Jack Davidson and his gendarme were sitting at a table just inside the restaurant door. Both looked to be halfway through with eating their luncheon of steaks.
Davidson caught Castillo's eye and indicated with a nod toward the rear of the restaurant.
"You wait here with them," Castillo said to his gendarme, motioning to the table with Davidson and the other gendarme. Their table had a clear view of a round table at the rear of the establishment.
Castillo walked toward the round table, seated at which were the Honorable Charles W. Montvale, the United States Director of National Intelligence who liked to be called "Ambassador"--in his long career of public service he had been deputy secretary of State, secretary of the Treasury, and ambassador to the European Union--the United States Ambassador to Argentina Juan Manuel Silvio, and a man in his late fifties, tall and trim with closely cropped hair.
Castillo decided unkindly that the tall, trim man's suit indeed looked, as Davidson had said, as if it had come off a chromed rack at Sears, Roebuck & Co.
At a table against the wall were two neatly dressed, muscular men who Castillo decided were almost certainly from the agency or were Montvale's Secret Service bodyguards. Montvale spotted Castillo, paused momentarily in the act of forking a piece of steak to his mouth, then completed the motion.
"Well, what a pleasant surprise!" Castillo announced as he approached. "I was just at the embassy to make my manners, Ambassador Silvio, but they didn't seem to know where you were. And Mr. Montvale! What brings you down this way?"
"I think you've got a very good idea, Colonel," Montvale said sharply, chewing as he spoke.
Castillo glanced around the room, then looked back at Montvale. "Aside from thinking you've heard the reputation of the Rio Alba as the world's best steak house, I haven't a clue."
Montvale swallowed, then sipped at his glass of red wine. "Why don't you sit down, Colonel."
"Thank you very much."
Castillo took his seat, looked around for a waiter, and motioned for him to come over.
"I'm starved. I had breakfast very early," he said in English to Montvale, and then switched to Spanish to address the waiter: "Would you bring me a Roquefort empanada, please, and then a bife de chorizo punto, papas fritas, and a tomato and onion salad?"
He picked up the bottle of wine on the table, read the label, made a face, returned the bottle to the table, and added, "And a bottle of Saint Felicien Cabernet Sauvignon, please."
"Something wrong with that wine, Colonel?" Montvale said, an edge of sarcasm rising in his tone.
"Well, according to the label, it's Malbec."
"Yes. And?"
"And, Mr. Montvale, I thought you knew. 'Malbec' is French for 'bad taste.' I don't know about you, sir, but that's enough to warn me off."
Ambassador Silvio chuckled.
The man in the Sears, Roebuck suit stared icily at Castillo.
Castillo reached across the table and offered him his hand.
"My name is Castillo, sir. Any friend of Mr. Montvale--"
"Lieutenant Colonel Castillo," Montvale interrupted, "this is Colonel Remley."
"How do you do, sir?" Castillo said politely.
"Of Special Operations Command," Montvale added.
"Oh, really? Well, if we can find the time, sir, maybe we can play 'Do You Know?' I know some people there."
Colonel Remley neither smiled nor replied.
"Speaking of time, Castillo," Montvale said. "I'd like to get back to Washington as soon as possible. How long is it going to take for you to get your 'guests' to the airport?"
"I have no idea who you're talking about."
Montvale, looking over the top of his wineglass, stared down Castillo. "You know goddamn well who I'm talking about."