W Griffin - Hunters

"Mr. Masterson," Castillo said, carefully, "once I located Mr. Lorimer, it was my intention to repatriate him-willingly or otherwise. I had just identified myself to him when he was shot."

"I have two questions," Masterson said. "Who shot him? And what was he doing in Uruguay?"

"I have no idea who shot him. Every one of them-there were six men in the group who attacked us-were killed by my people. As to what he was doing in Uruguay, I believe he was trying to establish a new identity. Actually, he had established one. He had a Lebanese passport in the name of Jean-Paul Bertrand. He was legally-as Bertrand-a resident in Uruguay, where people believed he was a successful antiquities dealer."

"Antiquities dealer? Can you tell me-I have the feeling you know-why he was doing something like that?"

"Apparently, he was involved with the Iraqi oil-for-food scandal. Specifically, I believe, as the paymaster. He knew who got how much money, and when and what for. That could have been the reason he was killed. Additionally, I believe he skimmed some of the payoff money. He had almost sixteen million dollars in several bank accounts in Uruguay. He may have been killed as punishment for stealing the money."

"One is not supposed to speak ill of the dead," Masterson said, "but that explains a good deal. Greed would motivate Jean-Paul. Coupled with the delusion that he was smarter than those from whom he was stealing, that would give him motivation sufficient to overcome his natural timidity."

"I can't argue with that, sir, but I just don't know why he did what He did."

"How did you find him? And so quickly?"

"Good question, Charley," D'Allessando said.

Castillo flashed him a dirty look, then said, "I don't mean to sound flippant, but I got lucky."

"And the money? What happens to that money? Sixteen million, you said?"

"Yes, sir. We have it."

"Does anyone-everyone-know you have it?"

"No, sir."

"What are you going to do with it? Jesus! Sixteen million!" D'Allessando said, earning him another dirty look from Castillo.

"Mr. Masterson, do you remember me telling you the day we came here that the President had ordered Ambassador Montvale, and the attorney general, and the secretaries of state and Homeland Security-everybody-to give me whatever I needed to track down Mr. Masterson's murderers?"

Masterson nodded.

"That was the truth, but it wasn't the whole truth. In fact-and this carries the security classification of Top Secret Presidential, and, if I somehow can, I'd rather not make Mr. Masterson privy to this-"

"I understand," Masterson interjected.

"In fact, there has been a Presidential Finding, in which the President set up a covert and clandestine organization charged with locating and rendering harmless those people responsible for the murders of Mr. Masterson and Sergeant Markham."

"'Rendering harmless'? Is that something like the 'terminating with extreme prejudice' of the Vietnam era?"

"Just about," D'Allessando said.

"I would rather not answer that, sir," Castillo said.

"I understand. And who-if you can't answer, I'll understand-is running this 'covert and clandestine' organization? Ambassador Montvale? The CIA?"

"I am, sir. And that's something else I would rather not tell Mr. Masterson."

Masterson nodded and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"The money will be used to fund that activity, sir," Castillo said.

"Is that what they call poetic justice?" Masterson said. "A moment ago, I was worried about Ambassador Lorimer…"

"Sir?"

"Jean-Paul's only blood kin are his parents and Betsy. That means unless he left a will bequeathing his earthly possessions to some Parisian tootsie, which I don't think is likely, they are his heirs. The ambassador would know there was no way Jean-Paul could have honestly accrued that much money. That would have been difficult for him. And God knows Betsy doesn't need it-and, of course, would not want it."

"Sir, Mr. Lorimer owned-and I don't think it was mortgaged-a large estancia-a farm-in Uruguay. And he owned-I know he owned-a nice apartment on rue Monsieur in the VII Arrondisement in Paris."

"Well, he lived in Paris, therefore he needed a place to live. Many people take insurance to pay off the mortgage on their apartments on their death. The same argument could be presented to the ambassador vis-a-vis the farm in Uruguay, which Jean-Paul could have acquired in anticipation of his ultimate retirement. The question is, how do we explain to the ambassador the circumstances of Jean-Paul's death?"

"That's what they call a multiple-part question," Castillo said. "Let me try to explain what we have. By now the local police in Tacuarembo have found out what happened. The question is, what have they found out?"

He let that sink in, then continued:

"We plastic-cuffed and blindfolded the servants that were in the house." He paused. "One of these was a young Uruguayan girl with whom Mr. Lorimer apparently had a close relationship."

He waited until he saw understanding and what could have been contempt in Masterson's eyes and then went on.

"We put her-and the estancia manager and his wife-to sleep. A safe narcotic, administered by someone who knew what he was doing.

"Now, everybody saw who did the cuffing: Spanish-speaking masked men wearing balaclava masks. You remember when the Alcohol, Firearms and Tobacco agents 'rescued' the Cuban boy in Miami? Their black ski masks?"

Masterson nodded. His face showed his contempt for that act.

"And everybody was wearing what are essentially black coveralls. That description will be reported to the police. When the police arrive-and by now they almost certainly have-they will have found six men in dark blue, nearly black coveralls. But no masks. Which poses a problem…"

"Six dead men in coveralls," Masterson said.

"Yes, sir. Plus Mr. Lorimer, who they will have found lying on his office floor next to his safe. There are no valuables in the safe. The best possible scenario is that they will suspect a robbery by the same people who cuffed and needled the servants."

"But they're now dead?" Masterson said.

"Shot treacherously by one or more of their number so that whatever was stolen would not have to be split in so many shares," Castillo said.

"The local police won't know-or suspect-that someone else-you and your people-were there?"

"Well, we hope not," Castillo said. "There is a history of that kind of robbery-of isolated estancias-in Uruguay and Argentina. And Mr. Lorimer/Bertrand, a wealthy businessman, meets the profile of the sort of people robbed."

"You…left nothing behind that can place you there?"

"The only thing we know of-which is not saying I didn't screw up somewhere and they'll find something else-is blood."

"I don't understand," Masterson said.

"When we were bushwhacked by these people, we took casualties," Castillo said. "One was one of my men, who was garroted, and the other was an Argentine who was helping us. He lived, but he bled a lot."

"The guy the bastards got was a sergeant first class named Seymour Kranz," D'Allessando said. "Good guy. No amateur. Which makes me really wonder who these bad guys are."

"I'll get to that later, Vic," Castillo said.

"Do I correctly infer that the sergeant did not live?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm really sorry to hear that. What happened to his body?"

"We exfiltrated it with us," Castillo said. "Now here the scenario gets very hopeful. If American police were investigating a crime like this, they would subject the blood to a number of tests. They would match blood to bodies, among other things. I'm hoping the police in rural Uruguay are not going to be so thorough; that they won't come up with a blood sample, or samples, that don't match the bodies."