The Outlaws_ A Presidential Agent Novel Part 19

"What your business with Miss Grunblatt?"

"I'm a journalist, a senior writer of The Was.h.i.+ngton Times-Post The Was.h.i.+ngton Times-Post."

"You got papers?"

Have I got papers?

You can bet your fat Argentine a.s.s, Pedro, that I have papers.

One at a time, Roscoe took them from his wallet. First he slid through the opening below the window his Pentagon press pa.s.s, then his State Department press pa.s.s, and finally-the ne plus ultra ne plus ultra of all press credentials-his White House press pa.s.s. of all press credentials-his White House press pa.s.s.

They failed to dazzle the rent-a-cop, even after he had studied each intently. But finally he picked up a telephone receiver, spoke briefly into it-Roscoe could not hear what he was saying-and then hung up.

He signaled for Roscoe to go through a st.u.r.dy translucent gla.s.s door.

Roscoe signaled for the return of his pa.s.sport and press pa.s.ses.

The rent-a-cop shook his head and announced, "When you come out, you get back."

Roscoe considered offering the observation that at the Pentagon, the State Department, and the White House they just looked at press pa.s.ses and gave them back, but in the end decided it would probably be counterproductive.

He went through the translucent door, on the other side of which were two more rent-a-cops behind a counter, and another st.u.r.dy gla.s.s door, this one transparent, and through which he could see neatly trimmed gra.s.s around a pathway leading to the emba.s.sy building itself.

It's just as unbelievably ugly as the emba.s.sy in London, Roscoe decided. Roscoe decided.

Obviously designed by the same dropout from the University of Southern Arkansas School of Bunker and Warehouse Architecture.

The door would not open.

Roscoe looked back at the rent-a-cops.

One of them was pointing to the counter. The other was pointing to a sign on the wall: NO ELECTRONIC OR INCENDIARY DEVICES BEYOND THIS POINT.

Incendiary devices? Are they talking about cigar lighters?

"What in there?" one of the rent-a-cops demanded, pointing at Roscoe's laptop case.

"My laptop. I'm a journalist. I need it to take notes."

"Not past this point. You got cellular phone, organizer, butane lighter?"

"Guilty on all points."

"You got or not got?"

"I got," Roscoe said, and then put them on the counter.

"Keys set off wand," one of the rent-a-cops said. "You got keys, better you leave them, too."

Roscoe added his key chain to everything else.

One of the rent-a-cops came from behind the counter, waved the wand around Roscoe's body, and then gestured toward the gla.s.s door.

This time it opened.

A U.S. Marine in dress trousers and a stiffly starched open-collared khaki s.h.i.+rt was waiting for him outside the main entrance to the emba.s.sy building. He had a large revolver in a holster suspended from what looked like a patent-leather Sam Browne harness.

"Mr. Danton?"

"Thank G.o.d, an American!"

"Mr. Danton?"

"Roscoe Danton, an alumnus of the Parris Island School for Boys, at your service, Sergeant."

"If you will come with me, Mr. Danton?"

The sergeant led him into the building, through a magnetic detector, and down a corridor to the right.

He pointed to a wooden bench.

"If you will sit there, Mr. Danton, someone will attend to you shortly. Please do not leave this area."

Roscoe dutifully sat down. The Marine sergeant marched away.

There was a cork bulletin board on the opposing wall.

After perhaps thirty seconds, Roscoe, more from a desire to a.s.sert his journalist status than curiosity-he had been thinking, f.u.c.k you, Sergeant. I ain't in the Crotch no more; you can't order me around f.u.c.k you, Sergeant. I ain't in the Crotch no more; you can't order me around-stood up and had a look at it.

Among the other items on display was the emba.s.sy Daily Bulletin Daily Bulletin. It contained the usual bulls.h.i.+t Roscoe expected to see, and at the end of it was: UNOFFICIAL: ITEMS FOR SALE.

His eyes flickered over it.

"Bingo!" he said aloud.

