He picked up the bottle of cabernet sauvignon and his glass and went into the dining room and sat down at the table.
Anna-Maria came in with the platter.
"I will need some bread, please. The hard-crusted rolls. And butter. And, of course, salt and pepper. And don't forget the sauce."
When Anna-Maria had delivered everything, he checked to see that everything he needed was present.
"Thank you, Anna-Maria," he said. "You may go. I do not wish to be disturbed."
"Si, senor," Anna-Maria said, and left the dining room.
Three minutes later, she was back.
Jean-Paul was annoyed. He had told her he did not wish to be disturbed, and he had had just barely time enough to move a couple of slices of the beef-and it looked and smelled marvelous-to his plate, and here she was, back.
"I told you, Anna-Maria, that I didn't wish to be disturbed."
"Excuse me, senor. But there are two men here… officials."
"Officials? What kind of officials?"
"Officials, senor. From the government. They have badges."
What the hell?
"And they wish to see you, senor."
Jean-Paul rose angrily from the table, threw his napkin on it, and marched to the front door.
Two men were standing there.
"May I help you, gentlemen?"
"Are you Senor Jean-Paul Bertrand?"
"Yes, I am. And who are you?"
"I am Assistant Chief Inspector Muller of the Immigration Service," the larger of the two said. "And this is Inspector O'Fallon."
He held out his credentials.
"We are very sorry to trouble you, senor," Chief Inspector Muller said. "And at this hour of the night. And we do apologize, sir."
"What is it?"
"Do you have your passport, Senor Bertrand?"
"Yes, of course I do."
"You're sure, senor?"
"Yes, of course I'm sure. Why do you ask?"
"Senor Bertrand, as you may know, our immigration records are now computerized."
"So I've heard."
"This afternoon, Senor Bertrand, according to the computer, you attempted to enter Uruguay on a Varig flight from Rio de Janeiro."
"That's absurd!"
"The computer also says that you entered Uruguay some time ago, and have never left."
"That's true."
"What we suspect, Senor Bertrand, is that the other Senor Bertrand, who is being held in custody, is not really who he says he is. That his passport is either a forgery, or that he has somehow come into possession of your passport."
Assistant Chief Inspector Muller gave Jean-Paul Bertrand time to think this over, and then went on. "One or the other is true, Senor Bertrand. And the question can be simply answered. If you have your passport, then the other is a forgery. And the other Senor Bertrand will be dealt with accordingly. On the other hand, if your passport has somehow been… misplaced… It happens, senor. If it has been misplaced into the hands of the other Senor Bertrand, then he will be dealt with accordingly. I cannot believe that a gentleman of your reputation and standing would loan his passport-"
"I certainly would not!" Jean-Paul proclaimed righteously. "My passport is-or should be-in my safe. I'll get it for you."
"Thank you very much, senor."
"May I offer you a cup of coffee, something to drink, while I get it?"
"No, thank you, senor," Inspector O'Fallon said. "We're on duty."
"I'll be right with you," Jean-Paul Bertrand said. "My safe is in my office, in the rear of the house."
"Thank you, senor," Assistant Chief Inspector Muller said.
"The sitting room is in here," Jean Paul said. "If you'll wait there? Are you sure I cannot offer you anything?"
"Thank you just the same, senor," Muller said. The safe was bolted both to an interior wall and to the floor. Jean-Paul had learned that when he was looking for something in it, it was much easier just to sit on the floor than to bend over and try to look inside. He had done so now.
He had a hell of a time finding the damned passport, but finally did.
A forged passport, I understand. But one with my name on it? What's that all about?
Oh, of course. In case someone checks, there is a valid passport in the name of Jean-Paul Bertrand.
Oh, God, is this incident going to be in the newspapers?
He heard a sound, and looked over his shoulder.
The younger one, Inspector O'Fallon, was standing behind him.
What the hell is he doing in here?
"Inspector O'Fallon, isn't it?" Jean-Paul asked.
