The Hostage pa-2

by W. E. B Griffin

  "You give it good odds that they'd kill her?"

  "They kidnapped a kid not so long ago-not a kid. He was twenty-three. In San Isidro, where they grabbed Mrs. Masterson. He was the son of a rich businessman. They cut off his fingers, one at a time, and sent them to Poppa, together with rising demands for ransom. Poppa finally paid, three hundred thousand American. That's roughly nine hundred thousand pesos, a fortune in a poor country. And shortly thereafter, they found the kid's body, shot in the head."

  "Why'd they kill him?"

  "Dead men tell no tales," Santini said, mockingly. "Hadn't you heard?"

  "Wouldn't that discourage other people from paying ransom?"

  "When they've got junior or the missus, you pay and hope you get them back alive. The only thing that may keep Mrs. Masterson alive is if the bad guys are smart enough to realize that killing her would really turn the heat up. That would embarrass the government." He paused, and then, mimicking the sonorous tone of a condescending professor, added, "My experience with the criminal element, lamentably, suggests that very few of them are mentally qualified to be able to modify their antisocial behavior and become nuclear physicists."

  Castillo chuckled. "I don't know why I'm laughing," he said, then asked, "What did you say about the Kansas?"

  "It's a nice restaurant. She was snatched from the parking lot in back of it. If you want, I'll take you out there for lunch, and you can have a look-see for yourself."

  "Thank you. I'd like that. I won't know what I'm looking at, but I have to start somewhere."

  "Pardon my ignorance, but why can't you just walk into the embassy and tell the security guy, Ken Lowery, nice guy, what you're doing down here?"

  "That would put me in the system. The whole idea is for me not to be in the system."

  "Nobody knows you've been sent down here? Not even the agency?"

  "Especially the agency. I'm on their bad-guy list. Theirs and the FBI's."

  Santini thoughtfully considered that.

  "But I'd like to know about them. Or is that putting you on the spot?"

  "You're okay with Joel. That's good enough for me. Anyway, there's not much to tell. The CIA station chief-his cover, so called, is commercial attache-is a good guy by the name of Alex Darby. From what I've seen, he's okay. There's no FBI at the embassy, but they sent a couple agents over yesterday from Montevideo to see if they could be useful. I just barely know them. Typical FBI agents."

  "You think-what did you say his name is? Darby?- you think Darby's in tight with SIDE and/or the local cops?"

  "You know what SIDE is?"

  "The Argentine versions of the CIA and the FBI combined in one, right?"

  Santini nodded, then asked, "You've been here before?"

  "Yeah."

  "Nobody at the embassy knows you?"

  "I don't think so. I've never actually been inside the place."

  Santini nodded, accepting that, and then answered the question:

  "I would say Darby's tight with SIDE and Lowery's tight with the cops." He paused, and then asked, "What's going to happen if-when-they find out you're down here? Nosing around down here? I'm not going to say anything, but…"

  "I really hope they don't. It would put Natalie Cohen on the spot with the ambassador for not telling him. She knows I'm down here, and why."

  "You call the secretary of state by her first name?"

  "No. I call her 'ma'am,'" Castillo said, but then added, smiling: "But she calls me Charley."

  "Speaking of names, Joel said Gossinger's a beard."

  "My name is really Castillo. Charley Castillo."

  He put out his hand. Santini took it.

  "Tony," he said, and then in Italian, "You don't look Italian."

  Charley shook his head and replied, in Italian, "Half German and half Texan, heavy on the Hispanic heritage."

  "You speak good Italian."

  "Languages come pretty easy to me."

  Santini nodded his acceptance of this, then asked, "How good a cover? If SIDE develops an interest in you, they'll check. They're pretty good at that."

  "It'll hold up. Gossinger, who works for a German newspaper, the Tages Zeitung, is here to do a human-interest story on the survivors of the Graf Spee. If my editor at the Tages Zeitung hasn't already told the German embassy I'm here and said I would appreciate all courtesies, he will soon."

  Santini looked at him a moment.

