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He said, "What we need."
He's in.
And he doesn't care what that may cost him.
Castillo felt his throat tighten.
When he trusted himself to speak, Castillo admitted: "I haven't figured that out yet either."
"So what happens now, Chief?"
Castillo intoned solemnly: " 'The longest journey begins with the smallest step.' You may wish to write that down."
Davidson chuckled.
"What happens now is that I go in there"--Castillo nodded toward the embassy building?--"and, while trying very hard to keep Ambassador Silvio out of the line of fire, deal with Ambassador Montvale. And while I'm doing that, you go to Rio Alba, taking the gendarmeria with you, and wait for me."
"For how long?"
"I don't know. Get some lunch. If I don't call you in thirty minutes, call me. If I answer in Pashtu, hang up and head for the safe house."
"And?"
Castillo was silent a moment, then shrugged and shook his head again, and said, "I just don't know, Jack."
"Okay. We'll wing it."
Castillo glanced at the Mercedes-Benz parked beside them. Then he looked over his shoulder and said, "Max, you stay."
Castillo opened his door. When he did so, one of the gendarmes got out of the Mercedes and stood by the open door.
When Castillo headed for what he thought of as the embassy employee's gate in the fence, the gendarme closed the vehicle's door and walked after him.
Davidson backed out of the parking spot and drove toward the restaurant Rio Alba, which was a block from the embassy in the shadow of--at fifty stories--Argentina's tallest building. The gendarmeria Mercedes followed him.
The fence surrounding the embassy had three gates, a large one to pass vehicular traffic and two smaller ones for people. The employees' gate was a simple affair, a turnstile guarded by two uniformed, armed guards of an Argentine security firm.
Castillo was absolutely certain that a couple of Argentine rent-a-cops wouldn't deny entrance to the embassy grounds to a United States federal law-enforcement officer who presented the proper identification.
He was wrong.
The rent-a-cops were not at all impressed with the credentials identifying C. G. Castillo as a supervisory special agent of the United States Secret Service.
The rent-a-cops advised him that if he wished to enter the embassy grounds, he would have to use the Main Visitors' Gate, which was some three hundred yards distant, down a sunbaked sidewalk.
Castillo bit his tongue and started for the other gate, with the gendarme on his heels.
The last hundred yards of the sidewalk was lined with people--clearly not many of them, if any, U.S. citizens--patiently baking in the sun as they awaited their turn to pass through the Main Visitors' Gate to apply for visas and other services.
There has to be a gate for U.S. citizens.
For Christ's sake, this is the American embassy!
He did not see anything that looked helpful until he was almost at the single-story Main Visitors' Gate building. Then he came across a ridiculously small sign that had an arrow and the legend: U.S CITIZENS.
He pushed open the door and was promptly stopped by another Argentine rent-a-cop who--not very charmingly--asked to see Castillo's passport
.
