The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Do we know anything about the murdered man? The murdered man in the photograph?”

  “His name was Bertrand, sir. Jean-Paul Bertrand.”

  “You already told me that,” McGrory said. “My question was: Do we know anything about the murdered man?”

  “He was Lebanese, sir, resident in Uruguay. Chief Inspector Ordóñez told me that. He was an antiquities dealer.”

  “And for the third time, do we—as opposed to your friend the chief inspector—know anything about the murdered antiques dealer?”

  Monahan said, “Special Agent Yung is maintaining a file on him, sir.”

  “And what does the file say?”

  “I don’t know, sir. The file is not in the file cabinet.”

  “Well, where is it?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Monahan said. “Possibly Yung took it home with him.”

  “He took an official file home with him?”

  “I don’t know that, sir. It is possible.”

  “Well, get him on the phone and tell him to bring the file to my office immediately.”

  “I tried to call him, sir. He doesn’t answer the telephone at his apartment.”

  “Well, where is he?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “You don’t know?” Ambassador McGrory parroted, incredulously.

  “He didn’t come in today, sir. Possibly he’s in Puente del Este.”

  “He had the day off, in other words?”

  “I meant to say he may be working in Puente del Este, sir.”

  “But you don’t know?”

  “No, sir. I don’t.”

  “What you’re going to do, Monahan, while Artigas is preparing his draft report on this matter, is find Special Agent Yung and have him bring his files here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I must say, Monahan, that until just now I thought you ran a tighter ship than is apparently the case.”

  [FOUR]

  Office of the Ambassador

  The Embassy of the United States of America

  Lauro Muller 1776

  Montevideo, República Oriental del Uruguay

  0805 3 August 2005

  Special agents/assistant legal attachés James D. Monahan and Julio Artigas were sitting on the chrome-and-leather couch outside the office of the minister extraordinary and plenipotentiary of the President of the United States to the Republic of Uruguay when the ambassador arrived.

  They both looked worried. The Honorable Michael A. McGrory took no pity on them. Without speaking, he waved them some what imperiously into his office. He went to his desk, sat down, and, with another grand gesture, gave them permission to seat themselves in the two chairs facing his desk.

  “Well,” McGrory said, “what more do we know about the massacre in Tacuarembó than we did when last we met? Have you heard, for example, Artigas, from your good friend, Chief Inspector Ordóñez?”

  “I spoke with him last night, sir, to report that I had faxed the fingerprints to the bureau. But he didn’t pass on any other information to me.”

  “I cannot help but wonder if your good friend has learned—or perhaps already knew—something he has elected not to pass on to you.”

  “I really don’t think that’s the case, Mr. Ambassador,” Artigas replied.

  “And you, Monahan? What have you to contribute?”

  McGrory really disliked Monahan. The only reason he wasn’t absolutely sure that Monahan was the so-called wit who had installed a decalcomania of an Irish leprechaun named McGrory in a urinal in the visitor’s men’s room was that he couldn’t believe one Irishman would do that to another.

  “Sir…” Monahan began uncomfortably. He cleared his throat and began again. “Sir, I have been unable to locate Mr. Yung. I even went to Puente del Este last night and checked all the hotels where he usually stays.”

  “That’s probably because Mr. Yung is no longer with us,” the ambassador said.

  “Sir?”

  “I received, at the residence, a telephone call at half past nine last night from the assistant director of the FBI. He said that it had been necessary to recall Mr. Yung to Washington. He informed me that Mr. Yung had actually already left Uruguay. It apparently has something to do with Mr. Yung being needed to testify in court. The assistant director said he was reluctant to get into details on a nonsecure telephone connection.”

  “I wonder what that’s all about?” Monahan mused aloud.

  “And so do I. I’m sure the assistant director will explain the situation to me when he calls, which he has promised to do as soon as he gets to a secure telephone in his office this morning.”

  “That won’t be before ten-thirty our time,” Monahan said. “There’s a one-hour difference between here and D.C. and I never knew an assistant director who came to work before nine-thirty.”

  “And whenever he calls, I won’t be here. We won’t be here.”

  “Sir?”

  “When thinking this matter through last night, I decided I should, as soon as possible, bring it to the attention of Ambassador Silvio in Buenos Aires. The late Mr. Masterson was, after all, the chief of mission there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I decided (a) that I should do so personally and (b) that you, Artigas, should come with me. I can see no reason for you to go to Buenos Aires, Monahan. Can you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “We are on the nine-ten Austral flight,” McGrory said. “Mr. Howell will be going with us. He has some cultural business to transact in Buenos Aires, if you take my meaning.”

  “I understand, sir,” Artigas said.

  Mr. Robert Howell was the cultural attaché of the embassy. That he was also the CIA station chief was just about as much of a secret as was the identity of the Irish FBI agent who had put the McGrory leprechaun decal in the urinal.