  "Okay, so you speak Spanish, you've been here, you've got what sounds like a pretty good cover. But I still don't know how you can do what you're supposed to do without going to the embassy."

  "I didn't say I wasn't going to go to the embassy. Charley Castillo's not going to the embassy."

  "You're pretty good at this undercover business? Playingmake-believe? You could get away with playing Gossinger at the embassy?"

  "Why not?"

  "Can I make a suggestion?"

  "I'm wide open."

  "Even if they swallow you whole at the embassy as Herr Gossinger, they're not going to tell you anything. For one thing, it hasn't been in the papers or on the tube. The Argentines are embarrassed, and they put a lid on the story. We're not talking about it to the Americans-not the newspaper, not the New York Times, nobody. The Argentines are hoping that when the bad guys find out they've got a dip's wife they'll turn her loose, and the whole thing can be forgotten. Personally, I think they're pissing in the wind, but that's where it is right now. So if Herr Gossinger goes to the embassy and starts answering questions, Lowery and everybody else are going to wonder how the hell Herr Gossinger heard about it."

  "I hope Joel told you I wasn't sent here because I was the best-qualified man all around to conduct an undercover kidnapping investigation."

  "Joel said you had two skills: you were one hell of a swordsman and pretty good about stealing stolen air-liners back from the bad guys."

  "He didn't mention my poker playing?"

  "No," Santini said, smiling. "But figure that out. If he told me that, he would be admitting you took him."

  "Joel has one flaw in his character," Charley said. "He actually thinks he can play poker."

  "He also thinks he can actually play gin," Santini said. "When we were on the presidential detail, waiting, we got to play a hell of a lot of gin. I took a lot of his money."

  They smiled at each other.

  "But we digress, Herr Gossinger," Santini said. "We were talking about my little suggestion."

  "Let's hear it."

  "If, say," Santini began, "a fellow Secret Service agent just happened to be passing through Buenos Aires, and checked in with me at the embassy, and he and I just happened to bump into Ken Lowery, and I told Lowery, 'I was just telling Agent Whatsisname here about Mrs. Masterson,' Lowery would understand that-he's always making reference to 'we federal agents' as if he were one-and would probably stumble over his tongue to tell you how he's dealing with the problem."

  "Am I detecting you don't think too much of this guy's ability as an investigator?"

  "He's a good guy, like I said, but how many times do you think he's had a chance to investigate anything more serious than some dip diddling another dip's wife? Such conduct being detrimental to the foreign service of the United States."

  Castillo chuckled, then asked, "What would happen to you if they found out you'd set this up? And they probably would, sooner or later."

  "Maybe they would send me home in disgrace," Santini said. "And I could go back to being a real Secret Service agent. Coming down here wasn't my idea. Or maybe you could have told me, as the Presidential Agent, what you were doing and ordered me to keep my mouth shut."

  "Consider yourself so ordered," Castillo said. "But I have to tell you the last time I did that-to a guy who had some information I needed-the DCI wasn't impressed and relieved him for cause. He finally wound up with a letter of commendation from the President, but he had a very uncomfortable couple of days before that happened."

  "What'll happen will happen," Santini said.<
br />
  "How come they sent you down here?"

  "I hurt myself, and was placed on limited duty, so they sent me down here to look for funny money."

  "How'd you hurt yourself?"

  "Joel didn't tell you?"

  Castillo shook his head.

  "If you laugh, I'll break both your arms," Santini said, conversationally. "I fell off the Vice President's limo bumper, and the trailing Yukon ran over my foot."

  "I won't laugh, but can I smile broadly?"

  "Fuck you, Herr Gossinger," Santini said, smiling.

  "What would another Secret Service agent be doing, passing through Argentina?"

  "Any one of fifty things, it happens all the time, at least once a month. Usually, it's a supervisory special agent bitching about my expenses; crap like that. The only problem I can see would be if somebody asked you to prove who you were."

  "Wait one," Charley said.

  Less than two minutes later, he handed his Secret Service credentials to Santini.

  "Hall got you these?" he asked when he'd examined them.

  Castillo shook his head.

  "Joel went to Hall and got them for me."

