The Hunters (Presidential Agent 3)

“Mr. Ambassador,” Señora Obregon announced from his door, “Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez and another gentleman to see you.”

McGrory rose quickly from his desk and walked quickly to the door, smiling, his hand extended.

“Señor Alvarez,” he said. “What an unexpected pleasure!”

Alvarez, a small, trim man, returned the smile.

“Mr. Detweiller has developed a slight case of the flu,” McGrory went on, “which is bad for him, but—perhaps I shouldn’t say this—good for me, because it gives me the chance to offer you the cup of coffee in his stead.”

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Ambassador,” Alvarez said, enthusiastically pumping McGrory’s hand. “I only hope I am not intruding on your busy schedule.”

“There is always time in my schedule for you, Señor Alvarez,” McGrory said.

“May I present my friend, Señor Ordóñez of the Interior Ministry?” Alvarez said.

“A privilege to make your acquaintance, señor,” McGrory said, offering Ordóñez his hand. “And may I introduce my cultural attaché, Señor Howell?”

Everybody shook hands.

“I understand from Señor Detweiller that this is a purely social visit?” McGrory asked.

“Absolutely,” Alvarez said. “I knew Ordóñez and I were going to be in the area, and since I hadn’t seen my friend Detweiller for some time I thought he might be kind enough to offer me a cup of coffee.”

“He was really sorry to miss you,” McGrory said.

“Please pass on my best wishes for a speedy recovery,” Alvarez said.

“Since this is, as you say, a purely social visit, may I suggest that Señor Howell share our coffee with us?”

“Delighted to have him,” Alvarez said.

“Please take a seat,” McGrory said, waving at the chairs and the couch around his coffee table. Then he raised his voice, “Señora Obregon, would you be good enough to bring us all some coffee and rolls?”

Howell thought: Whatever this is—it almost certainly has to do with the blood bath at Tacuarembó—it is not a purely social visit and both Alvarez and McGrory know it.

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nbsp; Alvarez knows that Detweiller “got sick” because McGrory wanted to talk to him himself, which is probably fine with Alvarez. He really wanted to talk to him, anyway, but the deputy foreign minister couldn’t call the American ambassador and ask for a cup of coffee.

That’s known as protocol.

Ordóñez is not just in the Interior Ministry; he’s chief inspector of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policía Nacional and McGrory knows that.

And Ordóñez knows—and, since he knows, so does Alvarez—that I’m not really the cultural attaché.

I know just about everything that happened at Tacuarembó, but Señor Pompous doesn’t even know that Americans—much less his CIA station chief—were involved, because Castillo decided he didn’t have the Need to Know and ordered me—with his authority under the Presidential Finding—not to tell him anything at all.

Everybody is lying to—and/or concealing something from—everybody else and everybody either knows or suspects it.

That’s known as diplomacy.

I wonder how long it will take before Alvarez decides to talk about what he wants to talk about?

It took less time—just over five minutes—than Howell expected it to before Alvarez obliquely began to talk about what he had come to talk about.

“While I’m here, Mr. Ambassador,” Alvarez said, “let me express my personal appreciation—an official expression will of course follow in good time—for your cooperation in the Tacuarembó matter.”

“Well, no thanks are necessary,” McGrory replied, “as we have learned that the poor fellow was really an American citizen. We were just doing our duty.”