"What's his name?"
"Yung. He's stationed in Montevideo-"
"Chinese? Feisty little bastard? Round face, five-eight, one-fifty?"
"Yeah. You know him?"
"Very well. What did he tell you he's doing in Montevideo?"
"He didn't tell me he's doing anything. I have the impression he's just one more of your former associates looking into money laundering. The ambassador asked the ambassador in Montevideo if any of them had kidnapping experience, and he sent Yung and another guy here."
"His name?"
"I don't have it handy. But I can get it."
"Where are they landing? Here?"
"Jorge Newbery. There's a transport on the way that should land at Ezeiza at about the same time."
"I just saw an Air Force colonel in full uniform surrounded by Argentine Air Force brass; I wondered what he was up to."
"I'm going to get the family-and the body-out of here just as soon as I can."
"What were you planning to chat about, Charley, while we were listening to the jazz quartet?"
"I thought I might idly inquire if you had ever heard of a fellow named Jean-Paul Lorimer."
Kennedy replied by spelling Lorimer in the phonetic alphabet.
"Correct."
"Never heard of him, but if you get me those names, I'll be happy to ask around."
"Deal. How do I get them to you?"
"On the phone. How else?"
"I thought you were about to leave."
"I'll leave after I have those names."
"Done."
"Here's a freebie, Charley. Whatever David William Yung, Jr., is doing in Montevideo, it almost certainly has very little to do with examining bank statements."
"You mean he's looking for you?"
"That, too, of course. But that's not what I meant. He's a real hotshot; they don't waste people like David looking for dirty money."
"You sound as if you know him well."
"I told you I did. We used to work together."
"Can you give me a hint?"
"I just did. I'll be waiting for your call, Charley."
The line went dead. [TWO] Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Newbery Buenos Aires, Argentina 2305 23 July 2005 Sergeant Roger Markham had just turned the embassy BMW 545i onto Avenida 9 Julio near the Four Seasons hotel when the radio went off.
"Yung for Castillo."
Castillo was looking around for a microphone when Markham put one in his hand. Castillo took it and pushed the PRESS TO TALK button.
"Go."
"Sir, the aircraft will be parked on the private aviation side of the field."
"Got it. Thank you."
"Sir, ETA is forty-five minutes."
"Got it. Thank you. We're on the way."
"Out."
Well, he not only told me where the airplane will be parked, which he didn't have to do, but he called me "sir." Maybe he's resigned to me being in charge and decided he might as well go along; but on the other hand, it's equally likely, considering that everybody in the FBI got the Castillo-knows-Kennedy memo, he thinks that if we can become pals, I just might let something slip that would put him onto Howard Kennedy.
What the hell did Kennedy mean when he said, "Whatever Yung's doing he's not looking for dirty money"?
"You might as well slow down, Roger. They're forty-five minutes out."
"Am I driving too fast, sir?"
"I wish there was someplace we could get a cup of coffee," Castillo said. "Back to the hotel?"
"There's all kinds of restaurants on the river near the airport."
"Pick one."
"Yes, s- I'll do that."
"Don't let this go to your head, Roger, but maybe there's some hope for you after all." It was raining hard when they got to the civilian side of Jorge Newbery airfield, so hard that Castillo wondered if the Gulfstream was going to be able to land.
There was only one runway, paralleling the bank of the Rio de la Plata, and it didn't look like a fun place to try to land in a driving rain with gusting winds.
On the tarmac in front of a Southern Winds hangar, he saw a BMW with diplomat plates, two small white Mercedes-Benz buses, called Traffiks, each of which had a cardboard sign with CD lettered on it taped to the windshield, and a Peugeot sedan with Argentine plates.
When Sergeant Markham pulled in beside the buses, Castillo saw that the interior lights of one of the buses were on and saw Special Agent Yung, holding a newspaper, looking out at them. There was an Air Force major on the bus.
If I sit here, eventually Yung will come here, establishing me as King of the Hill. But he will get drenched and make the seats here wet. And I can get a much better look at him in the bus than I can here. I want to see his eyes.
Castillo turned to Markham.
"I suppose it's too much to expect you to have an umbrella?" The sergeant produced one instantly, seemingly out of thin air. Castillo chuckled appreciatively. "Thank you, Roger, for the umbrella."
As Castillo reached the bus, and the door swung open inwardly with a whoosh, two men got out of the Peugeot and, holding newspapers over their heads, half ran toward it.
"Well, what do you think, Yung? Are they going to be able to get in?"
"Senor Castillo?" one of the Argentine men said, and when Castillo turned, he was handed a small, handheld transceiver. He saw that it was lit up and tuned to what he presumed was the Jorge Newbery tower frequency.
He put it to his ear. There was the to-be-expected hissing, which suddenly cleared.
"Jorge Newbery, this is United States Air Force Zero-Four-Seven-Seven. I have your runway in sight," a cheerful, confident American voice announced.
Castillo handed the Argentine the radio.
"Thank you," he said, and then to Yung: "Talk about timing!"
He sat down so that he could see out the windshield.
For a moment he could see nothing, and then, a second after he spotted first a Grimes light, and then the navigation lights, a very bright landing light suddenly blazed.
The glistening white Gulfstream-a U.S. Air Force C-37A-came in low and touched down immediately after the threshold. The words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA were lettered boldly down the side of the fuselage. They were illuminated so the legend couldn't be missed, telling Castillo the airplane belonged to the 89th Presidential Airlift Group at Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland. Only their airplanes had the classy paint jobs.
Castillo felt a lump in his throat. It was like seeing the colors flying somewhere very foreign. Which indeed was the case now.
"Jesus, that's a pretty bird!" the Air Force major said, softly.
"My sentiments exactly, Major," Castillo said, smiled, and offered the major his hand. "My name is Castillo."
"Yes, sir, I know. My name is Jossman, sir."
"You're going to take care of the crew?"
"The embassy administrative officer put everyone in the Las Pampas Aparthotel, Mr. Castillo," Yung answered for him. "I presumed he had checked with you. Is that all right?"
You are a clever sonofabitch, aren't you, Yung?
"He obviously did so with the ambassador's blessing," Castillo said. "Are you satisfied with them?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yung, I'm going to need a list of the FBI people," Castillo said. "Put your name and the other FBI agent from Montevideo on it. Just the names, and what they do if they're not special agents. And while you're at it, you might as well list the FBI personnel in Uruguay."
"I'll get it to you first thing in the morning."
"Is there some reason I can't have it right now? I'm going to give one copy to these gentlemen for Colonel Munz." He paused, and then asked, in Spanish, "You do work with El Coronel Munz?"
The man nodded.
"Thank you, Senor Castillo," he said. "I was about to ask. If I have the names, there will be no problem with Immigration."
"There you go, Yung," Castillo said, with a smile he really hoped would burn Yung. "Have at it."
"Yes, sir."
He is not used to being ordered around. Like Howard Kennedy, another, if former, FBI hotshot. What the hell is he doing in Uruguay?
"Here it comes," Air Force Major Jossman said, gesturing out the window.