The Hostage

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “Great!” Castillo began.

  Torine silenced him with an upraised palm and went on: “Then I got here, and the hotel had never heard of you. So I stood there in the lobby for a couple of minutes, wondering why the attaché had sent me to the wrong hotel, and then I decided that there are two Four Seasons hotels, and I was in the wrong one, so I went back to the desk and asked the guy where the other one was.”

  Castillo laughed.

  “At that point, I remembered your alter ego, asked for Herr Gossinger, and here I am.”

  Castillo saw from their faces that Betty had some idea what was going on, and Jack Britton and Roger Markham none at all.

  “Guys, I sometimes use the name Gossinger when I’m working,” he explained. “That’s how I’m registered here.”

  Britton, who had worked deep undercover for years as Ali Abid Ar-Raziq, nodded his understanding. Roger Markham’s face registered what could have been awe.

  My God, he’s a real intel operator with a phony ID and all!

  “Colonel,” Castillo said, “remember when the Philadelphia cops turned up the intel that the guy who owned our 727 had sold another one to Costa Rica?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “There they are,” Charley said.

  “No,” Britton said. “There she is. Betty put that together. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Betty Schneider and Jack Britton, now of the Secret Service,” Castillo went on. “This is Colonel Jake Torine, who flew the 727 home from Costa Rica.”

  They shook hands.

  “No, I haven’t had breakfast, and yes, thank you, I could eat a bite,” Torine said.

  “I don’t know how warm it still is,” Castillo said, liftinga stainless-steel dome and revealing a pile of still-steaming scrambled eggs.

  “Warm enough,” Torine said and sat down.

  He started spooning eggs onto a plate.

  “So what’s going on, Charley?” Torine asked.

  Castillo handed him the Buenos Aires Herald.

  “This is what’s been given out,” he said. “Most of it’s pretty accurate. I’ll fill you in on what’s not.”

  Torine took the newspaper and started to read.

  Shaking his head as he swallowed his last bite of breakfast, Torine handed the Herald back to Castillo.

  “There’s an editorial, too,” Castillo said. “Headlined THE NATION IS SHAMED.”

  “Should they be?” Torine asked.

  “Embarrassed, sure,” Castillo said. “A diplomat’s wife is kidnapped and then the diplomat gets blown away. That’s not supposed to happen in a civilized nation. This isn’t the Congo. But ‘shamed’ is a little strong. And God knows, they got their act in high gear the minute this happened to find out who did it.

  “What we think happened is that Mrs. Masterson’s kidnappers got in touch with him, set up a meeting, and he sneaked out of his house and went to meet them. And got himself blown away.”

  “Weren’t they watching the house?” Torine asked, incredulously.

  “They had cops and SIDE agents—you know what SIDE is?”

  Torine nodded.

  “So, not only cops and SIDE agents all over the place, but sitting in a car in front of his house at two in the morning when Masterson sneaked out was a CIA spook named Paul Sieno and Colonel Alfredo Munz, the head of SIDE.”

  “You think Masterson went to pay the ransom and something went wrong?”

  “I just don’t know. All I know is that Alex Darby, the station chief, Sieno—good guy, I knew him in Afghanistan; his cover is commercial attaché and Alex says he’s his best man—and Munz did the best they know how to make sure something like this didn’t happen. And it did. I should throw in that Masterson was Darby’s best friend.”

  “Jesus, what the hell is this all about?”

  “I wish to hell I knew,” Castillo said. “And one more thing, Colonel: These bastards have something on Mrs. Masterson—maybe a threat to kill the kids, maybe something else—that’s got her terrified.”

  “That’s understandable, isn’t it?”

  “Surrounded by the embassy’s security people, plus the CIA, the Secret Service, and SIDE, you’d think she’d feel protected enough to at least come up with a description of who grabbed her,” Castillo said. “If we are to believe her, and I don’t, she doesn’t remember anything. That’s one of the reasons I had them send Betty down here”—one of them, anyway—“to see if she can get close to her and come up with something.”

  Special Agent Schneider’s mind apparently ran on a parallel path with one of them, anyway. Castillo felt the ball of her foot on his calf again, and when he looked at her, there was a hint of a smile on her lips and a naughty look in her eyes.

  “The one question in my mind, ever since I heard about this, was whether it is terrorist-connected,” Torine said.

  “If it had just been assassinating Masterson, maybe. But if terrorists did it, they would have been boasting about it an hour after it happened. And I don’t think they would have passed up the opportunity to kill Mrs. Masterson when they had the chance.”

  Torine nodded his understanding.

  “So what happens now?” he asked.

  “We get her and the children out of Argentina just as soon as we can get her on your airplane. Have you got approach charts for Keesler Air Force Base?”

  “Of course. Why Keesler?”

  “Mrs. Masterson wants him buried in Mississippi. That’s where he’s from. The Mississippi Gulf Coast.”

  “General Naylor told me the President wants Mr. Masterson buried in Arlington.”

  “It’s her call, isn’t it?”

  “Obviously. When do you think she’ll be ready to leave?”

