"The dips don't go to work until nine," he said. "So why don't you get yourself settled, and then about nine, take a taxi to the embassy?"
"Okay."
"Facing the embassy, to the right is the gate for employees. Use that one. The guards are Argentines. Flash the tin at one of them, and they'll escort you into the building, to Post One, where there's a Marine guard. Flash the tin at him, tell him you want to see me. I will appear and profess surprise at seeing Supervisory Special Agent Castillo, and get you a visitor's badge. Then we will arrange to bump into Lowery."
"Sounds good. A taxi? Not a remise?"
"A taxi to the embassy. There's no sense in letting SIDE know you went right from your hotel to the embassy."
Castillo asked for an explanation with a raised eyebrow.
"For a little background," Santini said, "the drivers of Palermo Remise are off-duty cops. That means they can carry guns. That's useful; there's a lot of bad guys here. The problem is I suspect the off-duty cops they send me are SIDE agents. If my cynicism is on the money, I've worked out an unspoken agreement with SIDE. I use their remises, the drivers report to SIDE where I go, and who I talk to. That way they don't have to put a tail on me. I just don't talk business in a remise."
"Understood," Castillo said.
"But generally-unless you don't want SIDE to know where you're going-Palermo Remise is a good idea," Santini said, and handed him a business card. "It never takes them much longer than ten minutes to pick you up, no matter where you are. They use cellulars."
Castillo nodded.
"Thanks, Tony."
Santini handed him a Motorola cellular telephone and a charger. Again, Castillo asked about it with a raised eyebrow.
"My personal cell number is Auto Four," Santini said. "My personal-unlisted-number is Five, and my office is Six. I've got a good Argentine administrative assistant, Daniel. As far as I know, he's not working for SIDE."
Castillo nodded his understanding.
"You can call the States with that, but it's about nine dollars a second, so don't spend hours chatting up your girlfriend."
"Who pays the bills for this? The Secret Service or the embassy?"
"The Secret Service. Which means me. Which means, I guess, Supervisory Agent Castillo, you can talk to your girlfriend as long as you want to."
Hi there, Betty. Charley Castillo. I was just sitting here in my hotel room in Buenos Aires wondering how things are going up there in Georgia, and thought I'd give you a call.
Yeah, I know they must be keeping you pretty busy there in agent school, or whatever the hell they call it.
Sorry to bother you.
"Thanks, Tony."
Santini touched his arm.
"See you a little after nine," he said, and walked from the balcony, through the room, and out the door.
Charley took a shower. The only word to describe the bathroom was sumptuous. Except for the ceiling, everything was marble. There was both a Jacuzzi and a large shower stall, and a heated chrome rack on one wall held enough thick towels to dry an elephant.
He put on what he thought of as his "bureaucrat's uniform," a dark gray single-breasted suit with a white button-down shirt and a striped necktie.
He looked at his watch and saw that it was five minutes past eight, which meant it was five minutes past seven in Washington. Calling Joel Isaacson to thank him for Santini would have to wait. And it didn't make sense to send an e-mail. For one thing, he didn't have much to say, except what Santini had told him. Maybe after he talked to the security guy at the embassy he would know more. And if by twelve-eleven in D.C.-he didn't know more, then he would send an e-mail saying just that: Nothing yet. Working on it. Best wishes. Sherlock Holmes.
He reached for the telephone to call room service and then changed his mind. He would have coffee in the lobby. If there was nothing else to attract his attention- and he thought there was a good chance there would be; the only other place he knew where there were so many good-looking women was Budapest-he'd have a look at the Buenos Aires Herald.
He thought for a moment about what to do with Gossinger's passport and credit cards, and then put them in the padding of the laptop case. It was always awkward to be found with two sets of identification.
He walked down the corridor to the bank of elevators and pushed the down-arrow button. The door opened almost immediately, and he found himself looking at a slim man in his early forties, with shortly cropped, thinning hair. He wore a light brown single-breasted suit and a subdued necktie. He would not stand out in a crowd.
"Either you're a much better actor than I've previously given you credit for being, or that startled look is genuine," the man said.