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Montevideo, República Oriental del Uruguay
0805 3 August 2005
Special agents/assistant legal attachés James D. Monahan and Julio Artigas were sitting on the chrome-and-leather couch outside the office of the minister extraordinary and plenipotentiary of the President of the United States to the Republic of Uruguay when the ambassador arrived.
They both looked worried. The Honorable Michael A. McGrory took no pity on them. Without speaking, he waved them some what imperiously into his office. He went to his desk, sat down, and, with another grand gesture, gave them permission to seat themselves in the two chairs facing his desk.
“Well,” McGrory said, “what more do we know about the massacre in Tacuarembó than we did when last we met? Have you heard, for example, Artigas, from your good friend, Chief Inspector Ordóñez?”
“I spoke with him last night, sir, to report that I had faxed the fingerprints to the bureau. But he didn’t pass on any other information to me.”
“I cannot help but wonder if your good friend has learned—or perhaps already knew—something he has elected not to pass on to you.”
“I really don’t think that’s the case, Mr. Ambassador,” Artigas replied.
“And you, Monahan? What have you to contribute?”
McGrory really disliked Monahan. The only reason he wasn’t absolutely sure that Monahan was the so-called wit who had installed a decalcomania of an Irish leprechaun named McGrory in a urinal in the visitor’s men’s room was that he couldn’t believe one Irishman would do that to another.
“Sir…” Monahan began uncomfortably. He cleared his throat and began again. “Sir, I have been unable to locate Mr. Yung. I even went to Puente del Este last night and checked all the hotels where he usually stays.”
“That’s probably because Mr. Yung is no longer with us,” the ambassador said.
“Sir?”
“I received, at the residence, a telephone call at half past nine last night from the assistant director of the FBI. He said that it had been necessary to recall Mr. Yung to Washington. He informed me that Mr. Yung had actually already left Uruguay. It apparently has something to do with Mr. Yung being needed to testify in court. The assistant director said he was reluctant to get into details on a nonsecure telephone connection.”
“I wonder what that’s all about?” Monahan mused aloud.
“And so do I. I’m sure the assistant director will explain the situation to me when he calls, which he has promised to do as soon as he gets to a secure telephone in his office this morning.”
“That won’t be before ten-thirty our time,” Monahan said. “There’s a one-hour difference between here and D.C. and I never knew an assistant director who came to work before nine-thirty.”
“And whenever he calls, I won’t be here. We won’t be here.”
“Sir?”
“When thinking this matter through last night, I decided I should, as soon as possible, bring it to the attention of Ambassador Silvio in Buenos Aires. The late Mr. Masterson was, after all, the chief of mission there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I decided (a) that I should do so personally and (b) that you, Artigas, should come with me. I can see no reason for you to go to Buenos Aires, Monahan. Can you?”
“No, sir.”
“We are on the nine-ten Austral flight,” McGrory said. “Mr. Howell will be going with us. He has some cultural business to transact in Buenos Aires, if you take my meaning.”
“I understand, sir,” Artigas said.
Mr. Robert Howell was the cultural attaché of the embassy. That he was also the CIA station chief was just about as much of a secret as was the identity of the Irish FBI agent who had put the McGrory leprechaun decal in the urinal.
“While we are gone, Monahan, I want you to do two things,” the ambassador went on. “One, keep yourself available to take the call from the assistant director. Tell him where I am and ask him to call me at the embassy in Buenos Aires.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Two, it will probably be a waste of your time, but see if you can find out anything else from Artigas’s friend, Chief Inspector Ordóñez, or anyone else.”
“Yes, sir.”
