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“Where’s that?”
“Fulda.”
“Well, I can’t get you in the apartment until after dark. So what I suggest is that when we finish our hamburgers—if we ever get them—we go over to the embassy and have another look at what I’ve got. Maybe you’ll see something I don’t. You’ve got your American passport?”
Castillo nodded.
“And while we’re there, I’ll get on the horn to Brussels and have Eurojet taxi pick you up at Charles de Gaulle in the morning. What’s closest to Fulda, Rhine-Main?”
Castillo nodded. “But it’s no longer Rhine-Main; we gave it back to the Germans a couple of weeks ago. It’s now all Frankfurt International.”
“The old order changeth and giveth way to the new. Write that down.”
Castillo chuckled. “Ed, I’m not sure about using that Eurojet whatever you said. Why don’t I catch a train after we do the apartment?
“Worried about owing Montvale?”
Castillo nodded.
“On the other hand, if he hears you used his airplane—and he will—he’ll presume he has you in his pocket. Having him think that is known as disarming your enemy.”
“Why do you make me feel so stupid, Delchamps?”
“You’re not stupid, Ace. A little short on experience, maybe, but not stupid.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in reasonably honest employment in our nation’s capital, would you?”
Delchamps met his eyes for a long moment.
“Why don’t we talk about that again, Ace, after you find out who these people are?”
“That presumes I will.”
“Rephrase: After you have your best shot at it. The first thing a wise spook has to admit is that failure is the norm. You seem to have learned that, so maybe there is some hope for you in this business.”
[THREE]
The Residence of the Ambassador of the United States of America
1104 La Rambla
Carrasco, República Oriental del Uruguay
0805 5 August 2005
As the Honorable Michael A. McGrory, still in his bathrobe, was sipping at a cup of coffee while looking some what glumly out his dining-room window at what looked like a drizzle that would last all day, Theodore J. Detweiller, Jr., his chief of mission, telephoned.
“I’m sorry to bother you at home, Mr. Ambassador, but I thought I should bring this to your attention immediately.”
“What’s up, Ted?” McGrory responded.
There were two ways to look at a chief of mission who would not take any action without being absolutely sure it was what the ambassador wanted.
On one hand, Ambassador McGrory thought it was a good thing. He didn’t have to spend much time or effort rescinding Detweiller’s bad decisions and repairing the collateral damage they may have caused because Detweiller rarely—almost never—made any decisions on his own.
On the other, having a de facto deputy ambassador who would not blow his nose until he found in the Standing Operating Procedure when and under what circumstances doing so was specifically authorized or, failing that, until he had asked permission of the ambassador to do so was often a pain in the you-know-where.
Detweiller, too, often considered things that could well wait until the next day—or the next week—important enough to bring them to the ambassador’s immediate attention, even if that meant disturbing the ambassador’s breakfast, lunch, or golf game.
