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As Roscoe listened to the intercepts, the elegant grandmother type in her seventies came into the recreation room with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
“If you give me one of those,” she said, pointing to his drink, “I will give you access to these.” She held up the tray.
“Deal,” Delchamps said, and made her a drink.
By the time he was finished, Roscoe had finished listening. He began to deliver his preliminary analysis: “I would hazard the guess that Jake Torine and Dick Miller are going to Argentina.”
“The question then becomes, ‘Why are they going to Argentina on Frank Lammelle’s dime?’” Two-Gun said.
“It… This is so wild I hate to even suggest it,” Roscoe said. “But it may have something to do with the President’s announcement at his press conference that he was convening a Cabinet meeting right after the press conference to implement his out-of-the-box thinking vis-à-vis the Somali pirates and the Mexican drug problem. Maybe he had Charley—”
“That’s the best you can do, Roscoe?” Edgar interrupted.
“I swear to G— Yes, it is.”
Two-Gun said, “It’s really too far off the wall that Clendennen would want to involve Charley—”
“You’ve got to stop thinking like an FBI agent, David,” Edgar interrupted him. “And start thinking out of your little box. This is so far off the wall that I think there’s probably something to Roscoe’s analysis.”
He slid the glass of twelve-year-old Macallan to Danton.
Danton took a sip, then said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But as much as I hate to leave such pleasant company, I’m going to have to run along,” Roscoe said.
“And you’re going to have to start thinking out of your journalist’s little box, Roscoe. You’re one of us now. And when one Merry Outlaw appears to be in the really deep doo-doo, other Merry Outlaws rush to help—they do not go into hiding. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Just so we’re all on the same page.”
“What do we do now?” Roscoe asked.
There was an ordinary telephone—a base plugged into the wall with a cord and a handset—sitting below the two dinosaurs behind the bar. Delchamps went to it and dialed a number from memory.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Director, sir. This is one of your retired employees, sir, Edgar Delchamps. How are you this afternoon, sir?”
“W
hat can I do for you, Edgar?” DCI Lammelle asked.
Twenty-plus years previously, on his first assignment as an officer of the CIA Clandestine Service, Lammelle had been sent to Athens, Greece, to work for the station chief there, Mr. Edgar Delchamps.
His orders had been to “shine shoes, make beds, and do whatever else Delchamps tells you to do. And be goddamned grateful for the chance to see him at work.”
“Well, Louise and I have been sitting around Lorimer Manor—you remember Louise, don’t you, Mr. Lammelle?”
Two assignments after Greece, Lammelle had been sent to Lima, Peru, where Louise Chambers had been the CIA station chief. His orders then had been “to wash dishes, make beds, and do whatever else Miss Chambers tells you to do. And be goddamned grateful for the chance to see her at work.”
“Yes, of course,” Lammelle said.
“Well, as I was saying, Mr. DCI, sir, Louise and I have been sitting around Lorimer Manor having a little taste, watching the grass grow, and wondering if anything interesting was happening at our former place of employment. So we thought we’d give you a call for Auld Lange Syne and ask.”
“I can’t think of a thing, Edgar, but it’s nice to hear your voice.”
“And it’s always a pleasure to hear yours, sir. I guess you don’t consider chartering a Gulfstream from Panamanian Executive Aircraft to fly to Argentina as interesting as Louise and I do.”
