The Hostage

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “May I suggest, Karl, that before we enter the hospital, it might be a good idea to take the round out of the chamber of your pistol?”

  “Jesus Christ, I forgot about that! How did you know?”

  “I saw the pistol at Sante Fe Circle,” Munz said.

  When I looked in the window of the BMW.

  Castillo took the Beretta from the small of his back, removed the magazine, ejected the round from its chamber, put the round in the magazine, and then put the magazine back in the pistol.

  [TWO]

  The German Hospital Avenida Pueyrredón Buenos Aires, Argentina 1920 24 July 2005

  Castillo got to the intensive care unit of the hospital just as Special Agent Schneider was being wheeled on a gurney out of one of the glass-walled treatment units. There were so many hospital personnel around the gurney that Castillo had trouble getting a good look.

  One of the medical people was pushing what looked like a clothes tree on wheels. There were three plastic bags hanging from it, with clear plastic tubing leading from them to under the blue sheets. One of the bags contained human blood.

  Charley could only guess what the other two bags held.

  Betty was wrapped in pale blue sheets. They were fresh and crisp but bloodstained near the groin and in the side. Her head was swaddled in white bandage, also bloodstained. Her eyes were open, but there was no reaction when, as the gurney was rolled out of intensive care toward a bank of elevators, he pushed one of the nurses aside to look down at her.

  “I don’t see any reaction,” Charley said.

  “I don’t speak English,” a man in surgical greens answered in broken English.

  Charley repeated the question in Spanish.

  “She has been sedated,” the man answered.

  They reached the elevator bank. A button was pushed and eventually a door whooshed open.

  “We are taking the patient to the operation theater,” the man in surgical greens said. “You are forbidden.”

  Charley was about to say, “Fuck you and your forbidden!” when he felt Munz’s hand firmly on his shoulder.

  “The chief of surgical staff will explain what’s going to happen to her, Karl,” Munz said gently. “You just can’t go into the operation theater with her.”

  The chief of surgical staff looked like Santa Claus with a shave. His more than ample belly strained the buttons of his white nylon jacket. His name tag read JOSE P. ROMMINE, M.D.

  There was an X-ray viewing device on one wall of his office, holding so many large X-ray films that in places three and four were pinned by the same stainless-steel clip.

  “I regret my English is not good,” Dr. Rommine said, as he shook Castillo’s hand.

  “Herr Castillo speaks German,” Munz said in German.

  “That would be easier,” Rommine replied in German. “I took my university in Germany. First at Philipps, in Marburg an der Lahn, then at Heidelberg.”

  “I know the schools,” Castillo said.

  German doctors—and I’m sure she had the best— couldn’t keep my mother alive. I hope you can do better for Betty, Herr Doktor Santa Claus.

  Please, God, let him do better!

  “We’re interested in your diagnosis, Herr Doktor,” Munz said.

  “Of course,” the doctor said, turning to the X-rays and picking up a pointer. “As you can see from this, the wound to the leg, while it has of course done some muscle damage—and there will be more as the projectile is removed—could have been much worse.”

  Yeah, sure, those bastards could have used a 20mm and blown it off.

  Jesus, if they wanted to whack me, and they obviously have access to weapons, why didn’t they use a hand grenade? Once they got Roger to lower the window, all they would have had to do was drop it inside the car. Heroic stories to the contrary, when a grenade lands close, very few people have ever been able to toss it back.

  Castillo had an unpleasant image of Roger Markham desperately searching for a grenade on the floorboard, and then finding it just before it went off. Grenade shards would have gone through the upholstery and thin sheet metal of the seats without trouble. And of course probably bounced off that wonderful bullet-resistant glass.

  Dr. Rommine’s learned lecture concerning Betty’s leg wound, illustrated with half a dozen X-rays, took at least three minutes.

  So did Part II, the wound in the groin area, which was also serious but not as serious as it could have been. The X-rays revealed no damage to the reproductive organs, except for the sympathetic trauma—

  Whatever the hell that means.

