The Hostage

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  Fifty yards past them, a huge tractor-trailer with a single,enormous container on it was stopped in the middle of the road, its stop and parking lights flashing.

  When the driver slammed the brakes on and the Alfa Romeo screeched to a stop before the deserted warehouse, Castillo could see a taxicab parked nose-in against the rear wall of the building. There was a knot of seven or eight men, most of them in uniforms carrying the symbols of senior police officers, between the taxi and the front of the building.

  Munz erupted from the backseat of the Alfa and marched purposefully toward them. Castillo and the driver got out and followed. The knot of police all turned to face him. Several of the senior police officers saluted.

  “I sent word that nothing was to be touched until I got here,” Munz announced. “I presume nothing has?”

  “Mi coronel,” a man in a navy uniform with the sleeve stripes of a commander said, “one of my men was first on the scene. Aside from reaching into the victim’s pockets looking for identification, he touched nothing else.”

  “Looking into his pockets to see if he had any money is more like it,” the driver of the Alfa Romeo said softly, behind his hand, to Castillo.

  One of the senior police officers said something to Munz that Castillo couldn’t hear.

  Colonel Munz’s eyebrows went up in surprise.

  “Where is he?” Munz demanded.

  The Navy officer indicated a man in a khaki uniform standing uncomfortably near the street.

  “Get him over here,” Munz ordered. He pointed to a spot on the ground.

  The command to have the Naval Prefecture policemancome over worked its way down the hierarchy of police officers, and finally one of them walked quickly toward the policeman.

  Munz walked toward the taxi. Castillo started after him, and then the driver, and that started the police officers moving. Munz sensed this. He turned and held out his hand to stop them, then pointed at Castillo and the driver, signaling them they should—or were permitted to—go with him.

  The right rear door of the taxi was open.

  Munz stuck his head inside, looked around for a moment, and then pulled it out. He signaled that it was permitted for the driver and Castillo to have a look.

  Castillo was closest and went first.

  There was the smell of blood and the buzzing of flies.

  J. Winslow Masterson was leaning against the far door, half sitting up. His eyes and mouth were open. There was one entrance wound in his temple, and to judge from the now dried blood on his neck, another entrance wound under the hair behind his ear.

  The taxi driver was slumped over the wheel. The silver gray hair at the back of his skull was heavily matted with blood, and the back of his jacket was black with dried blood.

  Castillo pulled his head out of the cab, met the Alfa driver’s eyes, and said, “Sonofabitch!”

  He heard another squeal of tires near the opening of the building, and when he looked saw Alex Darby open the door of an embassy BMW and get out.

  Several policemen tried to stop him.

  “Pass him!” Colonel Munz shouted in a voice that would have done credit to a drill sergeant. Then he started walking toward him.

  Castillo heard Darby ask, “It’s him?”

  “I’m afraid it is,” Munz said.

  “And he’s dead?”

  Munz nodded. “Shot twice in the head.”

  “Where’s Mrs. Masterson?” Darby asked.

  Christ, I didn’t even think of her!

  Munz gestured toward the German Hospital ambulance.

  Darby started toward the ambulance. Munz caught up with him.

  “Alex, I think she’s drugged,” Munz said.

  “Dammit! Who authorized that?” Darby demanded furiously.

  “According to the first policeman on the scene, she was drugged when he got here.”

  “Presumably, there’s a doctor with her?” Darby said.

  “I think there’s three doctors,” Munz said. “I called the German Hospital myself.”

  Darby went to the ambulance, a large Mercedes van, pulled the door open, and climbed inside.

  Castillo became aware the driver was now standing beside him.

  “Darby’s in the ambulance with Mrs. Masterson,” Castillo said. “I heard Munz tell him she’s drugged, was drugged when the Navy cop got here.”

  “Shit!” the driver said. “I make it two shots to the heads.”

  “I saw only one entrance wound in the cabdriver’s head,” Castillo said.

  “I think there’s two,” the driver said, not argumentatively.

  Darby came out of the ambulance and walked with Munz toward the taxi.

  “Alex,” the driver said, “I’m sorry.”

  “We’re all sorry, Paul,” Darby said.

  Darby walked to the taxicab, looked inside for a long moment, and then walked back to where Munz, the driver, and Castillo were standing.

  “Alex,” Munz said, “I think she should be taken to the hospital. They can’t determine what they gave her here.”

  “They told me,” Darby said. “But I think the ambassador would want to see her here. He’s on the way.”

  “Of course,” Munz said.

  Darby looked at the driver.

  “Paul?”

  “It looks to me like an assassination,” the driver said.

  “You agree with that, Charley?” Darby asked.

  “Could be. I don’t know.”

  Another embassy BMW pulled up, and then a second. A tall, lithe, well-tailored man got out of the backseat, and another man got out of the front passenger seat.

  That has to be the ambassador, Castillo decided. And the other guy his bodyguard.

  “Well, here comes the ambassador,” the driver confirmed.

  Ken Lowery, the embassy security officer, and three other men got out of the second BMW. One of the men was a burly Scandinavian type with a nearly shaven head.

