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"I sent word that we were coming," Castillo said. "But I'm not going to tell him any more than I have to about what we're going to do. He's a good guy, and I want him to be able to honestly say he knew nothing about it."
" 'It' covers a lot of territory, Charley," Darby said.
"That's because, right now, I don't know what's going to happen," Castillo said. "How do we get to Jorge Newbery?"
"I've got a car," Santini said.
"With CD tags?" Darby asked.
Santini shook his head.
"Then take mine. That way you can park right in front." [THREE] Aeropuerto Internacional General C. L. Berisso Carrasco, Montevideo Republica Oriental del Uruguay 0710 29 July 2005 There had been a parking area for perhaps thirty cars reserved for the Corps Diplomatique against one wall of the Jorge Newbery passenger terminal and fifteen minutes after Santini parked Darby's embassy BMW they were aboard Austral flight 311, Boeing 737 nonstop service to Montevideo.
Immigration formalities for leaving the Republic of Argentina and entering the Republic of Uruguay had been simple. Castillo saw that Argentine and Uruguayan nationals simply had to show their national identity cards. He made a mental note to see if the friendly folks at Langley could make him one.
As foreigners, Castillo and Britton had to go through formal procedures. These consisted of submitting their passports to an Argentine immigration officer, who exposed them to a computer reader. He then applied the EXIT stamp in the appropriate spot, and then handed the passport to the Uruguayan official sitting next to him. The passport was again exposed to a computer reader, stamped with an ENTER stamp, and then handed back to the traveler. There would be no immigration formalities when they actually got off the airplane in Uruguay.
Airport security had come next. It consisted primarily of walking past two police officers, who didn't show much interest in any of them. The carry-on baggage X-ray machine wasn't even turned on.
Even granting that Austral flight 311 really is a flying commuter bus, and that the possibility of Muslim terrorists taking over the aircraft and diving it into the, say, DaimlerChrysler building in downtown Buenos Aires is admittedly slim, Castillo thought, as a stewardess handed him a copy of La Nacion, the airport security check of boarding passengers was still a little lax.
The flight itself, from wheels-up to a somewhat hard landing, took about twenty-six minutes.
Once in the terminal building, there were signs in Spanish and English offering travelers their choice of NOTHING TO DECLARE and PAY CUSTOMS CHARGES lanes. Castillo did not see officials of any kind in either lane.
Special Agent David William Yung, Jr., of the FBI was waiting for them in the airport lobby.
I'm going to have to remember I don't like this sonofabitch.
"Hello again, Yung," Castillo greeted him. "It was good of you to meet us."
"Mr. Darby suggested it would be best," Yung said, ignoring Castillo's outstretched hand.
Well, fuck you, Yung!
"You remember Mr. Santini, I'm sure," Castillo said. "I'm not sure about Mr. Britton."
"I saw him when I was in Buenos Aires," Yung said.
"Pleased to meet you, too," Britton said cheerfully, with a broad smile. "It's always a pleasure to work with the FBI."
Castillo and Santini smiled. Yung didn't.
"Where would you like to go, Mr. Castillo?" Yung asked.
"Where are your files?"
"I have some in my office in the embassy and some in my apartment," Yung said. "I don't know what you're after."
"I'm looking for an American. He works for the UN. His name is Jean-Paul Lorimer."
Yung shook his head, indicating he'd never heard of him.
Or doesn't want to give me what he has.
"Which is closer? Your apartment or the embassy?"
"My apartment."
