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“How the hell did you hear about that?” Mr. Lammelle inquired, and then hung up.
Fifteen seconds later, Mr. Delchamps’s CaseyBerry buzzed.
Delchamps said, “I’ll put this on loudspeaker,” and then punched the appropriate buttons.
Mr. Lammelle’s voice on the CaseyBerry loudspeaker picked up the conversation where he had left it: “Casey told you, right?”
“A good Clandestine Service officer, even a retired one, never reveals his sources. I thought I taught you that,” Delchamps said.
When Lammelle didn’t reply, Delchamps went on. “Well, if you’re not willing to share this with us, Mr. DCI, sir—and by this I mean everything, of course—then I guess ol’ Roscoe Danton, who just happens to be sitting here with Louise and me, is going to have to ask Mr. Blue Jay Hoboken, President Clendennen’s—”
“His name is Robin, not Blue Jay,” Lammelle interrupted without thinking.
“Whatever. I’ve never been much of an ornithologist. We’ll just have Mr. Danton ask Mr. Robin Redbreast Hoboken what transpired at the President’s Cabinet meeting that might have an effect on Charley Castillo. You remember Colonel Castillo, don’t you, Mr. DCI, sir?”
“Oh, shit!” DCI Lammelle said, and then, biting the bullet of recognition that he had no other choice, reported all he knew.
When he had finished, and there was no reply from Delchamps, Lammelle said, “Okay, Edgar, now it’s your turn. What do you know that I don’t?”
“Not a thing.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I think we have to wait until we learn what happens in Argentina. I can’t believe Charley would go along with a recall to extended hazardous duty, but he’s surprised me before.”
“That’s all?”
“Why don’t you call Panamanian Executive Aircraft and have them bill the LCBF Corporation for the charter? Why did you volunteer to have the Agency pay for it, anyway?”
“Because I didn’t think Jake would fly his airplane down there pro bono. Why does LCBF want to pay for it? Isn’t that robbing Peter to pay Paul?”
“LCBF isn’t going to pay for it. Casey got Those People to advance us a million dollars for our expenses in this.”
“So Casey is where you got your information?”
“No. I just got it from the CIA. Nice to talk to you, Mr. Director, sir. Let’s take lunch sometime when your busy schedule permits.”
“Edgar, I’m asking as nice as I know how. Please don’t do anything rash.”
“Have I ever done anything rash as long as you’ve known me?”
Lammelle grunted.
“I will pass on to you anything I hear, Edgar, if you do the same. Deal?”
“Deal.”
[THREE]
Aeropuerto Internacional Teniente Luis Candelaria
San Carlos de Bariloche, Río Negro Province, Argentina
0045 6 June 2007
The Gulfstream 550 touched smoothly down after a five-hour-and-twenty-six-minute flight—mostly at forty-five thousand feet and averaging 475 knots—from Panama City, Panama.
The co-pilot, who had made the landing, was a thirty-six-year-old, six-foot-two, 220-pound, very black native of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. When he had taxied the Gulfstream to the visiting aircraft tarmac and started to shut it down, he turned to the pilot, a forty-seven-year-old, six-foot-one, 170-pound, pale-skinned silver-haired native of Culpepper, Virginia.
