The Hostage

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “Oh, how I sometimes yearn to be free of diplomatic restraints,” Silvio said. “You may not quote me, of course, but I couldn’t have said it any better myself.”

  Charley chuckled. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I expect you’re still waiting for the young lady to come out of the operating room?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please let me know as soon as you know something,” Silvio said. “I just sent a car to pick up Dr. Mellener to take him to Jorge Newbery to meet the pilot and see what medical equipment is on the Gulfstream.”

  “Thank you.”

  [TWO]

  After talking to the ambassador, Castillo had just enough time to see that the battery on his cellular was running low and to slip it in his pocket when the door to room 677 swung inward and two somewhat burly nurses in operating-room-blue uniforms pushed in a gurney.

  A good deal less gently than Charley would have preferred, they transferred the body on the gurney to the hospital bed, and connected it to an array of wires and clear plastic tubing. It was only after the heavier of the two nurses had settled in a chair by the side of the bed— it looked as if she planned to be there for a while—that Charley could get close enough to the bed to get a look at Betty.

  All of Betty’s body but her face and one arm was wrapped in pale blue sheets, and most of her face was hidden under bandages. What he could see of it was grayish and looked distorted.

  He felt woozy again.

  The door swung open and Dr. Santa Claus waddled into the room. His surgical mask was hanging from his neck and his surgical blues were blood-spotted.

  He smiled at Charley and held up both hands, balled into fists with the thumbs extended.

  Then he saw Charley’s face.

  “Get out of that chair,” he ordered the nurse, as he quickly and firmly led Charley to her chair and sat him down in it. “Put your head between your knees,” he ordered, as he firmly shoved Charley’s head into that position.

  Charley had no idea how long he was in that position, for the next thing he became aware of was a vial of aromatic spirits of ammonia under his nose.

  He pushed it away and sat up.

  “Usually,” Dr. Santa Claus observed dryly, his German accent subtle yet clearly evident, “I have to do that to husbands who insist on seeing the miracle of birth themselves. Are you all right?”

  Charley felt Dr. Santa Claus’s hands on his face, and then became aware that the surgeon was holding his eyes open, apparently to examine them. Then he answered his own question. “You’re all right.”

  “Thank you,” Castillo said, then: “How did the operation go?”

  “Procedures, plural,” the surgeon said. “The trauma to the wound in the patient’s leg was far less severe than it could have been. There was some musculature damage, and she will find walking painful for some time.

  “Vis-à-vis the wound in the groin area: I saw no damage of any consequence to the reproductive organs . . .”

  What the fuck does that mean? “No damage of any consequence”?

  “. . . and while the area will likely be quite painful for some time—contributing to the discomfort when the patient moves—I can see no indication that the patient will not fully recover.”

  Well, thank you, God, for that!

  “The trauma to the patient’s jaw is problematical. The initial trauma, plus the trauma caused by the removal of the projectile, which was rather deeply embedded, caused both fracturing and splintering. I have immobilized her jaw, which means she will not be able to take solid food for some time. Just as soon as Dr. Koos is available—”

  “He’s the fellow who’s skiing?”

  “Right. I’d like him to look at the patient.”

  “Doctor, I’ve arranged for an airplane to fly her to the United States as soon as she is able to travel. Can you tell me when that will be?”

  The surgeon did not reply directly.

  “There’s a very good orthognathic surgeon at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital,” he said. “Chap by the name of Rieger. William Rieger.”

  “What kind of a surgeon?”

  “Orthognathic,” the surgeon repeated. “Actually, something like this requires three specialists, an orthognathicist,a plastic reconstructive surgeon, and an orthodontist.”

  “May I have that doctor’s name again? And would you spell ‘orthognathic’ for me?”

  The surgeon corrected Castillo’s botched pronunciation of the term, and then spelled it and the name of the physician at the University of Pennsylvania. Castillo wrote it down.

  “She should be able to travel, presuming she will be accompanied by a physician and a nurse, sometime tomorrow. I will prepare a package—her X-rays, a report of the procedures she has undergone, a record of her pharmacology, et cetera—and have it available for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I presume you intend to stay with her until she wakes up?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “It will be some time before she wakes up at all, and when she does, the drugs I have prescribed for the pain will be having their effect. I don’t suppose you’d listen to my suggestion that you go home and get a good night’s rest yourself, and come back in the morning? I doubt if she’ll even recognize you tonight.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  “I’ll check in on her later,” Dr. Santa Claus said, and walked out of the room.

  Castillo followed him out.

  Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, had acquired a second folding chair somewhere and was sitting beside Jack Britton.

  “Betty’s going to live,” Castillo told them, “but the sooner we get her to Philadelphia, the better. Dr. Whatsisname . . .”

  He gestured at the surgeon, who had just reached the elevator bank.

  “. . . gave me the name of a good doctor in Philadelphia, at the University Hospital. Rieger. Ever hear of him?”

  Britton shook his head.

  “I need to get on the phone, but my battery’s about dead,” Castillo said. He looked at Corporal Bradley. “Bradley, go get me a battery charger. This is a Motorola, I think.” He checked, then extended the telephone to Bradley. “Take a look. Make sure you get a charger that’ll fit.”

