“Can we come in a moment, Jim?” Howell asked.
“Absolutely. What’s on your mind, Bob?”
“Hello, Monahan,” Yung said.
“I heard you’d been recalled to the bureau,” Monahan said. “You’re back?”
“Temporarily,” Yung said. “They sent me back to handle the affairs of Mr. Lorimer. Return of the remains, conservation of assets, etcetera.”
“The bureau sent you back to do that?”
“Actually, it was the State Department that sent me.”
“Oh, that’s right. You work for the State Department, don’t you? A little something you never got around to telling me.”
“You didn’t have the Need to Know,” Yung said, more than a little lamely.
“Jim,” Howell said, quickly, “the ambassador would like you to have Julio Artigas work with Yung on this.”
“Work with Yung on what?”
“Repatriation of Mr. Lorimer’s remains, for one thing, safeguarding his assets and having a look at Lorimer’s estancia.”
“The ambassador wants this?” Monahan asked.
“Yes, he does.”
Monahan picked up his telephone and punched in a number.
“Julio, can you come in here a minute?”
Legal Attaché Julio Artigas was surprised to see Yung in Monahan’s office. In thinking about what had happened at Estancia Shangri-La and his gut feeling when he had gone with Ambassador McGrory to Buenos Aires that Howell and Darby, the Buenos Aires CIA station chief, knew all about what had happened there, he had concluded that Yung was also probably involved.
The story that Yung had been suddenly recalled to the States to testify in some court case smelled. Artigas had thought it even possible that Yung had been at the estancia during the firefight and had been wounded and taken out of the country by whoever had been at the estancia and won the gun battle. It seemed logical to presume that at least some of the Americans involved had been wounded or even killed—and there was little question in his mind that Americans were involved. Getting Yung out of the country, even with a fishy, hastily concocted story, made more sense than trying to explain how and where he had been wounded.
Artigas had kept his thoughts to himself. His opinion of James D. Monahan was that his greatest skill was covering his own ass. Monahan liked being the senior FBI agent in the embassy, which allowed him to order the other agents around. But whenever he should have stood up and defended the other agents from one of McGrory’s stupid orders, he was quick to argue that he wasn’t the SAC and that sort of thing wasn’t his business.
Artigas knew that if he had said anything of his suspicions to Monahan, there was no question that Monahan would have run with it right to McGrory—or, more likely, to Theodore J. Detweiller, Jr., the chief of mission.
“I think I should tell you, Ted, what a wild idea Artigas came to me with.”
“What can I do for you, Jim?”
“It’s what you can do for Yung, “Monahan replied. “Or, more accurately, for the State Department.”
“You’re back, huh, Yung?” Artigas asked.
“Yung was sent back,” Howell answered for him, “by the secretary of state to handle the return of Lorimer’s remains and to protect his assets.”
“And to compile a report for the secretary about what happened at Lorimer’s estancia,” Yung added.
Artigas looked at Yung. Or maybe, since you know goddamned well what happened, to see how much we know? Or the Uruguayans know?
“You’re a little late to protect his assets,” Artigas said. “Parties unknown emptied his bank accounts. Of sixteen million dollars.”
He thought, As you almost certainly know.
“I’ve heard something about that,” Yung replied, “and I’d like a full report on that. What we know for sure. Ambassador McGrory told me there is some reason to think he was into drugs. But first things first. Where is the body?”