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"Of course," Castillo said. "He's buried in Buenos Aires, isn't he?"
"Yes, he is," Ordonez said. "And from the towers of that building-come have a look-"
Castillo went to the window. In a moment, Munz and Max followed. Ordonez pointed to a tall building across the street, the open ornate masonry towers of which seemed to be fifty or sixty feet below them.
Ordonez said: "Sir John Henry Millington-Drake, the British ambassador, who was a close friend of my great-grandfather, climbed to the top of the towers you see there-it was raining hard, I understand; he must have gotten soaked-to watch the pocket battleship Graf Spee sail out of the harbor and scuttle herself. When the conditions are right, you can make out her superstructure."
"Interesting man," Castillo said, as the memory banks suddenly opened. "After seeing to the burial of his dead, and negotiating the terms of the internment of the rest of the crew, he put on his dress uniform and shot himself to prove that he had scuttled his ship to save the lives of his men; that he personally wasn't afraid to die. He positioned himself so that his body fell on the German Navy battle flag, rather than the Nazi swastika flag."
Ordonez said, "I thought perhaps you-as a graduate of your military academy-would know who Langsdorff was."
Yeah, I indeed know who he was.
An officer and a gentleman who lived and died by his code, Death Before Dishonor.
The motto that murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and other human scum in prisons now tattoo on one another to help pass the time.
"Of course," Castillo said.
"My great-grandfather told me, Colonel Castillo, that despite the public story that said it was Millington-Drake's eloquence and strong personality that caused the Uruguayan government to scrupulously follow international law and order the Graf Spee to leave Montevideo within the seventy-two-hour period required by the law, it was in fact enormous pressure applied by the United States government-which, as I'm sure you know, was, like Uruguay, ostensibly neutral in the war between the English and the Germans-that caused it to do so."
"I hadn't heard that," Castillo said. "But it seems credible."
"So what are you doing here, Colonel? You know-I'm sure you remember me telling you-you're not welcome here. So, again, what is it you're doing here?"
"I'm helping Ambassador Lorimer move onto Estancia Shangri-La."
"Ambassador Lorimer?"
"Jean-Paul Lorimer's father. He's a retired diplomat. You didn't know?"
Ordonez did not reply directly, instead asking: "Why on earth would he want to move to a remote estancia in Tacuarembo Province?"
"The Lorimers lost their home in New Orleans to Hurricane Katrina," Castillo said. "It is-or at least was-under fifteen feet of water."
"I understand that Mr. Lorimer-the late Mr. Lorimer-had an apartment in Paris. Wouldn't that be more comfortable for Ambassador Lorimer?"
"The ambassador told me the United Nations took his son's Paris apartment off his hands. At
a very good price. He said he had the feeling they would rather he didn't go to Paris."
"So he decided to come here."
Castillo nodded.
"What are Yung and the others doing at your embassy?"
"The State Department-actually the secretary of State herself-called Ambassador McGrory to tell him to help Ambassador Lorimer in any way he can. They're going to see him about that."
Ordonez took a notebook from his pocket, read from it, then asked, "Who are Sparkman and Leverette?"
"Sparkman is the copilot of the Gulfstream. Leverette is the ambassador's butler. He's going out to Shangri-La and set things up. As soon as that's done, we'll fly the ambassador and his wife down here."
"All right, Colonel, that's your cover story, and it's a good one." He paused as he looked him in the eyes. Then he added: "Now let's get to the truth. Why are you here?"
"I just told you-" Castillo began, but when he saw Ordonez hold up his hand and was about to interrupt him, went on: "And…and…I need your help."
"To do what?" Ordonez asked matter-of-factly.
