Davidson pulled the BMW nose-in to the curb in front of the embassy. The gendarmeria’s Mercedes-Benz SUV pulled in beside them.
Davidson put both hands on the top of the steering wheel and turned to Castillo. Their eyes met.
After a moment, Davidson said, “Please tell me, Charley, that you are (a) fucking Little Miss Red Underpants as an interrogative technique to gain the confidence of the interrogatee, or at least (b) you had a couple of belts and things got temporarily out of control.”
“None of the above, Jack.”
“Oh, shit.”
Castillo shrugged. “I’m in love.”
“Well, then I guess it’s a good thing that I’m going to retire. When McNab hears about this, the most I could hope for would be to spend the rest of my days in the Army counting tent pegs in a quartermaster warehouse in Alaska.”
“I’ll make sure he knows that you did everything possible short of shooting me in the knees with a hollow- point .22 to dissuade me from my insanity.”
Davidson shook his head in resignation. “If I thought that would do any good, that’s just what I would do.”
“I would resign today, Jack, if it wasn’t for this chemical operation in the Congo.”
Davidson met his eyes again.
“When Berezovsky started talking,” Davidson said, “it looked like Delchamps was on the money when he said that was heavy.”
“It is. Very heavy.”
“Okay. You and Delchamps believe him. I’ll grant you that; I’m not going to say both of you are wrong. So I’ll give you that. But what the hell do you think you can do about it? Delchamps says the CIA knows about the plant and doesn’t think it’s a threat. And I don’t think they’ll listen to you or Delchamps that it is. They probably wouldn’t believe Berezovsky and/or your lady friend if they had them. Which they don’t. Which opens that can of worms.”
“Can I wave duty in your face, Jack?”
Davidson shook his head. After a moment, he softly said: “Yeah. For Christ’s sake, you know you can, Charley.”
“I think it’s my duty to take out that chemical factory, even if the CIA doesn’t think it’s a threat.”
Davidson nodded his understanding. “And how are you going to do that?”
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”
After a moment, Davidson said, “Are you willing to listen to some unpleasant facts?”
“I’ll be surprised if you can think of any I haven’t thought of myself—that’s not a crack at you, Jack; I’ve really given this a lot of thought—but go ahead.”
“The CIA is already pissed that you have the Russians.”
Castillo nodded his acceptance of that statement.
“And I don’t think you’re going to turn either of them over to the agency.”
“I’m not, Jack.”
Davidson shook his head again. “Which is really going to piss them off. And Montvale, too.”
Castillo nodded again.
“Your authority, Charley, comes from the Presidential Finding, which is to ‘locate and render harmless’ the people who whacked Jack ‘The Stack’ Masterson. Period. Nothing else. It says nothing about turning Russian spooks and nothing about going into the Congo and taking out a chemical factory—one the agency knows about and doesn’t think is a threat.”
He paused for a long time, a period that Charley took to mean that Jack was letting that counsel sink in.
Then Davidson shook his head again and went on: “So where do you think we’re going to get what we need to take out the factory? That’s got to be a helluva long laundry list—”
Castillo felt his throat tighten.
When he trusted himself to speak, Castillo admitted: “I haven’t figured that out yet either.”
“So what happens now, Chief?”
Castillo intoned solemnly: “ ‘The longest journey begins with the smallest step.’ You may wish to write that down.”
Davidson chuckled.
“What happens now is that I go in there”—Castillo nodded toward the embassy building?—“and, while trying very hard to keep Ambassador Silvio out of the line of fire, deal with Ambassador Montvale. And while I’m doing that, you go to Rio Alba, taking the gendarmeria with you, and wait for me.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. Get some lunch. If I don’t call you in thirty minutes, call me. If I answer in Pashtu, hang up and head for the safe house.”
“And?”
Castillo was silent a moment, then shrugged and shook his head again, and said, “I just don’t know, Jack.”
“Okay. We’ll wing it.”
Castillo glanced at the Mercedes-Benz parked beside them. Then he looked over his shoulder and said, “Max, you stay.”
Castillo opened his door. When he did so, one of the gendarmes got out of the Mercedes and stood by the open door.
When Castillo headed for what he thought of as the embassy employee’s gate in the fence, the gendarme closed the vehicle’s door and walked after him.
Davidson backed out of the parking spot and drove toward the restaurant Rio Alba, which was a block from the embassy in the shadow of—at fifty stories—Argentina’s tallest building. The gendarmeria Mercedes followed him.
The fence surrounding the embassy had three gates, a large one to pass vehicular traffic and two smaller ones for people. The employees’ gate was a simple affair, a turnstile guarded by two uniformed, armed guards of an Argentine security firm.
Castillo was absolutely certain that a couple of Argentine rent-a-cops wouldn’t deny entrance to the embassy grounds to a United States federal law-enforcement officer who presented the proper identification.
He was wrong.
The rent-a-cops were not at all impressed with the credentials identifying C. G. Castillo as a supervisory special agent of the United States Secret Service.
The rent-a-cops advised him that if he wished to enter the embassy grounds, he would have to use the Main Visitors’ Gate, which was some three hundred yards distant, down a sunbaked sidewalk.
Castillo bit his tongue and started for the other gate, with the gendarme on his heels.
The last hundred yards of the sidewalk was lined with people—clearly not many of them, if any, U.S. citizens—patiently baking in the sun as they awaited their turn to pass through the Main Visitors’ Gate to apply for visas and other services.
He did not see anything that looked helpful until he was almost at the single-story Main Visitors’ Gate building. Then he came across a ridiculously small sign that had an arrow and the legend: U.S CITIZENS.
He pushed open the door and was promptly stopped by another Argentine rent-a-cop who—not very charmingly—asked to see Castillo’s passport.