  "These would work, I think. Your call."

  "It looks to me like a winner," Castillo said. "Thanks, Tony."

  Santini made a deprecating gesture.

  "The dips don't go to work until nine," he said. "So why don't you get yourself settled, and then about nine, take a taxi to the embassy?"

  "Okay."

  "Facing the embassy, to the right is the gate for employees. Use that one. The guards are Argentines. Flash the tin at one of them, and they'll escort you into the building, to Post One, where there's a Marine guard. Flash the tin at him, tell him you want to see me. I will appear and profess surprise at seeing Supervisory Special Agent Castillo, and get you a visitor's badge. Then we will arrange to bump into Lowery."

  "Sounds good. A taxi? Not a remise?"

  "A taxi to the embassy. There's no sense in letting SIDE know you went right from your hotel to the embassy."

  Castillo asked for an explanation with a raised eyebrow.

  "For a little background," Santini said, "the drivers of Palermo Remise are off-duty cops. That means they can carry guns. That's useful; there's a lot of bad guys here. The problem is I suspect the off-duty cops they send me are SIDE agents. If my cynicism is on the money, I've worked out an unspoken agreement with SIDE. I use their remises, the drivers report to SIDE where I go, and who I talk to. That way they don't have to put a tail on me. I just don't talk business in a remise."

  "Understood," Castillo said.

  "But generally-unless you don't want SIDE to know where you're going-Palermo Remise is a good idea," Santini said, and handed him a business card. "It never takes them much longer than ten minutes to pick you up, no matter where you are. They use cellulars."

  Castillo nodded.

  "Thanks, Tony."

  Santini handed him a Motorola cellular telephone and a charger. Again, Castillo asked about it with a raised eyebrow.

  "My personal cell number is Auto Four," Santini said. "My personal-unlisted-number is Five, and my office is Six. I've got a good Argentine administrative assistant, Daniel. As far as I know, he's not working for SIDE."

  Castillo nodded his understanding.

  "You can call the States with that, but it's about nine dollars a second, so don't spend hours chatting up your girlfriend."

  "Who pays the bills for this? The Secret Service or the embassy?"

  "The Secret Service. Which means me. Which means, I guess, Supervisory Agent Castillo, you can talk to your girlfriend as long as you want to."

  Hi there, Betty. Charley Castillo. I was just sitting here in my hotel room in Buenos Aires wondering how things are going up there in Georgia, and thought I'd give you a call.

  Yeah, I know they must be keeping you pretty busy there in agent school, or whatever the hell they call it.

  Sorry to bother you.

  "Thanks, Tony."

  Santini touched his arm.

  "See you a little after nine," he said, and walked from the balcony, through the room, and out the door.

  Charley took a shower. The only word to describe the bathroom was sumptuous. Except for the ceiling, everything was marble. There was both a Jacuzzi and a large shower stall, and a heated chrome rack on one wall held enough thick towels to dry an elephant.

  He put on what he thought of as his "bureaucrat's uniform," a dark gray single-breasted suit with a white button-down shirt and a striped necktie.

  He looked at his watch and saw that it was five minutes past eight, which meant it was five minutes past seven in Washington. Calling Joel Isaacson to thank him for Santini would have to wait. And it didn't make sense to send an e-mail. For one thing, he didn't have much to say, except what Santini had told him. Maybe after he talked to the security guy at the embassy he would know more. And if by twelve-eleven in D.C.-he didn't know more, then he would send an e-mail saying just that: Nothing yet. Working on it. Best wishes. Sherlock Holmes.

  He reached for the telephone to call room service and then changed his mind. He would have coffee in the lobby. If there was nothing else to attract his attention- and he thought there was a good chance there would be; the only other place he knew where there were so many good-looking women was Budapest-he'd have a look at the Buenos Aires Herald.

  He thought for a moment about what to do with Gossinger's passport and credit cards, and then put them in the padding of the laptop case. It was always awkward to be found with two sets of identification.

  He walked down the corridor to the bank of elevators and pushed the down-arrow button. The door opened almost immediately, and he found himself looking at a slim man in his early forties, with shortly cropped, thinning hair. He wore a light brown single-breasted suit and a subdued necktie. He would not stand out in a crowd.

