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“Well, for example, when Castro visited Argentina, where he was under Munz’s protection, and then came here, where I was responsible for his protection, Alfredo and I naturally worked together.”
“I can understand why that would happen.”
“Well, when I heard that my friend Alfredo had had—how do I put this? —some difficulty involving a firearm, the first thing I wanted to do was help. I couldn’t rush across the river to Buenos Aires, of course, because I was deeply involved in the investigation of the massacre at Estancia Shangri-La. And when I tried to telephone him, using a very private line to his very private line in his apartment, there was never an answer. There were several possible reasons for this, the most likely being that he saw, on caller identification, that I was calling and didn’t think it wise—for his sake or mine—that we talk.”
Ordóñez raised his glass.
“May I impose on your hospitality for another of these, my friend David?” He smiled. “This glass seems to have a hole in it.”
“Of course.”
While Yung put ice then Famous Grouse into Ordóñez’s glass, he thought, I really should not have
another of these. I’m out of my depth with Ordóñez and I have no idea where this is leading—but then poured another two inches of scotch into his own glass.
“Here you go, José,” Yung said, handing him the drink.
“Thank you. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. As I said, it was impossible for me—because of the massacre investigation—to personally go to Buenos Aires to see what I could do to help Alfredo, or even to get him on the phone, so I did the only thing I could think of to help: I put a watch on the immigration computers.”
“Excuse me?”
“I instructed our immigration service to notify me personally and immediately should the Munz name appear. I already had issued such a watch for two U.S. diplomats, Julio Artigas and David W. Yung, Jr.”
“How interesting.”
“Aren’t you at all curious why I am curious about the movements out of and into Uruguay of you and my cousin Julio?”
“I figure if you want me to know, you’ll tell me.”
“Actually, there have been two interesting developments in the Shangri-La massacre that I wanted to ask you both about,” Ordóñez said. “We know—or at least are reasonably sure—where the helicopter out there came from, and we have positively identified one of the men who died out there from a 7.62mm rifle bullet in his head.”
Oh, shit! I don’t think that’s a bluff!
“You going to tell me about that?”
“In due time,” Ordóñez said. “Well, tonight, shortly after the parties for whom I’d issued a watch passed through immigration at the Buquebus terminal in Buenos Aires, immigration called me at my home to tell me that not only were the two American diplomats on the ferry, but so were Señora Munz and her two daughters.”
Shit!
“And here I owe both you, David, and my cousin Julio an apology. I have to confess that I suspected an unpleasant connection between you two and the family of my dear friend Alfredo. I should have known better and I’m more than a little ashamed.
What the hell is this?
“So what I did was call my man on the Buquebus—as you can imagine, it’s handy to have your men on the ferry. In civilian clothing, of course. We normally have two, one with a charming Labrador that has a fantastic nose.”
He smiled, took a healthy swallow of scotch, then continued.
“Anyway, I called him, and told him to take the Munz family under their protection, and to be especially watchful of the two American diplomats.
“He called back in half an hour to report that all parties were on the first-class deck, sitting separated from each other. He also said that the Chinese American diplomat had smiled at one of the Munz girls as he watched and that rather than being frightened—or even offended—she smiled back.
“That, of course, confused me. As did the next call from the ferry, shortly before it docked. The Chinese American diplomat was on his back on the car deck, as if looking for drugs—or, less likely, an explosive device—hidden under the car. That’s probably where you soiled your bandage, David.”
Yung did not reply.
“The final call from the ferry,” Ordóñez went on, “reported that the Munz family had willingly gotten into the BMW bearing diplomatic plates with the two American diplomats and were about to drive off the ferry.
“You didn’t see me in the port, but I saw you, and I saw how Señora Munz and the girls smiled at you in the Belmont House. So, here I am, David, looking for an explanation.”