"No, not really," Castillo said, in English.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You know how it is, Lorimer. Sometimes people use other names. Will you hand me the passport and stand up, please?"
"What's going on here?"
Castillo snatched the passport from Lorimer's hand as he stepped over him and pushed the safe door open more widely.
Jean-Paul scurried backward on the floor and ran into a set of legs.
Then he felt himself being hauled to his feet.
"Put your hands behind you, please," the man who had said he was Assistant Chief Inspector Muller ordered.
Jean-Paul did as he was told.
He looked around his office.
Muller was doing something with his wrists.
Jean-Paul took a closer look at the face of the man who had said he was Inspector O'Fallon but had just now called him Lorimer, in American English.
But then something else caught his eye.
There was a face at the window, and it looked as if whoever stood there was trying to break the window with something.
The last thing Jean-Paul Lorimer, Ph.D., saw in this world, before two 9mm bullets struck him in the mouth and forehead, was the breaking glass of the window and an orange flash. Castillo reacted to the sound of the breaking glass and the burst of submachine fire instinctively. He dropped to the ground, scurried behind the desk, and reached for the Beretta he was carrying in the small of his back.
What the fuck?
This desk is going to be about as much protection against a 9mm as a Kleenex.
There was the sound of more firing outside. He recognized the characteristic chatter of a Car 4. More than one Car 4. And then the sharper crack of a 7.62.
Didn't I hear a 7.62 just before the goddamn submachine gun went off?
He saw a cord running across the floor to the desk.
If they can't see you, they can't shoot you.
Unless they spray the room with a submachine gun.
What the hell!
He jerked on the cord and a lamp on Lorimer's desk crashed to the floor. But didn't go out.
Sonofabitch!
There was the sound of another 7.62mm round going off, and of voices shouting something unintelligible, and then several more bursts from Car 4s.
Castillo reeled in the lamp, finally found the switch, and turned it off. The room was now dark.
Castillo got to his knees, then took a running dive from behind the desk toward the corner. No one shot at him. He found the wall with his hands and pushed himself into the corner. He waited for a moment to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. To turn the lamp off, he had had to find the switch, which was a push device in the bulb socket, which meant that he'd had the light from a clear-glass sixty-watt bulb right in his eyes.
Finally, he could make out the outline of the windows, and raised the Beretta in both hands to aim at it.
"Alfredo?" he called.
"I'm hit," Munz called back. "I don't know how bad. I have Lorimer's brains all over me."
There was another burst of Car 4 fire, this one farther away.
And then Sergeant Kensington's voice. "Anybody alive in there?"
"Only the good guys," Castillo called back.
There was the sound of a door being kicked open. And then a hand holding a flashlight appeared in the door and the ligh
t swept the room.
Then Kensington came into the room with Corporal Lester Bradley on his heels, sniper rifle at the ready.
"Get that goddamn light out of my eyes," Castillo ordered. "There's a lamp on the floor behind the desk."
Kensington found the light and turned it on, and then walked to where Castillo was getting to his feet. He waited until Castillo was fully up, then said, "These cocksuckers, whoever the fuck they were, got past Kranz. Can you believe that?"
"Is he all right?"
"They garroted him, Major," Kensington said.
"Oh, shit!"
Castillo walked to the desk again, looked at the exploded head of Jean-Paul Lorimer, and then at the blood oozing from the chest of El Coronel Alfredo Munz, and said, "Oh, shit!" again. [FOUR] Estancia Shangri-La Tacuarembo Province Republica Oriental del Uruguay 2225 31 July 2005 "You're going to be all right, Colonel," Sergeant Robert Kensington said to Munz, who rested just about where he had fallen behind Lorimer's desk. "There's some muscle damage that's going to take some time to heal, and you're going to hurt like hell for a long time every time you move-for that matter, breathe. I can take the bullet out now, if you'd like."
"I think I'll wait until I get to a hospital," Munz said.
