W Griffin - Hunters

"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 attache 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 Ordonez, 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 Tacuarembo 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 attaches," McGrory said. "And this is my cultural attache, 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.

"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 Tacuarembo. I was taken there by an officer of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policia 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?