  "Either you're a much better actor than I've previously given you credit for being, or that startled look is genuine," the man said.

  So it was Pevsner's 767 at Ezeiza. I wonder what the hell they're doing in Buenos Aires?

  "Good morning, Howard," Castillo said.

  "I would say, 'How are you?'" Howard Kennedy said. "But I think the more important question is 'Who are you to day?'"

  "Today my name is Castillo," Charley said. "How about you?"

  "Charley Castillo, intrepid Green Beret? Or Charley Castillo of the Secret Service?"

  It was a high-speed elevator. The door opened onto the lobby as Castillo's mouth opened. There were people-a family, husband, wife, and two teenaged boys-waiting to get on the elevator.

  "The latter, Howard," Castillo said as he got off the elevator.

  Kennedy waited until no one was within hearing.

  "So what brings you to Gaucho Land, Charley?" he asked.

  "I'll tell you what I'm doing here if you tell me what you are."

  "Over a cup of coffee? I'll buy. I know from painful experience how little the government pays its law enforcement agents, even the very good ones."

  "Flattery, and the offer of a free cup of coffee, will get you everywhere."

  Kennedy smiled and touched Castillo's arm.

  "This is probably very foolish of me, but I'm really glad to see you."

  Castillo smiled at him.

  "I'm not sure if I'm glad to see you, or just overwhelmed with curiosity."

  Kennedy chuckled and led the way to the nice restaurant set for breakfast and lunch, an open area furnished with low tables and leather-and-chrome armchairs.

  A waitress-a stunning young woman with long legs and large dark eyes-appeared almost immediately. They ordered coffee.

  "And bring some pastry, please," Kennedy added. When she had gone, he said, "Very nice. I envy you your bachelor status."

  "I saw the Pan Arabic 767 at Ezeiza," Charley said. "I wondered if it was yours."

  "My, you are observant, aren't you? It got in at an obscene hour, and I came here to take
a shower and a nap. And then, surprise, surprise!"

  "You were going to tell me what you're doing here."

  "We brought a load of tapestries and other decorations from Riyadh for the King Faisal Islamic Center, and we're going to take back two dozen polo ponies, and cases of boots and saddles and other accoutrements, for the game of kings."

  "So you're now a horse trader?"

  "Your turn, Charley."

  "There's a personnel problem at the embassy. They sent me down to see what it really is."

  "Instead of what the ambassador is saying it is?"

  Castillo nodded. "Something like that."

  The waitress appeared with coffee and pastry.

  "That was quick," Kennedy said.

  He reached for a petit four.

  Castillo said, "My grandfather used to say the only things the Argentines do consistently well is eat."

  Kennedy chuckled. "You going to tell me the nature of the personnel problem at the embassy?"

  "Just as soon as you tell me what you're really doing here."

  Kennedy smiled at him. "Now that I think about it, I really don't give much of a damn about personnel problems in the embassy."

  "On the other hand, I'd really like to know what you're really doing here."

  "I'm sure you would. But you're going to have to be satisfied with that it is neither illegal nor inimical to the interests of the United States."

  "I could ask for no more," Castillo said, and then asked, "You ever see that Mel Gibson movie where they kidnap his kid?"

  "No. I can't say that I have. I'd love to know why you're asking."

  "It was the in-flight movie. I fell asleep in the middle, and I've been wondering how it turned out."

  "I think you're serious."

  "They kidnapped his kid, and he had to decide to pay the ransom, which his wife and the FBI wanted him to do, or not pay."

  Kennedy shook his head.

  "In a previous employment," Kennedy said, "I worked a half dozen big-dollar kidnappings. Big-dollar kidnappings are usually either inside jobs, in which case a couple of good interrogators can usually find out who done it in a matter of hours. Or they're professional jobs, in which case the victim is kept alive only long enough for them to collect the ransom. Phrased somewhat indelicately, if you pay the ransom, you lose the victim and the money. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Charley? What did Gibson do?"