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“I’m afraid not,” Grunblatt said. “There’s been a journalist—a good one, Roscoe J. Danton, of The Washington Times-Post—down here looking for him, too. What’s that all about?”
“You said has been? May I infer that Mr. Danton is no longer here?”
“The last I heard, he was in the Marriott Plaza.”
“What about Alexander Darby, Miss Grunblatt?”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Montvale, I prefer ‘Ms.’”
After a perceptible pause, the director of National Intelligence said, “Excuse me, Mizz Grunblatt.”
“What did you mean, Mr. Montvale, when you asked, ‘What about Alexander Darby?’ I assume you know he resigned.”
“I don’t suppose it would surprise an experienced foreign service officer such as yourself, Mizz Grunblatt, if I told you Mr. Darby had duties beyond those of commercial attaché?”
“If you’re asking did I know that Alex was a spook, yes, I did. I’ve known that he was in the agency’s Clandestine Service since we served in Rome, and that’s ... oh, twenty years ago.”
“And do you know where he is now, by any chance, Mizz Grunblatt?”
“Haven’t a clue. The last time I saw him was at Ezeiza. The airport.”
“He was going where, do you know?”
“What he did, Mr. Montvale, was go through the departing Argentina immigration procedure on his diplomatic passport, and then he turned right around and came back, so to speak, into Argentina on his regular passport. He then gave me—as an embassy officer—his diplomatic passport and carnet. Then I drove him here to the embassy, where he got out of my car, and got in a taxi.”
“Then he’s still in Argentina. Would you know where?”
“I didn’t say that he’s still here. I don’t know if he is or not. I know his wife and children aren’t here any longer; I put them on a plane to the States.”
“But not Mr. Darby?”
“No. Not Mr. Darby. I don’t know where Alex is.”
“Do you happen to know where Mrs. Darby was going?”
“I do. And I’ll give you the address once you tell me you’re acting in an official capacity.”
“I’ve already done that.”
“That’s right, you have,” Grunblatt said.
She picked up a pen and wrote an address on a piece of notepaper and handed it to him.
Montvale glanced at it, saw that it meant nothing to him, then handed it to one of his Secret Service men.
“Hang on to that.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Secret Service agent looked at it, and then said, “Mr. Ambassador, I know what this is, this 7200 West Boulevard Drive. It’s the Alexandria house Colonel Castillo and the others had. I drew the duty there a couple of times when it was under Secret Service protection.”
“Mizz Grunblatt, I’m going to have to get on a secure line to the Secret Service in Washington.”
Grunblatt considered that a moment, then said, “Yes, I can arrange that for you. I presume you’d prefer to talk from a secure location?”
You’re damned right I would.
There’s absolutely no reason for you to hear what I’m going to say.