  “I think—think, don’t know—that they’re going to release her from the hospital this morning. If I had my way, she’d go directly from the hospital to the airport. But I doubt that’s going to happen. Maybe late tonight, which would put us into Keesler in the morning. But probably sometime tomorrow.”

  “The defense attaché told me the Argentines want to put the casket in the Catedral Metropolitana, so they can pay their respects,” Torine said. “What’s that?”

  “I hadn’t heard that,” Castillo replied. “And I have no idea.”

  “It’s like their national cathedral,” Sergeant Roger Markham furnished. “Not far from the Casa Rosada, which is like their White House. Except it’s pink. The Casa Rosada, I mean. The cathedral looks like what the Parthenon must have looked like before it fell down. Marble, I think.”

  “The Marines to the rescue,” Castillo said. “Keep going, Roger.”

  “Well, it’s their big-time church. San Martín—that general they call ‘the Great Liberator’? He was a pal of Thomas Jefferson. Avenida Libertador is really named after him, like if we named Washington Square ‘Father of Our Country Square.’”

  “Fascinating,” Colonel Torine said, managing to keep a straight face.

  “They guard his tomb inside like we do the Unknown Soldier, twenty-four/seven. If they want to put Mr. Masterson’s body in there, it’s really an honor.”

  “You’re right, Roger. And I can see why they’d want to do it, but I don’t know how that’s going to go down with Mrs. Masterson, not to mention my orders to get her and the kids out of here as quickly as possible.”

  He looked at Torine.

  “What we’re going to do now is go to the hospital and introduce Betty and Jack to her. I told you, she’s frightened. It might be useful if you went along, if you’d be willing. Tell her the travel plans, you know, whatever might make her feel better.”

  “You don’t have to ask, Charley,” Colonel Torine said. “About that or anything else. General Naylor didn’t like it much, I don’t think, but he made it very clear that you’re running this exercise.”

  “I hear a cell phone ringing,” Betty announced.

  Castillo patted his clothing as he remembered his was in the bedroom, then quickly got up and went to
get it. That took some time, as it was in the pocket of the pants he had been wearing when Betty had come looking for her lost handkerchief, and had been kicked out of sight when Jack Britton had rung the door chimes.

  As had, Castillo learned when he reached under the bed for them, Betty’s brassiere and underpants.

  That means when she walked out of here, she wasn’t wearing anything under her blue jeans and sweater!

  A series of mental images flooded his mind.

  Goddammit, what’s the matter with you? Answer the goddamn cellular!

  By the time he’d gotten the telephone from his pocket, it was too late.

  The phone, however, had captured the caller’s number. He pushed the MISSED CALL key, then the DIAL key.

  “Sylvia Grunblatt.”

  The embassy public information officer. What the hell does she want?

  “C. G. Castillo, Ms. Grunblatt. Were you trying to reach me?”

  “Where are you?”

  Not that it’s any of your business, but—

  “I’m in the Four Seasons.”

  “According to them, they don’t have anybody named Castillo registered. You want to tell me what that’s all about?”

  “How’d you get my cellular number?”

  “Ambassador Silvio gave it to me.”

  “How can I help you, Ms. Grunblatt?”

  “The shoe’s on the other foot. The press is onto you. Somebody around here has a big mouth.”

  “You want to explain that?”

  “The New York Times guy wants to know about the President’s agent, starting with his name, and so do CNN and AP and La Nación, ad infinitum. What do I tell them?”

  “You have no idea what they’re talking about.”

  “They’re not going to believe that, and they’re not going to like it.”

  “Ambassador Silvio told me you’re a first-class press officer. You’ll think of something.”

  “I can hear them now,” she said. “ ‘Are you trying to tell me, Sylvia, that my source was lying to me?’ ”

  “To which you respond, ‘I cannot vouch for your unnamed sources. I can only tell you what I have been told.’”

  “To which they will respond, ‘Oh, bovine excreta, Sylvia,’ or words to that effect.”

  “Sylvia, I’m sorry, but your splendid relations with the press are going to have to be sacrificed for operational requirements.”

  “I was afraid of that,” she said. “The ambassador said I was to handle this any way you wanted.”

  “The one thing I don’t need is my name, picture, or the words ‘Presidential Agent’ in the newspapers or on the tube.”

  “Okay, you got it. But be warned, they’ll be looking for you. Since there are—with one exception—no other developments in the story, you—the President’s agent— are the story.”

  “What’s the one exception?”

  “Presuming the ambassador can get Mrs. Masterson to go along—he hasn’t asked her yet—the Argentines want to pin the Grand Cross of the Great Liberator on Jack’s casket, which at the time will be lying in state in the Catedral Metropolitana. If she goes along—and she might not; if I were her I think I’d tell the Argentines to go piss up a rope—that will be a spectacle. The press— especially TV—likes spectacles, and that may get some of the heat off you.”

  “I was about to go to the German Hospital,” Castillo said.

  “You got somebody from SIDE with you who can get you in the back door? Otherwise be prepared for celebrity.”

  “How will they know what I look like?”

  “The leak about the President’s agent was intentional. I think it follows they would have also leaked a description.”

  “You have any idea who the leaker is?”

  “If I had to bet, I’d bet it was one of the law enforcement types . . .”

