The Hostage pa-2

by W. E. B Griffin

  Kennedy replied by spelling Lorimer in the phonetic alphabet.

  "Correct."

  "Never heard of him, but if you get me those names, I'll be happy to ask around."

  "Deal. How do I get them to you?"

  "On the phone. How else?"

  "I thought you were about to leave."

  "I'll leave after I have those names."

  "Done."

  "Here's a freebie, Charley. Whatever David William Yung, Jr., is doing in Montevideo, it almost certainly has very little to do with examining bank statements."

  "You mean he's looking for you?"

  "That, too, of course. But that's not what I meant. He's a real hotshot; they don't waste people like David looking for dirty money."

  "You sound as if you know him well."

  "I told you I did. We used to work together."

  "Can you give me a hint?"

  "I just did. I'll be waiting for your call, Charley."

  The line went dead. [TWO] Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Newbery Buenos Aires, Argentina 2305 23 July 2005 Sergeant Roger Markham had just turned the embassy BMW 545i onto Avenida 9 Julio near the Four Seasons hotel when the radio went off.

  "Yung for Castillo."

  Castillo was looking around for a microphone when Markham put one in his hand. Castillo took it and pushed the PRESS TO TALK button.

  "Go."

  "Sir, the aircraft will be parked on the private aviation side of the field."

  "Got it. Thank you."

  "Sir, ETA is forty-five minutes."

  "Got it. Thank you. We're on the way."

  "Out."

  Well, he not only told me where the airplane will be parked, which he didn't have to do, but he called me "sir." Maybe he's resigned to me being in charge and decided he might as well go along; but on the other hand, it's equally likely, considering that everybody in the FBI got the Castillo-knows-Kennedy memo, he thinks that if we can become pals, I just might let something slip that would put him onto Howard Kennedy.

  What the hell did Kennedy mean when he said, "Whatever Yung's doing he's not looking for dirty money"?

  "You might as well slow down, Roger. They're forty-five minutes out."

  "Am I driving too fast, sir?"

  "I wish there was someplace we could get a cup of coffee," Castillo said. "Back to the hotel?"

  "There's all kinds of restaurants on the river near the airport."

  "Pick one."

  "Yes, s- I'll do that."

  "Don't let this go to your head, Roger, but maybe there's some hope for you after all." It was raining hard when they got to the civilian side of Jorge Newbery airfield, so hard that Castillo wondered if the Gulfstream was going to be able to land.

  There was only one runway, paralleling the bank of the Rio de la Plata, and it didn't look like a fun place to try to land in a driving rain with gusting winds.

  On the tarmac in front of a Southern Winds hangar, he saw a BMW with diplomat plates, two small white Mercedes-Benz buses, called Traffiks, each of which had a cardboard sign with CD lettered on it taped to the windshield, and a Peugeot sedan with Argentine plates.

  When Sergeant Markham pulled in beside the buses, Castillo saw that the interior lights of one of the buses were on and saw Special Agent Yung, holding a newspaper, looking out at them. There was an Air Force major on the bus.

  If I sit here, eventually Yung will come here, establishing me as King of the Hill. But he will get drenched and make the seats here wet. And I can get a much better look at him in the bus than I can here. I want to see his eyes.

  Castillo turned to Markham.

  "I suppose it's too much to expect you to have an umbrella?" The sergeant produced one instantly, seemingly out of thin air. Castillo chuckled appreciatively. "Thank you, Roger, for the umbrella."

  As Castillo reached the bus, and the door swung open inwardly with a whoosh, two men got out of the Peugeot and, holding newspapers over their heads, half ran toward it.

  "Well, what do you think, Yung? Are they going to be able to get in?"

  "Senor Castillo?" one of the Argentine men said, and when Castillo turned, he was handed a small, handheld transceiver. He saw that it was lit up and tuned to what he presumed was the Jorge Newbery tower frequency.

  He put it to his ear. There was the to-be-expected hissing, which suddenly cleared.

  "Jorge Newbery, this is United States Air Force Zero-Four-Seven-Seven. I have your runway in sight," a cheerful, confident American voice announced.