  “With respect, sir. I don’t like leaving you.”

  “I’ll be all right for a few minutes,” Castillo said, as he reached into his pocket for money. “Not only are SIDE agents controlling who can come onto this floor, but Special Agent Britton is here.”

  Corporal Bradley looked doubtful, and then on the edge of saying something.

  Jesus Christ, he’s working up the courage to ask me why Britton can’t go buy a charger!

  “Bradley, all you have is your pistol. Special Agent Britton has the Madsen and”—to keep you from letting me know you shot Expert with the Madsen—“is generally acknowledged to be the best Madsen marksman in the Secret Service.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Corporal Bradley said reluctantly, as he examined the cell phone.

  He handed it back to Castillo.

  “I’ll be as quick as I can, sir,” Bradley said, and trotted off toward the elevators.

  “Best Madsen marksman in the Secret Service, my ass,” Britton chuckled.

  “To the best of my knowledge you’re the only Madsen marksman in the Secret Service, making you ipso facto its best.” Castillo smiled at him and went back into room 677.

  The plump nurse had made herself comfortable in a metal folding chair by the window. She had her feet resting on an overturned wastebasket, and was reading a magazine with a picture of the king of Spain on the cover. What looked like a kitchen timer was clicking away on the windowsill.

  I guess when that goes off, she goes and checks on Betty.

  Castillo went to the bed and looked down at Betty. After a couple of moments, he gently rested the balls of his fingers on Betty’s wrist, just above the needle that had been inserted in the back of her hand and was dripping something into her vein.

 
Charley was still there when Corporal Bradley came quietly into the room and offered whispered apologies for having taken so long.

  Then Bradley searched the room for a socket into which the cellular charger could be plugged. He found one behind the bedside table, plugged in the charger, and connected it to Castillo’s cellular, which chirped encouragingly.

  “There you are, sir,” he said.

  “Good man,” Castillo said, and reached for the cellular.

  When connected to the cellular, the cord was not long enough for Castillo to use it standing up, or, he immediately learned, even when he was sitting in a folding metal chair.

  He sat on the floor next to the bedside table and punched in a long string of numbers from memory.

  There was not an immediate answer, and he had just decided it was seven o’clock—supper time—in San Antonio and the kids were making so much noise the phone couldn’t be heard, or that the El Patron of the Casa Lopez was watching O’Reilly on Fox and didn’t want to be disturbed, when a voice impatiently snarled, “What?”

  “Don Fernando?”

  “Sí.”

  “This is Don Carlos.”

  Castillo heard Fernando Lopez, his cousin, exhale in exasperation. Then Fernando said, “I wondered when you were going to check in, Gringo. You’re all over television.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “ ‘Live from our Fox man in Buenos Aires. Long lines of Argentines wait patiently outside the National Cathedral to pay their last respects to J. Winslow Masterson. . . .’ ”

  “Jesus!”

  “And since you’re el jefe of what’s going on down there, we’ve all been sitting here hoping to catch a glimpse of Uncle Gringo on the tube.”

  Castillo heard, faintly but clearly, two female voices.

  One said, “Don’t call him that in front of the children, for God’s sake.” Castillo recognized the voice as that of Maria, Fernando’s wife.

  The second said, “Fernando!” in a tone suggesting both annoyance and sadness. Castillo recognized that voice, too. It was that of his—and Fernando’s— grandmother, Doña Alicia Castillo.

  “As you walk out of the room, Fernando, so Abuela can’t hear this conversation, answer this question carefully: Was my name or picture or the phrase ‘President’s agent’ or anything like that on the tube?”

  Castillo heard Fernando say, “I can’t hear him. I’ll go in the library.”

  A moment later, Fernando said, “Okay.”

  “Answer the goddamn question.”

  “No.”

  “Then how the hell did you know about me being el jefe?”

  Fernando hesitated, long enough for Castillo to find the answer to his own question.

  “I’m going to burn that bigmouthed sonofabitch a new anal orifice.”

  “Calm down, Gringo,” Fernando said.

  “Fuck you, too.”

  “When you’re through with your tantrum, let me know.”

  “Jesus Christ, he’s a federal agent! He should know better than to run off at the mouth!”

  “Let’s start with why he’s in the DEA.”

  “I don’t give a goddamn!”

  “Ricardo originally wanted to be an Army aviator. Like the family heroes, Jorge Castillo and his son, Carlos. When he couldn’t pass that physical, he was willing to become an ordinary Armor officer, like me. And when he couldn’t pass that physical, either, and filled with a noble desire to serve his country, he settled for the DEA. All they wanted was somebody with a college degree who could speak Spanish.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the sonofabitch.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You don’t know, do you?” Fernando asked, incredulously.

  “Know what, for Christ’s sake?”

  “If you had more than a passing interest in the family, Carlos, maybe you would.”

  Fernando only calls me “Carlos” when he’s really pissed at me.

  “Get to the goddamn point!”

  “Abuela is Ricardo’s godmother.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I figured you didn’t. And when Ricardo’s mother died—he was thirteen at the time. How old were you when your mother died?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Three guesses, Gringo, which really nice old lady who took her godmother vows seriously just about raised Ricardo Solez?”

