“That I would look into it.”
“I’ll get on the horn to Joel Isaacson and see what he can come up with.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you in just a little while, baby. We can talk about it.”
“How soon will Roger be here?”
“No more than twenty minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll be ready.”
[NINE]
Restaurant Kansas Avenida Libertador San Isidro Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1810 24 July 2005
Charley’s glass of Senetín cabernet sauvignon was just about empty and he was getting just a little concerned— Jesus, Betty should have been here by now—when his cellular buzzed.
“Castillo.”
“Wo bist du, Karl?”
Munz, and using the intimate form of address, as if we’re pals.
“Between us, man-to-man, I’m sitting in the bar of the Kansas, waiting for my lady love.”
“At the bar? You’re sitting at the bar?”
“Yes, I am. And no, I don’t want any more comp—”
“Listen to me, Karl, carefully. This instant, get away from the bar and into a booth. Keep your head down.”
He’s serious. What the hell is going on? Charley thought, then said, “Was ist los?”
“Do what I tell you, for God’s sake! I’m trying to keep you alive! I’ll have cars there in a couple of minutes.”
The line went dead.
Shit!
Castillo got off the bar stool, signaled to the bartender that he was moving to a banquette, and did so.
As surreptitiously as he could, he took the Beretta from the small of his back and worked the action. He didn’t think anyone saw what he did.
A minute or so later, he heard the wail of a siren, and then realized it was sirens, plural.
A minute after that, there was the screech of brakes outside, and first two members of the Gendarmeria National burst into the restaurant, their hands on Uzis. And on their heels came two men in civilian clothing, also carrying Uzis.
Smart. If they’d come in first, instead of the uniforms, after Munz’s warning, I might have decided to shoot first and sort it out later.
One of the men he was sure were SIDE agents half trotted into the bar, saw him, and walked quickly to the table.
“If you’ll come with us, please, Mr. Castillo?”
“What the hell is going on?”
“If you’ll come with us, please, Mr. Castillo?” he repeated. “Colonel Munz will explain everything when we get there.”
It was a short ride, actually. The narrow streets and the high speed made it seem longer.
He saw first the flashing lights of police cars, and then the ambulances, and then the embassy car.
The embassy car—the windows looked as if someone had attacked them with a baseball bat—Jesus Christ, somebody shot the shit out of the car!—was backed into a sidewalk café at the traffic circle at the southeast corner of the San Isidro Jockey Club property. Tables and chairs had been scattered, and there were people sitting in chairs and lying on the ground who had either been run over or shot.
Castillo was out of the car before it stopped moving.
Munz was standing by the embassy car.
“Karl, I’m sorry!” Munz said.
Castillo started for the car. Munz tried to stop him. Castillo evaded him. Three other men rushed to stop him.
Munz ordered the men to let Castillo pass.
The front passenger window was gone.
Castillo stuck his head in.
Sergeant Roger Markham, USMC, was lying across the front seats. His head looked as if it had exploded.
Castillo couldn’t see in the backseat, so he pulled open the rear door.
Where the hell is Betty?
There was a lot of blood on the leather upholstery.
Castillo ran to Colonel Munz.
“Where is she?”
“I sent her by ambulance to the racetrack,” Munz said. “A helicopter will take her to the German Hospital.”
“How bad?” Castillo asked.
“Multiple gunshot wounds. At least one to the face.”
“What the hell happened?”
“First scenario, fragmentary witness reports,” Munz said, professionally. “The car was making the circle. At that point it stopped. For some reason, the driver—”
“His name was Roger. He was twenty years old,” Castillo blurted.
“Roger lowered the window. Then he apparently saw what was happening . . .”
“Which was?”
“A Madsen submachine gun,” Munz said. “It’s still in the window. Roger didn’t get it closed in time, but the window closed. The Madsen’s still there. . . .” He pointed.
Castillo looked. A Madsen’s barrel was pinned between the driver’s-side window and the window frame.
“They go all the way up automatically,” Castillo said.
“And he put the car in reverse and tried to get away. Which is why the car is where it is.”
Jesus H. Christ!
“So the villain held on to the trigger as long as he could,” Munz said. “And then ran away.”
“Did you catch him?”
Munz shook his head, and then made a gesture. One of his men walked up with a resealable plastic bag. Munz took it and then extended it to Castillo.
It held a Glock semiautomatic pistol. The inside of the bag was heavily smeared with blood that had come off the pistol.
“Your agent got one shot off,” Munz said.
“She’s not my fucking agent.” He handled the weapon through the bag with disbelief. “She’s my . . . my . . . my love.”
“I know, Karl,” Munz said. “I saw your eyes.”
There was the sound of rotor blades and Castillo looked in the direction in time to see an Alouette III, the SA 316A, the one with the weak main and tail rotors, struggling for altitude.
“I’ll go with you to the hospital, Karl,” El Coronel Munz said.
IX
[ONE]
Autopista Del Sol Accesso Norte San Isidro Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1850 24 July 2005
El Coronel Alfredo Munz leaned forward, tapped the driver of the Jeep Grand Cherokee on the shoulder, and told him to slow down, turn off the siren, and take the flashing blue light from the roof.
