She looked gray.
The stout nurse tugged at his arm, and he turned to look at her.
She had a cheap white stackable plastic chair in her hands. Charley had heard-he didn't know if it was true-that they were molded from the recycled plastic of milk cartons and Coke bottles.
"You can't just stand there until she wakes up, senor," the nurse said. "Sit down, put your feet on this, and try to get a little sleep."
How the hell am I going to be able to sleep?
"Muchas gracias."
He sat in the folding chair, put his feet on the plastic chair, and when he was reasonably sure the nurse wasn't watching, put his hand up so that he could touch Betty's shoulder. Castillo opened his eyes.
Jack Britton was standing beside him, extending a coffee mug.
Castillo took the mug as a reflex action.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Quarter to nine," Britton said. "Time for you to change shirts, shave, and head for the cathedral."
"Jesus Christ! I should be in San Isidro. Why the hell didn't you wake me?"
"All you were going to do, Charley, was get in the way in San Isidro," Britton said. "I talked to Santini. He said to let you sleep."
Castillo got up, knocking the plastic chair over as he did.
"Your electric razor and a clean shirt's in the bathroom," Britton said, and walked out of the room.
Castillo looked down at Betty.
Her eyes were open, and she was pale but no longer gray.
"Hello, baby," Castillo said.
Betty made a grunt that could have meant, "Hi."
"How do you feel?"
Betty rolled her eyes, and then touched the bandages on her face and then made grunting sounds that after a moment he understood meant, "Can't talk."
"Sweetheart, you're going to be all right."
Betty pointed to the chair and grunted. When he looked confused, she repeated the grunts.
"I snore?" he asked.
She nodded.
"I love you," Charley said.
Betty nodded.
He bent over her and very gently kissed her on the lips.
More grunts, but this time he easily made the translation: "Wiener schnitzel."
"You took three hits," Castillo said. "You're going to be all right. Either tomorrow or the next day, you're goingto Philadelphia on the Gulfstream. Jack will be with you."
She nodded, then grunted, "Roger?"
"He didn't make it, baby. He went out quick."
Tears ran down her cheeks into the bandages.
Betty pointed to herself, then mimed firing a pistol, and grunted, "Get bastards?"
He shook his head.
She grunted, "Damn!"
"I have to go with the Mastersons," Charley said.
She nodded.
"I don't want to leave you."
She nodded again, then mimed something that after a moment he understood was shaving.
She's telling me to go shave.
He nodded, and walked to the bathroom. As he started to pull the door closed, she made a loud sound, and he quickly turned and looked at her.
She shook her head and pointed to her eyes.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. As he shaved, he could see her watching him in the mirror.
When he'd finished, and had changed his shirt, he went to the bed and looked down at her and ran his fingertips over her forehead.
She raised her balled hand with the thumb extended.
"Oh, Jesus!" he said softly.
She pointed to the door.
He kissed her once more and then turned and walked quickly out of the room.
XI
[ONE] Catedral Metropolitana Plaza de Mayo Buenos Aires, Argentina 0940 25 July 2005 When the three-car convoy carrying Castillo and Corporal Lester Bradley-a leading SIDE car, the embassy BMW, and a trailing SIDE car-approached the rear of the cathedral, Castillo saw that the entire block was ringed with brown-uniformed Gendarmeria National troops armed with submachine guns.
When he and Bradley got out of the embassy car and started for the side door of the church, they were stopped, and it was only after Major Querrina more than a little arrogantly flashed his SIDE credentials at the Gendarmeria major in charge that they were passed inside.
In the corridor just inside the door, there were uniformed Policia Federal officers and men in civilian clothing who Castillo presumed were SIDE agents. They guarded the door to the alcove in which the Mastersons would be seated.
With Bradley on his heels he went through the door to the alcove. Once inside, he could see Masterson's casket, covered by an American flag. At each corner of the casket, two soldiers, one Argentine and the other American, stood facing outward, at Parade Rest, their rifles resting on the ground.
