"The trouble with you, you sonofabitch, is when you come off the wall like this, half the time you're right," Darby said.
"Actually, it's closer to seventy-five percent of the time," Castillo said. "Now tell me, do you think you can smuggle the stuff I had sent from Bragg past the Uziarmed guards at Mayerling?"
"No problem," Darby said.
"How about moving it out there while I talk to Yung? You said something about airplanes to Montevideo every hour on the hour?"
"Yeah, but if you don't want me to go with you-"
"I thought I'd take Jack. He's an ex-cop."
"You and Britton had better take Tony with you."
"Okay. Why?"
"Because he has a diplomatic passport and is accredited both here and in Uruguay. They're not going to search him for weapons."
Darby opened his briefcase and took out two Beretta 9mm semiautomatics, opened their actions, and handed them to Charley.
"Thanks, Alex," Castillo said.
"Buenos Aires cellulars work in Montevideo-and some other places over there," Darby said, and went back into his briefcase.
"I've got two cellulars," Tony Santini said. "And also a couple of Berettas."
"Spread them as far as they'll go," Castillo ordered. "And then, Alex, can you take care of those who need either a pistol or a phone or both?"
Darby nodded. "You're going to need wheels, too," he said. "But to get them for you, Ambassador Silvio will have to know you're here."
"I sent word that we were coming," Castillo said. "But I'm not going to tell him any more than I have to about what we're going to do. He's a good guy, and I want him to be able to honestly say he knew nothing about it."
" 'It' covers a lot of territory, Charley," Darby said.
"That's because, right now, I don't know what's going to happen," Castillo said. "How do we get to Jorge Newbery?"
"I've got a car," Santini said.
"With CD tags?" Darby asked.
Santini shook his head.
"Then take mine. That way you can park right in front." [THREE] Aeropuerto Internacional General C. L. Berisso Carrasco, Montevideo Republica Oriental del Uruguay 0710 29 July 2005 There had been a parking area for perhaps thirty cars reserved for the Corps Diplomatique against one wall of the Jorge Newbery passenger terminal and fifteen minutes after Santini parked Darby's embassy BMW they were aboard Austral flight 311, Boeing 737 nonstop service to Montevideo.
Immigration formalities for leaving the Republic of Argentina and entering the Republic of Uruguay had been simple. Castillo saw that Argentine and Uruguayan nationals simply had to show their national identity cards. He made a mental note to see if the friendly folks at Langley could make him one.
As foreigners, Castillo and Britton had to go through formal procedures. These consisted of submitting their passports to an Argentine immigration officer, who exposed them to a computer reader. He then applied the EXIT stamp in the appropriate spot, and then handed the passport to the Uruguayan official sitting next to him. The passport was again exposed to a computer reader, stamped with an ENTER stamp, and then handed back to the traveler. There would be no immigration formalities when they actually got off the airplane in Uruguay.
Airport security had come next. It consisted primarily of walking past two police officers, who didn't show much interest in any of them. The carry-on baggage X-ray machine wasn't even turned on.
Even granting that Austral flight 311 really is a flying commuter bus, and that the possibility of Muslim terrorists taking over the aircraft and diving it into the, say, DaimlerChrysler building in downtown Buenos Aires is admittedly slim, Castillo thought, as a stewardess handed him a copy of La Nacion, the airport security check of boarding passengers was still a little lax.
The flight itself, from wheels-up to a somewhat hard landing, took about twenty-six minutes.
Once in the terminal building, there were signs in Spanish and English offering travelers their choice of NOTHING TO DECLARE and PAY CUSTOMS CHARGES lanes. Castillo did not see officials of any kind in either lane.
Special Agent David William Yung, Jr., of the FBI was waiting for them in the airport lobby.
I'm going to have to remember I don't like this sonofabitch.
"Hello again, Yung," Castillo greeted him. "It was good of you to meet us."
"Mr. Darby suggested it would be best," Yung said, ignoring Castillo's outstretched hand.
Well, fuck you, Yung!
"You remember Mr. Santini, I'm sure," Castillo said. "I'm not sure about Mr. Britton."
"I saw him when I was in Buenos Aires," Yung said.
"Pleased to meet you, too," Britton said cheerfully, with a broad smile. "It's always a pleasure to work with the FBI."
Castillo and Santini smiled. Yung didn't.
"Where would you like to go, Mr. Castillo?" Yung asked.
"Where are your files?"
"I have some in my office in the embassy and some in my apartment," Yung said. "I don't know what you're after."
"I'm looking for an American. He works for the UN. His name is Jean-Paul Lorimer."
Yung shook his head, indicating he'd never heard of him.
Or doesn't want to give me what he has.
"Which is closer? Your apartment or the embassy?"
"My apartment."
"Then why don't we go there? After we stop someplace for breakfast?"
"You didn't eat before you came over?"
"Yeah, sure I did. But it was so long a flight, I'm hungry again."
"My car's out here," Yung said, and walked out of the terminal.
He walked so quickly he was soon out of earshot.
"Charley," Britton asked, "why do I think that guy doesn't like you?"
"You're perceptive?" They found an open restaurant not far from the beach.
"Why is the Atlantic Ocean so dirty?" Britton asked.
"That's not the Atlantic Ocean, that's the Rio de la Plata," Castillo told him.
"That's a river?"
"The mouth of the 'River of Silver' is a hundred-plus miles wide. The Blue Danube isn't blue, and the River of Silver is muddy. The Atlantic starts about sixty miles north of here. There's a resort there called Punta del Este. Point of the East. Pretty classy. The water there is blue."
"Very handy to launder money," Santini said.
"Yeah," Castillo said, thoughtfully.
"How do they do that, launder money?" Britton asked.
"One way is through the casinos," Santini said. "There's a bunch of them there. Hell, there's one right here in Carrasco, a Marriott, and a couple more downtown. The biggest one in Punta del Este is the Conrad, named after, and I think owned by, Hilton. The way it works is that you slip the casino a bunch of cash. Then they let you win, say, ninety percent of it. You declare your gambling winnings, pay taxes on it, and your money is now laundered."
"You're telling me that Marriott and Hilton are laundering money?" Britton asked, incredulously.
"Marriott and Hilton, no," Santini said. "There's generally at least one legal attache-which is what they call FBI agents in the diplomatic world-on their premises. Marriott and Hilton are thus reminded of their patriotic duty not to launder money. The locally owned casinos are where it's done. Isn't that so, Yung?"
"If you say so," Special Agent Yung said. He turned to Castillo. "When do you want to see Ambassador McGrory?"
"I don't need to see him," Castillo said.
"He wants to see you."
"I don't need to see him, at least not today."
"He wants to see you."
"So you said."
"You are aware, aren't you, Mr. Castillo, that the ambassador is the man in charge of all U.S. government activities in the country to which he is accredited?"
"So I've heard," Castillo said. "We'll talk about this when we have some privacy."
Yung didn't reply. Yung had a spacious, top-floor apartment in a three-story building on the Rambla, the waterfront highway between Carrasco and Montevideo, to the south.
Yung waved them, not very graciously, into chairs in the living room.
"All right, Mr. Castillo, what can I do for you? I'm sure you'll understand that I am obliged to report to Ambassador McGrory what may be discussed."