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“You haven’t been able to identify any of the bodies?” McGrory asked.
“The only thing we have learned about the bodies is that a good deal of effort went into making them hard to identify. None of them had any identification whatever on them or on their clothing. They rented a Mercedes Traffik van at the airport in Carrasco—”
“Don’t you need a credit card and a driver’s license to rent a car?” Howell asked. “And a passport?”
That earned him another dirty look from McGrory.
And when this is over, I will get a lecture reminding me that underlings are not expected to speak unless told to by the ambassador.
Sorry, Mr. Ambassador, sir, but I didn’t think you were going to show any interest in that, and it damned well might be useful in finding out who the Ninjas were and where they came from.
“Both,” Ordóñez said. “The van was rented to a Señor Alejandro J. Gastor, of Madrid, who presented his Spanish passport, his Spanish driver’s license, and a prepaid MasterCard debit card issued by the Banco Galicia of Madrid. The Spanish ambassador has learned that no passport or driver’s license has ever been issued to anyone named Alejandro J. Gastor and that the address
on the driver’s license is that of a McDonald’s fast-food restaurant.”
“Interesting,” Howell said.
He thought: Ordóñez is pretty good.
I wonder if anyone spotted my car up there?
Or the Yukon from the embassy in Buenos Aires that took the jet fuel there?
We put Argentinean license plates on it.
Is that another reason Ordóñez is “leaning toward Argentina” as the place the chopper came from?
“And so is this,” Ordóñez said, and handed Howell a small, zipper-top plastic bag. There was a fired cartridge case in it.
“This is one of the cases found at the estancia,” Ordóñez went on. “There were, in all, one hundred and two cases, forty-six of them 9mm, seventy-five .223, and this one.”
“Looks like a .308 Winchester,” Howell said, examining the round through the plastic, then handed the bag to McGrory, who examined it carefully.
Howell watched with masked amusement. Señor Pompous doesn’t have a clue about what he’s looking at.
Ordóñez did not respond directly to the .308 comment.
Instead, he said, “The 9mm cases were of Israeli manufacture. And the .223 were all from the U.S. Army. Which means, of course, that there is virtually no chance of learning anything useful from either the 9mm or the .223 cases. Or from the weapons we found on the scene, which were all Madsen submachine guns of Danish manufacture. We found five submachine guns, and there were six men in the dark coveralls. There were also indications that something—most likely a sixth Madsen, but possibly some other type of weapon taken because it was unusual—was removed from under one of the bodies found on the veranda.
“I think it’s reasonable to assume this casing came from the rifle which killed the two men we found on the veranda. They were both shot in the head. We found one bullet lodged in the wall—”
“I’m afraid I’m missing something,” McGrory interrupted. “Is there something special about this bullet?”
There you go again, McGrory! The bullet is the pointy thing that comes out the hole in the barrel after the “bang.”
What you’re looking at is the cartridge case.
“Mr. Ambassador, what you’re holding is the cartridge case, not the bullet,” Ordóñez said. “And, yes, there is something special about it.”
Now I know I like you, Chief Inspector Ordóñez. You’re dangerous, but I like you.
“And what is that?” McGrory asked, his tone indicating he did not like to be corrected.
“If you’ll look at the headstamp, Mr. Ambassador,” Ordóñez said.
“Certainly,” McGrory said, and looked at Ordóñez clearly expecting him to hand him a headstamp, whatever that was.
“It’s on the bottom of the cartridge casing in the bag, Mr. Ambassador,” Ordóñez said.
