"Are you going to have any trouble waking up in time to pick up Munz and me here at the hotel at, say, seven o'clock in the morning?"
"I'll be here, sir."
"Where are we going?" Munz said. "Can I ask?"
"Generally speaking, we are going to reconnoiter the target. I'll be more specific in the morning." He paused. "I wonder where the restaurant is?"
"Right next to us," Munz said. "But it doesn't open until eight. In half an hour."
"Well, that'll give me time to finish this drink and have another," Castillo said.
He saw how they were both looking at him.
"What I'm doing now is running on my reserves. When I'm doing that, I can't get to sleep unless I dilute the adrenaline, or whatever the hell it is, with substantial quantities of alcohol."
"I understand," Munz said.
"Mr. Castillo, can I speak to you privately for a moment?" Yung asked.
"It won't wait until the morning? I wasn't kidding. I'm in no shape to make decisions."
"It won't take a moment, sir."
"Alfredo, order me another one, please. I will be back directly," Castillo said and stood up.
He followed Yung out of the bar and through the lobby to the street.
"Okay, what?" Castillo asked.
"I know we got off on the wrong foot, Mr. Castillo- my fault…"
"Water over the dam," Castillo said.
"And I just wanted to say I'm grateful you're not cutting me out of this. I thought, when you went back to Buenos Aires this morning, that's what was going to happen. So thank you. I'll do my damnedest."
Castillo thought, unkindly:
Jesus H. Christ! He's acting like a high school kid, blubberinghis gratitude to the coach for letting him back on the team after he got caught smoking in the boys' room. He thinks what's going to happen is some kind of a game.
So how do I handle this?
Castillo smiled at Special Agent Yung, then punched him on the shoulder.
"I'm glad you're going to be on the team, Yung," he said, hoping he sounded far more sincere than was the case.
XIX
[ONE] Estancia Shangri-La Tacuarembo Province Republica Oriental del Uruguay 0855 30 July 2005 Jean-Paul Bertrand, patron of Estancia Shangri-La, naked under his silk Sulka dressing gown, his bare feet in soft brown unborn calfskin loafers, carefully pushed open the French door from his bedroom to the interior courtyard of his home.
He was carrying a cup of tea in his left hand, and when it was raining-as it was now-the damned door stuck and the tea would spill. It didn't matter if he slopped tea on the tile floors, of course, but getting tea on the light blue dressing gown was really distressful.
He had managed-not without a good deal of effort-to teach the laundress how he liked his shirts- lightly starched-and his linen, and how she should carefully wash his silk socks in cold water. But dry cleaning was an entirely different matter. There was no dry-cleaning establishment worthy of the name in Tacuarembo, which meant that all his dry cleaning had to be taken to Punta del Este. The place there charged an arm and a leg to dry-clean something, but at least it was returned clean, in one piece, and usually of the same color.
There were several problems with that, too, however. For one thing, he did not think it wise to go to his condominium in Punta del Este. People might be looking for him to show up there. And even if he could go-in, say, six months-the stains he got on anything here would by then be permanent.
Therefore, he opened the door very carefully, and was pleased with his foresight and care. The damn door did stick, but he didn't spill any tea on his dressing gown.
He sighed. It was drizzling. And from the appearance of the sky, it was going to drizzle all day. That happened often in winter.