The Outlaws (Presidential Agent 6)

“It occurred to me, knowing what little I do about Ushuaia,” he said, “that the southernmost city in South America, as remote as it is, would be an ideal place to hide the Russians. What do you think?”

“I think that’s absurd,” Silvio said.

“You are telling me, and I will tell the President that you have told me, that you think the possibility that Mr. Darby and/or Colonel Castillo are hiding the Russian defectors in Ushuaia is absurd?”

“Yes, I do. Or, rather, yes, Mr. Montvale, that is exactly what I’m telling you.”

“I think I’m wasting my time here,” Montvale said, and stood up. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Montvale,” Ambassador Silvio said, standing up. “On your way out, ask the Marine guard for your car. If you need to contact me, you have my number.”

“Oh, I have your number, Mr. Ambassador,” Montvale said, and, without shaking hands, marched out of the office.

Silvio and Ellsworth nodded at each other, and then Ellsworth followed Montvale.

Ellsworth thought: I would bet two cents against a doughnut that nobody—not this fellow Darby, nor Castillo, nor the Russians—is in Ushuaia.

And I will also bet the same amount that the minute we get into the car, Charles is going to say, “Send the other four Clandestine Service officers down there as quickly as possible. That’s where everybody is.”

Or words to that effect.

Montvale did.

[FIVE]

Marriott Plaza Hotel

Florida 1005

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1620 8 February 2007

It is said that the bar in the Plaza hasn’t changed since General Juan Domingo Perón drank there as a corporal. But this is untrue for several reasons, including the fact that General Perón was never a corporal. It can be more accurately said that the bar has changed very little from the time it opened with the hotel a century ago.

It is a warm and comfortable room, with an L-shaped bar tucked into a corner. There are a half-dozen tables and comfortable leather armchairs.

It is as accurate to say the bar is on the floor below the lobby as it is to say it’s on the ground floor. Avenida Florida, level for most of its length, takes a steep dip as it passes the Plaza on its way to Avenida Libertador and the main railroad station.

It is thus possible to turn off Florida and enter the bar almost directly. It is also possible, fifty feet away, to turn off Florida and enter the hotel lobby. If one elects the latter choice, then one must take the stairs or the elevator and go down one floor to get to the bar.

The director of National Intelligence, the Honorable Charles M. Montvale, and his executive assistant, the Honorable Truman Ellsworth, entered the bar by coming down the stairs, shortly after being told in the lobby that Roscoe J. Danton was sitting at the bar alone, second stool from the wall.

This information had come to them from Winston Gump, one of the Clandestine Service officers who had arrived in Buenos Aires that morning. Montvale had drafted Gump to attend him—the phrase he used was “work with”—in the belief that one never knew when one might require the skills of a veteran of the Clandestine Service. For his part, Gump was flattered by having been selected to serve—he thought “serve,” not “work with”—the most senior person in the American intelligence community and his executive assistant.

Gump did wonder about Executive Assistant Ellsworth. He didn’t look like a male version of a super secretary, nor did he look that way, but Gump knew you couldn’t always judge a book by its cover, and there were all those stories going around how J. Edgar Hoover and his assistant could hardly wait to get home to put on dresses.

Anything, Gump had learned in his clandestine service, was possible.

“Well, Truman,” Montvale said. “Look who’s here!”

Ellsworth took the bar stool closest to the wall; Montvale took the one on the other side.

Roscoe J. Danton raised his voice: “Hey, Pedro, look who’s here!”

Oh, shit! He’s drunk!

On reflection, that might not be entirely a bad thing.