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“He brought Russian spooks here?”
“Ambassador Montvale thinks he did.”
“How do you know that?”
“A friend of mine—you don’t need to know who—was in the Río Alba—that’s a restaurant around the corner, magnificent steaks; you ought to make an effort to eat there—at a table near my ambassador’s. He was having lunch with Montvale. Castillo walked in. Montvale told him all would be forgiven if he gave him the Russians. Castillo told him to attempt a physiologically impossible act of self-reproduction. Montvale threatened to have him arrested;
he had a couple of Secret Service guys with him. Castillo said if the Secret Service made a move, they would be arrested by a couple of Gendarmería Nacional—they’re the local heavy cops—he had with him.
“The meeting adjourned to the embassy. I guess they were afraid someone might hear them talking. When the meeting was over, Montvale went to the airport without any Russians, got on his Citation Four, and flew back to Washington. Castillo walked out of the embassy and I haven’t seen him since. Reminding you that we’re off the record, my ambassador, who is a really good guy, thinks Castillo is a really good guy.”
“Interesting.”
“One more interesting thing: Right after we bombed whatever the hell it was we bombed in the Congo, a lot of people around here, including Alex Darby, suddenly decided to retire.”
“What people?”
“No names. But a Secret Service guy, and a ‘legal attaché,’ which is diplomat-speak for FBI agent, and even a couple of people in our embassies in Asunción, Paraguay, and across the River Plate in Uruguay.”
“Are you going to tell me where I can find Alexander Darby?”
“I don’t know, and don’t want to know, where he is. The last time I saw him was at Ezeiza.”
“The airport?”
She nodded. “Alex is somebody else I’ve known for a long time. A really good guy. I drove him to the airport.”
“He went home?”
She paused before replying: “Alex applied for, and was issued, a regular passport. I drove him to the airport. He left the country—went through immigration—on his diplomatic passport. Then he went back through the line and entered the country as a tourist on his regular passport. When he came out, he handed me—as an officer of the embassy—his dip’s passport. Then I drove him to his apartment. I haven’t seen him since.”
“You going to tell me where that apartment is?”
“We’re back on the record, Mr. Danton. I cannot of course violate Mr. Darby’s privacy by giving you that information. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course. And thank you very much, Mizz Grunblatt.”
“Anytime, Mr. Danton. We try to be of service.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Did you ever hear what Winston Churchill said about journalists, Mr. Danton?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Churchill said, ‘Journalists are the semiliterate cretins hired to fill the spaces between the advertisements.’”
“Oh, God! He’s onto us! Now I suppose there’s nothing left for me but to slash my wrists.”
“That’s a thought. Good morning, Mr. Danton.”
[FOUR]
Apartment 32-B
O’Higgins 2330
Belgrano
