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To explain his early presence on the car deck, once he had found the BMW and unlocked it, Yung popped the hood and looked intently at the engine, as if expecting some sign of some impending mechanical difficulty.
Only when he had been standing there for ninety seconds did it occur to him that it was possible—if unlikely—someone had been watching them all along, and, as soon as Artigas had left the car deck, that someone had hooked up a primer and a couple pounds of plastic explosive to the BMW’s ignition.
Unlikely but not impossible.
The bastards are capable of anything—including using C-4.
The first few drivers who came down to the car deck to claim their vehicles looked wonderingly at the nicely dressed Chinese man flat on his back, studying the undercarriage of the BMW that had Corps Diplomatique license plates.
Yung finished in time to be standing at the foot of the stairway when the Munz family came down.
He had ushered them into the car and was in the front seat by the time Artigas walked up.
By then, the ferry was nudging into the pier.
Cars began driving off the ferry a minute or two later. Immigration formalities had been accomplished in Buenos Aires. At one counter in the terminal there, Argentine officials had run passports and National Identity Cards through a computer reader, then handed them to Uruguayan immigration officers sitting at the next counter. The passports and National Identity Cards were then run through a Uruguayan computer reader, then handed back to the travelers, who, even though physically in Buenos Aires, were now legally inside the borders of the República Oriental del Uruguay.
Uruguayan customs officials, however, were waiting for the cars streaming off the ferry.
Artigas rolled down the window and extended his diplomat’s carnet, a plastic card not unlike a driver’s license.
The customs officer looked at it a moment, peered into the car, and said, “Welcome back to Uruguay, Señor Artigas.”
“Thank you,” Artigas said.
“Diplomaticos Norteamericanos,” the customs officer called to uniformed officers a few feet away. They saluted as the BMW rolled past.
“Welcome to Uruguay, señora y senoritas,” Yung said.
“Gracias,” Señora Munz said, emotionally.
Artigas turned right on leaving the port gate and headed for Carrasco on the Rambla.
Yung took out his cellular and punched Castillo’s autodial number.
After the first ring, Yung heard, “¿Hola?”
“The pilgrims just stepped off Plymouth Rock,” Yung announced.
“What?” a voice asked, in English.
“Who is this?” Yung demanded.
“Yung?” the voice said.
“Yes.”
“Torine. What’s up?”
“Where’s the boss?”
“Crashed. He fell asleep right after dinner. Everything go all right or do I have to wake him?”
“As smooth as glass. We’re on our way to the airport to pick up Artigas’s car, then to the Belmont House. We’ll take turns sitting on the nest.”
“How’s the battery in your cellular?”
“I’ll make sure it’s charged”—he corrected himself—“they’re charged.”
