The Hostage

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  [ONE]

  The Four Seasons Hotel Cerrito 1433 Buenos Aires, Argentina 2105 23 July 2005

  The Marine guard—who Castillo had learned was Staff Sergeant Roger Markham, twenty years old, of Des Moines, Iowa, who had been a seventeen-year-old fresh from Parris Island when he had been on the Marine March to Baghdad before being assigned to the Marine Embassy Guard battalion—pulled the embassy BMW 545i to a smooth stop in front of the Four Seasons and started to open his door.

  Castillo caught his arm.

  “If you try to rush around and open my door, Roger, I swear to God you’ll regret it.”

  Markham looked at him sheepishly.

  “It’s now a little after nine,” Castillo said. “The plane’s due at eleven-thirty, give or take, which means we should leave here around eleven. What are your plans for those two hours?”

  “Wait.”

  “Here?”

  “Right here.”

  “Can you leave the car here?”

  “Dip plates. I can leave it anywhere.”

  “What you are going to do, Roger, is park it. The driveway is right there.” Castillo pointed to the entrance of the hotel’s basement garage. “And then you’re going to come to my room, where we will try to get a little shut-eye.”

  “Whatever you say, s—”

  “There you go again,” Castillo said. “What do they do to you at Parris Island, give you fifty push-ups every time you to forget to say ‘sir’?”

  “Fifty, sometimes a hundred. Sorry.”

  “Not really a problem, but try, huh?”

  Markham nodded.

  “Go park the car,” Castillo said, and got out.

  As he walked through the lobby Castillo remembered that he had not gotten rooms for Betty Schneider and Jack Britton.

  That proved to be more of a problem than he anticipated.

  The house was nearly full, the assistant manager on duty told him. After ten minutes of consulting the computer, it was decided that Herr Gossinger would move from his suite—1550—into 1500. Fifteen hundred was far grander than Castillo needed, and consequently far more expensive.

  He toyed with the idea of putting Betty into 1500, but decided against it.

  She would almost certainly decide that I was plying her with luxurious accommodation as part of my wicked and devious plan to get into her pants.

  If I thought that would work, I’d rent the whole goddamn floor.

  Vacating 1550 made it available to someone else, and somehow that freed up 1510 and 1518, both very nice single rooms with views of Avenida 9 Julio and the port. Both were equipped with two queen-sized beds. Castillo asked the assistant manager which was farthest from 1500 and was told 1518.

  “Put Señorita Schneider in fifteen-eighteen, please.”

  “Would you like to have a bottle of champagne and some flowers—roses, perhaps?—waiting for the young lady, Señor Gossinger?”

  “I don’t think that would be a very good idea, thank you.”

  As far as the young lady is concerned, our relationship is—and will remain—professional and platonic.

  There wasn’t much that had to be moved from 1550 to 1500, and there were two bellmen and Sergeant Markham to help him, but it was after nine-thirty before the process was completed.

  “I am now going to drink one of these,” Castillo said, holding up two bottles of Quilmes beer from the in-room bar, “and then make a valiant attempt to catch a few winks.” He extended a bottle to Markham, and added, “I suggest you do the same.”

  “I’m not sure I should be drinking,” Markham said.

  “Trust me, Roger, you should drink that beer.”

  With Sergeant Markham stretched out on the couch in the sitting room of suite 1500, Castillo lay down on the super-king-sized bed in the bedroom. The first thing that came to mind were mental images, not all of which could honestly be deemed lewd and obscene, of Special Agent Schneider.

  He finally chased them away with images of Jack the Stack Masterson in the taxicab.

  Jesus, was that only this morning?

  When his cellular telephone buzzed, he was dreaming. In his dream, Sergeant Schneider was being much, much more affectionate than she had ever been in his waking hours.

  He looked at his watch. He had been asleep for fifteen minutes.

  “Castillo.”

  “I really hope I either woke you up or interrupted something really indecent,” Major H. Richard Miller’s very familiar voice announced.

  You have no idea, you sonofabitch!

  How did he get this number?

  “How’s the knee?”

  “How do you think it is? After every sonofabitch and his brother has been digging around in it for a month with the very latest in shiny sharp instruments of torture?”

  “What’s up, Dick?”

  “We can’t find this Lorimer guy in Paris, and God knows I’ve tried. You are going to have one hell of a phone bill, old pal.”

