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“Now—bearing in mind that I don’t know this for sure, but I’ve been in this diplomatic game for many years now, and believe me you acquire a certain insight into things…”
“I’m sure you have, sir.”
“One of the things you learn is that people who would have you think they have a certain influence with the upper echelons of something—like the State Department, for example—don’t really have much influence at all.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Yung said.
“And ying yong,” McGrory said, significantly.
“Excuse me?”
“Ying yong,” McGrory repeated, and then when he saw on Yung’s face that he didn’t understand went on: “I thought, as an Oriental, you would understand. That’s Korean, I believe.”
“I’m Chinese, Mr. Ambassador,” Yung said. “My family came to this country—to the United States—in the 1840s. I don’t speak Korean.”
“It means everything evens out,” McGrory explained. “Sort of like the law of physics which says every action has an immediate and exactly opposite reaction.”
“Yes, sir?”
“In this case, Yung, it would mean that someone who goes to some effort to suggest he has little influence—is ‘pretty low on the totem pole,’ to use your phrase—may in fact have a good deal of influence.”
What the hell is McGrory talking about? Is he suggesting I have influence?
“I’m not sure I follow you, Mr. Ambassador.”
“I understand, of course,” McGrory said.
McGrory gave Yung time for that to sink in, then went on: “As I was saying, we are both in a some what delicate position vis-à-vis Mr. Lorimer.”
“How is that, sir?”
“Like the secretary, I am concerned with Ambassador Lorimer. I never met him, but I understand he is a fine man, a credit to the diplomatic service.”
“That’s my understanding, sir.”
“And Ambassador Silvio, in Buenos Aires, told me in confidence that Ambassador Lorimer has certain health problems…his heart.”
“So I understand,” Yung said.
“Let me tell you, Yung, what’s happened here. Off the record, of course.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As incredible as this sounds, Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez came to my office. He had with him a Señor Ordóñez, who I have learned is the chief inspector of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policía Nacional. Not an official visit. He just ‘happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to chat over a cup of coffee.’”
“Yes, sir?”
“And he suggested not only that what really happened at Estancia Shangri-La was a shoot-out between persons unknown and United States Special Forces, but also that I knew all about it.”
Yung looked at Howell but did not reply.
McGrory continued: “The accusation is patently absurd, of course. I don’t have to tell you that no action of that kind could take place without my knowledge and permission. As ambassador, I am the senior U.S. officer in country.
And Mr. Howell—who as I’m sure you suspect is the CIA station chief—assures me that he knows of no secret operation by the intelligence community. And he would know.”
“I’d heard the rumors that Mr. Howell was CIA, sir…”
“Well, that’s classified information, of course,” McGrory said. “I never told you that.”