Immediately after an offer to sell a baby carriage "in like-new condition"- Like-new condition? What did they do, turn the baby back in? Like-new condition? What did they do, turn the baby back in?-was an absolutely fascinating offer of something for sale: 2005 BMW. Royal Blue. Excellent Shape. 54K miles. Royal Blue. Excellent Shape. 54K miles.All papers in order for sale to US Diplomatic Personnel or Argentine Nationals. Priced for quick sale. Can be seen at 2330 O'Higgins. Ask doorman. Alex Darby. Phone 531-678-666.

Five seconds after Roscoe had read the offer, the paper on which it had been printed was off the wall and in his pocket.

He sat back down on the bench and trimmed his fingernails.

Maybe they have surveillance cameras.

Maybe they saw me tear that off.

If they did, so what?

"Mr. Danton, Ms. Grunblatt will see you now."

Sylvia Grunblatt was sitting behind a large, cluttered desk. She was not svelte, but neither was she unpleasingly plump. She had very intelligent eyes.

"What can the emba.s.sy of the United States do for Roscoe J. Danton of The Was.h.i.+ngton Times-Post The Was.h.i.+ngton Times-Post?" she greeted him. "How about a cup of coffee for openers?"

"I would be in your debt," Roscoe said.

She poured coffee into a mug and handed it to him.

"Sugar? Canned cow?"

He shook his head.

"What brings you to the Paris of South America?" Grunblatt asked.

"I'm writing a feature with the working t.i.tle, 'Tacos and Tango.'"

"Sure you are," she said. "What did you do, get demoted? I'm one of your fans, Mr. Danton, and you don't write features for the Sunday magazine."

"How about one with the lead, 'U.S. diplomats living really high on the taxpayer's dollar in the Paris of South America'?"

"If you were going to do that, you wouldn't tell me."

"I came down here to see Alex Darby," Roscoe said.

"n.o.body here by that name," she said.

"You mean 'n.o.body here by that name now, now,' right?"

"We had a commercial counselor by that name, but he's gone. Retired."

"When was that?"

"I don't seem to recall. I could find out for you, but then we would get into privacy issues, wouldn't we?"

"Or security issues. You know who cut his checks, Miss Grunblatt."

"One, it's Ms. Ms. Grunblatt-but you can call me Sylvia if 'Mizz' sticks in your craw." Grunblatt-but you can call me Sylvia if 'Mizz' sticks in your craw."

"And you may call me Roscoe, Sylvia."

"And two, I have no idea what you're talking about. Mr. Darby was our commercial counselor. Who fed you that other wild notion?"

"Eleanor Dillworth, another longtime toiler in the Clandestine Service of the agency whose name we dare not speak."

"You know Eleanor, do you?"

"Eleanor came to me. Actually, she and her friend Patricia Davies Wilson came to me. Do you know Patricia?"

"I've heard the name somewhere. Eleanor came to you?"

"Both of them did. Whistles to their lips."

"And who-at whom-did they wish to blow their whistles?"

"They seem to feel the villain is an Army officer named Castillo. Major Charley Castillo."

"His Christian name is Carlos."

"You know him?"

She nodded, and said, "If he's the same man. He was sent down here when our consul general, J. Winslow Masterson, was kidnapped."

"Sent by who-whom?"

"Our late President. Who then, after Jack Masterson was killed, put him in charge of getting Masterson's family safely home."

"Tell me about Major Castillo," Danton said.

"Tell you what, Roscoe. You tell me what you think you know about Castillo and if I can, I'll tell you if you're right."

"Nice try, Sylvia."

"Excuse me?"

"If I tell you what I know about this guy, then you will know how close I am to learning what you don't want to tell me about him."

"Roscoe, I am a public affairs officer. It is my duty to answer any questions you might pose to the best of my ability. Providing of course that my answers would not include anything that is cla.s.sified."

"You ever hear what C. Harry Whelan has to say about public affairs officers such as yourself?"

She shook her head.

"Quote: Their function is not the dissemination of information but rather the containment thereof. They really should be called 'misinformation officers.' End quote."

"Oh, G.o.d! He's onto us! There is nothing left for me to do but to go home and slit my wrists."

He chuckled.