“I’ve heard about you, too, Mr. Ambassador,” Ellsworth said with a smile.
Ellsworth knew much more about Silvio than the scathing description of the diplomat Montvale had given him.
Ellsworth was aware that there was more to his story than the bare, commonly known facts that Silvio’s family had escaped from Castro’s Cuba on a fishing boat.
He knew that the fishing boat had been a sixty-two-foot Bertram, and that the Silvio family had brought out with them not only the clothing on their backs, but an enormous fish box filled with currency, jewelry, and stock certificates; some of the more valuable antiques from their Havana mansion; and the extra keys to the cars they kept at their Key Biscayne house.
Ellsworth knew Silvio had graduated from his father’s alma mater, Spring Hill College, a Jesuit institution in Mobile, Alabama, which had been educating South American aristocrats for two hundred years. And that Silvio had earned a law degree at Harvard, and then a doctorate in political science at the University of Alabama. He had joined the State Department on graduation.
He had done so for much the same reason that Truman Ellsworth had become executive assistant to the director of National Intelligence: not because they needed the job, but because they saw it—the term “noblesse oblige” fit—as their patriotic obligation to serve their country.
Most important, Ellsworth knew that Silvio was not afraid of Montvale.
So far as Ellsworth knew, Silvio had never had to use it, but if push came to shove, he had behind him the enormous political clout of the Cuban-American community in south Florida. The Silvio family had spent a great deal of their money helping fellow Cubans escape from Castro and establish themselves in the United States. This was remembered. And gentlemen always repay their debts.
“May I offer you a cup of coffee?” Ambassador Silvio asked, waving Montvale and Ellsworth into chairs facing his desk.
“No, thank you,” Montvale said. “Mr. Ambassador ...”
“That would be very nice, thank you,” Ellsworth said.
“. . . I am here at the personal order of President Clendennen,” Montvale finished.
“So Ms. Grunblatt told me,” Silvio said. “And as soon as we have our coffee, I’ll ask how I may be of service. Are you sure you won’t ...”
“I’m sure. Thank you.”
“So how may I be of service to you, Mr. Montvale?”
“My orders are to locate both of the Russian defectors and former Lieutenant Colonel Carlos Castillo.”
“‘Former’? I was under the impression Castillo had been retired. Was that wrong? Did he resign?”
“No. He retired,” Montvale said. “Do you know where he is, Mr. Ambassador? Or the Russians?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. The last time I saw Colonel Castillo was when you and he were both in this office.”
“Do you think if I got Secretary of State Cohen, or the President himself, on the telephone to confirm my mission here, it would improve your memory, Mr. Ambassador?”
Silvio did not rise to the bait.
“Mr. Montvale, when Ms. Grunblatt told me that you had told her that, I telephoned the secretary of State for verification. Secretary Cohen confirmed that you and Mr. Ellsworth are here at the direction of President Clendennen and instructed me to do whatever I can to help you accomplish your mission.”
“And I have told you what that mission is.”
“And I have told you I have no idea where Colonel Castillo or the Russian defectors might be. But I’ll tell you what I can do: Now that everyone’s back from the affair in Mar del Plata, and the embassy’s vehicles are back in the motor pool, I’ll be happy to augment the Suburban in which you must have been really crammed with a vehicle more in keeping with your rank and position. With a driver, of course. For as long as you’re here.”
“Thank you very much,” Montvale said. “Mr. Ambassador, would you be surprised to hear that your former commercial counselor, and my former Buenos Aires station chief, Alexander Darby, is in Ushuaia?”
“Yes, I would. I was led to believe that Mr. Darby had returned to the United States.”
“I have been led to believe he’s in Ushuaia with a young Argentine woman.”
“I find that hard to believe, Mr. Montvale. How good is your source?”
Montvale ignored the question.