As the Gulfstream III carrying Amba.s.sador Montvale and his party had made its approach to the airport, Montvale had remembered that the last time he had met with the sonofab.i.t.c.h in Argentina, Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo had pointed out to him that inasmuch as they were in a foreign and sovereign nation, his Secret Service security detail did not enjoy diplomatic immunity and therefore had no right to bear arms, and were thus liable to be arrested for doing so.

He elected not to mention this to anyone. If there was a problem, Amba.s.sador Juan Manuel Silvio would have to deal with it. And deal with it, he would have to: I'm here at the direct order of the President of the United States. I look forward to making that point to that slick b.a.s.t.a.r.d and pal of Castillo's. I'm here at the direct order of the President of the United States. I look forward to making that point to that slick b.a.s.t.a.r.d and pal of Castillo's.

Before the Gulfstream III had reached the end of its landing roll, Jorge Newbery ground control directed it to the commercial side of the airfield on the bank of the River Plate.

There they were met by Argentine immigration and customs officers and two members of the staff of the United States emba.s.sy. They were pa.s.sed through both bureaucratic procedures quickly and without incident. Importantly, no Argentine official searched the persons of anyone, which neutralized the problem of his armed security detail, at least for the moment.

There were two diplomats from the American emba.s.sy on hand to meet the Gulfstream. One introduced himself as Colonel C. C. "Call me CC" Downs, the military attache. He said he was there to take care of the crew. There were three crew members: the male pilot, a major; the male co-pilot, a captain; and a stout woman wearing the chevrons of a senior master sergeant. She had delivered a stewardess-type speech about the safety features of the C-20A, ordered everybody to fasten their seat belts, and then taken a seat, from which she had arisen only once to announce that intoxicants were prohibited aboard Air Force C-20A aircraft and if the Secret Service agent in the process of pouring Scotch into gla.s.ses for the Montvale party continued to do so, she would have to make an official report to her superiors.

"CC" said he would take care of the crew, and that Mr. Spears would know how to contact them when their services were required. He then loaded the crew into an emba.s.sy's Yukon and drove off.

Mr. I. Ronald Spears was carried on the books as an a.s.sistant consular officer but was in fact the acting CIA station chief for Buenos Aires. He had a.s.sumed that duty following the unexpected retirement of Alexander W. Darby.

The director of the Central Intelligence Agency had first planned to replace Darby with Paul Sieno, the CIA station chief in Paraguay, only to learn that Sieno, too, had suddenly retired, presumably to join Lieutenant Colonel Castillo in his disappearance from the face of the earth, and was therefore not available. Next, the CIA station chief in Mexico City, Robert T. Lowe, had been ordered to Buenos Aires to replace Darby, but he was still in the process of clearing his desk in Mexico City.

I. Ronald Spears was twenty-four years old, looked to be about nineteen, and had graduated from CIA training four months before.

Apparently unaware that the director of National Intelligence and his deputy each had Secret Service protection details, Spears had brought to the airport a single emba.s.sy Yukon, into which the four Secret Service agents, Montvale, Ellsworth, and their luggage could be loaded only with great difficulty.

Spears lost no time somewhat smugly telling Amba.s.sador Montvale that he had "taken the liberty" of changing the reservations Amba.s.sador Montvale had requested. The amba.s.sador and his party would now be housed in the Alvear Palace Hotel, rather than the Marriott Plaza, as Spears had learned that the former was "much cla.s.sier" than the latter.

With great effort, Montvale did not say what he wanted to say. Instead, he asked, "Do you happen to know, Spears, if Mr. Danton is in the Marriott Plaza?"

"Mr. who who, Amba.s.sador Montvale?"

At that point, Montvale remembered that he had asked Jack Powell, the DCI, only to tell the acting station chief that he was going to Buenos Aires, and had not asked him to tell the acting station chief to start looking for either Roscoe J. Danton or Lieutenant Colonel Castillo.

"My first order of business is to see the amba.s.sador," Montvale then announced. "So we'll go to the emba.s.sy first."

The pleasure of envisioning that confrontation-"Mr. Amba.s.sador, I am here at the personal order of the President"-was quickly shattered when Spears told him that the amba.s.sador and most of his staff would be out of town until the next day.

I shouldn't be surprised by that. The moment that sonofab.i.t.c.h heard I was coming down here, Silvio got on his horse, and galloped his miserable a.s.s out of town.

"Certainly someone's minding the store, right, Spears?"

"Yes, sir. Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt has the duty."

"And she is?"

"The emba.s.sy press officer, Mr. Amba.s.sador."

Roscoe J. Danton is either still in the Marriott Plaza, or he isn't. And even if the press officer can't tell me where to find Castillo, she might know where that station chief-Darby-is, and Darby can lead me to Castillo.

At the very least, this female has the authority to order up another vehicle and driver. Riding around Buenos Aires in a stuffed-to-the-gills Yukon is simply not acceptable.

"Take me to see Miss Grun ... whatever you said her name is," Montvale ordered.

"Grunblatt, Mr. Amba.s.sador. Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt."

"Miss Grunblatt, the President has sent Mr. Ellsworth and me down here to have a word with Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo. Do you know who I mean?"

"Yes, I do, Mr. Montvale."

"Do you happen to know where I can find him?"

"I'm afraid not," Grunblatt said. "There's been a journalist-a good one, Roscoe J. Danton, of The Washington Times-Post The Washington Times-Post-down here looking for him, too. What's that all about?"

"You said has been has been? May I infer that Mr. Danton is no longer here?"

