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“Mr. Masterson,” Castillo said, carefully, “once I located Mr. Lorimer, it was my intention to repatriate him—willingly or otherwise. I had just identified myself to him when he was shot.”
“I have two questions,” Masterson said. “Who shot him? And what was he doing in Uruguay?”
“I have no idea who shot him. Every one of them—there were six men in the group who attacked us—were killed by my people. As to what he was doing in Uruguay, I believe he was trying to establish a new identity. Actually, he had established one. He had a Lebanese passport in the name of Jean-Paul Bertrand. He was legally—as Bertrand—a resident in Uruguay, where people believed he was a successful antiquities dealer.”
“Antiquities dealer? Can you tell me—I have the feeling you know—why he was doing something like that?”
“Apparently, he was involved with the Iraqi oil-for-food scandal. Specifically, I believe, as the paymaster. He knew who got how much money, and when and what for. That could have been the reason he was killed. Additionally, I believe he skimmed some of the payoff money. He had almost sixteen million dollars in several bank accounts in Uruguay. He may have been killed as punishment for stealing the money.”
“One is not supposed to speak ill of the dead,” Masterson said, “but that explains a good deal. Greed would motivate Jean-Paul. Coupled with the delusion that he was smarter than those from whom he was stealing, that would give him motivation sufficient to overcome his natural timidity.”
“I can’t argue with that, sir, but I just don’t know why he did what He did.”
“How did you find him? And so quickly?”
“Good question, Charley,” D’Allessando said.
Castillo flashed him a dirty look, then said, “I don’t mean to sound flippant, but I got lucky.”
“And the money? What happens to that money? Sixteen million, you said?”
“Yes, sir. We have it.”
“Does anyone—everyone—know you have it?”
“No, sir.”
“What are you going to do with it? Jesus! Sixteen million!” D’Allessando said, earning him another dirty look from Castillo.
“Mr. Masterson, do you remember me telling you the day we came here that the President had ordered Ambassador Montvale, and the attorney general, and the secretaries of state and Homeland Security—everybody—to give me whatever I needed to track down Mr. Masterson’s murderers?”
Masterson nodded.
“That was the truth, but it wasn’t the whole truth. In fact—and this carries the security classification of Top Secret Presidential, and, if I somehow can, I’d rather not make Mr. Masterson privy to this—”
“I understand,” Masterson interjected.
“In fact, there has been a Presidential Finding, in which the President set up a covert and clandestine organization charged with locating and rendering harmless those people responsible for the murders of Mr. Masterson and Sergeant Markham.”
“‘Rendering harmless’? Is that something like the ‘terminating with extreme prejudice’ of the Vietnam era?”
“Just about,” D’Allessando said.
“I would rather not answer that, sir,” Castillo said.
“I understand. And who—if you can’t answer, I’ll understand—is running this ‘covert and clandestine’ organization? Ambassador Montvale? The CIA?”
“I am, sir. And that’s something else I would rather not tell Mr. Masterson.”
Masterson nodded and pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“The money will be used to fund that activity, sir,” Castillo said.
“Is that what they call poetic justice?” Masterson said. “A moment ago, I was worried about Ambassador Lorimer….”
“Sir?”
“Jean-Paul’s only blood kin are his parents and Betsy. That means unless he left a will bequeathing his earthly possessions to some Parisian tootsie, which I don’t think is likely, they are his heirs. The ambassador would know there was no way Jean-Paul could have honestly accrued that much money. That would have been difficult for him. And God knows Betsy doesn’t need it—and, of course, would not want it.”
