"Why do I suspect you speak German, Herr Castillo?"
Castillo turned to look at him.
"While I was talking to my wife, in a thick Hessian accent, I saw your reflection on one of the monitors. You were smiling."
Why the hell is she lying? And to Darby, who is an old and close friend?
"Guilty," Castillo said, speaking German. "My mother was German. A Hessian, as a matter of fact."
And I've got to get an e-mail off to the Tages Zeitung, which I don't think I'll mention to Munz.
And I want to call Pevsner.
I should have gotten his phone number; all I have is Kennedy's cellular number.
Well, he can either give me the number or have Pevsner call me.
Maybe she's just scared. She has every right to be.
She must know that Darby's the resident spook, and that she is now safely in his hands.
"Really?" Munz said. "Where in Hesse was your mother from?"
Jesus, is he onto something? Has he connected me with Gossinger at the Four Seasons? Both Santini and Darby said SIDE is good.
"A little town called Bad Hersfeld."
"I know it. My father's family was from Giessen, and my wife's family from Kassel."
"How'd you wind up here?"
"I was born here. One day, maybe, I'll tell you how my mother and father got here. And my wife's parents."
"Okay."
She's not drugged. She's making decisions. She's lying.
Munz changed his mind.
"You ever hear of the Gehlen Organization?"
Castillo nodded. Immediately after World War II, a German general staff officer, Reinhardt Gehlen, who had been in charge of "Eastern Intelligence," had gone to the Americans and offered to turn over not only his files, but his entire intelligence network-which included, among other things of great intelligence value, in-place spies in the Soviet Army and in Moscow.
His price was that none of his officers be tried as Nazis, and that the Americans arrange to get their families out of Germany to somewhere safe-like South America, Argentina being preferred-with their husbands to join them later.
The deal was struck.
When Castillo had first heard the story, as a West Point cadet, he had been fascinated. He had wondered then who had made the decision to deal with Gehlen; it had to have been someone really senior. If the story had gotten out, there would have been a political eruption.
He had been trying ever since-and for years he had held security clearances that gave him access to a great deal of heavily classified files-to find out more. He hadn't learned much. The conclusion he had drawn, without any proof whatsoever, was that the decision to deal with Gehlen had been made by President Harry S Truman himself, probably at the recommendation of General Eisenhower, who at the time was commander in chief in Europe. Almost as soon as Roosevelt had died, and Truman had started dealing with the Soviet Union, he had recognized the Soviet threat. "My mother came here in 1946, and my father in 1950," Munz went on. "He became one of the few civilian instructors at the military academy. When he died several years ago, he was buried here quite close to a man named Hans von Langsdorff. That name ring a bell?"
"The Graf Spee captain," Castillo said.
Why is he telling me this?
To let me know he's one of the good guys?
Maybe Darby has him in his pocket, and he wants me to know?
Or maybe he wants me to think that he's muy simpatico, and I will thereafter regard him as a pal and tell him things I shouldn't.
Well, I don't have time to stay here and play games with him.
"When Mr. Darby comes out of there, would you ask him to give me a call? I don't see any point in hanging around here."
"Certainly," Munz said. [FIVE] Room 1550 The Four Seasons Hotel Cerrito 1433 Buenos Aires, Argentina 1035 23 July 2005 "Why don't we go in the bar and get you a cup of coffee while you're waiting for me?" Castillo said to the sergeant as they entered the hotel lobby.
"We're back to the ambassador saying I'm not supposed to let you out of my sight."
"I need thirty minutes out of your sight," Castillo said. "If you think you have to, Sergeant, call the ambassador and tell him I said that. Otherwise, your waiting in the bar will be our little secret."
"I would say, 'Yes, sir,' but you told me not to. Just don't take off on me, please? That would put my ass in a crack."
"I'll be down in thirty minutes, maybe a little less," Castillo said.
He walked the sergeant into the bar, got a bar tab, signed it-making sure the sergeant didn't see the Gossinger signature-and then rode the elevator to his room.
There was no fax press release from the embassy for Herr Gossinger waiting in his room; nor, when he called, was it waiting downstairs to be delivered. He wondered if Ms. Sylvia Grunblatt had overlooked sending it, or had intentionally not done so. Castillo knew that that didn't matter right now. He got out his laptop computer, and, working from his memory of the press release, wrote the story of the murdered diplomat, and then e-mailed it to Otto Goerner at the Tages Zeitung. He thought about calling him immediately, but decided that he might not read it right away, and that he would call him after he talked to Pevsner.
Alex Pevsner answered Kennedy's cellular on the second buzz.
"?Hola?"
"That you, Alex?"
"I heard what happened about thirty minutes ago. I thought you would call, and I knew you didn't have the number here, so I asked Howard for his cellular. I should have given the number to you. How is Mrs. Masterson?"
"You heard about that, too?" Castillo replied, and then went on without waiting for an answer. "They doped her-bupivacaine, I'm told-and she doesn't seem to remember much of what happened."
"But she'll be all right?"
"I think so. Yes."
"Anna was concerned."
"I don't suppose you've heard anything?"
