The Outlaws

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “Let me take the briefing, Charley,” Uncle Remus said. “You look pretty beat, and we don’t want to leave anything out.”

  Castillo gave him the floor with a wave of his hand.

  “The reason the Defense Department went to DefConTwo,” Leverette began, “is because the President had learned that the Iranians, the Russians, and some former East Germans were making a biological weapon in the Congo, and he decided that it had to go.”

  “How did he learn about it?” Randy asked.

  Leverette looked at the boy, then at Castillo. “You’re right, Charley. He does have a mouth.” He looked again at the boy, and said, “You get one interruption, Randy. And that was it. Next time, raise your hand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your fa—Colonel Castillo was instrumental in getting two senior Russian intelligence officers to defect. They wanted to get out of Russia for a number of reasons, including that they were unhappy about the biological weapons factory in the Congo. As soon as Colonel Castillo got them to Argentina, they told him about it.”

  Both Leverette and Castillo saw Randy look at Tom Barlow and Svetlana, asking with his eyes if they were the Russians, and then saw Svetlana nod.

  “Am I allowed to ask questions, Mr. Leverette?” General Wilson asked.

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “Was that attack based on more than what the defectors told Charley? Or the President? The reason I ask is because there was some talk the President went off half-cocked.”

  “Sir, it was based on more than what the Russians told us. Colonel Hamilton, from Fort Detrick, went over there himself and brought out samples of the material, and even the cadavers of three people who had died from the effects of the poisonous substance.”

  “Thank you. I’m really glad to hear that.” Then he had a thought and said it aloud: “How the hell did Hamilton get into and then out of the Congo with three bodies?”

  “Carefully and surreptitiously, General,” Leverette said.

  “Tell the general who took Colonel Hamilton into and out of the Congo, Mr. Leverette,” Castillo said.

  Leverette, clearly uncomfortable, said nothing.

  “Why am I not surprised?” General Wilson said.

  “That’s why they gave him another Distinguished Service Medal when he was retired,” Castillo said.

  “You were at the retirement parade, Randy,” General Wilson said. “You saw both Mr. Leverette and Colonel Castillo being decorated with the DSM.”

  “Then why did my father say he was kicked out of the Army?”

  That pompous asshole and chairwarmer is not your father.

  I am.

  “He must have been given the wrong information,” Castillo said. “It happened so suddenly that it probably looked like we were being thrown out.”

  “Anyway, we thought the whole thing was over,” Leverette went on. “I was in Uruguay, about to go into the cattle business, when the Russian rezident in Budapest handed Mr. Kocian a letter. It said that a mistake had been made and that the Russians should come home, all is forgiven.”

  “You’re not going back, are you, Svetlana?” Randy asked nervously.

  “No,” Svetlana said. “Now shut up and let Uncle Remus finish.”

  Leverette went on: “The next thing that happened was a barrel of this stuff was delivered to Colonel Hamilton, at Fort Detrick and ...”

  “. . . And that brought us, Doña Alicia, to your door,” Leverette concluded.

  “And what happens now?”

  “We eat a lot of grapefruit and maybe do a little fishing while we wait to see what the Powers That Be decide to do with the tapes,” Castillo said. “And the one thing we don’t do until that happens—for the next four or five days—is talk about this.”

  “I think we should have an early lunch,” Doña Alicia said. “I’ll ask them to set up a table on the verandah.”

  [FOUR]

  The Office of the Ambassador of the United States of

  America

  Avenida Colombia 4300

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  1315 8 February 2007

  Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio—tall, lithe, fair-skinned, well tailored—stood up behind his desk, smiled, and put his hand out as Ambassador Charles M. Montvale and Truman Ellsworth walked into his office.

  “How nice to see you again, Mr. Montvale,” Silvio said.

  “Ambassador,” Montvale said.

  “I know you only by reputation, Mr. Ellsworth,” Silvio said. “I’m Juan Silvio.”

  “I’ve heard about you, too, Mr. Ambassador,” Ellsworth said with a smile.

