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  "Six dead men in coveralls," Masterson said.

  "Yes, sir. Plus Mr. Lorimer, who they will have found lying on his office floor next to his safe. There are no valuables in the safe. The best possible scenario is that they will suspect a robbery by the same people who cuffed and needled the servants."

  "But they're now dead?" Masterson said.

  "Shot treacherously by one or more of their number so that whatever was stolen would not have to be split in so many shares," Castillo said.

  "The local police won't know-or suspect-that someone else-you and your people-were there?"

  "Well, we hope not," Castillo said. "There is a history of that kind of robbery-of isolated estancias-in Uruguay and Argentina. And Mr. Lorimer/Bertrand, a wealthy businessman, meets the profile of the sort of people robbed."

  "You…left nothing behind that can place you there?"

  "The only thing we know of-which is not saying I didn't screw up somewhere and they'll find something else-is blood."

  "I don't understand," Masterson said.

  "When we were bushwhacked by these people, we took casualties," Castillo said. "One was one of my men, who was garroted, and the other was an Argentine who was helping us. He lived, but he bled a lot."

  "The guy the bastards got was a sergeant first class named Seymour Kranz," D'Allessando said. "Good guy. No amateur. Which makes me really wonder who these bad guys are."

  "I'll get to that later, Vic," Castillo said.

  "Do I correctly infer that the sergeant did not live?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'm really sorry to hear that. What happened to his body?"

  "We exfiltrated it with us," Castillo said. "Now here the scenario gets very hopeful. If American police were investigating a crime like this, they would subject the blood to a number of tests. They would match blood to bodies, among other things. I'm hoping the police in rural Uruguay are not going to be so thorough; that they won't come up with a blood sample, or samples, that don't match the bodies."

  "My God, seven bodies is a massacre. They won't ask for help from-what?-the Uruguayan equivalent of the FBI? A police organization that will be thorough?"

  "I'm counting on that, sir. That's how it will be learned that Mr. Bertrand is really Mr. Lorimer."

  "How will that happen?"

  "Mr. Lorimer had a photo album, sir. One of the photographs was of Mr. Masterson's wedding. The wedding party is standing in front of a church-"

  "Cathedral," Masterson corrected him. "Saint Louis Cathedral, on Jackson Square in New Orleans. Jack and Betsy were married there."

  "The whole family-including Mr. Lorimer-is in the photo, sir. I'm almost sure that a senior police officer from Montevideo will recognize Mr. Masterson. Maybe even one of the local cops will. Mr. Masterson's murder was big news down there. It's what the police call a 'lead.' I can't believe they won't follow it up, and that will result in the identification of Mr. Bertrand. If they somehow get the photo to the embassy in Buenos Aires, a man there-actually, the CIA station chief who was in on the operation-is prepared to identify the man in the photo as Mr. Lorimer. He knew him in Paris."

  "If the police are as inept as you suggest-and you're probably right-what makes you think they'll find, much less leaf through, Jean-Paul's photo album?"

  "Because I left it open on Mr. Lorimer's desk, sir."

  "You're very good at this sort of thing, aren't you?" Masterson said.

  "No, sir, I'm not. There is a vulgar saying in the Army that really applies."

  "And that is?"

  Castillo hesitated a moment, then said: "'I'm up way over my ears in the deep shit and I don't know how to swim.'"

  "Oh, horseshit, Charley," D'Allessando said. "You and I go back a long way. I know better."

  "I agree that it's vulgar," Masterson said. "But I don't agree at all that it applies. You seem to have been born for duties like these and Mr. D'Allessando obviously agrees with me."

  "Mr. Masterson, when I went to West Point what I wanted to do with my life was be what my father was, an Army aviator. At least twice a day, I curse the fickle finger of fate that kept me from doing that."

  D'Allessando said, "The fickle finger's name, Charley, as you damned well know, is Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab."

  Masterson looked between them.