There were people seated in the alcove across the nave, obviously Argentine dignitaries. There were four empty chairs in the front row, which suggested that the President and the foreign minister and their wives-or two other dignitaries-had not yet arrived.
El Coronel Alejandro Gellini of SIDE was standing to one side of the alcove, with another burly, mustachioed man Castillo guessed was one more SIDE officer. Gellini met Castillo's eyes, but there was no nod or other sign of recognition.
Castillo looked again at the absolutely rigid soldiers at the corners of the casket. The Argentines were in a dress uniform that looked as if it dated back to the early nineteenth century. They wore black silk top hats with a ten-inch black brush on the side. They were armed with what looked like Model 98 Mausers, which had been chrome-plated. The Americans were in class A uniforms with white pistol belts. They were holding chrome-plated M-14 rifles on which chrome-plated bayonets had been mounted. The U.S. Army had stopped using the M-14 during the Vietnam war. But the M-16, which replaced it, did not lend itself to the ballet-like Manual of Arms practiced by the Old Guard.
Castillo had the unkind thought that whatever kind of soldiering they had done before they had been assigned to the 3rd Infantry-and to judge from the medals glistening on their tunics, they had heard shots fired in anger-what they were now were actors in a pageant.
He turned and for the first time saw a first lieutenant in an incredibly crisp and precise Old Guard uniform standing stiffly, almost at Parade Rest, in a corner of the alcove.
That beret he's wearing looks like those molded leather hats the Spanish Guardia Civil wear. What did he do, soak it in wax?
And it's not a green beret, or even a tan Ranger beret. Anybody who can stumble through basic training gets to wear what he has on, thanks to the remarkably stupid idea of the chief of staff that putting a beret on any soldier's head turns him into a warrior.
The lieutenant looked at Castillo, but there was no nod nor a hint of a smile.
And all of those medals glistening on his chest are I-Wuz-There medals. Plus, of course, the Expert Infantry badge, which means he's never been in combat. And-why I am not surprised?-he's wearing the ring identifying him as a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point.
More important-he's the officer in charge of a guard detail-why the hell didn't he ask me who I am? Or, if he knows who I am, why didn't he say, "Good morning, sir"?
Castillo walked over to him.
"Good morning, Lieutenant."
"Good morning, sir."
"I was wondering how much ammunition your men have."
The question surprised the lieutenant.
"Actually, none, sir."
"Why is that?"
"Sir, we're a ceremonial unit."
"You are aware, aren't you, that the man in the casket was murdered?"
"Yes, sir."
"And that last night, the bad guys-presumably the same ones-murdered a Marine sergeant and seriously wounded a Secret Service agent?"
"Yes, sir."
"Under those circumstances, Lieutenant, don't you think it behooved you to acquire enough ammunition for your men so that they could at least defend themselves?"
The lieutenant didn't reply.
"And possibly even be in a position to contribute to the defense of Mrs. Masterson and her children should that situation arise?"
The lieutenant colored but did not reply.
"To answer the unspoken question in your eyes, Lieutenant-to wit, 'Who the fuck is this civilian questioning the behavior of a professional officer such as myself?'-I'm Major C. G. Castillo, U.S. Army, charged with the security of this operation."
"Permission to speak, sir?"
"Granted."
"Sir, I have been taking my direction from the defense attache."
"And?"
"Sir, I can only presume that if he wanted my men to have live ammunition, he would have issued live ammunition."
"Lieutenant, I was a Boy Scout. Therefore, even before I was told by my tactical officer at that school on the Hudson River of which we are both graduates that the second great commandment for any officer-right after Take Care of Your Men-is that he be prepared for the unexpected, I knew that Be Prepared is a commendable philosophy to follow. Since you were apparently asleep when your tac officer tried to impart that philosophy to you, I suggest you write it down so you won't forget it."
"Yes, sir."
Castillo heard the door to the alcove open, and turned.
Ambassador Silvio and Alex Darby came through the door.
Jesus! Castillo suddenly thought. What was that all about?
Why did I jump all over that guy?
Not that he didn't deserve it.