"The last I heard, he was in the Marriott Plaza."

"What about Alexander Darby, Miss Grunblatt?"

"If you don't mind, Mr. Montvale, I prefer 'Ms.'"

After a perceptible pause, the director of National Intelligence said, "Excuse me, Mizz Grunblatt."

"What did you mean, Mr. Montvale, when you asked, 'What about Alexander Darby?' I a.s.sume you know he resigned."

"I don't suppose it would surprise an experienced foreign service officer such as yourself, Mizz Grunblatt, if I told you Mr. Darby had duties beyond those of commercial attache?"

"If you're asking did I know that Alex was a spook, yes, I did. I've known that he was in the agency's Clandestine Service since we served in Rome, and that's ... oh, twenty years ago."

"And do you know where he is now, by any chance, Mizz Grunblatt?"

"Haven't a clue. The last time I saw him was at Ezeiza. The airport."

"He was going where, do you know?"

"What he did, Mr. Montvale, was go through the departing Argentina immigration procedure on his diplomatic pa.s.sport, and then he turned right around and came back, so to speak, into Argentina on his regular pa.s.sport. He then gave me-as an emba.s.sy officer-his diplomatic pa.s.sport and carnet. Then I drove him here to the emba.s.sy, where he got out of my car, and got in a taxi."

"Then he's still in Argentina. Would you know where?"

"I didn't say that he's still here. I don't know if he is or not. I know his wife and children aren't here any longer; I put them on a plane to the States."

"But not Mr. Darby?"

"No. Not Mr. Darby. I don't know where Alex is."

"Do you happen to know where Mrs. Darby was going?"

"I do. And I'll give you the address once you tell me you're acting in an official capacity."

"I've already done that."

"That's right, you have," Grunblatt said.

She picked up a pen and wrote an address on a piece of notepaper and handed it to him.

Montvale glanced at it, saw that it meant nothing to him, then handed it to one of his Secret Service men.

"Hang on to that."

"Yes, sir."

The Secret Service agent looked at it, and then said, "Mr. Amba.s.sador, I know what this is, this 7200 West Boulevard Drive. It's the Alexandria house Colonel Castillo and the others had. I drew the duty there a couple of times when it was under Secret Service protection."

"Mizz Grunblatt, I'm going to have to get on a secure line to the Secret Service in Washington."

Grunblatt considered that a moment, then said, "Yes, I can arrange that for you. I presume you'd prefer to talk from a secure location?"

You're d.a.m.ned right I would.

There's absolutely no reason for you to hear what I'm going to say.

"Could that be arranged?"

"It'll take me a minute or two to set it up," she said. "You'll have to go to the commo room."

"I understand. Thank you very much."

"Not a problem," Grunblatt said as she pushed herself out of her chair.

"And while I'm on the phone, Mizz Grunblatt, do you suppose you could rustle up another car for me? All we have is a Yukon, and we're stuffed into it like sardines."

"The call I can do. The car I can't. All of our vehicles are out of town with the amba.s.sador. Tomorrow afternoon, if he returns as scheduled, it should be no problem at all."

Is that Cuban sonofab.i.t.c.h capable of that? Taking all the cars with him, so that I have to ride around town like a fish in a can?

"Secret Service, Claudeen."

"This is the State Department switchboard. I have Amba.s.sador Montvale on a secure line for the senior agent on duty."

"Hold one, please, for Supervisory Special Agent McGuire."

"It will be a moment, Amba.s.sador Montvale."

"Not a problem."

Montvale knew Supervisory Special Agent Thomas McGuire. He had once been in charge of the presidential protection detail.

A good man.

More important, he knows who I am.

"McGuire."

"Tom, this is Charles M. Montvale."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Amba.s.sador. How are you, sir?"

"Much better now that I've got you on the phone, Tom. I need someone with a grasp of the situation."

"What situation is that, sir?"

"There are two facets of it, Tom. I'm sure you know what happened to the Office of Organizational a.n.a.lysis?"

"That's not much of a secret, sir."

"And you've heard, I'm sure, about what's been going on in the last few days at Fort Detrick?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm in Buenos Aires. The President sent Mr. Ellsworth and me down here to locate Colonel Castillo to make sure he understands that he is not to go anywhere near that problem. I am to personally relay that presidential order to Castillo, once I find him."

"Castillo's in Argentina, sir?"

"I don't know where he is. But I've come across a lead. One of the members of the now-disbanded OOA was an agency officer named Alexander W. Darby. He retired when Castillo got the boot. Now, I can't find him. But I have reason to believe his wife ... Got a pencil ...?"

"Yes, sir."

". . . is in a house at seventy-two hundred West Boulevard Drive in Alexandria."

"Isn't that the place we used to protect?"

"Yes, it is. That's what I meant by your having a grasp of the situation. Now, what I want you to do is send a couple of your best men out there-better yet, go yourself-and see if Darby is there, and if he's not, ask his wife if she knows where he is. I'm sure Darby knows where Castillo is."

"Have you got a first name on the wife, sir?"

Call her "Mrs. Darby," you Irish moron!

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Well, then I'll just call her Mrs. Darby."

"That'll work. Now, Tom, there is a possibility that she might deny he is there, and another possibility, slight but real, that Castillo himself might be there, and even a remote possibility that two Russians we're looking for-former SVR Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky and former SVR Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva-may also be in that house. Castillo is just arrogant enough, wouldn't you agree, to try to hide himself, and the Russians, in plain sight, so to speak."

"Would you spell those Russian names for me, please?"