  “While we are gone, Monahan, I want you to do two things,” the ambassador went on. “One, keep yourself available to take the call from the assistant director. Tell him where I am and ask him to call me at the embassy in Buenos Aires.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Two, it will probably be a waste of your time, but see if you can find out anything else from Artigas’s friend, Chief Inspector Ordóñez, or anyone else.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  [FIVE]

  Office of the Ambassador

  The Embassy of the United States of America

  Avenida Colombia 4300

  Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina

  1025 3 August 2005

  “Please come in, Mr. Ambassador,” Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio, the American ambassador in Buenos Aires, said to Ambassador Michael McGrory. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

  Silvio was a tall, lithe, fair-skinned, well-tailored man with an erect carriage and an aristocratic manner. He was younger than Ambassador Michael McGrory and, despite five years less service in the Foreign Service than McGrory, had a far more important embassy. McGrory didn’t like him.

  He was honest enough to admit to himself, however, that his rationale for bringing the Tacuarembó whatever it was to Silvio went beyond the fact that he had a photograph of the late Mr. Masterson, who had been Silvio’s deputy. He suspected that, whatever it was, he was liable to see egg on his face when the matter got to the State Department. McGrory knew it was better that there be egg on two faces rather than his alone.

  The two shook hands.

  Silvio then offered his hand to Julio Artigas and said, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?”

  “My name is Artigas, sir. How do you do?”

  “Artigas is one of my legal attachés,” McGrory said. “And this is my cultural attaché, Mr. Howell.”

  “We’ve met,” Silvio said. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Howell. I know you know Alex, but I’m not sure if Mr. Artigas does.”

  “No, sir,” Artigas said and shook hands with a small, plump man with a pencil-thin mustache.

  “Alex Darby,” the man said.<
br />
  “And I know Howell and Darby know each other,” Silvio said. “What is it that they say about birds of a feather?”

  McGrory thought: He might have just as well come out and said, “These two are CIA.”

  “Hey, Bob,” Darby said. “Long time no see.”

  “Too long,” Howell replied. “We’re really going to have to get together.”

  Silvio’s secretary rolled in a coffee tray.

  “Unless it’s someone important like my wife or the secretary, no calls, please,” Silvio said.

  When the door had closed, Silvio went on: “You said you’d come across something that might have a bearing on what happened to Jack Masterson, Mr. Ambassador?”

  “Artigas,” McGrory ordered, “show Ambassador Silvio the picture.”

  Artigas opened his briefcase and took out the photograph of the wedding party. He stood up, walked over to Silvio, and handed it to him. Silvio looked at it, then handed it to Darby.

  “Where’d you get this?” Darby asked.

  “Do you recognize the people?” McGrory said.

  “Yeah, I do. That’s Jack and Betsy at their wedding. And her parents, and Jack’s, and her brother.”

  “You know who that man is?” McGrory asked.

  “Yes, I do,” Darby said. “He’s Betsy Masterson’s brother. Where did you get this?”

  “Artigas,” McGrory ordered.

  “Yes, sir. It’s from an estancia called Shangri-La in Tacuarembó. I was taken there by an officer of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policía Nacional.”

  “Why did he do that?” Darby asked.

  “I now believe it was because a Uruguayan police officer on the scene recognized Mr. Masterson,” Artigas said. “The photo was in a scrapbook at the scene.”

  “You’ve used the word ‘scene’ twice,” Darby said. “Is there an implication that something had happened at this estancia, that it was, maybe, a crime scene?”

  “That’s something of an understatement, Darby,” McGrory said. “According to Artigas, there were seven bodies at that estancia.”

  “Seven bodies?” Darby asked. “Seven bodies?”

  “Seven bodies, including that of the man in the photograph,” McGrory said. “All shot to death.”

  “And who were the others?” Darby asked.

  Artigas saw that Darby was looking at Howell. The hair on Artigas’s neck curled.

  “That seems to be the mystery,” McGrory said.

  “You don’t know who they are?” Darby asked.

  “According to Artigas, none of them had any identification on them, and they were all dressed in black.”

  “Really?” Darby said and looked at Howell again—not for long, but long enough for Artigas to see it. “That sounds like something from a James Bond movie.”

  “Or a Ninja movie,” Howell said. “All dressed in black.”

  “Well, who shot them?” Darby asked.

  “No one seems to have any idea,” Artigas said.

  “No one seems to have any idea?” Darby parroted, incredulously.

  Artigas suddenly had a number of thoughts, one right after the other:

  You know all about this, don’t you, Mr. Darby?

  Did Howell call you last night, after McGrory told Howell?

  The CIA sticks together?

  Jesus, did Howell know about this before McGrory told him?

  Did they both know about it?

  Were they both involved?

  You’re letting your imagination run away with you, Julio!

  You’ve seen too many spy movies—bad spy movies.

  Yeah. But you always were a good interrogator, able to pick up things like the looks between Darby and Howell.

  What the hell is going on here?

  “According to Artigas, the Uruguayan police have no idea, either,” Howell said.

  “What do you think it was, Mr. McGrory?” Darby asked. “A robbery? An attempted kidnapping?”

  That’s “Mr. Ambassador,” thank you very much, Darby!

  “I have no idea what it was,” McGrory said. “The question, it would seem to me, is, what do we do about this photograph?”

  “Alex?” Silvio asked.

