"What are you talking about?"
"Guess who got shot in Montevideo last night by parties unknown?"
"Yung?" Castillo asked, incredulously.
"They were waiting for him at his apartment when he came back from the estancia. They probably would have got him-by which I mean grabbed him-if the Uruguayan cops hadn't been sitting on him."
"How bad is he hurt?"
"The Uruguayan cops got one of the guys going after him with three shots of double-aught buckshot. The others, probably two, got away. Yung took one pellet in his left hand. Just gouged it. No bone damage, just a canal. Yung's like you, Charley: he walks through raindrops. He was standing right next to the bad guy when the cops took him out."
"And the guy the cops shot?"
"No identification. But he did have a hypo full of ketamine-a strong tranquilizer-that I think he wanted to stick in Yung."
"Jesus Christ!" Castillo exclaimed.
"You got the word that Ambassador McGrory thinks Lorimer was a drug dealer?"
Castillo nodded.
"Well, he's been told that the people who shot Yung were carjackers."
"The Uruguayan cops went along with that?"
Darby nodded.
"For reasons of their own, they suggested that story to Yung. I can't imagine why."
"Neither can I."
"Well, if McGrory believes Lorimer was a drug dealer, he'll probably conclude that the Uruguayan cops know Yung was shot by another drug dealer and don't want to admit. I sure hope so. If McGrory finds out what really happened at that estancia, the shit will really hit the fan. And some of it will splatter on Ambassador Silvio and I don't like that."
"Can you contact Yung? Is he in the hospital?"
"He wouldn't stay. He's in his apartment. Bob Howell is sitting on him, Howell and another FBI agent who was at the estancia, and-bad news-according to Howell has figured out what really happened at the estancia."
"Well, let's get him over here. I don't want him grabbed in Montevideo. How soon can you get him here?"
"Two hours from the time I call him," Darby said, nodding at the telephone.
"That raises the question of a safe house," Castillo said. "I don't think this place is going to work. Too many people for one thing. Can we use the place we used before?"
"Mayerling? No and, maybe, yes."
"Come on, Alex."
"The place we used before is not available," Darby said. "But there's a place for rent out there that would really be better."
"Rent it," Castillo said. "How quickly can you do that?"
"The problem there is the rent. Four thousand a month. First and last month due on signing, plus another two months up front for a security deposit. That's sixteen thousand. I have just about that much in my black account. If I ask for more, Langley's going to want to know what for."
"Money's not a problem," Castillo said. "We now have the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund to draw on."
"The what?"
"Lorimer had almost sixteen million in three banks in Montevideo. Most of it is now in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank in the Cayman Islands."
"In your account?" Darby asked.
Castillo nodded.
"How'd you manage that?"
"You don't want to know," Castillo said. "I spent seven million five of it to buy an airplane. A Gulfstream."
"You bought a Gulfstream with Lorimer's money?" Santini asked, incredulously.
Castillo, smiling, nodded.
"A G-III. It's really nice, Tony, to be able to avoid all that frisking and baggage searching and standing in line at airports. You really ought to get one for yourself."
"Jesus Christ, Charley! You're insane!" Darby said. "What's Montvale going to do when he hears you stole Lorimer's money and then bought a Gulfstream with it?"
"Actually, taking the money was Montvale's idea. I think he saw it as a source of unaccountable funds for him. Which, of course, it would be if I didn't control it. And I haven't gotten around to telling him about the airplane yet."
"And when he finds out?"
"All he can do is go to the President and tell him-as he predicted-that I have acted impulsively and unwisely and the airplane is the proof. On the other hand, he may decide it's a good idea. If he can get the Office of Organizational Analysis under him-which is his announced intention-the airplane would come with it."
"And what's the President going to do when he finds out about the money?" Santini asked.
"He knows about the money," Castillo said. "Which brings us back to that. How do I get the rent money to you, Alex?"
Darby thought that over a moment before replying.
"The black account is in the Banco Galicia. The agency wires money into it from a Swiss account. I suppose you could do the same thing."
"How long would it take to wire it from the Riggs Bank? Before you could get at the money?"
"I don't know. Twenty-four hours, I'd guess."
"You give me the numbers and the routing and I'll call Dick Miller and have him wire a hundred thousand down here. There's going to be other expenses, and I'm going to have to give Davidson some walking-around money, too."
"Is Davidson who I think he is?" Darby asked.
"That would depend on who you think he is."
"If I'm not mistaken, the last time I saw him was in Kabul. You were both wearing robes and beards. That was when you were in charge of babysitting the eager young men Langley sent over there to win that war in two weeks."
"Yeah, that was Jack. And he never lost one of those starry-eyed young men, either. I was really glad to see him get out of your car."
"You didn't know he was coming?" Santini asked.
Castillo shook his head, then asked, "While we're waiting for the money to get here, can you rent this house right away-today, maybe-with the money you have?"
"I can," Darby said. "You sure you don't want to stash the old man here?"
"His name is Eric Kocian," Castillo said. "He's both a very old friend and a good guy. I would love to stash him here but I don't think he'd stay. A house in Mayerling might be just what he's looking for. He thinks-because of the name-that there might be a connection with Austrians or Hungarians involved in the oil-for-food business."
"I don't understand," Darby confessed.
"You don't know the story? Shame on you, Alex."
"What story?" Santini asked.
"Mayerling was the Imperial Hunting Lodge of Franz Josef. It was in Mayerling that Crown Prince Rudolph, after his father told him he had to get rid of some sixteen-year-old baroness he was banging, that he whacked the baroness and then shot himself. That's one version. The one I got from my Hungarian aunt-the version Kocian believes-is that Franz Josef had the crown prince whacked after he learned the kid was talking to the Hungarians about becoming king of Hungary. Kocian thinks maybe Mayerling, the country club, was built with oil-for-food money and named Mayerling to be clever."
"That sounds pretty far-fetched, Charley," Santini said.
"So does six guys dressed like Ninja characters in a comic strip going to Estancia Shangri-La to whack Lorimer. I'm not saying I believe Kocian, but, on the other hand, he's one hell of a journalist. Whoever's trying to whack him thinks he knows more than he should. Anyway, if I can get him out there and keep him alive for a couple of days, maybe I can get the bad guys to back off."
"How are you going to do that?" Darby asked.
"You don't want to know, Alex."
Darby shrugged.
"What I need now," Castillo said, "is the boxes I sent to the embassy under diplomatic seal and a black car."
"Ambassador Silvio turned them over to me and didn't even ask what was in them. He's a good guy, Charley. I really don't want him to get burned in this."
"I'll do my best to see that doesn't happen," Castillo said. "Where are the boxes now?"
"In the backseat of the Cherokee," Darby said, and added, "which is registered to a guy in Mar del Plata." He tossed Castillo a set of keys. "Registration's in the glove compartment."
"Thanks," Castillo said. "Now, let me get on the horn to Dick Miller and get some money down here."