  —and the surgery to remove that projectile would of course clear up the questions unanswered by the X-rays.

  “I think the wound to the face is going to cause the greatest difficulty,” Dr. Rommine said, turning to the X-rays of the patient’s cranium with emphasis on the mandible area.

  “As you can see, the projectile is rather deeply embedded in the bone here.” He used the pointer, and then turned to first one, and then a second, and then a third X-ray, covering the mandible area from all angles. “There is a fracture and some to-be-expected splintering. Removing the projectile will be somewhat difficult. We don’t do much oral surgery here, and I attempted to locate a good man I know, but he’s skiing in Bariloche and he won’t be available for several days.”

  I hope the bastard breaks both his legs.

  Castillo asked, “Are you saying you’re going to leave the bullet in her jaw until you can get this guy back from Bariloche?”

  “Dr. Koos is his name. Oh, no. The projectile will be removed now. But the restorative surgery—her jaw will of course have to be wired closed—is quite important, and should be placed in the hands of the best man available.”

  Jesus, that’s Betty’s skull I’m looking at.

  Castillo suddenly felt light-headed, then dizzy.

  What am I going to do, pass out? Throw up on Santa Claus’s shiny floor?

  No, goddammit, I will not lose control of myself!

  He steadied himself with a hand on the X-ray display rack.

  “Doctor, how soon can she be moved?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “How soon could I fly her to the United States?”

  “Oh, I see what you’re thinking.” He thought the question over and then continued: “That would depend in large measure on what sort of support you could provide, in terms of oxygen, blood—in case of unexpected bleeding—et cetera, on the aircraft. And there would have to be provision to feed her. Liquids, of course. Her jaw, as I say, will be immobilized for at least two weeks. She would have to be accompanied by a physician and a nurse. I’m speaking of moving her soon—say, tomorrow or the day after. If you were willing to wait, say, seventy-two or ninety-six hours—three or four days—while she would be in some discomfort, she could travel far more easily. With medical personnel in attendance, of course.”

  “How long is she going to be in the operating room now?”

  “Oh, I would say . . .” Dr. Rommine began, then thought that over for a good twenty seconds before finishing: “Two hours, perhaps a little longer. And I’d better get scrubbed. They almost certainly have the patient prepared by now.”

  “You’re going to operate?”

  “Of course. El Coronel Munz has explained the situation to me. It will be my privilege.”

  Dr. Rommine then walked out of his office without saying another word. He left so quickly that Castillo doubted Dr. Santa Claus had heard his somewhat belatedly expressed thanks.

  “You all right, Karl?” Munz asked.

  Castillo nodded.

  “You looked a little pale there for a while.”

  “I’m all right. Thank you for everything.”

  “Let’s see if we can find a cup of coffee,” Munz said. “And we’d better start thinking about getting a little something to eat.”

  “Alfredo, I’m not hungry.”

  “If people don’t eat, their blood sugar drops, especially after the
y have been subjected to stress, and they pass out,” Munz said.

  Castillo looked at him a moment, realized reluctantly that he was right, and nodded his thanks.

  “Okay,” Castillo said, starting for the door, “let’s go.”

  “Sit down, Karl,” Munz said. “I’ll have something sent up.”

  “Alfredo, do you really think these bastards would try to whack me in a hospital cafeteria?”

  “That seems to be the problem, doesn’t it? If you don’t have any idea who the villains are, then it’s rather difficult to assess their plans or their capabilities.”

  Munz punched an autodial key on his cellular and told someone to go to the cafeteria and bring up some sandwiches—lomo sandwiches, if they had them, otherwise ham and cheese—coffee, and some very sweet pastry.

  Castillo sat in Dr. Santa Claus’s chair and looked at the bullet lodged in Betty’s jaw.

  Jack Britton showed up at the same time as the sandwiches. He had a Madsen submachine gun under his arm, hanging from a web strap around his shoulder.