"My source-and he's close to a man named Munz, who is the power at SIDE-tells me he doesn't think this is a kidnapping for ransom."
"He say what he thinks it is?"
"He doesn't have any idea, and neither, apparently, does Colonel Munz. If I hear anything, I'll let you know. Is it all right if I call your cellular number?"
"Of course."
"Let me give you the numbers here," Pevsner said, and did so. "Goerner."
"Did you get my Masterson story?"
"I'm fine, Karl. And how are you? I've been a little concerned."
"About what?"
"I got your story. Very interesting. So far, there's nothing on the wires or CNN."
"There will be shortly."
"I'm impressed with your-what do they say in the States? Your 'scoop.'"
"Well, I try to earn my keep."
"I hope you haven't had time to work on the oil-for-food scandal I mentioned."
"I haven't. Why do you ask?"
"I got a story from our guy in Vienna yesterday. I would have called to tell you about it, but, as usual, I didn't know where to find you. If you check your e-mail, you'll find a rather anxious message from me. There's also a rather pointed message on your voice mail at the Mayflower in Washington."
"What sort of a story?"
"The Vienna police were called to an apartment on the Cobenzlgasse to investigate a terrible odor. It came from the decomposing corpse-he'd apparently been dead for ten days or so-of a Lebanese man named Henri Douchon."
A mental image of the Cobenzlgasse, the cobblestone street in Grinzing leading up the hill to the Vienna Woods, popped into Castillo's mind. He had met Alex Pevsner for the first time at the top of the hill.
"Who's he?"
"From what I've been told, he was a middleman, a very important middleman, in the oil-for-food arrangement; the illegal part."
"What's that got to do with me?"
"According to my man, before they cut Herr Douchon's throat-almost decapitating him-they pulled several of his fingernails out, and several of his teeth. He was strapped into a
chair."
"Jesus!"
"I don't want anyone pulling your teeth out with a pair of pliers, Karlchen, much less cutting your throat. I want you to forget everything I told you about there possibly being an Argentine connection."
"That cow is out of the barn, Otto."
"If I had known how to reach you yesterday, I was going to tell you not to make inquiries, discreet or otherwise, about Oil for Food, moving money to Argentina, or anything remotely connected with either."
"Not to worry, I won't have time now. I'm on the kidnapping story."
"Yes, I'm sure you are," Goerner said.
That was a not-very-well-veiled reference to what he knows I do for a living.
"One of the reasons I called was to ask what-off the top of your head-you think might entice someone to kidnap a diplomat's wife?"
"When I gave your story to the foreign news editor- it will run in all the papers, with your byline and photograph-he asked me, 'Isn't Masterson that football player who got seventy-five million dollars after he was run over by a coal truck?'"
"Basketball, sixty million, and a beer truck," Castillo said.
"That wasn't in your story, Karlchen," Goerner said. "We're going to see if the AP or CNN or BBC mentions it. Then we'll either quote them in our wrap-up, or run it as a sidebar."
Why the hell didn't I mention it? I was writing a news story, not an embassy press release.
Because you are not a bona fide journalist, that's why.
"It should have been in the story," Castillo said.
"What did you say, sixty million? That would inspire a kidnapper, I'm sure."
"One of my sources, a good one"-you know who he is, Otto. Alex Pevsner-"just told me there is some doubt in the minds of the senior cops here-they're called SIDE, sort of a combined CIA and FBI-that the abduction and the murder had anything to do with collecting a ransom."
"Even more reason that you not ask penetrating questions when you are far from home. There are some very unpleasant people in the world, Karlchen. People who are willing to attract all the attention that kidnapping an American diplomat's wife, and then killing the diplomat, would bring to them would not hesitate before killing a journalist from a not very important German newspaper if they thought he was asking impertinent questions."
"Hey, I'm a big boy, Otto."
"Who has always been too big for his pants," Goerner said. "There was something else I found missing in your story, Karl. What happens now?"
"I don't know what you mean."
" 'Ambassador Joe Blow said the remains of Masterson will be flown to the United States for burial in Arlington National Cemetery.' Something like that."
"I don't know, Otto. But I'll find out and send it to you."
"Your editor would like you, if possible, to accompany the remains to the United States, and provide the full story of the funeral."
"I'm not sure that will be possible."
"I'm not sure you would go if it was possible. But I am a foolish old man who worries about the godfather of his children, and thought I should ask."
"Otto…"
"Hold it a minute," Goerner said, and a moment later, "It just came in on Agence France Press," he said. "They say seventy million and baseball player."
"Trust me, it's sixty million and basketball."
Castillo's cellular buzzed.
"My cellular just went off. I have to go, Otto. I'll keep you up to speed."
"After you give me that cellular number and where you're staying," Goerner said.
"Hold one," Castillo said to the cellular, then gave Otto the cellular number and his room number in the Four Seasons.
"Please, Karlchen, be very careful," Otto said.
"I will. Thanks, Otto."
"Auf wiedersehen, Karlchen."
"Sorry," Castillo said into the cellular. "I was on the other line."
"How long will it take you to get to a secure line, Charley?" the secretary of Homeland Security asked.
"Ten, fifteen minutes."