  Castillo handed the Argentine the radio.

  "Thank you," he said, and then to Yung: "Talk about timing!"

  He sat down so that he could see out the windshield.

  For a moment he could see nothing, and then, a second after he spotted first a Grimes light, and then the navigation lights, a very bright landing light suddenly blazed.

  The glistening white Gulfstream-a U.S. Air Force C-37A-came in low and touched down immediately after the threshold. The words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA were lettered boldly down the side of the fuselage. They were illuminated so the legend couldn't be missed, telling Castillo the airplane belonged to the 89th Presidential Airlift Group at Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland. Only their airplanes had the classy paint jobs.

  Castillo felt a lump in his throat. It was like seeing the colors flying somewhere very foreign. Which indeed was the case now.

  "Jesus, that's a pretty bird!" the Air Force major said, softly.

  "My sentiments exactly, Major," Castillo said, smiled, and offered the major his hand. "My name is Castillo."

  "Yes, sir, I know. My name is Jossman, sir."

  "You're going to take care of the crew?"

  "The embassy administrative officer put everyone in the Las Pampas Aparthotel, Mr. Castillo," Yung answered for him. "I presumed he had checked with you. Is that all right?"

  You are a clever sonofabitch, aren't you, Yung?

  "He obviously did so with the ambassador's blessing," Castillo said. "Are you satisfied with them?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Yung, I'm going to need a list of the FBI people," Castillo said. "Put your name and the other FBI agent from Montevideo on it. Just the names, and what they do if they're not special agents. And while you're at it, you might as well list the FBI personnel in Uruguay."

  "I'll get it to you first thing in the morning."

  "Is there some reason I can't have it right now? I'm going to give one copy to these gentlemen for Colonel Munz." He paused, and then asked, in Spanish, "You do work with El Coronel Munz?"

  The man nodded.

  "Thank you, Senor Castillo," he said. "I was about to ask. If I have the names, there will be no problem with Immigration."

  "There you go, Yung," Castillo said, with a smile he really hoped would burn Yung. "Have at it."

  "Yes, sir."

  He is not used to being ordered around. Like Howard Kennedy, another, if former, FBI hotshot. What the hell is he doing in Uruguay?

  "Here it comes," Air Force Major Jossman said, gesturing out the window.

  Castillo looked and saw the Gulfstream coming down the taxiway.

  "Do I have the only umbrella?" he asked.

  "I've got some," Major Jossman said.

  As the Gulfstream rolled onto the tarmac before the Southern Winds hangar, floodlights in the hangar came on, and a stream of Gendarmeria National men, most of them carrying submachine guns, came out of the hangar, formed a line, and came to attention, ignoring the rain. The officer in charge saluted.

  Major Jossman took two umbrellas, opened one inside the bus, and then tried and failed to get it through the door. He gave up, collapsed it, stepped into the rain, and then opened it.

  "Major," Castillo ordered. "Everybody in here. They can deal with the luggage later."

  The major nodded and walked to the now-stopped Gulfstream, its engines winding down.

  The door opened, and a stocky man in a business suit appeared in the doorway. The major handed him th
e second umbrella. The major pointed to the bus, and the man nodded, opened the umbrella, and started toward the bus.

  Special Agent Elizabeth Schneider appeared next in the doorway.

  Major Castillo's heart jumped.

  Special Agent Schneider looked around, saw the bus, saw Major Castillo in it, smiled, and gave a little wave.

  Major Castillo's heart jumped again. Harder.

  Jossman held the umbrella for Special Agent Schneider and walked with her to the bus. They got there as the stocky man came through the door.

  "My name is…" he started to say, but then noticed Agent Yung. "Well, hello, Dave."

  Yung looked up from his lined yellow pad.

  "Hey, Paul," he said, then, "Mr. Castillo, this is Special Agent Paul Holtzman."

  "I'm supposed to report to you, sir," Holtzman said. "I'm the senior agent."

  He didn't offer his hand.

  "Hand your umbrella to the major, please," Castillo said. "And take a seat. I'll save what I have until everyone's on board."

  It had been Major Castillo's firm intention to greet Special Agent Schneider formally.

