W. Griffin - The shooters

"Get the Marine guard out here," Castillo ordered, angrily, in English.

As Castillo listened to the security guard speak into his radio in Spanish, he pretended not to understand the unkind things the guard said under his breath about Americans in general and this one in particular.

The Marine guard who came to the guardhouse several minutes later recognized Lorimer.

"Hello, Lieutenant," he said.

"We need to get inside."

"I can let you in, but I can't let your friends in-"

"We're American," Castillo offered.

"-without getting one of the officers to pass them in."

"Well, then, Sergeant," Castillo said. "Get an officer. Preferably Mr. Crawford."

The Marine guard now examined him more closely.

"Mr. Crawford, sir? Our commercial attache?"

"Mr. Jonathon Crawford, whatever his title," Castillo said.

"May I ask who you are and the nature of your business with Mr. Crawford, sir?"

Castillo handed him the credentials identifying him as a supervisory agent of the United States Secret Service.

The sergeant examined the credentials very carefully.

"And this gentleman, sir?"

"He is Detective Sergeant Mullroney of the Chicago Police Department. Show the sergeant your tin, Sergeant."

Mullroney did so. The sergeant examined the leather folder carefully and then handed it back.

"I guess I can let you gentlemen in as far as Station One, sir," the sergeant said. "I mean to the building, but not inside. I'll call Mr. Crawford from there, sir."

"Thank you."

"But you can't bring that dog into the building, sir."

"Why don't we take Max as far as Station One and then see what Mr. Crawford has to say about that?"

"I don't know, sir…"

"That was more in the nature of an order, Sergeant," Lorimer said, "than a question."

"Yes, sir," the Marine sergeant said.

There was a row of chrome-frame plastic seats in the lobby of the building, and two sand-topped, chrome-can ashtrays despite the ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING! signs on two walls.

Mr. Jonathon Crawford, "commercial attache" of the embassy, appeared thirty minutes later. He was a nondescript man in his fifties whose only distinguishing characteristic was his eyes. They were deep and intelligent.

"You wanted to see me?" he asked, without any preliminaries.

"If you're Crawford, I do," Castillo said, and handed him the Secret Service credentials.

Crawford examined them and looked at Mullroney.

"Show Mr. Crawford your badge, Charley," Castillo said, then turned back to Crawford. "I think you know Lieutenant Lorimer?"

Crawford examined the credentials and handed them back, but said nothing to-or about-Lorimer.

"This wouldn't have kept until morning? I have guests at my house."

"If it would have kept till morning, I would have come in the morning," Castillo said.

"That your dog?"

Castillo nodded.

"No dogs in the embassy, sorry."

"What do you want me to do, Crawford, call Frank Lammelle-or, for that matter, John Powell-and tell him that you find it impossible to talk to me right now because you have guests and don't like dogs?"

"I don't think I like your attitude, Castillo."

"Well, then we're even, aren't we? I don't like being kept waiting for half an hour while you schmooze your guests and finish your drink. Frank sent you a heads-up that I was coming. You should have been expecting me."

Crawford looked at him a long moment with tight lips.

"Make a note in your log, Sergeant," Crawford ordered, "that-over my objections-Mr. Castillo insisted on bringing his dog into the embassy."

Then he gestured for the sergeant to open the door. There came the sound of a solenoid buzzing, and then Crawford pushed the door open.

He led them to an elevator, waved them onto it, then punched in a code on a control panel to make the elevator operable. It rose two floors. He led them down a corridor to an unmarked door-also equipped with a keypad-punched in the code, and then pushed open that door.

They entered an outer office, and he led them through that to a larger office and then gestured for them to sit in the leather-upholstered chairs.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," he said. "The cold truth of the matter is my wife flipped when I told her I had to come down here. I was not in a very good mood. Can we start all over?"

"My name is Castillo, Mr. Crawford. How are you tonight?"

"Thanks. I think I just told you how I am. How are you, Lorimer?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"You're now working for the Office of Organizational Analysis, I understand. What's that all about? What is the Office of Organizational Analysis?"

Castillo answered for him.

"And that transfer, Mr. Crawford," he concluded, "was already in the works when Special Agent Timmons went missing," he said. "I brought Lorimer with me because he had been stationed here. I've never been in Paraguay."

"Do you speak Spanish?"

Castillo nodded. "I'm a Texican."

"A what?"

"A Texan with Mexican roots. I speak Mexican Spanish."

I also can pass myself off as a Porteno, and after I'm here three days, people will swear that I sound just like whatever they call the natives here. Asuncionites?

But the less qualified you think I am, the better.

"I heard you were coming here, Mr. Costello…"

"Castillo," Castillo corrected him.

"Castillo. Sorry. But not from Deputy Director Lammelle. Actually, it was back-channel."

"You want to call Lammelle and check my bona fides before this goes any further?"

"No. I understand you're here officially; there's no need to bother Deputy Director Lammelle. But I don't know exactly why you're here."

"There's unusual interest in Special Agent Timmons. My boss sent me down to find out what I can."

"And your boss is?" Crawford asked, casually.

"And to report to him what I find out," Castillo went on.

"You didn't say who your boss is."

"No, I didn't."

"Are those Secret Service credentials the real thing?"

"About as real as your 'commercial attache' diplomatic carnet. If somebody were to call the Secret Service, they would be told there is indeed a Supervisory Special Agent by the came of Castillo."

"Exactly what is it that you want from me, Mr. Castillo?"

"I want you to give Lieutenant Lorimer and Sergeant Mullroney access to all information regarding this incident, and that means I want them to have access to your people. Alone."

"What exactly is Sergeant Mullroney's role in this?"

"Personal and professional. Professionally, he works drugs in Chicago. Personally, he's Special Agent Timmons's brother-in-law."

"That's not a problem. But is that all?"

"That's all I'm going to do for now," Castillo said. "I'll write my report, then see if these people turn him loose or not. Or if he dies of an overdose."

"Well, I don't think that's going to happen. Timmons will more than likely be turned loose. Maybe tonight. Maybe two weeks from now. But, for the sake of knowing…what do you plan to do if he isn't released?"

"Bring some people and other things down here to help you get him back."

"Other things? For example?"

"For example, a couple of helicopters. Ambassador Montvale is working on that now."

Crawford's eyebrows went up. "The Paraguayan government is not going to let you try to get Timmons back," he said, "much less bring people and helicopters into the country to do it."

"Ambassador Montvale is a very persuasive man," Castillo said. "And, besides, that wasn't my decision. I will just implement it."

"How are you going to do that?"

"I'm sure I will be told what to do, and how, and when."

"I understand you met Milton Weiss," Crawford said.

Castillo nodded, then said, "Is that who gave you the back-channel heads-up about us coming down here?"