  “I didn’t know that,” Castillo admitted, softly. “And he didn’t say anything.”

  “So what happened is Abuela called Ricardo—they have this thing, Gringo, called the telephone, which some people use just to say ‘Hello, how are you?’ and not only when they’re in trouble and want something— and he said, ‘Hey, Doña Alicia, guess who’s el jefe in charge of finding out who killed Jack the Stack and protecting his family?’ Or words to that effect. And our Abuela, who really is always running off at the mouth, called me, and said, ‘Hey, Fernando, guess who’s el jefe. . . .’ ”

  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Which had the whole family sitting in front of the tube hoping to see—what is it Otto calls you?—‘the prodigal son’ in action.”

  Castillo didn’t reply.

  “So what kind of trouble are you in now, Gringo? And how can the family help?”

  “You’re right,” Castillo said.

  “Does that mean you agree that you’re a sonofabitch or that you’re in trouble?”

  “Both.”

  “What kind of trouble, Gringo?” Fernando said. There was now concern in his voice.

  “I’m sitting on the floor of a room in the German Hospital. In the bed next to me is Betty Schneider—”

  “What? What the hell is she doing in Argentina?”

  “Right now, she just came out of the operating room, where they took three nine-millimeter bullets from a Madsen out of her . . .”

  “¡Madre de Dios!”

  “. . . one from the leg, one from the jaw, and one from what the doctor euphemistically refers to as ‘the groin area.’ ”

  “Is she going to be all right?”

  “She’s going to live.”

  “Thank God!”

  “Yeah, I did that. At the time Special Agent Schneider suffered her wounds, she was being transported in my car from her place of duty—the Masterson house—to a bar called the Kansas, where her boyfriend was waiting for her. The most likely scenario is that the bastards who whacked Masterson attacked said car in the belief that I was in it. I wasn’t, but what the hell, since they were there, they stuck a Madsen through the driver’s window, emptied the magazine, and succeeded in blowing away the driver, a really nice, twenty-year-old Marine named Staff Sergeant Roger Markham, by putting two, maybe three, rounds in his head, and getting Betty three times.”

  “They didn’t get the boyfriend?” Fernando asked. “And who the hell is he?”

  Castillo didn’t reply. After a moment Fernando understood.

  “No shit? When did that happen?”

  “Last night. Right after she got here.”

  “Wow!” Fernando said. “You have been busy.” He paused, and then went on: “So what do you need? Before you answer that: What about you? Who’s covering your back?”

  “I’ve got a Marine bodyguard,” Castillo said. “And Ricardo and Jack Britton—remember him?”

  “The black undercover cop from Philadelphia?”

  “Yeah. Ricardo and Jack are sitting on Betty. Tomorrow—or no later than the day after tomorrow— she’ll be on a plane to Philadelphia. She’s going to need more surgery for her face and jaw. I’ve got the name of a good doctor at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital.”

  “Gringo, you don’t want to send her commercial. If I leave at first light tomorrow in the Lear—”

  “I thought about the Lear. You’d have to refuel at least twice.”

  “So what?”

  “I’ve got an Air Force Gulfstream that can make it to Phi
ladelphia with only one stop for fuel. It also has a hospital configuration. What I want you to do is send the Lear to Keesler Air Force Base in Mississippi.”

  “Why there?”

  “Because that’s where I’m taking Masterson’s body and his wife and kids. And I think I will probably need some fast transportation.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’re going to be wheels-up here no later than noon tomorrow, Buenos Aires time. In a Globemaster, it’s about ten hours. There’s a two-hour time difference, so we’ll probably be on the ground there at eight, eight-thirty tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll be there.” “I said, ‘Send the Lear.’”

  “And I said, ‘I’ll be there.’ Anything else, Gringo?”

  “Yeah, don’t call me that when your kids are listening.”

  Fernando chuckled. “I’ll say a prayer for your girlfriend, Gringo.”

  “Have Abuela say one. She’s probably got more influence than you do.”

  “Watch your back.”

  Castillo got off the floor, stood by the bed, looked down at Special Agent Schneider for a long minute. Then he put his back to the wall, slid down, and punched another long series of numbers into the cellular.

  Supervisory Special Agent Thomas McGuire of the United States Secret Service answered on the second ring: “Four-Zero-Seven-Seven.”

  “Tom?”

  “Is that you, Charley?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s Schneider?”

  “She’s out of surgery. She’s going to be all right. But she was pretty badly hurt. As soon as she can travel— tomorrow or the next day—I’m going to send her to Philadelphia. On that Air Force Gulfstream. That’s one of the reasons I’m calling.”

  “Before we get into that—how are you?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Can you arrange for somebody to meet the airplane? The surgeon who treated her—”

  “Hey, Charley. She’s Secret Service. We take care of our own.” He paused, and then asked, incredulously, “You’re not sending her alone?”

  “Jack Britton will be with her. And a doctor and a nurse. The surgeon who treated her here has a packet of records—X-rays, her pharmacology, et cetera. Jack will have that. I want to make sure he’s able to get it to—”