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“Yes, sir,” Howell said.
“If this has to be said, I don’t want what just happened to leave this room.”
“I understand, sir.”
“What is your relationship with Mr. Darby?” McGrory asked.
“Sir?”
“Are you close? Friends? If you asked him, would he tell you if he knew anything about anything that went on at that estancia?”
“We’re acquaintances, sir, not friends.”
“But you both work for the CIA. Don’t you exchange information?”
“As
a courtesy, sir, I usually send him a copy of my reports to the agency—after you have vetted them, sir. And he does the same for me.”
“Nevertheless, I think you should ask him about this. I’m going to catch the next plane to Buenos Aires to confer with Ambassador Silvio. I want you to go with me.”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
“I don’t want to go to Washington with this until I hear what Ambassador Silvio has to say.”
“Yes, sir.”
Why do I think that you’re having second thoughts about throwing Alvarez out of your office?
[FOUR]
Office of the Director
The Central Intelligence Agency
Langley, Virginia
1205 5 August 2005
John Powell, the DCI, a trim fifty-five-year-old who had given up trying to conceal his receding hairline and now wore what was left of his hair closely cropped to his skull, rose from behind his desk and walked across his office with his hand extended to greet his visitor.
“It’s good to see you, Truman,” he said as they shook hands. “We haven’t been seeing much of each other lately.”
“The ambassador keeps me pretty busy,” Truman Ellsworth replied. He was also in his midfifties but with thirty pounds and six inches on Powell. He also had a full head of carefully coiffured silver hair. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
Powell gestured to indicate thanks were not necessary.
“And your coming gave me a much nicer alternative to eating alone or with five people with an agenda, not food, in mind. I ordered grilled trout avec beurre noir. How does that sound?”
“It sounds wonderful,” Ellsworth said and obeyed the DCI’s gesture to precede him into the DCI’s private dining room.
The table, with room for eight, had been set for two, across from one another, at the head of table.
A waiter in a stiffly starched jacket asked what they would like to drink.
“Unsweetened iced tea, please,” Ellsworth said.
“The same,” the DCI ordered.
