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Buenos Aires, Argentina
1305 6 February 2007
As the Gulfstream III carrying Ambassador Montvale and his party had made its approach to the airport, Montvale had remembered that the last time he had met with the sonofabitch in Argentina, Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo had pointed out to him that inasmuch as they were in a foreign and sovereign nation, his Secret Service security detail did not enjoy diplomatic immunity and therefore had no right to bear arms, and were thus liable to be arrested for doing so.
He elected not to mention this to anyone. If there was a problem, Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio would have to deal with it. And deal with it, he would have to: I’m here at the direct order of the President of the United States. I look forward to making that point to that slick bastard and pal of Castillo’s.
Before the Gulfstream III had reached the end of its landing roll, Jorge Newbery ground control directed it to the commercial side of the airfield on the bank of the River Plate.
There they were met by Argentine immigration and customs officers and two members of the staff of the United States embassy. They were passed through both bureaucratic procedures quickly and without incident. Importantly, no Argentine official searched the persons of anyone, which neutralized the problem of his armed security detail, at least for the moment.
There were two diplomats from the American embassy on hand to meet the Gulfstream. One introduced himself as Colonel C. C. “Call me CC” Downs, the military attaché. He said he was there to take care of the crew. There were three crew members: the male pilot, a major; the male co-pilot, a captain; and a stout woman wearing the chevrons of a senior master sergeant. She had delivered a stewardess-type speech about the safety features of the C-20A, ordered everybody to fasten their seat belts, and then taken a seat, from which she had arisen only once to announce that intoxicants were prohibited aboard Air Force C-20A aircraft and if the Secret Service agent in the process of pouring Scotch into glasses for the Montvale party continued to do so, she would have to make an official report to her superiors.
“CC” said he would take care of the crew, and that Mr. Spears would know how to contact them when their services were required. He then loaded the crew into an embassy’s Yukon and drove off.
Mr. I. Ronald Spears was carried on the books as an assistant consular officer but was in fact the acting CIA station chief for Buenos Aires. He had assumed that duty following the unexpected retirement of Alexander W. Darby.
The director of the Central Intelligence Agency had first planned to replace Darby with Paul Sieno, the CIA station chief in Paraguay, only to learn that Sieno, too, had suddenly retired, presumably to join Lieutenant Colonel Castillo in his disappearance from the face of the earth, and was therefore not available. Next, the CIA station chief in Mexico City, Robert T. Lowe, had been ordered to Buenos Aires to replace Darby, but he was still in the process of clearing his desk in Mexico City.
I. Ronald Spears was twenty-four years old, looked to be about nineteen, and had graduated from CIA training four months before.
Apparently unaware that the director of National Intelligence and his deputy each had Secret Service protection details, Spears had brought to the airport a single embassy Yukon, into which the four Secret Service agents, Montvale, Ellsworth, and their luggage could be loaded only with great difficulty.
Spears lost no time somewhat smugly telling Ambassador Montvale that he had “taken the liberty” of changing the reservations Ambassador Montvale had requested. The ambassador and his party would now be housed in the Alvear Palace Hotel, rather than the Marriott Plaza, as Spears had learned that the former was “much classier” than the latter.
With great effort, Montvale did not say what he wanted to say. Instead, he asked, “Do you happen to know, Spears, if Mr. Danton is in the Marriott Plaza?”
“Mr. who, Ambassador Montvale?”
At that point, Montvale remembered that he had asked Jack Powell, the DCI, only to tell the acting station chief that he was going to Buenos Aires, and had not asked him to tell the acting station chief to start looking for either Roscoe J. Danton or Lieutenant Colonel Castillo.
“My first order of business is to see the ambassador,” Montvale then announced. “So we’ll go to the embassy first.”
The pleasure of envisioning that confrontation—“Mr. Ambassador, I am here at the personal order of the President”—was quickly shattered when Spears told him that the ambassador and most of his staff would be out of town until the next day.
I shouldn’t be surprised by that. The moment that sonofabitch heard I was coming down here, Silvio got on his horse, and galloped his miserable ass out of town.
“Certainly someone’s minding the store, right, Spears?”
“Yes, sir. Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt has the duty.”
“And she is?”
“The embassy press officer, Mr. Ambassador.”
Roscoe J. Danton is either still in the Marriott Plaza, or he isn’t. And even if the press officer can’t tell me where to find Castillo, she might know where that station chief—Darby—is, and Darby can lead me to Castillo.
At the very least, this female has the authority to order up another vehicle and driver. Riding around Buenos Aires in a stuffed-to-the-gills Yukon is simply not acceptable.
“Take me to see Miss Grun ... whatever you said her name is,” Montvale ordered.
“Grunblatt, Mr. Ambassador. Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt.”
“Miss Grunblatt, the President has sent Mr. Ellsworth and me down here to have a word with Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo. Do you know who I mean?”
“Yes, I do, Mr. Montvale.”
“Do you happen to know where I can find him?”