  Ellsworth knew much more about Silvio than the scathing description of the diplomat Montvale had given him.

  Ellsworth was aware that there was more to his story than the bare, commonly known facts that Silvio’s family had escaped from Castro’s Cuba on a fishing boat.

  He knew that the fishing boat had been a sixty-two-foot Bertram, and that the Silvio family had brought out with them not only the clothing on their backs, but an enormous fish box filled with currency, jewelry, and stock certificates; some of the more valuable antiques from their Havana mansion; and the extra keys to the cars they kept at their Key Biscayne house.

  Ellsworth knew Silvio had graduated from his father’s alma mater, Spring Hill College, a Jesuit institution in Mobile, Alabama, which had been educating South American aristocrats for two hundred years. And that Silvio had earned a law degree at Harvard, and then a doctorate in political science at the University of Alabama. He had joined the State Department on graduation.

  He had done so for much the same reason that Truman Ellsworth had become executive assistant to the director of National Intelligence: not because they needed the job, but because they saw it—the term “noblesse oblige” fit—as their patriotic obligation to serve their country.

  Most important, Ellsworth knew that Silvio was not afraid of Montvale.

  So far as Ellsworth knew, Silvio had never had to use it, but if push came to shove, he had behind him the enormous political clout of the Cuban-American community in south Florida. The Silvio family had spent a great deal of their money helping fellow Cubans escape from Castro and establish themselves in the United States. This was remembered. And gentlemen always repay their debts.

  “May I offer you a cup of coffee?” Ambassador Silvio asked, waving Montvale and Ellsworth into chairs facing his desk.

  “No, thank you,” Montvale said. “Mr. Ambassador ...”

  “That would be very nice, thank you,” Ellsworth said.

  “. . . I am here at the personal order of President Clendennen,” Montvale finished.

  “So Ms. Grunblatt told me,” Silvio said. “And as soon as we have our coffee, I’ll ask how I may be of service. Are you sure you won’t ...”

  “I’m sure. Thank you.”

  “So how may I be of service to you, Mr. Montvale?”

  “My orders are to locate both of the Russian defectors and former Lieutenant Colonel Carlos Castillo.”

  “‘Former’? I was under the impression Castillo had been retired. Was that wrong? Did he resign?”

  “No. He retired,” Montvale said. “Do you know where he is, Mr. Ambassador? Or the Russians?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. The last time I saw Colonel Castillo was when you and he were both in this office.”

  “Do you think if I got Secretary of State Cohen, or the President himself, on the telephone to confirm my mission here, it would improve your memory, Mr. Ambassador?”

  Silvio did not rise to the bait.

  “Mr. Montvale, when Ms. Grunblatt told me that you had told her that, I telephoned the secretary of State for verification. Secretary Cohen confirmed that you and Mr. Ellsworth are here at the direction of President Clendennen and instructed me to do whatever I can to help you accomplish your mission.”

  “And I have told you what that mission is.”

  “And I have told you I have no idea where Colon
el Castillo or the Russian defectors might be. But I’ll tell you what I can do: Now that everyone’s back from the affair in Mar del Plata, and the embassy’s vehicles are back in the motor pool, I’ll be happy to augment the Suburban in which you must have been really crammed with a vehicle more in keeping with your rank and position. With a driver, of course. For as long as you’re here.”

  “Thank you very much,” Montvale said. “Mr. Ambassador, would you be surprised to hear that your former commercial counselor, and my former Buenos Aires station chief, Alexander Darby, is in Ushuaia?”

  “Yes, I would. I was led to believe that Mr. Darby had returned to the United States.”

  “I have been led to believe he’s in Ushuaia with a young Argentine woman.”

  “I find that hard to believe, Mr. Montvale. How good is your source?”

  Montvale ignored the question.

  “It occurred to me, knowing what little I do about Ushuaia,” he said, “that the southernmost city in South America, as remote as it is, would be an ideal place to hide the Russians. What do you think?”

