"I'm Chinese, Mr. Ambassador," Yung said. "My family came to this country-to the United States-in the 1840s. I don't speak Korean."
"It means everything evens out," McGrory explained. "Sort of like the law of physics which says every action has an immediate and exactly opposite reaction."
"Yes, sir?"
"In this case, Yung, it would mean that someone who goes to some effort to suggest he has little influence-is 'pretty low on the totem pole,' to use your phrase-may in fact have a good deal of influence."
What the hell is McGrory talking about? Is he suggesting I have influence?
"I'm not sure I follow you, Mr. Ambassador."
"I understand, of course," McGrory said.
McGrory gave Yung time for that to sink in, then went on: "As I was saying, we are both in a some what delicate position vis-a-vis Mr. Lorimer."
"How is that, sir?"
"Like the secretary, I am concerned with Ambassador Lorimer. I never met him, but I understand he is a fine man, a credit to the diplomatic service."
"That's my understanding, sir."
"And Ambassador Silvio, in Buenos Aires, told me in confidence that Ambassador Lorimer has certain health problems…his heart."
"So I understand," Yung said.
"Let me tell you, Yung, what's happened here. Off the record, of course."
"Yes, sir."
"As incredible as this sounds, Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez came to my office. He had with him a Senor Ordonez, who I have learned is the chief inspector of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policia Nacional. Not an official visit. He just 'happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to chat over a cup of coffee.'"
"Yes, sir?"
"And he suggested not only that what really happened at Estancia Shangri-La was a shoot-out between persons unknown and United States Special Forces, but also that I knew all about it."
Yung looked at Howell but did not reply.
McGrory continued: "The accusation is patently absurd, of course. I don't have to tell you that no action of that kind could take place without my knowledge and permission. As ambassador, I am the senior U.S. officer in country. And Mr. Howell-who as I'm sure you suspect is the CIA station chief-assures me that he knows of no secret operation by the intelligence community. And he would know."
"I'd heard the rumors that Mr. Howell was CIA, sir…"
"Well, that's classified information, of course," McGrory said. "I never told you that."
"Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Where do think Mr. Alvarez got an idea like that? About a Special Operations mission?"
McGrory did not reply directly.
Instead, he said, "The question is, why would he make such an absurd accusation? That was the question I asked myself, the question that kept me from immediately reporting the incident to the department. I did, however, just about throw him out of my office."
"Did he offer anything to substantiate the accusation?" Yung asked.
"He showed me a…thingamabob…the shiny part of a cartridge, what comes out of a gun after it's fired?"
"A cartridge case, sir?"
"Precisely. He told me it had been found at the estancia. And he told me he had gone directly to the Uruguayan embassy in Washington and they had gone to the Pentagon and the Pentagon had obligingly informed them that it was a special kind of bullet used only by U.S. Army competitive rifle shooters and Special Forces."
"A National Match case, sir? Did the case have NM stamped on it?"
If it did, it almost certainly came from that Marine high school cheerleader's rifle.
McGrory pointed his finger at Yung and nodded his head.
"That's it," he said.
"That's not much proof that our Special Forces were involved," Yung said.
"Of course not. Because they were not involved. If there were Special Forces involved, Mr. Howell and I would have known about it. That's a given."
"Yes, sir."
"My temptation, of course, was to go right to the department and report the incident. You don't just about call the American ambassador a liar in his office. But as I said before, Yung, I've been in the diplomatic game for some time. I've learned to ask myself why somebody says something, does something. I realized that if I went to the department, they'd more than likely register an official complaint, possibly even recall me for consultation. And I thought maybe that's what the whole thing was all about. They wanted to cause a stink, in other words. Then I asked myself, why would they want to do that? And that answer is simple. They were creating a diversion."
"To take attention from what, sir?"
"What really happened at that ranch, that estancia."
"Which is, sir?"
"Think about this, Yung," McGrory replied, indirectly. "Bertrand-Lorimer-had nearly sixteen million dollars in banks here. Did you know about that?"
Yung didn't answer directly. He said, "Sixteen million dollars?"
McGrory nodded.
"That's a lot of money."
"Yes, it is," McGrory agreed. "And the United Nations-although their pay scales are considerably more generous than ours-wasn't paying him the kind of money-even if he lived entirely on his expense account, which I understand a lot of them do-for him to have socked away sixteen million for a rainy day. So where, I asked myself, did he get it?"
He looked expectantly at Yung, who looked thoughtful, then shrugged.
"You've been looking into money laundering," McGrory said, some what impatiently. "Where does most of that dirty money come from?"
"Embezzlement or drugs, usually," Yung said.
"And there you have it," McGrory said, triumphantly. "Lorimer was a drug dealer."
"You really think so, sir?"
"Think about it. Everything fits. With his alter ego as an antiques dealer, he was in a perfect position to ship drugs. Who's going to closely inspect what's stuffed into some old vase-some old, very valuable vase? You can get a lot of heroin into a vase. And where did Lorimer get his new identity and permission to live in Uruguay? The best face they could put on that was they were surprised that he was dealing drugs right under their noses. He had probably paid off a half dozen officials. That would come out, too."
"It's an interesting theory, Mr. Ambassador," Yung said.
"I thought you might think so, Yung. What happened at the estancia was that a drug deal, a big one, a huge one-we're talking sixteen million dollars here-went wrong. You know, probably better than I do, that murder is a way of life in that business. Those drug people would as soon shoot you as look at you."
"Yes, sir, that's certainly true."
Does he really believe this nonsense?
"Well, I'm not going to let them get away with it, I'll tell you that. I'm not going to give them the diversion they want. No official complaint to the State Department."
"I understand, sir."
"I'm just going to bide my time, leaving them to swing in the breeze as they realize I'm not going to be their patsy." He paused, then went on: "However, I think that the appropriate people in the State Department should be made aware of the situation. That's more or less what I was getting into when I said you and I-and even the secretary herself-are in a delicate position. If it wasn't for Ambassador Lorimer, I'd be perfectly happy to call a spade a spade, but in view of the ambassador's physical condition…"
"I understand, sir."
"None of us wish to spoil what I'm sure is his cherished memory of his son, much less give him a heart attack, do we?"
"No, sir, we certainly don't."
"On the other hand, I think the secretary should know about this, don't you? Even if the information comes quietly from someone pretty low on the to tempole."
"I take your point, sir."
"I was sure you would," McGrory said.
He stood up, leaned across his desk, and offered Yung his hand.
They shook, then he sat back down.
"Now, getting to the business you're here for. Is there anything I can do, anyone on my staff can do, to facilitate the return of Mr. Lorimer's remains to the United States, and the rest of it?"