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The door chimes sounded pleasantly almost exactly an hour later, and Munz went to the door and opened it.
Uruguayan Policia Nacional Chief Inspector Jose Ordonez, a trim, well-dressed, olive-skinned man in his late thirties, stepped into the room. He was visibly surprised to see Max-who sat with his head cocked, as if making up his mind about the visitor-but Ordonez didn't seem afraid of the dog; he ignored him.
He embraced Munz and kissed the air next to his cheek, then looked at Castillo. After a moment, he put out his hand.
"I won't say that I'm delighted to see you, Colonel Castillo," he said in Spanish.
"Nevertheless, good evening, Chief Inspector," Castillo replied in Spanish.
"Amazing," Ordonez said. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear he is a Porteno. The accent is perfect."
"Carlos is an amazing man, Jose," Munz said.
"May we offer you something to drink, Chief Inspector?" Castillo said.
"Yes, thank you," Ordonez said without hesitation. "Scotch, please, if you have it." He looked at an array of bottles on a credenza. "Some of that Famous Grouse single malt, if it wouldn't be an imposition."
"Not at all," Castillo said.
He remembered hearing that Uruguay consumed more scotch whiskey per capita than any other nation in the world, and that the present head of the family that had had the lock on importing the whiskey for generations was a Dartmouth graduate.
What remote corner of the memory bank did that come from?
He started to open the bottle.
"Just one lump of ice, please," Ordonez said. "And half as much gas-free water as whiskey."
"Coming up," Castillo said.
He made three identical drinks and handed Ordonez and Munz theirs.
They clicked glasses.
Ordonez walked to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and looked out.
"If this hotel had been built in 1939," he said, "Millington-Drake could have watched in comfort from here-for that matter, from the bar in the Arcadia-rather than having to climb all those stairs to stand in the rain over there."
"Excuse me?" Castillo asked.
"The Arcadia restaurant on the twenty-fifth floor. It has a bar."
Castillo's confusion showed on his face.
"You do know who Millington-Drake was, don't you, Colonel?"
"I have no idea who he was," Castillo said.
"Does the name Langsdorff mean anything to you?"
Langsdorff?
Who the hell is he talking about?
What the hell is he talking about?
Oh, hell!
You are a disgrace to the Long Gray Line, Castillo!
