"Two questions," Yung replied. "This is going to the CIA? And why shouldn't they locate the airport?"
"Pevsner has a connection with the airport. I don't want them to start linking things."
"Make that three questions," Yung said. "How are you getting it to the CIA? Through Casey?"
"I'd rather slip it under the door, but I haven't figured out how to do that."
"Lester," Edgar Delchamps said, "can you send these tapes to the house in Alexandria?"
"Yes, sir. No problem."
"And can you get me a number in Arlington, Virginia, without it coming to the attention of those nosy people at Fort Meade?"
"According to Dr. Casey, all they will hear at Fort Meade is what sounds like static on the line. And I can make it sound as if the call was made from anywhere."
"Who do you want to receive the tapes, Ace?" Delchamps asked.
"Either the DCI or Frank Lammelle."
"If I have one of the dinosaurs call on Madam Darby and pick up the tape and commentary, and then he slips that under the door addressed to Lammelle, and you also send it to Casey, he will probably send it to the DCI. He's close to those people, right? Then we'd be sure both the DCI and Lammelle got it."
"Then that's what we'll do," Castillo agreed.
"Let's see the tapes, Lester," Delchamps said. "So our scenario wasn't far off the mark," Edgar Delchamps said, when the tapes had been played. "They did use the Tupolev Tu-934A to move that stuff. The question then is, from where did they move it? From a warehouse full of the stuff in Mother Russia or…?"
"Sweaty says they wouldn't have Congo-X in Russia," Castillo said. "Too dangerous."
"That would tie in with what Tarasov heard happened at that airport-El Obeid-in Sudan," Delchamps said. "Okay, they picked it up in Africa and flew it here… Nonstop?"
"They probably stopped in Cuba," Castillo said. "Probably at Ciego de Avila. They wouldn't want the Tu-934A to be seen at Jose Marti."
"And from Ciego de Avila to this dry-lake airfield?" Alex Darby asked.
Castillo nodded.
"And then where? Back to Cuba?" Darby asked.
"Venezuela," Castillo said. "Tom says the price for getting the Cubans to do more than fuel the Tu-934A would be too high. Chavez, on the other hand, is not half so smart as the Brothers Castro. Sweaty thinks it's probably at La Orchila… that island air base."
"What is that, another proof you can't judge a book by its cover?" Delchamps asked.
"What the hell does that mean?" Castillo asked.
"You never heard, Ace, that 'the true test of another's intelligence is how much he-in this case she-agrees with you'? I think your girlfriend's right on the money. Hidden inside that gorgeous body is an unquestionable genius."
"You may get to eat after all," Svetlana called from the grill. "And speaking of that, can we start to cook?"
"Absolutely." [THREE] The Lobby Bar The Alvear Palace Hotel Avenida Alvear 1891 Buenos Aires, Argentina 1955 7 February 2007 Ambassador Charles M. Montvale had liked the Alvear Plaza Hotel from the moment he walked in the door. He had liked it even better when, following a bellman to a very nice suite, he had walked past the Lobby Bar, an oasis of polished wood and brass, a vast array of liquor bottles, white-jacketed barmen, and a remarkable number of attractive women-at least three of whom were astonishingly beautiful.
"Tell you what, Truman," he said to Ellsworth as their elevator rose silently. "Why don't we have a quick shower and then go down to that bar for a little taste? God knows, it's been a tough day. Say, thirty minutes?"
"Splendid idea," Truman Ellsworth had replied. "I'll see you there in thirty minutes."
Ellsworth's eye had also fallen upon the astonishingly beautiful women in the bar.
Neither had intentions of enticing one of the beautiful women to their suites, there to break the vow both had taken to keep only to the women who had marched down the aisle with them so many years ago.
But it never hurt just to look. Both of them would have agreed if God hadn't wanted men to look at women, He would have made the female of the species flat-chested and given them green teeth and lizardlike skin.
But unexpected things did happen from time to time.
And they were, after all, human. Ambassador Charles M. Montvale had just finished saying, "It's been an awful day, and I think I'm entitled to another little taste," when I. Ronald Spears appeared at the entrance to the Lobby Bar.
Montvale was not pleased to see him. He had really been looking forward to his second drink. The ceremony that went with the delivering of a Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks in the Lobby Bar of the Alvear was something, he had immediately decided, that the watering holes of the nation's capital and his various clubs would do well to emulate.
First, the bartender laid a tray before his customer. It held a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch whisky; a larger-than-to-be-expected squat glass; a bowl of ice; a silver pitcher of water; silver tongs; and what at first Montvale had thought was a tea strainer, but then he had seen that it had no holes. It was sort of a shot glass with wings.
First the bartender lifted an ice cube-not something spit out of an ice maker, but a real ice cube, about an inch square-with his tongs and dropped it into the glass. Then he picked up another and wordlessly asked if his customer wanted a second ice cube. Montvale had stopped this process at three ice cubes, using a gesture he had learned playing blackjack.
The bartender laid the tea strainer/shot glass on the whisky glass. Next, he picked up the bottle of whisky and with great elan filled the shot to overflowing. And then kept pouring. And then he tipped the wings of the shot glass, slowly emptying the contents into the glass over the ice cubes. Finally, with a silver gadget, he stirred the ice cubes gently around in the glass.
Montvale impatiently waved I. Ronald Spears over to the table.
"Mr. Ambassador, there are two telephone calls for you at the embassy."
"Why didn't you transfer them here?" Montvale snapped.
Even as he did so, he knew what the answer was going to be, and was: "Mr. Ambassador, they're on a secure line."
Montvale looked around first for the bartender, to cancel the order for the drink he would now not get to drink, and to sign the bill, and then for the Secret Service agents who were drinking Coke and tonic water elsewhere in the bar. The communications officer told them he had two calls, one from Supervisory Special Agent McGuire and the other from John Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
"Get McGuire on here first," Montvale said as he picked up the secure telephone. "I have Ambassador Montvale on the line. The line is secure."
"Good evening, sir."
"What did you find out, Tom?"
"None of the people in whom you were interested were in the house in Alexandria, sir, but Mrs. Darby told me she believes Mr. Darby is in Ushuaia."
"Where?"
"I understand it's the southernmost city in Argentina."
"What is she doing, pulling your leg? What the hell is he supposed to be doing there?"
"I understand from her-she seemed rather angry, sir-that he's in the company of a young Argentine woman. You take my meaning, sir?"
"You mean he's down there with some floozy?" Montvale asked incredulously.
"That's what Mrs. Darby implied, sir."
"And you believe her?"
"All I can say, sir, is that's what she told me. She seemed quite upset about it."
"You're keeping that house under surveillance, right, Tom?"
"There will be three agents on it twenty-four/seven, sir."
"Well, keep that up, and keep me informed."
"Yes, sir."
"Thanks, Tom." "I have Ambassador Montvale on the line, Mr. Powell. The line is secure."