W Griffin - The outlaws

Sylvia looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, "Eleanor and I go back a long time-"

"Meaning you have taken Darby's place as the resident spook?"

She shook her head and raised her right arm as if swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help her God.

"Meaning we go back a long time," she said. "Eleanor is very good at what she's done for all those years. If she says Charley Castillo stole two heavy Russian spooks from under her nose, that means there were two Russian spooks, and she believes Charley Castillo stole them."

"She said that it cost her her job."

"Stories like that are circulating, and I've heard them," Sylvia said. "What I can't figure is why Charley would do something like that unless someone-maybe even our late President-told him to. And I can't imagine why he brought them here."

"He brought Russian spooks here?"

"Ambassador Montvale thinks he did."

"How do you know that?"

"A friend of mine-you don't need to know who-was in the Rio Alba-that's a restaurant around the corner, magnificent steaks; you ought to make an effort to eat there-at a table near my ambassador's. He was having lunch with Montvale. Castillo walked in. Montvale told him all would be forgiven if he gave him the Russians. Castillo told him to attempt a physiologically impossible act of self-reproduction. Montvale threatened to have him arrested; he had a couple of Secret Service guys with him. Castillo said if the Secret Service made a move, they would be arrested by a couple of Gendarmeria Nacional-they're the local heavy cops-he had with him.

"The meeting adjourned to the embassy. I guess they were afraid someone might hear them talking. When the meeting was over, Montvale went to the airport without any Russians, got on his Citation Four, and flew back to Washington. Castillo walked out of the embassy and I haven't seen him since. Reminding you that we're off the record, my ambassador, who is a really good guy, thinks Castillo is a really good guy."

"Interesting."

"One more interesting thing: Right after we bombed whatever the hell it was we bombed in the Congo, a lot of people around here, including Alex Darby, suddenly decided to retire."

"What people?"

"No names. But a Secret Service guy, and a 'legal attache,' which is diplomat-speak for FBI agent, and even a couple of people in our embassies in Asuncion, Paraguay, and across the River Plate in Uruguay."

"Are you going to tell me where I can find Alexander Darby?"

"I don't know, and don't want to know, where he is. The last time I saw him was at Ezeiza."

"The airport?"

She nodded. "Alex is somebody else I've known for a long time. A really good guy. I drove him to the airport."

"He went home?"

She paused before replying: "Alex applied for, and was issued, a regular passport. I drove him to the airport. He left the country-went through immigration-on his diplomatic passport. Then he went back through the line and entered the country as a tourist on his regular passport. When he came out, he handed me-as an officer of the embassy-his dip's passport. Then I drove him to his apartment. I haven't seen him since."

"You going to tell me where that apartment is?"

"We're back on the record, Mr. Danton. I cannot of course violate Mr. Darby's privacy by giving you that information. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course. And thank you very much, Mizz Grunblatt."

"Anytime, Mr. Danton. We try to be of service."

"That's comforting."

"Did you ever hear what Winston Churchill said about journalists, Mr. Danton?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Churchill said, 'Journalists are the semiliterate cretins hired to fill the spaces between the advertisements.'"

"Oh, God! He's onto us! Now I suppose there's nothing left for me but to slash my wrists."

"That's a thought. Good morning, Mr. Danton." [FOUR] Apartment 32-B O'Higgins 2330 Belgrano Buenos Aires, Argentina 1505 5 February 2007 "I will miss the view," Alexander B. Darby-a small, plump man with a pencil-line mustache-said as he stood with Liam Duffy, Edgar Delchamps, and his wife, and gestured out the windows of the Darbys' apartment on the thirty-second floor. It occupied half of the top floor of the four-year-old building, high enough to overlook almost all of the other apartment buildings between O'Higgins and the River Plate.

"What you're supposed to be going to miss, you sonofabitch, is your loving wife and adorable children," Julia Darby-a trim woman who wore her black hair in a pageboy-said.

And was immediately sorry.

"Strike that, Alex," she added. "I was just lashing out at the fickle finger of fate."

"It's okay, honey. And I really don't think it will be for long."

"Hope springs eternal in the human breast," Julia said solemnly.

"And the movers never show up when they're supposed to," Edgar Delchamps said as solemnly.

The apartment showed signs that the movers were expected any moment. Cardboard boxes were stacked all over, and suitcases were arranged by the door.

"And it is always the cocktail hour somewhere in the world, so why not here and now?" Alex said.

Julia smiled at Edgar and Liam, and said, "Every once in a great while, he has a good idea. The embassy's glasses are in the cupboard, so all we have to do is find something to put in them."

"The booze is in the suitcase with the 'seven' stuck on it," Alex said, and looked at the suitcases by the door. "Which, of course, is the one on the bottom." He switched to Spanish. "Give me a hand, will you, Liam?"

Liam Duffy-a well-dressed, muscular, ruddy-faced blond man in his forties-looked to be what his name suggested, a true son of Erin. But he was in fact an Argentine whose family had migrated to Argentina more than a century before.

They went to the stack of suitcases, moved them around, and in about a minute Alex Darby was able to triumphantly raise a bottle of twelve-year-old Famous Grouse Malt Scotch whisky.

The house telephone rang.

Julia answered it.

"It's the concierge," she announced. "Somebody's here to look at the car."

"Tell him to show it to him," Alex said.

He walked into the kitchen carrying the whisky. Liam followed him.

Ninety seconds later, the telephone rang again, and again Julia answered it.

When Alex and Liam returned from the kitchen, Julia announced, "It's the movers."

"Which one?"

"His," Julia said, nodding at Duffy.

"Have them sent up," Alex said.

"I'm way ahead of you, my darling," Julia said as she reached for her glass.

Seconds later, the doorbell chimed, signaling there was someone in the elevator foyer.

Duffy went to the door and opened it, then waved three men into the apartment. They were all wearing business suits but there was something about them that suggested the military.

"The suitcases to the left of the doorway," Duffy said in Spanish. "Be very careful of the blue one with the number seven on it."

"Si, mi comandante," one of them said.

"Did they find a pilot for the Aero Commander?" Duffy asked.

"Si, mi general. All is ready at Aeroparque Jorge Newbery."

"Whoopee!" Julia Darby said.

"And the people to stay with Familia Darby?" Duffy asked.

"In place, mi comandante."

"Whoopee again," Julia said.

Duffy nodded at the men.

The doorbell rang again.

Duffy pulled it open.

A thirty-eight-year-old Presbyterian from Chevy Chase, Maryland, stood there.

"Mr. Darby?" Roscoe Danton asked.

"I'm Alex Darby. Come in."

Roscoe entered the apartment and offered his hand to him.

"Roscoe Danton," he said.

"That was a quick look at the BMW, wasn't it?" Darby asked.

"Actually, Mr. Darby, I'm not here about the car. I came to see you," Danton said. "I'm a journalist at The Washington Times-Post. Eleanor Dillworth sent me."