  Yeah, Castillo thought, and I’ll bet the bastard’s name is Yung.

  “. . . but nothing more specific than that. If I can get the name, you want it?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I ran out of imagination after I thought castration would be a suitable punishment for the sonofabitch, and I’m sure you can think of something more exquisitely painful.”

  “Indeed I can.”

  “Stay in touch, please, Mr. X.”

  “Thanks, Sylvia.”

  Castillo put the cellular in his trousers pocket, whereupon it immediately rang again.

  Now what the hell does she want?

  “Yes, Sylvia?”

  “Actually, this is Juan Silvio.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Before I get into this, I presume Ms. Grunblatt did get in touch with you?”

  “Yes, sir. I just got off the line with her.”

  “I guess she told you there’s been a leak?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m sorry. I’d really like to know who did it.”

  “So would I.”

  “Did Sylvia also tell you the Argentine government wants to honor Mr. Masterson both by having him lie in state in the cathedral, and by posthumously decorating him with the Grand Cross of the Great Liberator?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I didn’t think I had the right to agree to either without talking to both you and Mrs. Masterson. And I think we should talk this over before I broach the subject to her.”

  “Sir, I was just about to go to the hospital. I want to introduce Special Agent Schneider to Mrs. Masterson. She’s the female agent I asked be sent down here. And I have Colonel Torine, who flew the C-17 down here, with me. I thought he might be able to reassure Mrs. Masterson about the travel arrangements. Which brings up something else, sir. Colonel Torine informed me the President wants to inter Mr. Masterson at Arlington, and—”

  “All of which suggests that we should talk, and not on the telephone, as soon as possible.”

  “I’m at your disposal, sir.”

  “Since we both are going to the hospital, why not there? I’m sure we could find someplace there to talk.”

  “You tell me when and where, sir.”

  “The hospital in thirty, thirty-five minutes. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll see you there, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Castillo broke the connection, looked at the cellular for a moment, and then pushed an autodial button.

  “¿Sí?”

  “Alfredo?

  “Sí.”

  “Karl, Alfredo. I need a service.”

  “Whatever I can do, Karl.”

  “I’m on my way to the German Hospital. Someone at the American embassy not only got the crazy idea that there is some sort of White House agent down here, and that I am that agent, but he told the press.”

  “Herr Gossinger, you mean?”

  “Probably Castillo. Anyway, I understand that the press is all over the hospital . . .”

  “Then, my friend, I suggest you stay away from the hospital.”

  “I have to see Mrs. Masterson; and the ambassador’s going to meet me there.”

  There was just a moment’s hesitation.

  “You’re at the Four Seasons, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have an embassy car?”

  “Right.”

  “I have a car in the basement garage.”

  “The embassy car is there.”

  “Very well. Go to the basement and get in your car. My man will make himself known to you. Follow him to the hospital. I will arrange for you to enter via their service basement.”

  “Thank you.”

  “When you finish your business with Mrs. Masterson—I presume you heard about the lying in state and the decoration?”

  “I’m not sure Mrs. Masterson wants to go along with that. That’s one of the reasons I have to see her.”

  “May I ask the others?”

  “I want to introduce her to the female agent I had se
nt from Washington, and I want to confirm her travel plans. And if you’re going to be there, I want to introduce the other Secret Service agent to you.”

  “I’ll see you here shortly, then.”

  “You’re at the hospital?”

  “I thought your security man would like to hear our security plans for the Catedral Metropolitana.”

  “And so would I. I’d also like a look at the place.”

  “I’ll see you here, then, shortly.”

  Was that tone of voice a “yeah, sure”? Or an “I don’t know about that”?

  “Thank you, Alfredo.”

  [THREE]

  The German Hospital Avenida Pueyrredón Buenos Aires, Argentina 0930 24 July 2005

  The embassy BMW had been crowded. Colonel Torine had claimed the front passenger seat because of his long legs. Special Agent Schneider rode in the middle of the backseat, between Castillo and Britton.

  While Special Agent Schneider’s right calf did come in contact with that of Castillo, what he had been most aware of was something hard and sharp-edged pressing against his lower left rib cage. He endured the discomfort, deciding that saying, “Schneider, your Glock is stabbing me in the ribs” would not only provoke mirth from the other passengers, but probably result in Betty sitting so far away from him that the calf-to-calf contact would be lost.

  The SIDE car—two burly men in a Peugeot—had taken a fairly circuitous route from the Four Seasons, and had turned off Avenida Pueyrredón two blocks before they had reached the German Hospital. As they followed, Castillo could see that the street and sidewalk at the hospital were crowded with television vans with satellite link dishes and journalists of one kind or another festooned with microphones, and still and video cameras.

  The SIDE car led them to the basement of the hospital, past doors that opened as they approached, and closed the moment they were inside.

  Gendarmeria National troops guarding the elevator passed them through somewhat reluctantly, and only after the SIDE agents had vouched for them.

  The corridor outside Mrs. Masterson’s room was crowded with more uniformed and plainclothes security personnel, Argentine and American, and the walls were lined with floral displays. Two of them—the ones on each side of the door—were enormous.