  “I think that’s absurd,” Silvio said.

  “You are telling me, and I will tell the President that you have told me, that you think the possibility that Mr. Darby and/or Colonel Castillo are hiding the Russian defectors in Ushuaia is absurd?”

  “Yes, I do. Or, rather, yes, Mr. Montvale, that is exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “I think I’m wasting my time here,” Montvale said, and stood up. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Montvale,” Ambassador Silvio said, standing up. “On your way out, ask the Marine guard for your car. If you need to contact me, you have my number.”

  “Oh, I have your number, Mr. Ambassador,” Montvale said, and, without shaking hands, marched out of the office.

  Silvio and Ellsworth nodded at each other, and then Ellsworth followed Montvale.

  Ellsworth thought: I would bet two cents against a doughnut that nobody—not this fellow Darby, nor Castillo, nor the Russians—is in Ushuaia.

  And I will also bet the same amount that the minute we get into the car, Charles is going to say, “Send the other four Clandestine Service officers down there as quickly as possible. That’s where everybody is.”

  Or words to that effect.

  Montvale did.

  [FIVE]

  Marriott Plaza Hotel

  Florida 1005

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  1620 8 February 2007

  It is said that the bar in the Plaza hasn’t changed since General Juan Domingo Perón drank there as a corporal. But this is untrue for several reasons, including the fact that General Perón was never a corporal. It can be more accurately said that the bar has changed very little from the time it opened with the hotel a century ago.

  It is a warm and comfortable room, with an L-shaped bar tucked into a corner. There are a half-dozen tables and comfortable leather armchairs.

  It is as accurate to say the bar is on the floor below the lobby as it is to say it’s on the ground floor. Avenida Florida, level for most of its length, takes a steep dip as it passes the Plaza on its way to Avenida Libertador and the main railroad station.

  It is thus possible to turn off Florida and enter the bar almost directly. It is also possible, fifty feet away, to turn off Florida and enter the hotel lobby. If one elects the latter choice, then one must take the stairs or the elevator and go down one floor to get to the bar.

  The director of National Intelligence, the Honorable Charles M. Montvale, and his executive assistant, the Honorable Truman Ellsworth, entered the bar by coming down the stairs, shortly after being told in the lobby that Roscoe J. Danton was sitting at the bar alone, second stool from the wall.

  This information had come to them from Winston Gump, one of the Clandestine Service officers who had arrived in Buenos Aires that morning. Montvale had drafted Gump to attend him—the phrase he used was “work with”—in the belief that one never knew when one might require the skills of a veteran of the Clandestine Service. For his part, Gump was flattered by having been selected to serve—he thought “serve,” not “work with”—the most senior person in the American intelligence community and his executive assistant.

  Gump did wonder about Executive Assistant Ellsworth. He didn’t look like a male version of a super secretary, nor did he look that way, but Gump knew you couldn’t always judge a book by its cover, and there were all those stories going around how J. Edgar Hoover and his assistant could hardly wait to get home to put on dresses.

  Anything, Gump had learned in his clandestine service, was possible.

  “Well, Truman,” Montvale said. “Look who’s here!”

  Ellsworth took the bar stool closest to the wall; Montvale took the one on the other side.

  Roscoe J. Danton raised his voice: “Hey, Pedro, look who’s here!”

  Oh, shit! He’s drunk!

  On reflection, that might not be entirely a bad thing.

  “Friend of yours, Roscoe?” Truman Ellsworth asked as he looked around the bar until he found a man sitting at one of the tables drinking a Coke while trying hard and almost succeeding in pretending he had not heard Danton calling, or seen Danton pointing at Montvale and Ellsworth.

  “Not exactly.”

  “We’ll have what our friend is having,” Montvale said. “And give him another.”

  “And maybe one for your not-exactly-a-friend?” Ellsworth asked.

  “I’m sure he’d love one, but he’s on duty, and from what I’ve observed, plainclothes officers of the Gendarmería Nacional do not drink while on duty.”