  She blew this plan out of the water by smiling at him again, then sitting down next to him, innocently resting her hand on his shoulder in the process, and saying, "Hello, Charley," so close to him that he could smell her breath.

  Peppermint. They had apparently issued chewing gum to counter the pressure differential that occurs when an aircraft makes a rapid descent from cruising to approach altitude.

  So the plan to greet Special Agent Schneider with "Good to see you again, Schneider," or words to that effect, was replaced with, "Jesus, I'm glad to see you."

  As he also became aware of Special Agent Schneider's perfume, he became simultaneously aware that Special Agent Yung hadn't missed a thing.

  It took several minutes for the umbrella shuttle to get everybody off the Gulfstream into the bus, including the crew. Special Agent Jack Britton was about the fifth man to climb onto the bus, and for a moment Castillo didn't recognize him. The last time Castillo had seen him, Britton had been wearing a somewhat straggly beard and the Philadelphia conception of Arabic robes, and his hair had been both cornrowed and embedded with beadery.

  Now his hair was neatly cut. He wore a well-fitted suit. He looked, Castillo thought, like Colin Powell.

  Britton's grip was firm.

  "I don't know the protocol-am I supposed to call you 'sir'?-but it's good to see you."

  "Charley's fine, Jack. It's good to see you, too. Ready to go to work?"

  "I would like to visit a gentleman's rest facility first; the one on the airplane went on the fritz somewhere over Brazil. And if possible, I'd like to get something to eat."

  "There's probably a men's room in the hangar. You want to take a chance? What's going to happen here won't take long. And then it's about ten minutes to the hotel."

  Britton looked at the driving rain and said, "I think I'll wait."

  While this was going on, Castillo was more than a little aware that Special Agent Schneider's upper leg was pressed against his, no doubt only because the seats in the Mercedes Traffik seemed to have been designed for midgets.

  Finally, everyone was aboard.

  Castillo stood up and faced the rear of the bus.

  "May I have your attention, please?" he began, and when he had it, went on: "My name is Castillo. As I understand you have been informed, I have been placed in charge of the American investigation into Mr. Masterson's murder, and the abduction of Mrs. Masterson. Additionally, I have been given responsibility for the safety of the Masterson family while they are in Argentina.

  "The investigation itself is being conducted by Argentine authorities, under the overall control of SIDE, and I think you all know what SIDE is."

  There was a tug on his jacket, and he looked down and saw first that Agent Schneider's eyes were even deeper and more lovely than he had remembered, and also that she was shaking her head just enough to indicate she didn't know what SIDE was.

  "I'll brief you and Agent Britton separately later, Agent Schneider," he said, and then went on. "It has been decided that this investigation, and any prosecution resulting from it, will be done by the Argentine authorities."

  "Who the hell decided that?" Special Agent Holtzman demanded.

  "I did, and Ambassador Silvio concurred," Castillo replied. "And let me bring you up to speed on what else the ambassador and I have decided. There will be no communication of any sort by any means with any federal agency in Washington or elsewhere without the prior approval of Ambassador Silvio or myself. I want that clearly understood. Are there any questions about it?"

  An agent in the back said, "You mean I can't call my wife and tell her I got down here all right?"

  "You can call anyone you wish, as long as there is no reference to the situation here. Clear?"

  There were murmurs.

  "Nothing is going to happen tonight. Special Agent Yung will take you to your hotel and get you fed, et cetera. In the morning, I will inform him, or you, Agent Holtzman, your call, where you can meet with the Argentine authorities. They have agreed to make you privy to what they have learned so far, but I want it kept in mind this is their investigation, and things will be done their way. We're here to help, that's all.

  "So far as interviewing Mrs. Masterson is concerned, for a number of reasons, including that she was drugged by her abductors and is still in the hospital, unless there is some overriding reason for the FBI to question her, all interviews of her will be conducted by Special Agent Santini of the Secret Service, and Special Agent Schneider. If she is interviewed by the FBI, it will be in the presence of one of them, or of Mr. Alex Darby."

  "Who's he?" Holtzman asked.