  Castillo decided he was one of the embassy’s Marine guards.

  Ambassador Silvio and Lowery walked past the outer line of Argentine police. No one tried to stop them.

  They must recognize them.

  All the others stopped at the line of policemen.

  Silvio walked up to them.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Bring me up to speed.”

  “Jack is in the taxi, Mr. Ambassador,” Darby said. “He has been shot twice in the head.”

  Silvio looked at Castillo but didn’t say anything to him. “Excellency,” Munz said, “permit me to be the first to express my most profound regrets.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Silvio said in Spanish. “Does anyone know what’s happened?”

  Before anyone could form a reply, Silvio went on, “Mrs. Masterson?”

  “She’s in the German Hospital ambulance, Your Excellency,” Munz said. “She has apparently been drugged. By the villains.”

  Silvio’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t speak. He started for the ambulance. Munz, Darby, and Lowery walked after him. After a moment—what the hell, I’m supposed to find out what’s going on—Castillo walked after them.

  As they reached the ambulance, Silvio turned to Castillo.

  “You’re Mr. Castillo?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Silvio knocked at the rear door of the ambulance, and then pulled it open and climbed in.

  There in the van were two men and a woman, all wearing thin blue hospital coats, all of which carried nameplates with their names, followed by “M.D.”

  Mrs. Elizabeth Masterson was sitting on a chair against the far interior wall of the roomy ambulance. There was a plastic oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, and a blood pressure device wrapped around one arm. The female doctor was taking her pulse.

  Silvio went to Mrs. Masterson, dropped to his knees, and took her hand.

  “Elizabeth,” he said softly in English, “I am so very sorry.”

  She looked at him, visibly confused, and then looked away.
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  “She has apparently been drugged,” the female doctor said.

  “What are you doing about it?” Silvio asked.

  “There’s not much we can do until we know what drug was used. We suspect a couple, but can’t be sure until we get a blood sample to the laboratory.”

  “Why hasn’t she been taken to the hospital?” Silvio asked, and then, without waiting for a response, said, “Please take her there now.”

  He turned and looked at Lowery.

  “Go with her, please, Mr. Lowery. Make sure she is all right.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lowery said.

  “Take as many people as you think will be necessary.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Silvio started to leave the ambulance, Munz shouted, in a parade-ground bellow, “Captain Jiminez!”

  One of the men in civilian clothing in the knot of police officers came running over.

  “Eight men, two cars,” Munz ordered. “One car to precede the ambulance, one to trail. There will be Americans. Make sure of Señora Masterson’s safety. Report when she is safely in the hospital. And do not allow the press anywhere near her or the medicos.”

  “Sí, mi coronel.” Captain Jiminez turned and ran off, shouting orders as he ran. Lowery ran after him.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Silvio said to Munz. “Now, what do we know about what happened?”

  “We were about to find out, Excellency, just before you arrived,” Munz said. “If you will come with me, Excellency?”

  Munz led them to the policeman from the Naval Prefecture.

  “You were the first officer on the scene?” Munz asked.

  “Sí, mi coronel.”

  That cop’s about to piss his pants. He’s terrified of Munz.

  Ambassador Silvio saw this, too. He smiled at the policeman and put out his hand.

  “Good morning,” he said, in what Castillo now recognized as a good porteño Spanish accent. “My name is Silvio. I’m the United States ambassador, and we’re trying to find out what happened here.”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Well?” Munz demanded.

  “Mi coronel, I was patrolling in Puerto Madero when I got the call to come here.”

  “What did the call say?”

  “Investigate a possible robbery murder,” the policeman said, and added, reluctantly, “and a crazy woman.”

  “Do we know where that call came from?” Munz asked, looking over Castillo’s shoulder. Castillo turned and saw that the Navy commander who had spoken to Munz earlier had come up.

  “The truck driver, mi coronel,” the commander said.

  “Where is he? Get him over here.”

  When two Naval Prefecture policemen started to hustle the truck driver, a burly, visibly nervous man in his late forties, over toward them, Munz signaled them to stop and walked over to them. The ambassador, Castillo, Darby, and the driver followed. The Navy officer started to, but was ordered with a wave of Munz’s hand to stay where he was. Then Munz dismissed the policemen with an impatient wave of his fingers.

  “Would you please tell us what you know of this, señor?” Munz asked.

  The man nodded, and then turned and gestured toward the street.

  “I was coming down Edison,” the truck driver began, “toward Jorge Newbery, when I saw the woman. She was staggering in the street. I thought she was drunk.”

  He stopped, having considered that he might have said something he should not have said.

  I don’t think he knows who Munz is, beyond being someone of importance to the other police, but he’s afraid of him.

  “And?” Munz prodded.

  “I felt sorry for her and stopped,” the driver said, not too convincingly, and then added, “She was in the middle of the street, and I didn’t want to run over her.”

  He waited for a response.

  “And?” Munz prodded again.