  “You sound as if you’re not calling from your Walter Reed bed of pain.”

  “Actually, having accepted your kind invitation to share your pad,” Miller said, “I’m lying on your couch in the Mayflower as we speak. In the morning they will roll me into your office at the Nebraska complex, where I will lie on your couch there.”

  “What about Lorimer?”

  “Well, we finally got an address for him, seven Rue Monsieur, and a phone number. No answer on the phone. Isaacson called some Secret Service guy he knows in Paris. The guy went there. The concierge said she had no idea where Lorimer was, but that he was often gone for a week or two. His car is in the garage. Isaacson said that he’s going to ask Secretary Hall to ask Secretary Cohen to lean on the UN to find out where he is. And Isaacson said for me to call you and bring you up to speed.”

  “Thanks, Dick. Are you sure you’re all right to work?”

  “I’m fine. I presume the love of your life has not yet arrived?”

  “Screw you. And if you’re referring to Betty Schneider, the ETA is twenty-three-thirty local.”

  “An hour difference between here and there, huh?”

  “It’s almost ten here.”

  “As a friendly word of advice I’m almost positive you will ignore, try to think with your upper brain for a change, before you do something stupid with that woman.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Castillo heard himself flare. “She’s no longer a cop that I can make a pass at. She’s now in the Secret Service and she works for me. I still like to think of myself as an officer and a gentleman. So fuck you, Dick!”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Miller said, “Charley, ol’ buddy, you have no idea how happy that outburst made me. I’ll be in touch.”

  The line went dead.

  Castillo sat up in the bed and turned the light on.

  I don’t know where that outburst came from, either, but it was right on the money. I can’t make a pass at Special Agent Schneider. I shouldn’t even be fantasizing about her.

  Moot point. She has made it as clear as humanly possible that she has no interest in me at all.

  But I’m glad Dick brought it up.

  I am entirely capable of doing the wrong thing, and probably would have.

  What the hell is the matter with me?

  In one movement, he laid the cellular on the bedside table and fell back on the bed.

  Then, a moment later, he sat up again, picked up the phone, and punched the autodial button for Howard Kennedy.

  Kennedy answered on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Did I wake you up, Howard?”

  “As a matter of fact, no.”

  “Are you in the hotel?”

  “Why?”

  “I thought we might have a drink. There’s a jazz quartet in the bar.”

  “Very kind of you, but what I’m doing is standing in the rain at Ezeiza watching ground handlers in whom I have no confidence whatsoever loading very expensive— and very nervous—horses onto an a
irplane. I’ll take a rain check, though.”

  “Are you going with the horses wherever they’re going?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “But you’ll be coming back soon?”

  Kennedy’s silence indicated he wasn’t going to answer the question.

  “Pity,” Castillo went on, “some old friends of yours are coming to town.”

  There was another silence long enough to make Castillo think Kennedy was not going to respond when he did:

  “The major crime investigation team from Quantico?”

  “I don’t know where they’re from, but they’re coming from Washington.”

  “Have you got their names?”

  This time Castillo hesitated before replying.

  Why the hell not get him the names? What harm can it do?

  “I can get them as soon as they get off the Gulfstream.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Eleven-thirty, give or take. I told another of your former associates to meet the plane and find them someplace to sleep.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Yung. He’s stationed in Montevideo—”

  “Chinese? Feisty little bastard? Round face, five-eight, one-fifty?”

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “Very well. What did he tell you he’s doing in Montevideo?”

  “He didn’t tell me he’s doing anything. I have the impression he’s just one more of your former associates looking into money laundering. The ambassador asked the ambassador in Montevideo if any of them had kidnapping experience, and he sent Yung and another guy here.”

  “His name?”

  “I don’t have it handy. But I can get it.”

  “Where are they landing? Here?”

  “Jorge Newbery. There’s a transport on the way that should land at Ezeiza at about the same time.”

  “I just saw an Air Force colonel in full uniform surrounded by Argentine Air Force brass; I wondered what he was up to.”

  “I’m going to get the family—and the body—out of here just as soon as I can.”

  “What were you planning to chat about, Charley, while we were listening to the jazz quartet?”

  “I thought I might idly inquire if you had ever heard of a fellow named Jean-Paul Lorimer.”

  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 Río 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?”

  “Señor 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 For
ce 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, Señor 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.