Castillo looked at him in surprise, then anger, then horror as it occurred to him the probable reason it was no longer necessary to speed.
Jesus Christ, did somebody call him to tell him she’s dead, and I missed it?
Munz read his mind.
“If you and I wind up in hospital beds beside Fräulein Schneider because we ran into a gasoline truck, that won’t do her any good, will it, Karl?”
Castillo didn’t reply.
“What will happen at the hospital is that they will check her vital signs, type her blood—”
“Her blood type’s on her credentials,” Castillo interrupted.
“If they were in her purse, that’s on the way to my laboratory. I don’t think they’ll find any prints of use on it, but I don’t want to omit anything.”
Munz waited until that had sunk in, then went on: “And even if the hospital had something alleging to give her blood type, they would make their own examination unless her condition was really critical. Giving transfusions of the wrong type of blood can be fatal.”
“Not critical? Christ, Alfredo, there was blood all over the backseat!”
“Not all of it, I don’t think, was hers,” Munz said. “And you know how heavily any wound to the head bleeds.”
Yeah, I do. I’m a soldier.
So start thinking like one, Charley, for Christ’s sake!
This damn situation is my fault, no question about that, but it’s done.
Evaluate the damage, and decide on a course of action!
Fighting to keep control of his voice, Castillo said, “You didn’t tell me where she was hit.”
Munz tapped his right
cheek, just above his mouth.
“And in the body, the upper leg, and here in the side. That’s all I saw.” He pointed to both locations.
“Three wounds from . . . what was that Madsen firing?”
“I don’t know; I saw some nine-millimeter casings.”
“Well, maybe we got lucky and it wasn’t one of the Madsen .45s.”
“I don’t think it was .45 ACP,” Munz said, noting that Castillo knew of the Brazilian-made model. “And we may be even luckier.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t see an exit wound on her face. That makes me think maybe it was bounced bullets.”
“What?”
“Bounced bullets.”
“You mean ricochets?”
“Exactly. Those marvelous windshields on that armored BMW, designed to keep bullets out, in this case may unfortunately have kept them in as well.”
“Jesus, I didn’t think about that.”
“We’ll find out when we get to the hospital.”
And there’s something else I didn’t think about, either!
He took out his cellular and punched an autodial button.
Alex Darby answered on the second buzz.
“Darby.”
“Castillo. There’s been an ambush. My car, at the Sante Fe Circle in San Isidro. They got Sergeant Markham, and Betty Schneider is in a chopper on the way to the German Hospital.”
“Are you all right, Charley?”
“I don’t know if ‘all right’ is the phrase, but I wasn’t in the car. I was drinking wine in a bar.”
“Where are you now?”
“In Colonel Munz’s car, on the Accesso Norte, on the way to the hospital.”
“So the Argentines know.”
“They told me . . . me, the guy who’s supposed to be on top of things.”
“Charley, you can’t blame yourself for not being in the car.”
“Who do you think these bastards were trying to hit? Me, or a female Secret Service agent and a Marine driver?”
“I’ll have people at the hospital in ten minutes. Don’t move from there until they get there.”
“If you have anybody to spare, send them to the Masterson house. Tell them not to let Mrs. Masterson hear what happened.”
“Charley, it’ll be all over the television and the radio.”
“Then make sure she doesn’t watch TV or listen to the radio. I want her to hear about this from the ambassador. As soon as I get off this with you, I’m going to call him.”
“Okay, Charley. Anything else?”
“Find Tony Santini, tell him to get Jack Britton something heavier than his Glock, then get him a car and send him to the hospital.”
“Done.”
“I’ll be in touch, Alex,” Castillo said, pushed the END key and then the autodial key for Ambassador Silvio. Then he pushed the END key again and turned to Munz.
“Alfredo. Sergeant Markham’s body. What’s going to happen to it?”
“When my people have finished doing their work at the Sante Fe Circle, it will be taken to the German Hospital for an autopsy.”
“Is an autopsy necessary? We know what killed him. ‘At least one gunshot wound to the cranium, causing severe trauma to the brain.’ ”
“We will need the bullets in his body as evidence when we catch the villains and bring them to trial,” Munz said, matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, right,” Castillo said, and put his finger back on the autodial key that would connect him with Ambassador Silvio.
“Is that about it, Charley?” Silvio asked. “I’ll go to San Isidro and ask Mrs. Masterson what she wants to do about the ceremony tomorrow and call you and let you know.”
“One more thing, sir. I would—”
“Let me interrupt,” Silvio said. “Forgive me. How do you want to handle telling Washington? Would you like to do that yourself? I’ll have to call the State Department, obviously. Would you like to meet me at the embassy after I speak with Mrs. Masterson?”
“I’m going to call Washington as soon as I can, reporting what happened . . .”
“From the embassy?”
“On this phone.”
“Not on a secure line?”
“If they want me on a secure line, I’ll tell them I’ll go to the embassy as soon as I can. Which will be after I learn Betty Schneider’s condition.”