  “You’re suggesting that you’re being surveilled by the Argentines?” Montvale asked.

  “It was more a statement than a suggestion, Mr. Ambassador,” Danton said. “Either that guy, or one of his cousins, has been with me from the moment I tried to buy a used car.”

  “You what?”

  “A man named Alexander Darby—of whom you may have heard ... No. Of whom I’m sure you have heard; he was in the Clandestine Service of the CIA, like the guy I suspect you sent in here a couple of minutes ago—was retiring from government service ...”

  “You saw Alex, did you, Roscoe?” Ellsworth asked.

  Danton nodded, then went on: “... and had put his car up for sale. Clever journalist that I am, I got from the offer of sale his address, which the embassy press officer, Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt, wouldn’t give me, citing federal rules vis-à-vis privacy.”

  “So you saw him?” Ellsworth asked.

  “Why did you want to see Darby, Roscoe?” Montvale asked.

  The conversation was interrupted by the bartender, who delivered three trays with the proper glasses and other accessories for the whisky-pouring, and a whisky bottle.

  “You may have cause to regret your impulsive generosity, Mr. Montvale,” Danton said. He pointed to the whisky bottle. “That is The Macallan eighteen-year-old Highland single malt Scotch whisky. Were I not on the expense account—or for your generosity—I would shudder to think of the cost.”

  “My privilege, Roscoe,” Montvale said.

  “While he’s going through that absolutely marvelous pouring routine, Roscoe, you were about to tell us why you wanted to see Alex Darby,” Ellsworth said.

  “So I was,” Danton said. “So I went to his apartment. He and his wife were there—”

  “And how is Julia?” Ellsworth asked.

  “Well, now that you mention it, she seemed a little pissed with her husband. But I digress. He was there with another CIA dinosaur, a guy named Delchamps. And, and, and ... an Irishman named Duffy, who had with him three guys. Pedro over there was one of them.”

  Danton waved at Pedro, who did not respond.

  “No sooner did I begin to mention that I wanted to ask Darby about a rumor going around—”

  “What kind of a rumor?”

  “Why do I think you know what kind of rumor?”

  “Because, by
your own admission, you are a clever journalist,” Montvale said. “But tell me anyway.”

  “Our late, and not too mourned, President had a Special Operations hotshot working for him. Directly for him. An Army guy, a lieutenant colonel named Castillo. Said Special Operations hotshot ... I have this from a source I almost believe ... is said to have snatched two defecting Russians, big ones—from your CIA station chief in Vienna, Mr. Ambassador—just as she was about to load them on a CIA airplane and ship them to the States. He and they then disappeared.

  “I also have heard a rumor that the Russian defectors told this hotshot that the Russians, the Iranians, and other people had a biological warfare factory in the Congo, and that he told the President, whereupon we went immediately to DefConTwo, and shortly thereafter a chunk of the Congo was hit by everything in the arsenal of democracy except nukes.”

  “You told Alex ... and this Irish fellow, Duffy ... all that?” Ellsworth asked.

  “I didn’t get two words beyond mentioning Costello’s ... Castillo’s ... name when suddenly I was being asked for my identification and being patted down by Pedro over there.”

  Danton smiled and waved at Pedro again.

  He went on: “Duffy then told me there was a question with my papers, but since I was a friend of Mr. Darby, instead of being hauled off to Gendarmería Nacional headquarters until it could be straightened out, they would allow me to spend the night here in the River Plate Marriott. And they would be happy to drive me there.”

  “Where do you think Alex is now, Roscoe?”

  “Well, he’s not in his apartment. The next morning, Duffy showed up here and said that I was free to go. He was sure that I understood the situation and was grateful for my understanding. He also said that if I thought I would need a remise—that’s sort of a taxi—to get around Buenos Aires, he knew one he could recommend.

  “So, I got in the remise and went back to Darby’s apartment. He was gone.

  “I still had one card to play. You remember the Secret Service guy on the presidential protection detail who fell off the bumper of the limousine?”