jorge Newbery. The piqueteros had the highway blocked. It took the taxi two hours to get downtown, moving five meters at a time.”

  That was more information than McGrory wanted or needed.

  “Well, you know the pickets,” he said. “Closing highways and bridges gives them something to do.”

  “Yes, sir. I suppose that’s so.”

  Señora Obregon served the coffee. McGrory waited until she had left the office, then asked, “I understand, Yung, that when you were here before you weren’t doing exactly what everyone—including Mr. Howell and I—thought you were doing.”

  Yung didn’t reply.

  “What, exactly, were you doing?” McGrory said, pointedly.

  “With the exception, sir, that I was responding to specific requests for information from the State Department and answering those queries directly to the department rather than through the embassy, I was looking into money laundering like every other FBI agent here.”

  “Why do you suppose that was necessary? And that I was not informed?”

  “Sir, I have no idea. I’m pretty low on the totem pole. That’s what I was told to do and I did it.”

  “Who told you to do it?”

  “Mr. Quiglette,” Yung said, simply.

  “You’re referring to Deputy Assistant Secretary of State for Latin America Quiglette?”

  Yung nodded. “Nice lady.”

  “It was Mr. Quiglette who told you to tell me nothing of your special orders?”

  “What special orders is that, sir?”

  “The ones to keep me in the dark about what you were actually doing down here?”

  “Yes, sir. But it wasn’t a question of not telling you specifically, sir. I was told that no one was to know what I was doing.”

  “But you were aware that was highly extraordinary?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t think anything about it. I’ve had other assignments where no one knew what I was really doing.”

  “such `as?”

  “Sir, I really can’t discuss anything like that.”

  “And can you discuss why you were suddenly ordered out of here?”

  “No, sir,” Yung said.

  “Deputy Assistant Secretary Quiglette messaged me that you were coming back here, to take over the late Mr. Lorimer’s body, his assets, etcetera. Are you aware of that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then, presumably, you are aware of the circumstances of Mr. Lorimer’s death?”

  Yung looked at the ambassador. Now, here’s where I’m going to have to start being deceptive and dishonest. Goddamn Castillo for getting me into this!

  “I know he was murdered, sir, and that he was Mr. Masterson’s brother-in-law, but that’s about all.”

  “I’m curious why the State Department felt it necessary to send someone down here to do what we’re perfectly capable of doing ourselves?” McGrory asked, but it was more of a statement than a question.

  Yung answered it anyway: “I was given the impression, sir, that that came from the secretary herself.”

  “You didn’t deal with the secretary herself?”

  “No, sir. But I was led to believe that it was personal courtesy—maybe professional courtesy—probably both—on her part to Mr. Lorimer’s father, who is a retired ambassador.”

  “But why you, Yung?”

  “Because I was here, I suppose. I know Uruguay and the banks and people at the embassy.”

  McGrory appeared to think that over, then nodded.

  “That may well put you in a very delicate situation, Yung,” McGrory said.

  “Sir?”

  “As it does me, frankly, Yung,” McGrory said. “Could we go off the record a moment, do you think?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “Not that you’re really keeping a record, of course. Just as a manner of speaking.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now—bearing in mind that I don’t know this for sure, but I’ve been in this diplomatic game for many years now, and believe me you acquire a certain insight into things…”

  “I’m sure you have, sir.”

  “One of the things you learn is that people who would have you think they have a certain influence with the upper echelons of something—like the State Department, for example—don’t really have much influence at all.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Yung said.

  “And ying yong,” McGrory said, significantly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ying yong,” McGrory repeated, and then when he saw on Yung’s face that he didn’t understand went on: “I thought, as an Oriental, you would understand. That’s Korean, I believe.”

  “I’m Chinese, Mr. Ambassador,” Yung said. “My family came to this country—to the United States—in the 1840s. I don’t speak Korean.”

  “It means everything evens out,” McGrory explained. “Sort of like the law of physics which says every action has an immediate and exactly opposite reaction.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “In this case, Yung, it would mean that someone who goes to some effort to suggest he has little influence—is ‘pretty low on the totem pole,’ to use your phrase—may in fact have a good deal of influence.”

  What the hell is McGrory talking about? Is he suggesting I have influence?

  “I’m not sure I follow you, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “I understand, of course,” McGrory said.

  McGrory gave Yung time for that to sink in, then went on: “As I was saying, we are both in a some what delicate position vis-à-vis Mr. Lorimer.”

  “How is that, sir?”

  “Like the secretary, I am concerned with Ambassador Lorimer. I never met him, but I understand he is a fine man, a credit to the diplomatic service.”

  “That’s my understanding, sir.”