  "He's the commercial attache of the embassy. He has the complete confidence of the ambassador, Mrs. Masterson, and myself."

  "What the hell are we doing down here, then? If we can't even-"

  "You're here, Agent Holtzman," Castillo interrupted, "for the same reason I am. The President has ordered it."

  "May I ask a question, sir?" a man in an Air Force flight suit with the insignia of command pilot and the silver leaf of a lieutenant colonel asked.

  I wonder how long it will be before Yung confides in the lieutenant colonel that the hotshot in charge is really a lowly Army major?

  "Yes, sir, of course."

  "How long are you going to need the C-37?"

  "I'll be able to answer that better in the morning, Colonel. After I get my orders. That's the best I can give you right now."

  "Fine. How's the security here?"

  "That platoon of men in the brown uniforms-the ones with the submachine guns-will guard the Gulfstream, Colonel. They're Gendarmeria National."

  "You think that's enough?"

  Castillo felt the eyes of the SIDE agents on him.

  "I have no problem with them at all, Colonel."

  "Good enough. Thank you, sir."

  "That's all I have. I'll give Agent Yung my cellular number in case anything comes up, but please don't call it unless it's really necessary. I've been up since half past six, and I want to go to bed."

  "I'll bet," Special Agent Yung said softly, with a knowing smile.

  You sonofabitch!

  "You have that list of names for me, Agent Yung?" Castillo asked, smiling at him warmly. [THREE] The rain, if anything, was heavier, and Castillo thought that if the Gulfstream had come in ten minutes later there would have been a real problem.

  Where, other than Ezeiza, was the alternate field? And how much fuel was remaining? It was a long flight nonstop from Andrews.

  Sergeant Roger Markham got himself soaking wet first getting into the bus from the BMW, and then, now armed with a description of it, getting Betty and Jack's luggage from the other bus into the BMW.

  Betty's umbrella was blown inside out as she ran for the BMW-Castillo wondered how she had managed to hang on to it at all-and she was soaked, too, when Castillo and Britton mad
e their dash from the bus to the BMW. Britton got in the front seat.

  I didn't elbow Jack out of the way. This time the fickle finger of fate got me the backseat next to her.

  Hey, stop! An officer and a gentleman does not make passes at his subordinates.

  For Christ's sake, remember that!

  Major Castillo smiled at Special Agent Schneider. She appeared to be shivering.

  "Cold, Schneider?" he asked.

  "Freezing," she admitted. "What is it, winter down here?"

  "Yes, it is. They should have told you. Here, let me give you my jacket."

  The first duty of an officer is to take care of his men.

  And that's what she is, one of your men. Remember that!

  "Thanks," she said.

  It was a ten-minute drive from the airport to the Four Seasons. Halfway there the rain seemed to slacken. By the time they rolled up to the Four Seasons it had stopped completely.

  Bellmen appeared and took care of the luggage. "Roger, are you hungry?" Castillo asked.

  "No, s- No. I'm not."

  "Go home, get a hot shower, and be here at half past seven."

  Sergeant Markham nodded and got back in the car.

  "Very nice," Jack Britton said about the hotel.

  "I didn't want him to catch pneumonia," Castillo said, gesturing at the departing BMW.

  "Who's he?" Special Agent Schneider asked.

  "One of the Marine guards."

  "I noticed the haircut," she said.

  "So we don't have wheels to go out to a restaurant-"

  "Can we go inside, please?" Special Agent Schneider said. "It's cold out here."

  "Sorry," he said, and motioned her ahead of him through the door. He saw that water was dripping from the hem of her skirt onto the polished marble floor.

  She found her way to the reception desk by herself, and they handed her her key.

  "So, about dinner," Castillo said.

  "It's midnight. Is anything open?" Jack Britton interrupted.

  "This is Argentina. They go to dinner starting at ten," Castillo said. "There's the hotel restaurant."

  "I don't want to get dressed up enough to go to a restaurant," Britton said. "You, Betty?"

  "I want to get out of these clothes," Special Agent Schneider said, triggering mental images in Major Castillo's mind, "and into a hot shower," she concluded, triggering additional mental images. "But I'm starved."