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"Then why don't we go there? After we stop someplace for breakfast?"
"You didn't eat before you came over?"
"Yeah, sure I did. But it was so long a flight, I'm hungry again."
"My car's out here," Yung said, and walked out of the terminal.
He walked so quickly he was soon out of earshot.
"Charley," Britton asked, "why do I think that guy doesn't like you?"
"You're perceptive?" They found an open restaurant not far from the beach.
"Why is the Atlantic Ocean so dirty?" Britton asked.
"That's not the Atlantic Ocean, that's the Rio de la Plata," Castillo told him.
"That's a river?"
"The mouth of the 'River of Silver' is a hundred-plus miles wide. The Blue Danube isn't blue, and the River of Silver is muddy. The Atlantic starts about sixty miles north of here. There's a resort there called Punta del Este. Point of the East. Pretty classy. The water there is blue."
"Very handy to launder money," Santini said.
"Yeah," Castillo said, thoughtfully.
"How do they do that, launder money?" Britton asked.
"One way is through the casinos," Santini said. "There's a bunch of them there. Hell, there's one right here in Carrasco, a Marriott, and a couple more downtown. The biggest one in Punta del Este is the Conrad, named after, and I think owned by, Hilton. The way it works is that you slip the casino a bunch of cash. Then they let you win, say, ninety percent of it. You declare your gambling winnings, pay taxes on it, and your money is now laundered."
"You're telling me that Marriott and Hilton are laundering money?" Britton asked, incredulously.
"Marriott and Hilton, no," Santini said. "There's generally at least one legal attache-which is what they call FBI agents in the diplomatic world-on their premises. Marriott and Hilton are thus reminded of their patriotic duty not to launder money. The locally owned casinos are where it's done. Isn't that so, Yung?"
"If you say so," Special Agent Yung said. He turned to Castillo. "When do you want to see Ambassador McGrory?"
"I don't need to see him," Castillo said.
"He wants to see you."
"I don't need to see him, at least not today."
"He wants to see you."
"So you said."
"You are aware, aren't you, Mr. Castillo, that the ambassador is the man in charge of all U.S. government activities in the country to which he is accredited?"
"So I've heard," Castillo said. "We'll talk about this when we have some privacy."
Yung didn't reply. Yung had a spacious, top-floor apartment in a three-story building on the Rambla, the waterfront highway between Carrasco and Montevideo, to the south.
Yung waved them, not very graciously, into chairs in the living room.
"All right, Mr. Castillo, what can I do for you? I'm sure you'll understand that I am obliged to report to Ambassador McGrory what may be discussed."
"Special Agent Yung," Castillo said icily, "I am now going to show you my credentials identifying me as a supervisory agent of the United States Secret Service."
He got out of his chair and held his credentials in front of Yung, who examined them and then nodded.