"Your call, Alfredo," Castillo said. "But how are you going to explain the wound? And if Kensington says he can get it out, he can."
"No offense, but that looks to me like a job for a surgeon."
"Kensington has removed more bullets and other projectiles than most surgeons," Castillo said. "Before he decided he'd rather shoot people than treat them for social disease, he was an A-Team medic. Which meant… what's that line, Kensington?"
"That I was 'qualified to perform any medical procedure other than opening the cranial cavity,'" Kensington quoted. "I can numb that, give you a happy pill, and clean it up and get the bullet out. It would be better for you than waiting-the sooner you clean up a wound like that, the better-and that'd keep you from answering questions at a hospital. But what are you going to tell your wife?"
"Lie, Alfredo," Castillo said. "Tell her you were shot by a jealous husband."
"What she's going to think is that I was cleaning my pistol and it went off, and I'm embarrassed," Munz said. "But I'd rather deal with that than answer official questions. How long will I be out?"
"You won't be out long, but you'll be in la-la land for a couple of hours."
"Okay, do it," Munz said.
"Well, let's get you to your feet and onto something flat where there's some light," Kensington said. He looked at Castillo, and between them they got Munz to his feet.
"There's a big table in the dining room that ought to work," Kensington said. "It looks like everybody got here just in time for dinner. There's a plate of good-looking roast beef on it. And a bottle of wine."
"Okay on the beef," Castillo said. "Nix on the wine. We have to figure out what to do next and get out of here."
"Major, who the fuck are these bad guys?" Kensington asked.
"I really don't know. Yung is searching the bodies to see what he can find out. I don't even know what happened."
"Well, they're pros, whoever they are. Maybe Russians? Krantz was no amateur, and they got him. With a fucking garrote. That means they had to (a) spot him, and (b) sneak up on him. A lot of people have tried that on Seymour and never got away with it."
"Spetsnaz?" Castillo said. "If this were anywhere in Europe, I'd say maybe, even probably. But here? I just don't know. We'll take the garrote and whatever else Yung comes up with and see if we can learn something."
When they got to the dining room, Kensington held Munz up while Castillo moved the Chateaubriand, the sauce pitcher, the bread tray, and the wine to a sideboard. Then he sat him down on the table.
"Tell me, physician," Munz said. "What would the effect of wine be on this happy pill you're about to give me?"
Kensington went to the sideboard and picked it up. "Cabernet sauvignon," he said. "There is a strong body of medical opinion which suggests this is indicated in a procedure of this nature. You want a glass?"
"Yes, please," Munz said.
Kensington poured wine in the glass and handed it to Munz.
"Take these with it," he said, putting two white gel capsules on the table. "And when you start to feel a little woozy-it usually takes about a minute-just lie down. I'm a little surprised you're not in pain."
"What makes you think I'm not?" Munz asked as he tossed the capsules into his mouth and then picked up the wineglass.
"You won't be out for long," Kensington said.
"What happened out there, physician?" Munz asked.
"The first thing I knew that anything was wrong was when I heard the Remington go off. And God forgive me, what I thought then was that the goddamn kid was playing with the rifle and it went off. So I ran around the side of the building to chew him a new asshole. And that's when I saw the two guys. One of them was on the ground and the other was pointing a Madsen at me-"
"A Madsen?" Castillo asked.
"Yeah. That mean something?"
"It might," Castillo said.
"And I had just decided, Oh, shit, he's got me, when another 7.62 round went off. Down he went. Two shots from the kid. Both in the head. The little sonofabitch can shoot. He saved my ass. And yours, too. The first one he popped was the guy who stuck his Madsen into the office window. Bradley told me he waited until he was sure what he was up to before he popped him."
"He was supposed to be guarding the goddamn chopper!" Castillo said.
"And aren't you glad, Major, that he didn't understand that order?" Kensington said. "And then things got a little exciting. There were six of them in all. Five at the house, and the one who garroted Kranz. Kranz managed to get his boot knife into him. When we found Kranz, that one died trying to escape."