  “She’s in the operating room,” Castillo told him without waiting to be asked. He pointed to the X-ray films and then the weapon. “Three wounds from one of those.”

  “From one of these?” Britton asked, incredulously.

  “Yeah, from one of those. Where’d you get that?”

  “Darby,” Britton said. “He asked me if I could handle it, and I lied. I never saw one before. They hit Betty with one of these?”

  “Yeah, a nine-millimeter model. And blew Sergeant Markham away.”

  “I heard that,” Britton said. “What the fuck is going on, Charley?”

  “I have no goddamn idea,” Castillo confessed, and extended his hands for the Madsen. “Let me have that. I’ll show you how it works.”

  Britton handed Castillo the submachine gun. He removed the magazine and checked to see that there was no cartridge left in the mechanism.

  “Pay attention, Jack. You may have to use this,” Castillo said.

  “I’m all ears,” Britton said.

  “This is a Madsen M53,” Castillo began, “caliber nine-millimeter Parabellum. This has a curved thirty-roundmagazine; the earlier models have a stick. It fires from an open chamber; in other words, to fire it, you pull the operating lever on the top to the rear. . . .”

  He demonstrated by pulling the operating lever back. It caught in place with a firm click.

  “The first thing you do is take the safety off. In other words, move this thing to ‘F’ . . .”

  He demonstrated the functioning of the safety control.

  “Then you select auto or single-shot mode. This is the selector lever for that; ‘A’ stands for automatic. . . .”

  He demonstrated the function of the selector switch.

  “Then you pull the trigger.”

  He pulled the trigger. The bolt slammed into the battery position.

  “If there had been a loaded magazine in there, the bolt would have stripped off the top cartridge, shoved it in the action, and it would have gone bang. Then the bolt would return to the rear position. If you were in single-shot mode, to fire again, you would have to release your finger on the trigger and then pull it again. If you were in auto mode—your finger still holding the trigger to the rear—it would go bang-bang-bang at a rate of six hundred and fifty rounds per minute until you ran out of ammo. We try to teach people to try to get off three-shot bursts—it takes some practice—because otherwise, as when firing any other submachine gun, the muscles of the shooter tend to involuntarily contract, raising the muzzle, and you miss what you wanted to shoot.”

  He looked at Britton. “I hope you took notes. There will be a quiz.”

  “When you said ‘we try to teach people,’ you meant Special Forces, didn’t you?”

  Castillo nodded. “You’ve fired submachine guns, right?”

  “Yeah. But not this one.”

  “A lot of people like the Madsen,” Castillo said.

  He handed the weapon back to Britton.

  “The bolt is forward,” he said. “Put the safety lever on ‘S’ and the rate of fire selector on ‘A,’ ” he said, and when Britton looked at him, added, “Yeah, now, please, Jack.”

  Britton did as he was told.

  “Okay. It is now safe to load the magazine.” He handed it to him, watched as Britton inserted it, and then went on. “Okay, all you have to do now is pull the action lever back, take off the safety, and pull the trigger.”

  “Got it,” Britton said.

  “Good,” Castillo said. “Now, carefully lay it down on that shelf. I don’t think you’re going to need it in here right now, and I want to eat my sandwich. Are you hungry, Jack?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “You sure? These look good,” Castillo said and reached for one.

  Castillo was finishing a generous slice of incredibly good apfelstrudel—why I am surprised? This is the German Hospital—when there was a knock on the office door. A large man in civilian clothing came in and offered Colonel Munz a small, resealable plastic bag.

  “And, mi coronel, there are Americans here for Señor Castillo.”

  Munz didn’t reply directly. He held up the bag. Castillo saw that it held two fired cartridge cases.

  “There are others, right? We won’t need these in court?”

  “There are twenty-four in all, mi coronel. We are still looking. It is possible that some spectators took some others as souvenirs.”

  Munz opened the bag and took out a brass cartridge case, examined it carefully, and then handed it to Castillo.

