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“The what?”
“There was a lot of money—in sort-of cashier’s checks—in Lorimer’s safe, Alfredo. Almost sixteen million dollars. I’d like to know how Kennedy knew about it. Anyway, we took it. It’s out of the country. I control it. I call it the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund. You and your family will have all the money you need in the States for as long as you need it.”
“Can you do that? Why would you?”
“You took a bullet for us. We owe you.”
“I knew what I was doing when I went with you.”
“We owe you,” Castillo said, flatly. “You’ve got your passports?”
Munz nodded. “But not visas. Could you arrange visas?”
“Not a problem.”
I’ll get you visas if I have to go to the President.
“I’m not going,” Munz said.
“Don’t be a fool, Alfredo.”
“I accept, with profound gratitude, Karl, your offer for my wife and daughters. But I’m not going to let these bastards chase me out of Argentina.”
Castillo looked at him but said nothing.
“Maybe I can be of some small use to you, Karl,” Munz said, “in finding these people.”
“You can be of a lot of use to me, if you’re willing. And understand what you’re getting into.”
“Whatever you ask of me,” Munz said.
Castillo reached for the ignition key and started the engine.
“Where are we going?” Munz asked.
“To an apartment in Belgrano,” Castillo said. “In the U.S. Army, mi coronel, this is known as getting the fucking circus off its ass and onto the road.”
Before he left the parking lot, when he was still waiting for a break in the traffic on Avenida Libertador, Castillo had second thoughts.
Jesus, what am I going to do with Munz at that apartment?
There’s already too many people there and more are coming.
You’re not thinking clearly, Carlos.
That your ass is dragging, for understandable reasons, is an explanation, not an excuse.
He looked out the back window of the Cherokee, then shifted into reverse and quickly backed the truck into an open space.
“Was ist los, Karl?” Munz asked, concerned.
“I need to think a minute, Alfredo,” Castillo said. “Believe it or not, there are people who think I don’t do nearly enough of that.”
He shut off the ignition, took out a cigar, carefully lit it, and for the next three minutes appeared to be doing nothing more than puffing on the cigar and staring in rapt fascination at the glowing tip.
Then he exhaled audibly, took out his cellular phone, and punched an autodial button.
Alex Darby answered on the second ring.