"The sooner the better," Hall said. "I'll be waiting. He's gone ballistic."
The line went dead.
Castillo had no doubt that he who had gone ballistic was the President of the United States.
VI
[ONE] Communications Center The United States Embassy Avenida Colombia 4300 Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina 1100 23 July 2005 The slender, trim man sitting behind the desk rose when Castillo walked in. The man was wearing a suit and a crisp white shirt, but there was something about him- carriage, short haircut, attitude-that made Charley sure he was a soldier.
"Mr. Castillo?"
"Right. I need a secure line to the White House. It's been cleared."
"Sir, the ambassador left word that if you came in, he wanted to see you right away."
Shit!
This situation wasn't covered in Obeying Orders 101 at The Point. The rule there was simple: you obey your last lawful order. My last order was to get on the horn as quickly as possible. And technically, Ambassador Silvio can't even legally issue me orders.
Or can he? He's the ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary of the President of the United States.
And Major C. G. Castillo is not about to tell Ambassador Silvio, in his embassy, that I don't have time for him right now, but I will try to fit him into my busy schedule just as soon as I can.
"Thank you," Castillo said, and headed for the ambassador's office. "You wanted to see me, sir?" Castillo asked, when Silvio's secretary ushered him into the ambassador's office.
"Yes, I did. Thank you for coming so quickly. I just wanted to tell you that the security staff has been alerted and are holding themselves ready for your instructions."
What the hell is he talking about?
"Sir?"
"You don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do you?"
"No, sir. I don't."
"I thought you might not. May I ask what you're doing in the embassy?"
"Sir, I got word to get on a secure line to my boss… to Secretary Hall… as quickly as possible."
"I just had a very interesting conversation with my boss, as a matter of fact. Well, why don't you speak with your boss, and when you're finished, we can compare notes, so to speak."
"Sir, I have the uncomfortable feeling that I've done something to displease you."
"I'm displeased, frankly, but it's nothing you've done, Mr. Castillo," Silvio said. "In a manner of speaking, I would say that you and I are leaves being blown about by the winds of a storm."
Charley couldn't think of anything to say.
"Why don't you speak with Secretary Hall? And then come see me?" Silvio said.
"Yes, sir." "Hall."
"Charley, sir."
"Let me get right to it," Secretary Hall said. "By direction of the President, Major Castillo, you are directed and empowered (a) to take whatever action you deem necessary to protect the family of the late J. Winslow Masterson while they are in Argentina, and (b) to ensure their safe return-"
"Jesus Christ!"
"Let me finish, Charley. By direction of the President, I have written all this down."
"Sorry, sir."
"And (b) to ensure their safe return to the United States; and you are (c) directed and empowered to assume responsibility for the investigation of the kidnapping of Mrs. Elizabeth Masterson and the murder of Mr. Masterson." He paused. "You understand me so far?"
"Yes, sir."
"The U.S. ambassador in Buenos Aires has been advised of this Presidential Directive and directed to provide you with whatever you feel you need to accomplish your duties. The directors of the CIA and the FBI have similarly been notified of this directive and directed to furnish you with whatever support you feel you may need to carry out your duties."
"My God!"
"I told you he went ballistic. It began with him banging his fist on the desk and declaring, 'The assassination of a U.S. embassy official will not stand,' and got more heated from there. I don'
t think I've seen him so angry since we were under fire in 'Nam."
"Sir, you know I'm not qualified to do anything like this."
"The President apparently feels you are."
"From what I've seen, everybody from the ambassador on down has done everything possible… and is still doing everything possible."
"Apparently, the President doesn't think so. This is not open to debate, Charley. That's another quote."
"Yes, sir."
"To assist you in the accomplishment of your duties, the DCI has notified the CIA station chief that he is to place himself under your orders, and the director of the FBI has been ordered to send a team of FBI experts down there to assist you in your investigation, and the commander in chief CentCom has been ordered to dispatch an aircraft, together with adequate security personnel, to return the remains of Mr. Masterson, and his family, to the United States. I understand from General Naylor that that aircraft will be wheels-up within the hour-which means it's probably already in the air- and the senior officer aboard has been placed under your orders."
"Sir-"
"What part of 'this is not open to debate' did you miss, Charley?"
"I understand, sir."
"The only thing I need to hear from you-in addition to 'timely reports of any and all developments,' of course-is what assistance you think you need."
Castillo exhaled audibly.
"How are the FBI experts going to come down here? On the Air Force transport?"
"They have their own plane."
"Is there any chance you could send Jack Britton and Betty Schneider down here on either airplane?"
"Odd that you should ask, Charley. Just after the fireworks started, Joel told me that since he thought they were both spinning their wheels in the training academy, he had asked the superintendent of the school if he could get them out early to come here and take over your reading of the daily intel reports. I don't suppose you knew anything about this?"
"No, sir, I did not."
"The objections the superintendent had were twofold. It would set a bad precedent, and he had planned to ask for both to serve as instructors."
"Sir, I really-"
"By now both have been sworn in, issued credentials, and are probably already on their way here, if they haven't landed already. Joel can be very persuasive, if you hadn't noticed."
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