Because you're angry with the world, and want to vent it on somebody and he was there.
But it wasn't smart.
"Good morning, sir," Castillo said. "Alex."
"The Mastersons are three minutes out," the ambassador said. "We just got a call from Mr. Santini."
"Yes, sir."
"What I would like to do," Silvio went on, "if it's all right with you, is stay behind when the Mastersons go to Ezeiza, then go out there with the casket."
"Anything you want to do, sir, is fine with me."
"Tony needs to know, Charley, if you're going to go out there with the Mastersons," Darby said.
"Tony has more experience than I do," Castillo said. "I don't want to get in his way."
"Then I'll go with the family," Darby said, "my wife and I will."
"Fine. And I'll go out there with the ambassador."
"Okay," the ambassador said. "Let's go find our seats, Alex."
A moment after they had left, Castillo decided he should be outside when the Mastersons arrived, and walked out of the alcove. Corporal Lester Bradley followed on his heels.
They found themselves standing alone in the narrow street outside the church.
I wonder where the hell the gendarmes are?
Then he saw. There were gendarmes at either end of the street. Some were blocking the street where it entered Plaza de Mayo. At the other end, a gendarme was making policeman-like traffic-control gestures, and a moment later a Peugeot sedan started backing into the street. An embassy BMW followed, then a GMC Yukon XL.
"I guess they're backing the convoy in so they can get out quick," Lester said.
"My thoughts exactly, Corporal Bradley."
"Permission to speak, sir?"
"Granted."
"You really ate that lieutenant a new asshole, didn't you, sir?" Bradley said, admiringly.
"You weren't supposed to hear that, Corporal."
"Hear what, sir?"
Castillo smiled at him and shook his head.
Bradley pointed up the street.
Tony Santini and two other Americans whose faces Castillo recognized but whose names he didn't know were walking quickly down the street to them. Both were wearing topcoats Castillo knew concealed submachine guns.
"How's Schneider?" Santini greeted him.
"Awake and hurting. She was really unhappy that she didn't hit one of the bastards with the one shot she got off. Britton and a DEA agent named Ricardo Solez are with her."
"You checked inside?" Santini asked, nodding toward the cathedral.
Two embassy Yukons had now backed down the street to where they were standing. One of them discharged six Americans, three armed with M-16 rifles, two with Uzi submachine guns, and one with a Madsen. Santini motioned one of the men with an Uzi to them, and then looked at Castillo.
"You checked inside?" he repeated.
Castillo nodded. "Argentine VIPs, but neither the President nor the foreign minister is across the aisle."
"They probably want to come in last, for the show," Santini said.
"The ambassador and Darby and wives are here," Castillo went on. "Darby and his wife want to go to Ezeiza with you and the Mastersons. The ambassador wants to go with the casket."
"And you?"
"I thought that's what I'd do."
Santini nodded. "Scenario," he said, "Masterson family convoy leaves. We head for Ezeiza via Avenida 9 Julio and the autopista. As soon as the street is clear, the ambassador's car, the embassy Yukons-three, one for the casket, two for the honor guard-plus a bus for the Argentine soldiers, back in here with the SIDE tail vehicles. Mass is over, honor guard moves casket to Yukons, that convoy takes same route to Ezeiza. Okay with you?"
"Fine."
"Where's your car?"
"Around the corner," Castillo said, gesturing. "With two SIDE cars."
"I'd say go with the ambassador, but these SIDE people are not going to like it if they're not in the parade. Your call."
"I'd say screw them, but they're liable to insist and cause trouble."
"I agree. I'll have your car and theirs lined up back there," Santini said, pointing to the rear of the cathedral. "When the SIDE and embassy lead cars pull out of the street, the ambassador's car will get in the line, and then after the Yukon with the casket passes, you'll get in the line with your SIDE cars, then everybody else. Okay?"
"Tony, you know what you're doing. We'll do whatever you think we should."
Santini nodded, then turned to the man with the Uzi. "You heard that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Set it up."
"Yes, sir."
