“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 embassy’s Yukon and drove off.
Mr. I. Ronald Spears was carried on the books as an assistant consular officer but was in fact the acting CIA station chief for Buenos Aires. He had assumed 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 embassy 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 Ambassador Montvale that he had “taken the liberty” of changing the reservations Ambassador Montvale had requested. The ambassador 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 classier” 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, Ambassador 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 ambassador,” Montvale then announced. “So we’ll go to the embassy first.”
The pleasure of envisioning that confrontation—“Mr. Ambassador, I am here at the personal order of the President”—was quickly shattered when Spears told him that the ambassador and most of his staff would be out of town until the next day.
I shouldn’t be surprised by that. The moment that sonofabitch heard I was coming down here, Silvio got on his horse, and galloped his miserable ass out of town.
“Certainly someone’s minding the store, right, Spears?”
“Yes, sir. Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt has the duty.”
“And she is?”
“The embassy press officer, Mr. Ambassador.”
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. Ambassador. 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—down here looking for him, too. What’s that all about?”
“You said 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 assume 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 attaché?”
“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 passport, and then he turned right around and came back, so to speak, into Argentina on his regular passport. He then gave me—as an embassy officer—his diplomatic passport and carnet. Then I drove him here to the embassy, 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. Ambassador, 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 damned 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 ambassador. Tomorrow afternoon, if he returns as scheduled, it should be no problem at all.”
Is that Cuban sonofabitch 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 Ambassador Montvale on a secure line for the senior agent on duty.”
“Hold one, please, for Supervisory Special Agent McGuire.”
“It will be a moment, Ambassador Montvale.”
“Not a problem.”
Montvale knew Supervisor
y 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. Ambassador. 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 Analysis?”
“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?”
Montvale did so. Then added: “So, do a really thorough job of searching the place.”
“Yes, sir. And what do I do if I find these people?”
“If you find Darby”—you Irish moron--“you find out from him where Castillo and the Russians are. If you find Castillo or the Russians, you detain them, and immediately notify the President, or his chief of staff.”
“Yes, sir. And whom do I see at Justice for the warrants, sir?”
“What warrants?”
“The search warrant for the premises, and the arrest warrants for Castillo and these Russians.”
“You don’t need a warrant”—you cretin—“you’re acting on the authority of the President.”
“Yes, sir. I understand. And from whom do I get that, sir?”
“Get what?”
“The presidential authority.”
“I just gave it to you.”
“Sir, it has to be in writing. I would suppose if I’m to act on the authority of the President, President Clendennen would have to sign it himself.”
Well, what did I expect? McGuire is part of the Washington bureaucratic establishment.
You don’t rise in that—for that matter, stay in that—unless you have mastered the fine art of covering your ass.
“Tom, I’m not sure if President Clendennen would be available to do that at this time. So here’s what I want you to do. Just go out there with enough of your people to place the premises under around-the-clock surveillance—discreet surveillance. This situation requires, as I’m sure you understand, the greatest discretion.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Do you happen to know either Darby or his wife, Tom?”
“I’ve met them, sir.”
“Then could you just knock at the door, unofficially, and tell Mrs. Darby you were in the neighborhood and took a chance to see if Darby was at home?”
“That would work, sir. And if he is?”
“Then you tell him that you’re looking for Colonel Castillo; that you have a message for Castillo from me that has to be personally delivered.”
“Yes, sir. And if he directs me to Colonel Castillo—I mean, if I find him—then what do I do?”
“You don’t actually have to talk to him, Tom. Just locate him. Put him under really tight surveillance. Then call my office and tell them to get word to me that you’ve found Colonel Castillo. I’ll take it from there.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
“Good man! I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you were on duty, Tom. I know I can rely on you.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”
There may be just about a dime’s worth of silver in this black cloud. Darby might be at the house in Alexandria. He might know where Castillo is. And he might tell McGuire.
Montvale found I. Ronald Spears waiting for him outside the communications room.
“Get in touch with that Air Force colonel, Spears. Tell him to keep the pilots off the booze. Something has come up that might require my immediate return to Washington.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do that immediately after you drop me off at the hotel.”
“Yes, sir.”
[FOUR]
7200 West Boulevard Drive
Alexandria, Virginia
1525 6 February 2007
Dianne Sanders, a grandmotherly type in her early fifties, was wearing an apron over her dress when she answered the chimes.
“Well, hello, Mr. McGuire. What brings you to our door?”
“I’m hoping Mrs. Darby is here,” Tom McGuire said.
“Can I wonder why you might hope that? Or would that be impolite?”
“Come on, Dianne,” McGuire said.
“I’ll see if Mrs. Darby is at home. If you’ll please wait?”
“Lock up the liquor,” Mrs. Julia Darby said thirty seconds later. “The Secret Service is here.”
She walked up to McGuire, and said, “I’m not sure if I’m glad to see you or not. But I’ll give you a kiss anyway.”
She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.
“Are you here socially or otherwise, Tom?” she asked.
“Otherwise, I’m afraid.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Why did I suspect that?” Dianne Sanders asked.
“I have been ordered here by Ambassador Montvale to see if Alex is here, and if not, to ask you to tell me where he is.”
“Did he say why he was curious?”
“He hopes Alex will point him to Charley Castillo. He says he has a message for him.”
“Why didn’t he come himself?”
“He called me from Buenos Aires.”
“Ah-ha! The plot deepens,” Julia Darby said.
“Is Alex here?”
She shook her head.
“Can you point me either to him or Charley?”
“The question is not whether I can, but whether I will. If I pointed at somebody, you would feel duty-bound to tell Montvale, right?”
“Yes, I would.”
“I cannot tell a lie, especially to a senior officer of the United States Secret Service,” she said. She then took a moment to orient herself and pointed in the general direction of South America. “To the best of my knowledge and belief, both of them are somewhere down there.”
“Your cooperation is deeply appreciated. You were pointing at South America, right?”
>
“In that general direction, yes.”
“Can you ... will you be more specific?”
She shook her head.
“Not even if I told you that Ambassador Montvale told me he’s acting for President Clendennen?”
“Especially if you told me that.”
“One final question, Julia. You’re not concealing two ex-SVR officers on the premises, are you?”
“I will answer that question. No, I am not.”
“And you wouldn’t know where such people would be, either, right?”
Julia Darby again pointed toward South America.
“They could be down that way,” she said. “But on the other hand, maybe not. Those SVR people are slippery, you know.”
He chuckled.
“Is my interrogation over, or is there anything else you’d like to know?” Julia Darby asked.
“This interview is concluded, Mrs. Darby. Thank you for your cooperation.”
“I’m always willing to cooperate with the Secret Service, Mr. McGuire. It’s my duty as a patriotic citizen.” Julia smiled warmly, then said: “Dianne and I were about to have a Bloody Mary. Would you like one?”
He hesitated.
“Come on, Tom. The interrogation is over. I swear Montvale will never know.”
He smiled. “Why not?”
“Let’s go in the kitchen,” Julia said. “Dianne is baking brownies for the boys. I was never much in the kitchen department, but I do make great Bloody Marys.”
In the kitchen, McGuire asked Dianne Sanders, “Where’s Harold?”
“My husband is shopping. He shops. I cook. Should be back anytime now.”
Dianne Sanders had spent most of her working career as a cryptographer and later as a highly respected cryptographic analyst. Harold, her husband, had been a Delta Force special operator until he developed heart disease and had been medically retired.
For a while he had been what he described as a “camp follower,” taking care of their house while Dianne stayed on active duty. That hadn’t worked, and eventually—Hell, with both our retirements we can live pretty damned well—Dianne had retired, too.
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