“I understand how you feel,” Silvio said. “But I really think they’re going to want you on a secure line as soon as possible.”
“And as soon as possible, I’ll get on a secure line,” Castillo said simply.
There was a perceptible hesitation before Silvio went on: “You said there was one more thing?”
“Two, now that I think about it. I would be personallygrateful if you could send one or more Marines right now to the Sante Fe Circle to be with, and stay with, Sergeant Markham’s body. If it’s gone when they get there, tell them to go to the German Hospital. The Marines take pride in never leaving anybody behind, and Roger was one hell of a Marine.”
“I’ll take care of that right away,” Silvio said.
“And get a casket and a flag to the German Hospital. Roger will be on the Globemaster when it goes wheels-up tomorrow.”
“I’ll see that that’s done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Let me know about Miss Schneider’s condition as soon as you learn anything, will you, please?”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
“We’ll be talking, Charley.”
“Yes, sir.”
Castillo pressed the END key and then punched in a long series of numbers from memory.
“Department of Homeland Security. How may I direct your call?”
“Five, please.”
“Secretary Hall’s office. Mrs. Kensington.”
“This is Charley, Mrs. K.”
“Well, how are you?”
“Lousy. Is the boss there?”
“You just missed him, Charley.”
“Good, I really didn’t want to talk to him.”
“Excuse me?”
“What about Dick Miller?”
“He’s here. What’s going on, Charley?”
“Get him on, please. Listen in. If you can, record it, so that you can play it back for the boss.”
“Give me thirty seconds,” Mrs. Kensington said.
Twenty-one seconds later Mrs. Kensington announced, “This telecon at five-ten P.M. Washington time July twenty-four, 2005, between C. G. Castillo, H. R. Miller, and Mary-Ellen Kensington, all of the Office of the Secretary of Homeland Security, is being recorded with the permission and knowledge of all parties thereto.”
Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., came on the line. “What’s going on, Charley?”
“You remember telling me not to do anything stupid with Betty Schneider?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Well, I exceeded your expectations. I’m in a SIDE car on the outskirts of Buenos Aires, on my way to the German Hospital, to which Betty was medevaced suffering from multiple gunshot wounds to the head and body.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Major Miller said.
“Oh, my God!” Mrs. Kensington exclaimed.
“What the hell happened?” Miller asked.
“To spare Special Agent Schneider any possible embarrassment that might ensue from the hotshot in overall charge of this operation picking her up at work himself— people might get the idea she was emotionally involved with her boss, and we couldn’t have that—her boss had himself dropped off at a bar, and sent his car and driver to pick up said Special Agent Schneider.
“As Sergeant Roger Markham, USMC, was navigating the Sante Fe traffic circle in San Isidro en route to the bar, where the hotshot in overall charge of this operation was sipping wine, the car was bushwhacked by parties unknown. The bastards managed to get a Madsen through Roger’s window, and damned near emptied the magazine.
“Roger took several hits in the head, which just about explode
d it, and the projectiles from the Madsen ricocheted off the bulletproof glass inside the car. At least three of them wound up in Betty.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Miller said.
“You already said that, Dick,” Castillo said. “Now, while Mrs. K. is reporting this to the boss—tell him, please, Mrs. K., that Ambassador Silvio is going to get on a secure line to report this just as soon as he tells Mrs. Masterson about this, and sees what she wants to do about the medal ceremony tomorrow, and that I will do the same as soon as I can, which means after I find out about Betty.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Kensington said. “Oh, Charley, I’m so sorry—”
“You, Dick,” Castillo interrupted her, “get on the horn to the police commissioner in Philadelphia. What’s his name?”
“Kellogg,” Miller furnished.
“Better yet, what was the name of the counterterrorismguy, the one that had been in the Tenth Special Forces Group? Fritz something?”
“Chief Inspector F. W. ‘Fritz’ Kramer,” Miller furnished, softly.
“That’s the guy. Call him. Give him a heads-up. Tell him you don’t know much more than she has been hurt— don’t tell him she was shot, just hurt—and that we’re going to send her to Philadelphia just as soon as possible. Ask him to make the call whether to tell her family or not. Tell him as soon as you know more, you’ll pass it on.”
“Got it.”
“And then get with Joel Isaacson and ask him what to do about Roger Markham. . . .”
“He’s the Marine driver who bought the farm?” Miller interrupted.
“Yeah. The ambassador’s going to call the State Department, but I don’t know what they’ll do about notifying the Marine Corps, or the next of kin, and I don’t want that fucked up . . . sorry, Mrs. K.”
“I’ll handle that, Charley,” Mrs. Mary-Ellen Kensington said. “What about you? Are you all right? Safe?”
“I’m sitting next to the guy who runs SIDE. In Argentina, it don’t get no safer than that.”
“You will call when you know something about Betty?” Mrs. Kensington asked.
“I will. Now I have to break off. We’re nearly at the hospital.”
“Watch your back, buddy,” Major H. Richard Miller said.
Castillo pushed the END key, slipped the telephone in his pocket, and looked at Munz.
The Hostage Page 28