  “So I got out of my truck and she sort of dragged me in here,” the driver said. “And I saw the taxi, what was in it—they were both dead—and I got on my phone and called—”

  There seemed to be more flashing red-and-blue lights, and now sirens. Castillo saw that a little convoy had been formed and was apparently waiting for the ambulance. Then the flashing lights on the ambulance began to blaze, and its siren started screaming. It backed up, and then left the building. A policeman directed it into the column of lined-up vehicles. Castillo saw that the embassy car had been placed into the convoy behind the ambulance.

  Then the whole convoy took off.

  When the sound of the sirens had diminished to the point where he could be heard, Munz again said, “And?”

  “Yes, sir,” the truck driver said. “The lady fell down.”

  “What?”

  “She fell down,” the truck driver said. “She didn’t pass out, but she couldn’t stand up and she didn’t understand what I was saying to her.”

  “What were you saying to her?”

  “That the police were coming, and it would be better if she got out of the middle of the street. I tried to pick her up, but she screamed, so I just waited.”

  “And what happened between then and when the policeman came?”

  “Nothing,” the truck driver said, and then corrected himself: “What happened was she crawled out of the street—maybe she wanted to go back to the taxicab—”

  “Maybe?”

  “She was only as far as the curb when the policeman came,” the truck driver said. “He said to leave her where she was, and he went and looked into the cab, and came out with the man’s wallet—”

  “How much money, would you say, was in the wallet?” Munz interrupted.

  “I didn’t see any money,” the truck driver said. “And then he called for an ambulance and an officer, and picked her up and put her in the front seat of the police car. And he told me that the man in the back was a norteamericano diplomat, and to leave my truck where it was, and we waited for the others.”

  “Who came first?” Munz asked.

  “I don’t remember,” the truck driver said.

  Munz looked at him for a moment, then at the ambassador, and then at Darby, Castillo, and the driver, as if asking them if they had any questions. No one did.

  “Thank you, señor,” Munz said. “What’s going to happen now is that as soon as the technicians get here, they will take some photographs of your truck, and otherwise examine it, and then we’ll move it out of the middle of the road. Then you will be taken to the Naval Prefecture, where other officers will take a statement from you, and probably your photograph and fingerprints. I will issue orders that your truck will be guarded while you are gone, and that you be allowed to telephone your employer and your wife, if you want. You will tell them that you witnessed an accident, and that the police are taking your statement, nothing more. Nothing about the taxicab. You understand me?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Thank you,” Munz said, and offered the man his hand. And then Ambassador Silvio offered his and said, “Thank you.” Darby and then the driver and finally Castillo shook hands with the driver.

  Then everybody followed Munz back to where the Navy commander stood with the policeman.

  Another embassy car drove up. The two FBI agents from Montevideo got out.

  Special Agent Yung looks more than a little surprised to see me.

  “Colonel,” Ambassador Silvio said, “those are two FBI agents I borrowed from Montevideo. If at all possible, I would like them to be able to witness your investiga—”

  “Pass them!” Munz bellowed.

  The two FBI agents trotted over.

  Munz turned to the Navy commander. “I want the truck driver taken to the prefecture. Get a statement, take his photograph and his fingerprints. Let him call his employer and his wife, but make sure that he says nothing more than that he witnessed an accident and is giving a statement. Treat him well—my first reaction is that he’s a good Samaritan—but keep him there until you hear from me.”

/>   “Sí, señor.”

  “All right,” Munz said to the Naval Prefecture policeman. “Tell me what happened from the moment you arrived on the scene.”

  His story neatly dovetailed with what the truck driver had told them.

  Munz looked at the two FBI agents.

  “I will issue orders that you are to have access to all facets of this investigation.”

  “Thank you,” Ambassador Silvio said.

  “Is there anything else, Your Excellency?” Munz asked.

  Silvio responded, but to Darby.

  “The children,” he said.

  “My wife is at the Masterson house,” Darby replied.

  “I will send my wife over there as soon as I can get on the phone,” Silvio said. And then he asked, “Presumably, you’ve taken steps to guard it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your Excellency, Señora Masterson and the children will not be out of sight of my best men,” Munz said. “I realize that’s not much you can put confidence in.”

  “Why do you say that, Colonel?” Silvio asked, courteously.

  “Señor Sieno and I were sitting in his car outside the Masterson home from eleven P.M. onward, and Señor Masterson got away from us.”

  So that’s his name. Sieno. Paul Sieno.

  “Is that how you think of it, ‘He got away from you’?”

  “From Señor Sieno and me, and from Señor Sieno’s men and mine. There were eight people watching his house, Your Excellency.”

  “Why would he want to ‘get away from you,’ do you think?”

  “I think he was contacted by the villains, who told him where to meet them, and threatened his wife’s well-being if he didn’t come alone. So he went alone. How, I don’t know, but he was desperate, and he got away from us, and made it to somewhere where he could find a taxi—the San Isidro railroad station, probably—and took it to wherever he was told to meet them. Did Your Excellency notice the taxi is not a Buenos Aires city taxi?”

  “Yes, I did, as a matter of fact,” Ambassador Silvio said.

  “And I was thinking that’s what probably happened.”

  “I am both deeply sorry and grossly embarrassed, Your Excellency, that I have failed my duty,” Munz said.