  “I would suggest, Mr. Ambassador…”

  Silvio is Mr. Ambassador, McGrory thought, and I’m not? You sonofabitch!

  “…that we get this information into the hands of Mr. Castillo. Or that Mr. McGrory should. The photo turned up in Uruguay. On Mr. McGrory’s watch, so to speak.”

  “Who’s Castillo?” McGrory asked.

  “This is classified information, Mr. Ambassador,” Silvio said. “When Mr. Masterson was abducted, the President told me he had appointed Mr. Castillo to supervise the investigation. And later, the President charged him with the security of the Masterson family and with their repatriation to the States.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s the President’s agent.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I can only tell you what the President told me,” Silvio said.

  “Is that the same man who came to Montevideo to see Special Agent Yung?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “What’s his connection with Yung?” McGrory asked.

  Silvio shrugged.

  Artigas wondered: And what’s the connection between this and Yung suddenly being ordered to the States?

  “What we can do, if you’d like, Mr. Ambassador,” Silvio said, “is send the photograph to the secretary, together with the information that Darby positively identified this man as Mr. Masterson’s brother. You are sure, are you not, Alex?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure. I met him several times when Jack and I were in Paris.”

  Just in time, McGrory stopped himself from saying he would take care of notifying the secretary, thank you just the same.

  I am not going to be twisting alone in the wind, he thought.

  “Yes, I think that’s the way to go,” he said.

  Artigas thought: Señor Pompous, I think you’re wondering if, without having any idea why, you’re in the deep do-do.

  God, I hope so.

  [SIX]

  Hacienda San Jorge

  Near Uvalde, Texas

  1330 3 August 2005

  Major C. G. Castillo stood by a barbecue grill constructed from a fifty-five-gallon barrel, his eyes stinging from the smoke of the mesquite fire. He had a long, black cigar clamped in his teeth and was attired in khaki pants, a T-shirt printed with the legend YOU CAN ALWAYS TELL A TEXAS AGGIE, BUT NOT MUCH, battered western boots, and an even more battered Stetson hat, its brim curled.

  He saw Estella, a short, massive, swarthy woman who had been helping at the ranch as long as he could remember, come out of the big house carrying a walk-around telephone and he had the unpleasant premonition that the call was going to be for him.

  But then Estella gave the phone to Abuela and he saw her smile and say, “How good it is to hear your voice,” and he returned his attention to the steaks broiling on the grill.

  He had just annoyed Maria, his cousin Fernando’s wife, by solemnly proclaiming that only males could be trusted to properly grill a steak and challenged her to name one world-class female chef. Or, for that matter, one world-class female orchestra leader.

  Castillo didn’t believe any of this, but there was something in Maria that had always made him really like to ruffle her feathers. He thought of her as his sister-in-law, but technically that wasn’t accurate. Fernando was his cousin, not his brother. But if there was a term to describe the wife of your cousin, who was really more like your brother, he didn’t know it.

  He felt a tug at his trouser leg and looked down to see Jorge Carlos Lopez, who was seven, his godchild and the fourth of the five children of Fernando and Maria. Jorge was holding up a bottle of Dos Equis beer to him.

  “You have saved my life, Jorge,” Charley said solemnly, in Spanish. “You will be rewarded in heaven.”

  He looked around, sa
w Fernando standing by the table set for lunch on the shaded veranda of the big house, and gave him a thumbs-up to express his appreciation for the beer.

  He then surreptitiously reached in his trousers pocket and came out with a small computerized meat thermometer, which gave an almost immediate and very accurate indication of temperature.

  There was nothing wrong in getting scientific confirmation of what your thumb suggested when pressed into a broiling steak, especially if no one saw you use the device and remained convinced you had an educated thumb.

  He stabbed each of the steaks with the thermometer—there were eight inch-and-a-half-thick New York strips—and saw they all had interior temperatures of just over 140 degrees Fahrenheit.

  He put the thermometer back in his pocket, then turned and faced the veranda.

  “I proclaim these done!”

  Fernando applauded, and several of the rugrats joined in.

  At that point, Charley saw Abuela advancing on him holding out the walk-around telephone.

  “It’s for you,” she said. “Dick.”

  Shit! I knew it.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Wait until I get the steaks on the platter.”

  Abuela laid the telephone on the table beside the grill, then picked up the platter—a well-used, blood-grooved wooden board with horseshoe handles—and held it out for him to put the steaks on it. Then she started for the veranda.

  “I’ll carry that, Abuela,” he called after her.

  “I am old, tired, and decrepit, but I can still carry this,” she said.

  Charley picked up the telephone.

  “Why do I think I’m not going to like this?” he asked by way of greeting.

  “Doña Alicia was glad to hear my voice,” Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., said. “She told me.”

  “As you well know, she is too kind for her own good, especially where cripples are concerned. What’s up?”

  “I think you better get back here, Charley.”

  “Jesus, I haven’t been here thirty-six hours.”

  And not only that, I really wanted to have a closer look at that Gulfstream.

  Surprising Charley, Fernando had met him at San Antonio International Airport.

  “To what do I owe the honor?” Castillo said.

  “I want to show you something.”

  “And it wouldn’t wait until we were at San Jorge?”