  "The first time I ever saw Charley, Mr. Masterson, he was a bushy-tailed second lieutenant fresh from West Point. It was during the first desert war. General McNab-that was just before he got his first star, right, Charley?"

  Castillo nodded.

  "Colonel McNab, who was running Special Ops in that war, had spotted Charley, recognized him as a kindred soul, rescued him from what he was doing-probably flying cargo missions in a Huey; he wasn't old enough to be out of flight school long enough to fly anything else-and put him to work as his personal pilot."

  "If we've reached the end of memory lane, Vic," Castillo said, "I would like to get on with this."

  D'Allessando held up both hands in a gesture of surrender.

  "Well, as a father," Masterson said, "I'm sure that your father is proud of what you do. He does know?"

  "No, sir. My father died in Vietnam."

  "I'm sorry, Charley," Masterson said. "I had no way of knowing."

  "Thank you, sir. If I may go on?"

  "Please."

  "Once Mr. Lorimer is identified, there's a number of possibilities. For one thing, he was both an American citizen and a UN diplomat. God only knows what the UN will do when they find out he was murdered in Uruguay. We don't know what the UN knows about Mr. Lorimer's involvement with the oil-for-food business, but I'm damned sure a number of people in the UN do.

  "They will obviously want to sweep this under the diplomatic rug. By slightly bending the facts-they can say Lorimer was on leave, somehow the paperwork got lost when we were looking for him to tell him about his sister getting kidnapped, and then about Mr. Masterson being murdered-they can issue a statement of shock and regret that he was killed by robbers on his estancia."

  "Yeah," D'Allessando said, thoughtfully.

  "Once it is established that Bertrand is, in fact, Lorimer, an American citizen, our embassy in Montevideo can get in the act. For repatriation of the remains, for one thing, and to take control of his property temporarily, pending the designation of someone-kin or somebody else-to do that. Which brings me to that.

  "Do you think Ambassador Lorimer would be willing to designate someone to do that? The someone I have in mind is an FBI agent in Montevideo, who was in on the operation. Give him what would amount to power of attorney, in other words? I'd really like to really go through the estancia and see what can be found."

  "I don't think he would have any problem with that. I don't think he would want to-in his condition-go there himself, nor do I think his wife or physician would permit it."

  "And the same thing for the apartment in Paris?"

  "I think so. Now that I have had a chance to think it over, they'd be pleased. Perhaps I can suggest it was offered as a courtesy to a fellow diplomat."

  "The sooner that could be done, the better. Of course, we have to wait until the scenario I described unfolds. If it does."

  "It'll work, Charley," D'Allessando said. "You've got all the angles covered."

  "You never have all the angles covered, Vic, and you know it," Castillo said and then turned to Masterson. "This now brings us to the bad guys."

  "I'm not sure I know what you mean," Masterson confessed. "We don't even know who they are, do we?"

  "No, sir, we don't. I intend to do my best to find out who they are."

  "And 'render them harmless'?" Masterson asked, softly.

  Castillo nodded slightly but did not respond directly.

  "What they did was find Mr. Lorimer, which among other things they've done suggests that they're professionals. And what they did was send an assault team to the estancia. I think it's logical to assume they wanted to make sure he didn't talk about what he knows of th
e oil-for-food business and possibly to get back the money he skimmed.

  "By now, they have certainly learned that their operation succeeded only in taking out Mr. Lorimer. And that somebody took out their assault team. And they will have to presume the same people who took out their assault team have what was in the safe: money or information. They don't know who we are-we could be someone else trying to shut Lorimer up, somebody after the money, or Uruguayan bandits. I don't think it's likely that they'll think an American Special Operations team was involved, but they might.

  "I think it's likely the people who bushwhacked us are the same people who killed Mr. Masterson, but of course I can't be sure. But if they are-or even if it's a second group-and they are professional, I think the decision will be to go to ground.

  "They may be capable of-it wouldn't surprise me-of keeping an eye on her bank accounts, or yours, to see if they suddenly get sixteen million dollars heavier. But that's not going to happen.

