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“Sir, Mr. Lorimer owned—and I don’t think it was mortgaged—a large estancia—a farm—in Uruguay. And he owned—I know he owned—a nice apartment on rue Monsieur in the VII Arrondisement in Paris.”
“Well, he lived in Paris, therefore he needed a place to live. Many people take insurance to pay off the mortgage on their apartments on their death. The same argument could be presented to the ambassador vis-à-vis the farm in Uruguay, which Jean-Paul could have acquired in anticipation of his ultimate retirement. The question is, how do we explain to the ambassador the circumstances of Jean-Paul’s death?”
“That’s what they call a multiple-part question,” Castillo said. “Let me try to explain what we have. By now the local police in Tacuarembó have found out what happened. The question is, what have they found out?”
He let that sink in, then continued:
“We plastic-cuffed and blindfolded the servants that were in the house.” He paused. “One of these was a young Uruguayan girl with whom Mr. Lorimer apparently had a close relationship.”
He waited until he saw understanding and what could have been contempt in Masterson’s eyes and then went on.
“We put her—and the estancia manager and his wife—to sleep. A safe narcotic, administered by someone who knew what he was doing.
“Now, everybody saw who did the cuffing: Spanish-speaking masked men wearing balaclava masks. You remember when the Alcohol, Firearms and Tobacco agents ‘rescued’ the Cuban boy in Miami? Their black ski masks?”
Masterson nodded. His face showed his contempt for that act.
“And everybody was wearing what are essentially black coveralls. That description will be reported to the police. When the police arrive—and by now they almost certainly have—they will have found six men in dark blue, nearly black coveralls. But no masks. Which poses a problem….”
“Six dead men in coveralls,” Masterson said.
“Yes, sir. Plus Mr. Lorimer, who they will have found lying on his office floor next to his safe. There are no valuables in the safe. The best possible scenario is that they will suspect a robbery by the same people who cuffed and needled the servants.”
“But they’re now dead?” Masterson said.
“Shot treacherously by one or more of their number so that whatever was stolen would not have to be split in so many shares,” Castillo said.
“The local police won’t know—or suspect—that someone else—you and your people—were there?”
“Well, we hope not,” Castillo said. “There is a history of that kind of robbery—of isolated estancias—in Uruguay and Argentina. And Mr. Lorimer/Bertrand, a wealthy businessman, meets the profile of the sort of people robbed.”
“You…left nothing behind that can place you there?”
“The only thing we know of—which is not saying I didn’t screw up somewhere and they’ll find something else—is blood.”
“I don’t understand,” Masterson said.
“When we were bushwhacked by these people, we took casualties,” Castillo said. “One was one of my men, who was garroted, and the other was an Argentine who was helping us. He lived, but he bled a lot.”
“The guy the bastards got was a sergeant first class named Seymour Kranz,” D’Allessando said. “Good guy. No amateur. Which makes me really wonder who these bad guys are.”
“I’ll get to that later, Vic,” Castillo said.
“Do I correctly infer that the sergeant did not live?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that. What happened to his body?”
“We exfiltrated it with us,” Castillo said. “Now here the scenario gets very
hopeful. If American police were investigating a crime like this, they would subject the blood to a number of tests. They would match blood to bodies, among other things. I’m hoping the police in rural Uruguay are not going to be so thorough; that they won’t come up with a blood sample, or samples, that don’t match the bodies.”
“My God, seven bodies is a massacre. They won’t ask for help from—what?—the Uruguayan equivalent of the FBI? A police organization that will be thorough?”
“I’m counting on that, sir. That’s how it will be learned that Mr. Bertrand is really Mr. Lorimer.”
“How will that happen?”