"That wasn't smart, Kensington."
"Yeah, I know. But Seymour and I went way back, and I didn't think."
"I am starting to feel a little strange," Munz said.
"Let me help you lie down," Kensington said. Kensington gently lifted Munz's eyelid and shined a small flashlight into it.
"Okay, he's out. He'll probably be out for thirty minutes. But he's a big sonofabitch, and I have no idea what his threshold of pain is, so he may start to wake up when I'm working on him. I want you to be prepared to hold him down-lie on top of him, whatever's necessary-if he starts to move. Okay?"
"Got it," Castillo said.
"And now, before I lay out my surgical instruments, you may help me scrub."
"How do I do that?"
Kensington handed him an aerosol can.
"Spray this crap all over my hands. It's advertised as better than a good scrub with surgical soap. It fucks up your hands, but what the hell?"
Castillo sprayed a foaming, pale orange substance over Kensington's hands from the aerosol can, and then watched as Kensington pulled on rubber gloves.
Then Kensington came up with a thin black plastic envelope. He tore it open. Inside was a small set of surgeon's tools.
"No offense, Major," Kensington said, "but if you feel yourself getting a little woozy when I start to cut, for Christ's sake, sit down on the floor and put your head between your knees. The last thing we need is you cracking your head open on the table. You have to get us the fuck out of here." "No identification whatever," Special Agent David William Yung of the FBI reported to Castillo forty minutes later. "No labels in the clothing, and I'm almost sure they're manufactured locally, or at least available here, so there's nothing there. I fingerprinted the bodies, and took enough blood to do a good DNA. But a DNA is good only when you have something to compare it to. Sorry. They came in cars from Enterprise Rent-A-Car, the airport office. We can run those credit cards, but if these people are as professional as it looks, that'll be a dead end, too. Sorry."
"That's what Kensington said. They're pros. So what did we expect?"
"Four Caucasian, two black. I took pictures, of course, bu
t…"
"Okay. Thanks."
"That's the bad news. The good news is an address book from the safe, and these." He wagged a dozen sheets of what looked like stock certificates.
"What are those?"
"These are the certificates of loan. Fifteen point seven million U.S. dollars' worth. Of course, since Lorimer didn't sign them, they can't be cashed, but it proves he has all the money in the banks. Maybe some bank officers can be talked into telling us what they know about Lorimer's activities."
"On the other hand, once they learn he's dead, they'll deny their existence, and they're fifteen point seven million ahead."
"Yeah," Yung agreed.
Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, came into the kitchen.
"Sergeant Kensington said he's ready to mount up anytime you give the word, sir. The colonel is on his feet."
"Bradley, I owe you. You saved my tail and Colonel Munz's."
"Just doing my job, sir."
"Tell Sergeant Kensington to get the show on the road, Bradley."
"Yes, sir." [FIVE] The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW Washington, D.C. 1825 1 August 2005 The President of the United States was behind his desk. Across the room, Ambassador Charles W. Montvale was sitting next to Secretary of State Natalie Cohen on one of two facing couches. Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall was on the other couch.
Major C. G. Castillo, who was in civilian clothing, was nonetheless standing before the President's desk at a position close to "At Ease."
Or, Secretary Hall thought, like a kid standing in front of the headmaster's desk, waiting for the ax to fall.
For the past ten minutes, Castillo had been delivering his report of what had happened since he had last seen the President in Biloxi, when the President had issued his Presidential Finding aboard Air Force One.
"And so we landed at MacDill, Mr. President," Castillo concluded, "where we turned over Sergeant Kranz's remains to Central Command, and then we came here, arriving at oh-nine-thirty. I took everyone involved to my apartment and told them nothing was to be said to anyone about anything until I had made my report, and that they were to remain there until I got back to them."
"Colonel Torine, too?" the President of the United States asked. "And your cousin, too? How did they respond to your placing them in what amounts to house arrest?"
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