He embraced Munz and kissed the air next to his cheek, then looked at Castillo. After a moment, he put out his hand.
"I won't say that I'm delighted to see you, Colonel Castillo," he said in Spanish.
"Nevertheless, good evening, Chief Inspector," Castillo replied in Spanish.
"Amazing," Ordonez said. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear he is a Porteno. The accent is perfect."
"Carlos is an amazing man, Jose," Munz said.
"May we offer you something to drink, Chief Inspector?" Castillo said.
"Yes, thank you," Ordonez said without hesitation. "Scotch, please, if you have it." He looked at an array of bottles on a credenza. "Some of that Famous Grouse single malt, if it wouldn't be an imposition."
"Not at all," Castillo said.
He remembered hearing that Uruguay consumed more scotch whiskey per capita than any other nation in the world, and that the present head of the family that had had the lock on importing the whiskey for generations was a Dartmouth graduate.
What remote corner of the memory bank did that come from?
He started to open the bottle.
"Just one lump of ice, please," Ordonez said. "And half as much gas-free water as whiskey."
"Coming up," Castillo said.
He made three identical drinks and handed Ordonez and Munz theirs.
They clicked glasses.
Ordonez walked to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and looked out.
"If this hotel had been built in 1939," he said, "Millington-Drake could have watched in comfort from here-for that matter, from the bar in the Arcadia-rather than having to climb all those stairs to stand in the rain over there."
"Excuse me?" Castillo asked.
"The Arcadia restaurant on the twenty-fifth floor. It has a bar."
Castillo's confusion showed on his face.
"You do know who Millington-Drake was, don't you, Colonel?"
"I have no idea who he was," Castillo said.
"Does the name Langsdorff mean anything to you?"
Langsdorff?
Who the hell is he talking about?
What the hell is he talking about?
Oh, hell!
You are a disgrace to the Long Gray Line, Castillo!
"Of course," Castillo said. "He's buried in Buenos Aires, isn't he?"
"Yes, he is," Ordonez said. "And from the towers of that building-come have a look-"
Castillo went to the window. In a moment, Munz and Max followed. Ordonez pointed to a tall building across the street, the open ornate masonry towers of which seemed to be fifty or sixty feet below them.
Ordonez said: "Sir John Henry Millington-Drake, the British ambassador, who was a close friend of my great-grandfather, climbed to the top of the towers you see there-it was raining hard, I understand; he must have gotten soaked-to watch the pocket battleship Graf Spee sail out of the harbor and scuttle herself. When the conditions are right, you can make out her superstructure."
"Interesting man," Castillo said, as the memory banks suddenly opened. "After seeing to the burial of his dead, and negotiating the terms of the internment of the rest of the crew, he put on his dress uniform and shot himself to prove that he had scuttled his ship to save the lives of his men; that he personally wasn't afraid to die. He positioned himself so that his body fell on the German Navy battle flag, rather than the Nazi swastika flag."
Ordonez said, "I thought perhaps you-as a graduate of your military academy-would know who Langsdorff was."
Yeah, I indeed know who he was.
An officer and a gentleman who lived and died by his code, Death Before Dishonor.
The motto that murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and other human scum in prisons now tattoo on one another to help pass the time.
"Of course," Castillo said.
"My great-grandfather told me, Colonel Castillo, that despite the public story that said it was Millington-Drake's eloquence and strong personality that caused the Uruguayan government to scrupulously follow international law and order the Graf Spee to leave Montevideo within the seventy-two-hour period required by the law, it was in fact enormous pressure applied by the United States government-which, as I'm sure you know, was, like Uruguay, ostensibly neutral in the war between the English and the Germans-that caused it to do so."
"I hadn't heard that," Castillo said. "But it seems credible."
"So what are you doing here, Colonel? You know-I'm sure you remember me telling you-you're not welcome here. So, again, what is it you're doing here?"
"I'm helping Ambassador Lorimer move onto Estancia Shangri-La."
"Ambassador Lorimer?"
"Jean-Paul Lorimer's father. He's a retired diplomat. You didn't know?"
Ordonez did not reply directly, instead asking: "Why on earth would he want to move to a remote estancia in Tacuarembo Province?"
"The Lorimers lost their home in New Orleans to Hurricane Katrina," Castillo said. "It is-or at least was-under fifteen feet of water."
"I understand that Mr. Lorimer-the late Mr. Lorimer-had an apartment in Paris. Wouldn't that be more comfortable for Ambassador Lorimer?"
"The ambassador told me the United Nations took his son's Paris apartment off his hands. At a very good price. He said he had the feeling they would rather he didn't go to Paris."
"So he decided to come here."
Castillo nodded.
"What are Yung and the others doing at your embassy?"
"The State Department-actually the secretary of State herself-called Ambassador McGrory to tell him to help Ambassador Lorimer in any way he can. They're going to see him about that."
Ordonez took a notebook from his pocket, read from it, then asked, "Who are Sparkman and Leverette?"
"Sparkman is the copilot of the Gulfstream. Leverette is the ambassador's butler. He's going out to Shangri-La and set things up. As soon as that's done, we'll fly the ambassador and his wife down here."
"All right, Colonel, that's your cover story, and it's a good one." He paused as he looked him in the eyes. Then he added: "Now let's get to the truth. Why are you here?"
"I just told you-" Castillo began, but when he saw Ordonez hold up his hand and was about to interrupt him, went on: "And…and…I need your help."
"To do what?" Ordonez asked matter-of-factly.
"I need to secretly move helicopters into Uruguayan airspace, refuel them, and fly them out of Uruguay."
"Using Estancia Shangri-La?"
"Using Shangri-La," Castillo confirmed.
"And what would the helicopters be used for?"
"One of our DEA agents in Paraguay is being held by drug dealers. My orders are to get him back from the people who have kidnapped him."
"You know who they are?"
Castillo shook his head.
"Or where they are holding this man?"
Castillo shook his head.
"Not even in which country?"
Castillo shook his head again.
"Then this man whom you have been ordered to rescue could be in Uruguay?"
"That's possible, but unlikely."
"Have you had the opportunity to meet Comandante Duffy of the Argentine Gendarmeria Nacional, Colonel?" Ordonez asked. "I know he was hoping to talk to you."
"I met Comandante Duffy this morning."
"Did he tell you that two of his men have been murdered, and two kidnapped, presumably by the same people who have taken your man?"
Castillo nodded.
"Did he tell you what he intends to do to the people who have done this? Or who he thinks may have done this?"
"He didn't spell it out in so many words, but he made it pretty clear that he intends to take them out."
"He intends not only to kill them, but to leave their bodies where they fall, as an example of what happens to people who murder gendarmes."
Castillo nodded.
"Much as you did with the people at Shangri-La," Ordonez added.
Castillo met his eyes for a moment.
Castillo then softly but angrily said, "Sorry, Ordonez, I can't-won't-let you get away with equating what happened at Shangri-La with the cold-blooded murder of Duffy's gendarmes."