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“You understood about the rent-a-cops?”
Munz nodded.
“So they do work for SIDE?”
“Some of them do,” Munz said. “I didn’t know you brought Yung back with you.”
“I sent him back here,” Castillo said. “And last night he was shot by a Uruguayan cop who killed the guy—no identification on the body—who was trying to stick a needle full of ketamine in him.”
“They wanted to question him about the money? What else happened at the estancia?”
“He’s not badly injured, Alfredo, just a flesh wound to the hand. Thank you for asking.”
“If he was badly hurt, you would have said something,” Munz said, reasonably.
Castillo shook his head, started the engine, and drove to Libertador. This time, there was a break in the traffic and he headed for Buenos Aires.
X
[ONE]
Residence of the United States Ambassador
Avenida Libertador y Calle John F. Kennedy
Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina
1505 8 August 2005
The ambassador’s residence is a stately century-old mansion two blocks across a park from the rather ugly “modern” building of the embassy. By following Darby’s orders to “drive past his office on the way”—which meant approaching the ambassador’s office in the embassy from the Place d’Italia—Castillo, with Munz again on the back floor of the Cherokee, came up to the residence on Calle John F. Kennedy, a quiet street, instead of Avenida Libertador, which is eight lanes wide and heavy with traffic.
There was more reason, too, to Darby’s orders. Castillo saw Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio standing on the sidewalk, smoking a cigar, and apparently having a pleasant chat with members of both the Policía Federal and the embassy-hired Argentine rent-a-cops.
When the Cherokee’s turn signals indicated Castillo’s intention to enter the driveway of the residence, two of the rent-a-cops quickly moved to see who he was.
“¡Hola, Carlos!” Ambassador Silvio cried, cheerfully. He moved quickly to the Cherokee, gesturing for Castillo to put the window down. Then he called for one of the Policía Federal to open the gate.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Carlos,” Silvio said through the window opened barely more than a crack. “As soon as they get the gate open, drive right in and around the corner of the building.”
No rent-a-cop was going to push the ambassador himself aside to inspect the interior of a vehicle.
The gate opened and Castillo drove into the drive, past the ornate front door, and around the corner of the building. As he did, a service door of some kind opened and a man Castillo recognized as Ken Lowery, the embassy’s security officer, appeared and came up to the car.
“Where’s your passenger, Colonel?” he asked.
“In the backseat,” Castillo said, then raised his voice. “You going to need some help to get out, Alfredo?”
“Just open the door,” Munz said.
Lowery opened it, then stood to the side, blocking the view of anyone who might have come around the corner of the building.
Munz, his head ducked, went quickly into the building.
Castillo followed him inside. Lowery then came in, closing the door after him. Castillo saw that they were in a corridor outside of what looked like an unused kitchen.
“Good to see you again, Colonel Munz,” Lowery said, in Spanish, and put out his hand. When Munz winced as he shook it, Lowery asked, “What’s wrong? Hurt your shoulder?”
“I don’t think you want to know, Ken,” Castillo said, quickly.
