The Shooters (Presidential Agent 4)

"Oh, no. Not at all," Montvale said quickly. "What I was thinking was it's really a rather amusing situation. What we have in this room are very skilled, highly experienced intelligence officers, enjoying the confidence of the President, who were nonetheless forced to shut down their operation-what did you say, you were 'out of Argentina within hours'?-because of one unimportant little lieutenant who had no idea what he was sticking his nose into. You'll have to admit, that is rather amusing."

No one else seemed to find it amusing.

Delchamps took another swallow of his drink, looked thoughtful-if not annoyed-for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.

"Let me tell you about that unimportant little lieutenant, Mr. Montvale," he said, an edge to his tone.

"Please do," Montvale said sarcastically.

"Jack Doherty and I had a long talk with him on the trip from B.A.," Delchamps said. "It's not that he was running at the mouth…even willing to talk. What it was, Mr. Montvale, is that Jack and I, between us, have more experience pulling things from reluctant people than you are old."

Montvale's face showed no response to that.

"We started out to learn who he'd been running his mouth to," Delchamps went on, "and what he'd said. The first impression we got was that he had been listening, not running his mouth, and that was the impression we had when we finished. Right, Jack?"

"That's it," Doherty agreed. "He's one hell of a young man, Mr. Ambassador."

"Who talks too much," Montvale said, "and has come close to compromising your operation."

"Listen to what I'm saying, for Christ's sake!" Delchamps said.

"Just who do you think you're talking to?" Montvale demanded.

"Your name, I understand, is Montvale. Do you know who you're talking to?"

"I'll wager you're about to tell me," Montvale said, icily. "Something more, I mean, than that you're a midlevel officer of the CIA."

"I wondered how long it would take you to get around to that," Delchamps said. "Christ, you're all alike."

"Who's all alike?" Montvale challenged.

"What the good guys in the clandestine service call the 'Washington assholes,'" Delchamps said, matter-of-factly.

"I will not be talked to like that," Montvale flared. "'Washington asshole' or not, I'm the director of National Intelligence."

Delchamps smiled. "You won't be DNI long if this Presidential Finding blows up in your face. The President will feed you to Senator Johns. The term for that is 'sacrificial lamb.' You, Montvale, not Charley. Charley is not fat enough to be fed as a sacrificial lamb to the Senate committee on intelligence. They like large, well-known sacrificial lambs for the headlines and sound bites with their names."

They locked eyes for a moment, then Delchamps went on, calmly, "As I was saying, it is my professional assessment, and that of Inspector Doherty, that Lieutenant Lorimer did not, at any time, share with anyone anything that he suspected might be classified.

"What he did, as I said before, Mr. Montvale, was listen. And, with a skill belying his youth and experience, put together a rather complete picture of what Colonel Castillo has done in compliance with the Presidential Finding.

"And then he made a mistake, which, considering his youth and inexperience, is perfectly understandable. He's naive, in other words. He believed that there had to be someone in the system somewhere who would really care about his pal Timmons and do the right thing."

"The right thing?" Montvale repeated, drily.

"Do something but wring their hands."

"Such as?"

Delchamps ignored the question.

Instead, he said, "Let me paint the picture for you, Mr. Montvale. The Paraguayan authorities notified our ambassador that an embassy vehicle had been found parked against the fence surrounding Silvio Pettirossi International Airport, directly across the field from the terminal building.

"In the backseat of the SUV, on the floor, was the body of one Franco Julio Cesar, thirty-nine years old, a Paraguayan national, employed as a chauffeur by the U.S. embassy. El Senor Cesar was dead of asphyxiation, caused by a metallic garrote having been placed around his neck by party or parties unknown-"

"This guy had been garroted?" Castillo interrupted. "A metal garrote?"

"Yeah, Ace, that's what the Paraguayan cops reported," Delchamps said.