  “And Ambassador Silvio, in Buenos Aires, told me in confidence that Ambassador Lorimer has certain health problems…his heart.”

  “So I understand,” Yung said.

  “Let me tell you, Yung, what’s happened here. Off the record, of course.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As incredible as this sounds, Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez came to my office. He had with him a Señor Ordóñez, who I have learned is the chief inspector of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policía Nacional. Not an official visit. He just ‘happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to chat over a cup of coffee.’”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “And he suggested not only that what really happened at Estancia Shangri-La was a shoot-out between persons unknown and United States Special Forces, but also that I knew all about it.”

  Yung looked at Howell but did not reply.

  McGrory continued: “The accusation is patently absurd, of course. I don’t have to tell you that no action of that kind could take place without my knowledge and permission. As ambassador, I am the senior U.S. officer in country.
And Mr. Howell—who as I’m sure you suspect is the CIA station chief—assures me that he knows of no secret operation by the intelligence community. And he would know.”

  “I’d heard the rumors that Mr. Howell was CIA, sir…”

  “Well, that’s classified information, of course,” McGrory said. “I never told you that.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Where do think Mr. Alvarez got an idea like that? About a Special Operations mission?”

  McGrory did not reply directly.

  Instead, he said, “The question is, why would he make such an absurd accusation? That was the question I asked myself, the question that kept me from immediately reporting the incident to the department. I did, however, just about throw him out of my office.”

  “Did he offer anything to substantiate the accusation?” Yung asked.

  “He showed me a…thingamabob…the shiny part of a cartridge, what comes out of a gun after it’s fired?”

  “A cartridge case, sir?”

  “Precisely. He told me it had been found at the estancia. And he told me he had gone directly to the Uruguayan embassy in Washington and they had gone to the Pentagon and the Pentagon had obligingly informed them that it was a special kind of bullet used only by U.S. Army competitive rifle shooters and Special Forces.”

  “A National Match case, sir? Did the case have NM stamped on it?”

  If it did, it almost certainly came from that Marine high school cheerleader’s rifle.

  McGrory pointed his finger at Yung and nodded his head.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “That’s not much proof that our Special Forces were involved,” Yung said.

  “Of course not. Because they were not involved. If there were Special Forces involved, Mr. Howell and I would have known about it. That’s a given.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My temptation, of course, was to go right to the department and report the incident. You don’t just about call the American ambassador a liar in his office. But as I said before, Yung, I’ve been in the diplomatic game for some time. I’ve learned to ask myself why somebody says something, does something. I realized that if I went to the department, they’d more than likely register an official complaint, possibly even recall me for consultation. And I thought maybe that’s what the whole thing was all about. They wanted to cause a stink, in other words. Then I asked myself, why would they want to do that? And that answer is simple. They were creating a diversion.”

  “To take attention from what, sir?”

  “What really happened at that ranch, that estancia.”

  “Which is, sir?”

  “Think about this, Yung,” McGrory replied, indirectly. “Bertrand—Lorimer—had nearly sixteen million dollars in banks here. Did you know about that?”

  Yung didn’t answer directly. He said, “Sixteen million dollars?”

  McGrory nodded.

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Yes, it is,” McGrory agreed. “And the United Nations—although their pay scales are considerably more generous than ours—wasn’t paying him the kind of money—even if he lived entirely on his expense account, which I understand a lot of them do—for him to have socked away sixteen million for a rainy day. So where, I asked myself, did he get it?”

  He looked expectantly at Yung, who looked thoughtful, then shrugged.

  “You’ve been looking into money laundering,” McGrory said, some what impatiently. “Where does most of that dirty money come from?”

  “Embezzlement or drugs, usually,” Yung said.

  “And there you have it,” McGrory said, triumphantly. “Lorimer was a drug dealer.”

  “You really think so, sir?”

  “Think about it. Everything fits. With his alter ego as an antiques dealer, he was in a perfect position to ship drugs. Who’s going to closely inspect what’s stuffed into some old vase—some old, very valuable vase? You can get a lot of heroin into a vase. And where did Lorimer get his new identity and permission to live in Uruguay? The best face they could put on that was they were surprised that he was dealing drugs right under their noses. He had probably paid off a half dozen officials. That would come out, too.”

  “It’s an interesting theory, Mr. Ambassador,” Yung said.

  “I thought you might think so, Yung. What happened at the estancia was that a drug deal, a big one, a huge one—we’re talking sixteen million dollars here—went wrong. You know, probably better than I do, that murder is a way of life in that business. Those drug people would as soon shoot you as look at you.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s certainly true.”

  Does he really believe this nonsense?