  "What I'm driving at is there is no longer a reason for them to try to get to Mr. Masterson or the children. Lorimer is out of the picture and she has nothing they want to give them."

  "You think we can remove Mr. D'Allessando's people, is that what you're saying?" Masterson asked.

  "Well, they can't stay indefinitely," Castillo said. "And Vic tells me he's run the retired special operators from China Post past you."

  "Very impressive," Masterson said.

  "And very expensive?" Castillo asked.

  "Uh-huh," Masterson said. "But what I was thinking was that the children-for that matter, Betsy, too-would probably be more at ease with them than they are now with all of Mr. D'Allessando's people. They must have grown used to private security people in Buenos Aires."

  "The people I brought over here are good, Mr. Masterson," D'Allessando said. "And, frankly, a job like this is better than commuting to Iraq or Afghanistan, which is what they've all been doing."

  "Okay, so that's what I'll recommend to Betsy," Masterson said. "When do you want to talk to her, Charley?"

  "Now, if possible, sir. I'm on my way to Texas. I want to see my grandmother, and I can be with her only until they call me to tell me what's happened in Uruguay."

  "I'll get her on the phone," Masterson said as he reached for it. "And I'll get you a car to take you to the airport."

  "That's not necessary, sir."

  "Biloxi? Or New Orleans?" Masterson asked.

  "New Orleans, sir."

  III

  [ONE] Office of the Legal Attache The Embassy of the United States of America Lauro Miller 1776 Montevideo, Republica Oriental del Uruguay 1150 2 August 2005 The telephone on the desk of Assistant Legal Attache Julio Artigas buzzed and one of the six buttons on it began to flash.

  Artigas, a slim, olive-skinned Cuban American of thirty, who had been a Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation for eight years and assigned to the Montevideo embassy for three, picked up the handset.

  "Artigas."

  "Julio, this is your cousin Jose," his caller said in Spanish.

  Thirty-seven-year-old Chief Inspector Jose Ordonez, of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policia Nacional, was not related to Julio Artigas, but they looked very much alike. They had several times been mistaken for brothers. That wasn't possible without the same surname, but it could have been possible for cousins, and cousins they had become. They also shared a sense of humor.

  "And how goes your unrelenting campaign against evil, Cousin Jose?" Julio replied. He had arrived in Uruguay speaking Cuban-inflected Spanish fluently, and with only a little effort he had acquired a Uruguayan inflection. Many Uruguayans were surprised to learn he was not a native son.

  "I would hope a little better than yours," Jose said. "How about lunch?"

  "Is that an invitation? Or have you been giving your salary away at the blackjack tables again?"

  "I will pay," Jose said. "I will put you on my expense sheet."

  "Oh?"

  "I hope you have, or can make, your afternoon free."

  "If you are paying, my entire week is free."

  "You are so kind."

  "Where shall we meet? Someplace expensive, of course."

  "I'm at the port. How about something from a parrilla?"

  "Great minds travel similar paths. When?"

  "Now?"

  "Get out your wallet."

  Artigas hung up. He opened a drawer in his desk, took from it a.38 caliber Smith amp; Wesson "Detective Special" revolver, then slipped the gun into a skeleton holster on his hip.

  The pistol was his. It was smaller and lighter than the semiautomatic pistol prescribed for-and issued to-FBI agents, and, technically, he was violating at least four FBI regulations by carrying it.

  But this was Montevideo, where his chances of ever needing a pistol ranged from very slight to none. Many of Artigas's peers simply went un-armed. The primary mission of the FBI in Uruguay was the investigation of money laundering.

  It was a different story for the DEA guys, who often found themselves in hairy situations. While not necessarily successful in stopping the drug flow, they were very successful in costing the drug merchants lots of money and consequently were unpopular with the drug establishment. They went around heavily armed.

  Artigas had chosen the middle ground. While it is true that you never need a pistol until you really need one, it was equally true there is no sense carrying a large and hard-to-conceal cannon when a less conspicuous means of self-defense is available.

