Buenos Aires, Argentina
1505 5 February 2007
“I will miss the view,” Alexander B. Darby—a small, plump man with a pencil-line mustache—said as he stood with Liam Duffy, Edgar Delchamps, and his wife, and gestured out the windows of the Darbys’ apartment on the thirty-second floor. It occupied half of the top floor of the four-year-old building, high enough to overlook almost all of the other apartment buildings between O’Higgins and the River Plate.
“What you’re supposed to be going to miss, you sonofabitch, is your loving wife and adorable children,” Julia Darby—a trim woman who wore her black hair in a pageboy—said.
And was immediately sorry.
“Strike that, Alex,” she added. “I was just lashing out at the fickle finger of fate.”
“It’s okay, honey. And I really don’t think it will be for long.”
“Hope springs eternal in the human breast,” Julia said solemnly.
“And the movers never show up when they’re supposed to,” Edgar Delchamps said as solemnly.
The apartment showed signs that the movers were expected any moment. Cardboard boxes were stacked all over, and suitcases were arranged by the door.
“And it is always the cocktail hour somewhere in the world, so why not here and now?” Alex said.
Julia smiled at Edgar and Liam, and said, “Every once in a great while, he has a good idea. The embassy’s glasses are in the cupboard, so all we have to do is find something to put in them.”
“The booze is in the suitcase with the ‘seven’ stuck on it,” Alex said, and looked at the suitcases by the door. “Which, of course, is the one on the bottom.” He switched to Spanish. “Give me a hand, will you, Liam?”
Liam Duffy—a well-dressed, muscular, ruddy-faced blond man in his forties—looked to be what his name suggested, a true son of Erin. But he was in fact an Argentine whose family had migrated to Argentina more than a century before.
They went to the stack of suitcases, moved them around, and in about a minute Alex Darby was able to triumphantly raise a bottle of twelve-year-old Famous Grouse Malt Scotch whisky.
The house telephone rang.
Julia answered it.
“It’s the concierge,” she announced. “Somebody’s here to look at the car.”
“Tell him to show it to him,” Alex said.
He walked into the kitchen carrying the whisky. Liam followed him.
Ninety seconds later, the telephone rang again, and again Julia answered it.
When Alex and Liam returned from the kitchen, Julia announced, “It’s the movers.”
“Which one?”
“His,” Julia said, nodding at Duffy.
“Have them sent up,” Alex said.
“I’m way ahead of you, my darling,” Julia said as she reached for her glass.
Seconds later, the doorbell chimed, signaling there was someone in the elevator foyer.
Duffy went to the door and opened it, then waved three men into the apartment. They were all wearing business suits but there was something about them that suggested the military.
“The suitcases to the left of the doorway,” Duffy said in Spanish. “Be very careful of the blue one with the number seven on it.”
“Sí, mí comandante,” one of them said.