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“You were both here, I seem to recall, when I made it as plain as I knew how that I didn’t want my predecessor’s loose cannon, or anyone associated with Colonel Castillo, Retired, connected in any way with our Congo-X problem. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” Powell said.
“I was here, Mr. President,” the secretary of State said.
“Where is Castillo?” the President asked.
“I have no idea, Mr. President,” Powell said.
“Nor do I,” Cohen said.
“What about Ambassador Montvale, my Director of National Intelligence? Has anyone heard from him?”
“I spoke with the ambassador last night, Mr. President. He’s in Buenos Aires. As is Truman Ellsworth. At your orders, sir.”
“And has he found Castillo and delivered my orders to him that he is not to get involved in any way with Congo-X?”
“No, sir.”
“Did Montvale have anything at all to say?”
“He believes he knows where Mr. Darby is, sir.”
“Who is Darby?”
“Until he was recruited for OOA, Mr. President, he was the CIA station chief in Buenos Aires. He retired when OOA was disbanded.”
“And he’s in Argentina?”
“Ambassador Montvale has information suggesting that Mr. Darby may be in Ushuaia.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“It’s the southernmost city in South America, sir.”
“What’s he doing there?” the President asked, and then, before Powell could reply, went on: “Is Usah ... whatever you said ... a place where Castillo could hide the defectors?”
“That has occurred to Ambassador Montvale and myself, sir.”
“And what have you done about it, either of you?”
“I sent six first-class officers of the Clandestine Service down there, Mr. President, to assist the new station chief. And of course Ambassador Montvale. They should be in Argentina this morning. I’m sure that as soon as they get there, Ambassador Montvale will send at least two of them to Ushuaia.”
Clendennen nodded.
“But I must tell you, Mr. President, that Ambassador Montvale told me he has also developed intelligence that suggests that Mr. Darby’s presence in Ushuaia has nothing to do with Castillo or the Russians.”
“What the hell else would he be doing in some town on the southern tip of South America?”
“He may be there with an Argentine national, a young woman not his wife, if you take my meaning, Mr. President.”
“Where the hell did Montvale get that?”
“From Mrs. Darby, sir. She’s here in the States.”
“I’ll be a sonofabitch!”
“May I speak, Mr. President?” the secretary of State said.