  Artigas walked across the large, open room to the open door of a glass-walled cubicle that was the office of Special Agent James D. Monahan, who was because of his seniority the de facto, if not the de jure, SAC, or Special Agent in Charge, and waited for him to get off the phone.

  "Something, Artigas?" Monahan asked, finally.

  "I have just been invited to lunch by Chief Inspector Ordonez."

  "Shit, I was hoping you were going to tell me you know where the hell Yung is."

  FBI Special Agent David W. Yung, Jr., a fellow assistant legal attache, was not held in high regard by his peers. He came to work late-or not at all-and left early. His research into Uruguayan bank records produced about half the useful information that came from the next least efficient of the others. And since he was still here-despite several informal complaints about his performance and back-channel suggestions that he be reassigned to the States-it was pretty clear he had friends in high places.

  Another, less flattering rumor had it that Yung had been sort of banished to Uruguay because of his association with Howard Kennedy, the former Ethical Standards Division hotshot who had changed sides and was now working for some Russian mafioso. That rumor had some credence, as it was known that Yung had been assigned to the Ethical Standards Division.

  It is a fact of life that people without friends in high places tend to dislike those who have them and that FBI agents do not like FBI agents whose personal integrity is open to question.

  "Maybe still asleep?" Artigas asked. "It's not quite noon."

  "I let his goddamned phone ring for five minutes. That sonofabitch!" Monahan paused. "Ordonez say what he wanted?"

  "Only that he hoped I could make my afternoon free."

  "Et tu, Artigas?"

  "He's got something on his mind, Jim," Artigas said.

  "Ride it out," Monahan said. "But if you happen to run into Yung in a bar or a casino somewhere, would you please tell him that I would be grateful for a moment of his valuable time whenever it's convenient?"

  "I will do that."

  Artigas went out the front entrance of the embassy, found his car-a blue Chrysler PT Cruiser-got in, and drove to the gate.

  The embassy, a four-story, oblong concrete edifice decorated with two huge satellite antennae on the roof, sits in the center of a well-protected compound overlooking the river Plate.

  A heavy steel gate, painted light blue, is controlled by pistol-armed Uruguayan security guards wearing police-style uniforms.
For reasons Artigas never understood, cars leaving the compound are subjected to just about as close scrutiny as those coming into the compound.

  He waited patiently while security guards looked into the interior of the PT Cruiser, looked under it using a mirror mounted on the end of a long pole, and then checked his embassy identification before throwing the switch that caused the gate to slide open sideways.

  He drove a hundred yards toward the water and then turned right on the Rambla, the road that runs along the coast from the port to the suburb of Carrasco where many embassy officers lived, including Artigas and the again-missing Yung.

  Five minutes later, he pulled the nose of the PT Cruiser to the curb in front of what had been built sometime in the late nineteenth century to house cattle being shipped from the port. It now housed a dozen or more parrilla restaurants and at least that many bars.

  He got a very dirty look from the woman charged with collecting parking fees on that section of the street. She had seen the diplomatic license plates on the car. Diplomats are permitted to park wherever they wish to park without paying.

  In the interests of Uruguayan-American relations, Artigas handed her a fifty-peso note, worth a little less than two dollars U.S., and earned himself a warm smile.

  He entered the building. With the exception of one or two women Julio could think of, there was in his judgment no better smell in the world than that of beef-and, for that matter, chicken and pork and a lot else-being grilled over the ashes of a wood fire.

  As he walked to where he knew Ordonez would meet him-one of the smaller, more expensive restaurants in the back of the old building-his mouth actually watered.

  Chief Inspector Ordonez was waiting for him and stood up when he saw Artigas coming.

  They embraced and kissed in the manner of Latin males and then sat down at the small table. There was a bottle of wine on the table, a bottle of carbonated water, four stemmed glasses, a wicker basket holding a variety of bread and breadsticks, a small plate of butter curls, and a small dish of chicken liver pate.