  “Well, I’m not going to let them get away with it, I’ll tell you that. I’m not going to give them the diversion they want. No official complaint to the State Department.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “I’m just going to bide my time, leaving them to swing in the breeze as they realize I’m not going to be their patsy.” He paused, then went on: “However, I think that the appropriate people in the State Department should be made aware of the situation. That’s more or less what I was getting into when I said you and I—and even the secretary herself—are in a delicate position. If it wasn’t for Ambassador Lorimer, I’d be perfectly happy to call a spade a spade, but in view of the ambassador’s physical condition…”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “None of us wish to spoil what I’m sure is his cherished memory of his son, much less give him a heart attack, do we?”

  “No, sir, we certainly don’t.”

  “On the other hand, I think the secretary should know about this, don’t you? Even if the information comes quietly from someone pretty low on the to tempole.”

  “I take your point, sir.”

  “I was sure you would,” McGrory said.

  He stood up, leaned across his desk, and offered Yung his hand.

  They shook, then he sat back down.

  “Now, getting to the business you’re here for. Is there anything I can do, anyone on my staff can do, to facilitate the return of Mr. Lorimer’s remains to the United States, and the rest of it?”

  “I’m sure there will be something, sir.”

  “I’ll pass the word that you are to be given whatever assistance you need, and if you think anyone needs a little jogging, I’m as close as your telephone.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Specifically, what I’m going to do is ask Mr. Howell to ask Mr. Monahan to assign Mr. Artigas to assist you in whatever needs to be done so long as you’re here.”

  “Mr. Artigas?”

  “He can fill you in on what happened at Estancia Shangri-La,” McGrory explained. “He’s been up there. Chief Inspector José Ordóñez of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policía Nacional flew him up there in a helicopter the day after it happened.”

  Yung thought: I’ve been sandbagged. The last thing I need is Julio Artigas looking over my shoulder and taking notes so that he can report to McGrory.

  “I appreciate the thought, sir, but I’m not sure that will be necessary.”

  “Nonsense,” McGrory said. “I’m sure he’ll be very helpful to you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  McGrory stood up again.

  “If you can find time while you’re here, why don’t we have lunch?”

  Yung understood the meeting was concluded.

  “I’d like that very much, sir,” Yung said and stood up.

  McGrory offered his hand again. Yung shook it, then offered his hand to Howell.

  “Why don’t we go see Mr. Monahan right now, Yung?” Howell asked.

  “Good idea,” McGrory said.

  “Thank you,” Yung said.

  As he walked out of the ambassador’s office, Yung had several thoughts, one after the other:

  Unbelievable! Surreal!

  Wait till Castillo hears that nonsense about Lorimer being a drug dealer!r />
  Thank God that pompous moron—no wonder they call him Señor Pompous!—wasn’t told what we were up to! He would have ordered all of us out of the country and told the Uruguayans why.

  But he’s not as stupid as he appears. He’s going to have Artigas watch me and Howell watch both of us. I have to keep that in mind.

  Just as soon as I can, I’m going to have to go to Buenos Aires and get on a secure line to Castillo.

  “I’m going to have to stop in here,” Yung said to Howell as they approached the door to a men’s room.

  Howell followed him inside and stood at the adjacent urinal.

  “Well,” Howell said. “That was interesting, wasn’t it?”

  “Does he actually believe that drug dealer business or is he being clever?”

  “He believes it. He also believes he’s smelling rotten eggs.”

  “Artigas is smart and he doesn’t like me,” Yung said.

  “And he and Chief Inspector Ordóñez are pals.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Make sure Artigas doesn’t learn anything Ordóñez would like to know.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  “Be very careful, Yung. Very careful.”

  [THREE]

  Office of the Legal Attaché

  The Embassy of the United States of America

  Lauro Miller 1776

  Montevideo, República Oriental del Uruguay

  1035 6 August 2005

  Generally speaking, there is little love lost between the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Central Intelligence Agency, and in the United States embassy in Montevideo there was little lost between James D. Monahan, the senior FBI agent, and Robert Howell, the cultural attaché rumored to be the CIA station chief.

  Monahan privately thought of Howell as a typical CIA asshole who couldn’t find his ass with both hands and Howell privately thought of Monahan as someone far better suited to be walking a beat in Chicago eating a stolen apple while preserving law and order with his billy club than holding his present position.

  They were, of course, civil to each other.

  “Can we come in a moment, Jim?” Howell asked.

  “Absolutely. What’s on your mind, Bob?”

  “Hello, Monahan,” Yung said.

  “I heard you’d been recalled to the bureau,” Monahan said. “You’re back?”