Santini raised his voice for the benefit of those out of earshot: "I'm going to check inside. If everything looks all right, we take the Mastersons in."
"You want me to go inside with you?" Castillo asked.
"Your call, Charley."
"I'll follow the Mastersons in," Castillo said.
Santini nodded and entered the cathedral. Ninety seconds later, he came out again.
"Okay, we move them!" he ordered, and walked quickly to the closest Yukon and opened the rear side door.
A very tall slim girl of thirteen or so got out first. Santini smiled at her, then showed her the door to the cathedral. Then a ten-year-old boy got out and followed his sister into the cathedral, and then Mrs. Masterson climbed down from the Yukon. She looked at Castillo, and then turned back to the truck.
"Just climb over the seat, Jim," she ordered, and then a six-year-old appeared in the open door.
Mrs. Masterson put her arm around his shoulders and led him toward the door in the cathedral wall.
As she passed Castillo, she said: "I can't tell you how sorry I am about Betty and the Marine."
Castillo didn't reply.
The only difference between the Masterson kids and Pevsner's kids is the color of their skin. Same sexes, same ages, same intelligent eyes.
Wrong. There's one more difference: Some sonofabitch shot the Masterson kids' daddy.
Castillo followed Mrs. Masterson and the six-year-old into the cathedral.
The President of the Republic of Argentina, whose face Castillo recognized, was now sitting across the nave of the cathedral with another man and two women, who Castillo guessed were the foreign minister and the appropriate wives. Colonel Gellini stood behind the President.
The organ, which had been playing softly, suddenly changed pitch and volume, and Castillo heard the scuffling of feet a
s people stood up.
Thirty seconds later a crucifer appeared in the nave, carrying an enormous golden cross and leading a long procession of richly garbed clergy, in two parallel columns, which split to go around the flag-draped casket of the late J. Winslow Masterson. [TWO] Estancia Shangri-La Tacuarembo Province Republica Oriental del Uruguay 1045 25 July 2005 Jean-Paul Bertrand had been sitting in his silk Sulka dressing robe before the wide, flat-screen Sony television in his bedroom since nine o'clock, watching the ceremonies marking the departure of J. Winslow Masterson from Argentina, first on Argentina's Channel Nine, and then on BBC, CNN, and Deutsche Welle, and now on Channel Nine again.
Jean-Paul Lorimer had acquired a Uruguayan immigration stamp on Jean-Paul Bertrand's Lebanese passport indicating Bertrand had legally entered Uruguay on July fourth, and another document dated the next day attesting to his legal residence in that country as an immigrant.
July fourth, of course, predated by nine days Jean-PaulLorimer's having gone missing from his apartment in Paris. It was unlikely that any party attempting to find Lorimer would be interested in anyone crossing any border on a date prior to a date Lorimer was known to have been in Paris.
He could, of course, have picked any date to be placed on the passport-the immigration stamp and the Certificate of Legal Residence had cost him ten thousand U.S. dollars in cash-but he had picked, as a fey notion, July fourth because it was now his, as well as the United States', independence day.
Once Jean-Paul Bertrand had the documents in his safe at Shangri-La, Jean-Paul Lorimer had ceased to exist, and Jean-Paul Bertrand could-after a suitable period, of course, of at least eighteen months, probably two years during which he would be very discreet-get on with his life.
Bertrand had been a little surprised at the amount of attention Jack Masterson's murder had caused around the world. He would not have thought the BBC or Deutsche Welle would have had nearly the interest in the murder of a relatively unimportant American diplomat that they showed. Jack had been the chief of mission, not the ambassador, and Buenos Aires was not really a major capital city of the world, although, in honesty, it had to be admitted that its restaurants did approach the level of those in Paris.
He was not surprised by the attention being paid by Argentine and American television. Jack had been shot in Argentina, which explained the Argentine interest. In all the time Jean-Paul had been coming to Uruguay, and especiallysince satellite television had become available, he had seen, with mingled amusement and disgust, that Argentine television was even more devoted to mindless game shows and gore than American television, which was really saying something.
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