  “Israeli,” he said. “Same year stamp as the ones we found on Avenida Tomas Edison in the taxicab.”

  Castillo took the case and handed it to Britton.

  “We now have conclusive proof that in 1999 Israel made nine-millimeter ammunition,” he said.

  Munz smiled at him.

  “Don’t smile,” Castillo said. “I can’t think of anything else we have conclusive proof of.” He looked at Britton. “Just to satisfy my curiosity, what’s in the embassy Madsen?”

  Britton took a curved magazine from his pocket, thumbed a cartridge loose, and examined its base.

  “Israeli, 1992,” he said.

  “And conclusive proof that the bad guys have fresher ammo than the good guys,” Castillo said. “Not that it matters, as I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever get a chance to shoot back.”

  “You want these?” Munz nodded.

  “Yes, thank you,” Castillo said, and took the plastic bag, put the cartridge Britton held out to him in it, zipped it shut, and dropped it in his pocket.

  “Americans for me?” he asked Munz’s man.

  “Sí, señor.”

  Castillo gestured for them to be brought in.

  A civilian—Castillo recognized his face from the brainstorming session but couldn’t come up with a name—and a Marine. The man, in his middle twenties, was olive-skinned, and Castillo decided he was probably one of the Drug Enforcement Administration agents. He was carrying an M-16 rifle.

  The Marine, who was in greens and had a Beretta in a field holster hanging from a web belt, was a corporal.

  “I’m Castillo. You’re looking for me?”

  “Solez, Mr. Castillo. DEA. I was told to report to you and do whatever you told me to do.”

  “Do you speak Spanish, Mr. Solez?” Castillo said in Spanish.

  “I spoke it before I learned to speak English,” Solez replied in Spanish.

  Castillo picked up on the accent.

  “And where are you from in Texas?” Castillo asked, still in Spanish.

  “San Antone, señor.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Yes, sir, I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My father is Antonio Solez, sir. I think you know him.”

  Antonio Solez had been one of Castillo’s grandfather’s cronies, a familiar face around both the offices and the ranches, and a pallbearer at the funeral of
Don Juan Fernando Castillo. A mental image of him, a large swarthy man, standing across the open grave with his chest heaving and tears running unashamedly down his cheeks, leaped into Castillo’s mind.

  “Indeed I do. How is he?”

  “Still taking care of Don Fernando,” Solez said, with a smile. It took a moment for Charley to take his meaning. He smiled back.

  “When did my fat and ugly cousin start calling himself ‘Don Fernando’?”

  “People started calling him that after Don Fernando passed. I think he likes it. Doña Alicia does, I know.”

  “You’re Ricardo, right? The last I heard you were at College Station.”

  “Sí, señor. I graduated in 2001, and went right into the DEA.”

  “You don’t have to call me ‘sir.’ And please don’t.”

  Solez nodded.

  “Why didn’t you say something when we were at that brainstorming thing?” Castillo asked.

  Solez shrugged. “I wasn’t sure you would remember me.”

  “I should have recognized you. I’m sorry.”

  Solez shrugged again. “No problem. You had other things on your mind. We’re both a long way from San Antonio.”

  “I’m really happy to see you, Ricardo,” Castillo said. “You heard what happened?”

  Solez nodded.

  “She’s in the operating room now,” Castillo said.

  “She’ll be in there for probably another two hours. From the moment she gets off the elevator until I get out of here, I want you or Special Agent Britton—you know each other?”

  “We met.”

  “Since you’re talking about me, I wish you’d do it in English, Charley,” Britton said.

  “Sorry,” Charley said, now in English. “It seems that Special Agent Solez is not only a fellow Texican, but his family and mine have been friends for generations.”

  “My dad is chief engineer for Castillo Properties,” Solez said with pride. “Everything but the petroleum side.”

  Britton looked at him and nodded.

  “Okay,” Castillo went on, “from the time Special Agent Schneider gets out of the operating room until I can get her the hell out of here, I want one or the other, preferably both, sitting on her.”