"Well, there's fourteen FBI agents, including me, here looking at money laundering. As one of them, I have access to what's developed. They're looking for drug money, primarily-and there's a hell of a lot of that-which means they're looking for Colombians and Mexicans, mostly. And Americans, of course. When they come across some European moving a lot of money around here, they check with the DEA, the treasury department, whoever, to see if there's a drug connection or an American connection of some kind. If there isn't, they let it drop." He paused, then added, "And I pick it up."
"And do what with it?"
"What my boss wants is proof-photocopies-of bank records; who deposited how much and when; records of who bought an estancia or a car dealership or a million-dollar villa in Punta del Este. I don't really know what he thinks anybody will do with it. He still has stars in his eyes. Expose the bad guys and the world will be a better place. I can't see that happening."
"Yes, you can," Castillo said. "You've still got stars in your eyes, too. Otherwise, you'd have changed sides when your friend-what was his name?-did."
"And what about you, Castillo? No stars in your eyes? How did you get involved in something like this? I know what 'render them harmless' really means."
"I am simply carrying out the instructions of my government, as I understand them, as an officer and a gentleman of the United States Army."
"Oh, shit!" Yung chuckled. "Yeah, that's right. You are an Army officer, aren't you? A major. Back to my question, how did an Army officer get involved in something like this?"
"I just told you," Castillo said. "Where are your files?"
"Here. I can't leave them in the embassy. Another price I pay for being a secret hotshot, to use Kennedy's words, is that my fellow FBI agents think I'm either stupid or lazy or both. I don't turn in half the work they do."
"If you're working on something like this, I'm surprised you can turn in any work at all," Castillo said. "Can I see the files?"
"Reluctantly," Yung said. "I don't want it getting out what I've been doing here. Who else is going to know what's in my files? Even that I have them?"
"Would you believe me if I say no one?"
"Why should I?"
"I'll make a deal with you," Castillo said. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours. And that will be our little secret."
"What's in your files?"
"The names of people-Germans, French, and Russians-who are reliably reported to have made money on Oil for Food and probably are sending it over here. I promised my source I would not turn them over to the CIA or the FBI or anybody. And I won't. But maybe it would help if you took a look at them, maybe make a match with somebody you've got a dossier on. That might help us find this bastard Lorimer."
"What's your interest in Lorimer?"
"He was the head bagman for Oil for Food. He knows who got how much, and when, and what for. And if I find him, I think I can convince him to point me in the direction of whoever whacked Masterson and Markham. Lorimer is who I'm really after."
"Never heard of him," Yung said. "Sorry."
"And I have to find him before the bad guys do. They want to make sure he doesn't talk. They already whacked one of his guys in Vienna. Deal?"
"Why not?" Yung said. "Where's your list?"
"In my briefcase," Castillo said, and picked it up from the floor and placed it on a coffee table. Yung pushed himself out of his chair and walked to the table as Castillo opened the briefcase.
"Well, I can save you time about him," Yung said.
"Excuse me?"
"Bertrand," Yung said. "The guy in the picture."
"This picture?" Castillo asked and held it up. "You know this guy?"
"His name is Bertrand," Yung said. "He's a Lebanese antiquities dealer."
"A Lebanese antiques dealer?"
"Antiques are old furniture, things like that," Yung clarified. "Antiquities are things boosted from King Tut's tomb, things like that. Really old stuff. And Bertrand's very good at it, makes a lot of money. I learned a lot from him."
"About antiquities?"
"About how to have money in a bank and not worry about getting it back out. You do know, don't you, why people don't use Argentina much to launder and/or hide money?"
"No. But I wondered why there were so many FBI agents in Montevideo and zero in Argentina."
"Because this is where the money is laundered and hidden," Yung said. "Argentina used to be the place, but a couple years ago, just before Argentina defaulted on its government bonds, the government decided to help themselves to the dollars in everybody's bank accounts. The peso on one Sunday was worth one U.S. dollar. On Monday morning, the government announced the 'pesification of the dollar.' All dollar deposits in Argentine banks were converted to pesos at a rate of one-point-three pesos per dollar. In other words, if you had a hundred dollars on Sunday, on Monday you had a hundred thirty pesos. Now, if you wanted dollars, you had to buy them, and the rate was five to the dollar. In other words, your hundred-dollar deposit was now worth twenty-six. A lot of people-including a lot of honest ones-took a hell of a bath. The Argentines blamed it on the IMF, who had loaned them the money they couldn't, didn't want to, repay."
"Fascinating!"
"Their argument was pure Argentine. It was like some guy on a thousand-a-month salary buying a Cadillac with no money down. Then, when it comes time to make the monthly payment, he says, 'Not only am I not gonna make the payment, but I'm gonna keep the Caddy, too, because you should have known I couldn't afford to pay for it.'"
"You're serious, aren't you?" Castillo asked.
"Absolutely. The banking system took a hell of a beating. The Scotia Bank-one of Canada's biggest; they'd been doing business in Argentina for more than a century-just took their losses and pulled out. For a while it looked like CitiBank and Bank of Boston were going to take their losses and leave, too, but they finally decided to stay."
"How did this affect the antiquities dealer? Bertrand?"
"Well, first of all, he was smart enough to have his money here-a lot of money; the last time I looked it was a little over sixteen million, U.S.-and not across the river. And then he's got an interesting deal with the banks."
"What kind of a deal?"
"This is pretty complicated…"
"Make it simple for me," Castillo said.
"Okay. He doesn't deposit his money in his banks. He loans it to them, just like he was another bank. Banks are always borrowing money from each other, so nobody notices one more loan. They don't pay Bertrand what they have to pay other banks, so they're happy. And he's happy because he has their note, callable on demand. Or he can endorse the bank's promissory note over to somebody-anybody-else, an individual or another bank. You see how it works? Like a super cashier's check."
"I'm not sure," Castillo admitted. "How is he sure the banks will come up with the money when he says, 'Pay me'?"
"Because he's taken out insurance that they will," Yung said, just a little smugly. "He gets it either from the bank or the insurance company. It costs him a little money, sure, but his money is safe."
"What if somebody steals the promissory notes?"
"Unless he signs them, they're just pieces of paper."
"You know a lot about this guy, don't you, Yung?"
"I've been keeping my eye on him ever since I came down here."
"You know something about his personal habits? Where he lives?"
"He's got an estancia-he calls it 'Shangri-La'-in Tacuarembo Province, and a fancy condominium in Punta del Este. He doesn't use the condo much because, getting to his personal habits, he likes the young girls- very young girls-he has at Shangri-La."
"There's one thing you don't know about this guy, Yung," Castillo said.
"And what's that?"
"His real name is Jean-Paul Lorimer."
Yung looked at Castillo incredulously, and then smiled.
"You're kidding!"
Castillo shook his head. "Uh-uh. Can you show me where Shangri-La is on a map?"