The Hostage

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “There will be people at the airport. They’ll do whatever has to be done. Have the pilot send an in-flight advisory as soon as he enters American airspace. Okay?”

  “I’ve got the name of a doctor at the University of Pennsylvania who’s supposed to be very good.”

  “Give me his name. I’ll check him out.”

  “William Rieger, M.D.”

  “What does Schneider need?”

  “She took a nine-millimeter bullet in the jaw. Plus two others in the body. But the problem is the jaw. The medical specialty is—you better write this down.”

  “Ballpoint in hand.”

  “I don’t even know how to say this. She needs an orthognathicist. I’ll spell that.” He did.

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “A plastic reconstructive surgeon and an orthodontist,” Castillo finished.

  “She’ll have them.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What happened, Charley? All we got is that she was shot and her driver got killed.”

  “They ambushed my car. . . .” In the back of his mind, he heard Jack Britton’s warning: “If you keep up this ‘it’s all my fault’ bullshit somebody important’s going to hear you and they’ll keep you off the investigation.” Castillo stopped himself.

  “And?” McGuire pursued.

  Castillo stuck to the basics. “It was stopped at a traffic circle near Masterson’s house. Somebody got the driver to lower his window, stuck a Madsen in it, and emptied the magazine. The driver, a Marine sergeant named Markham, took at least two hits in the head as he was trying to back off. The doctor thinks what hit Schneider were ricochets off the bulletproof glass.”

  Did that sound professionally dispassionate enough? Or is McGuire going to see right through it?

  “It’s ‘projectile resistant,’ not ‘bulletproof,’” McGuire corrected him absently. “You said it was your car. You think they were trying to get you?”

  “I don’t know, Tom.”

  “Just an ordinary ‘let’s whack an American, any American’ assassination? I don’t think so. These people are obviously professionals. Why would they risk something like this going sour for them just to take out a Secret Service agent? Unless maybe (a) they expected you to be in the car, and (b) they know that you’re not just a Secret Service agent but the President’s agent. That would put you in the same category as Masterson, somebody important enough to whack—for whatever reason.”

  “That brings us back to: Why did they kill Masterson? And not Mrs. Masterson when they had the chance?”

  McGuire didn’t reply for a moment, then he said, mockingly solemn, “If you would be interested in the opinion of a lowly but old, balding, and wise Secret Service agent, there is something rotten in the state of Denmark. I just wish to hell I knew what it is.”

  “Me, too, Tom.”

  “What else can I do for you?”

  “Two things. Ask Dick Miller to take my Officer’s Model .45—which is cleverly concealed behind the books on the bookshelf behind my bed—and put it and enough summer clothes for a couple of days in Mississippi into one of the carry-on bags in the closet and somehow get it down to me in Mississippi.”

  “I’ll get it for you, Charley. Joel and I are going down there on Air Force One with the boss.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I asked my cousin Fernando to bring his airplane to Keesler. I’m not sure they’ll let him land there. Can you fix it?”

  “I don’t think it’ll be a problem. If there is, I’ll call him and tell him where to take it.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “Charley, would you take some straight advice from the old Irishman?”

  “I’m all ears for anything you have to say.”

  “One scenario that came to my mind is that we’re dealing with a lunatic or lunatics—not necessarily rag-heads; maybe even American—who get off by whacking important people. Masterson qualified as a diplomat and as Jack the Stack. That may explain both why they kidnapped the wife and why they didn’t kill her. They just used her to get to him.”

  Castillo grunted.

  “And it may explain why they tried to whack you. The President’s agent is in the same league as a diplomat. Maybe even more important. How much of a secret is that down there?”

  “Somebody tipped the New York Times that there is a Presidential Agent. And some other members of the press. I don’t think my name came out.”

  “Well, that might explain the ambush. Do you know who had the big mouth?”

  “I’ve got my suspicions.”

  “Have you got a name?”

  “I’m not sure about this, Tom.”

  “When people are trying to whack you, Charley, an overdose of decency can be lethal.”

  “There’s an FBI agent down here who I think made me.”

  “Made you how?”

  “Do you think—despite the President personally ordering the director to lay off Pevsner—that they still have a ‘locate but do not detain’ out on me?”

  “It would be stupid of them, but it wouldn’t surprise me. They really want Kennedy.”

  “This guy’s name is Yung. He’s attached to the embassy in Montevideo, supposedly working on money laundering.”

  “Supposedly?”

  “I ran into Howard Kennedy—”

  “He’s down there?” McGuire interrupted. His surprise was evident in his voice.

  “He was.”

  “Doing what?”

  “He said he had brought an airplane load of objets d’art to the King Faisal Islamic Center and was going to take a load of polo ponies back to Arabia.”

  “Oddly enough, that sounds legitimate.”

  “I think that’s what he was doing. Anyway, he’s gone, and I don’t think he or Pevsner has anything to do with this. Pevsner wants to be invisible, what Kennedy wants is what Pevsner wants, and whacking an American diplomat does not seem to be a good way to be invisible.”

  “With Pevsner, you never know.”

  “Anyway, Kennedy said he knows this guy Yung, says that he’s a hotshot, and whatever Yung’s doing in Montevideo has nothing to do with money laundering.”

  “That’s interesting. Let me see what I can find out about this guy.”

  “Thanks again, Tom.”

  “I was about to offer you some serious advice.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Tell me it’s okay for me to call Tony Santini and tell him to sit on you until you get out of there.”

  “Tony’s with the Mastersons. I think he should stay there. And I have a Marine bodyguard who won’t let me out of his sight.”

  “Your call, Charley. But the more I think about it, I think these people are trying to whack you, so be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “I just had another thought,” McGuire said. “Off the wall.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “The whackers—of Schneider, if they weren’t specifically after you—are sending a message.”

  “What kind of a message?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet. But part of it could be, ‘We can get to you if we want to, Secret Service protection or not.’”

  “I don’t know, Tom.”

  “I said it was off the wall,” McGuire said. “That doesn’t mean it’s not possible.”

  “It brings up something else, Tom. What about protection for the Mastersons in Mississippi?”

  “Charley, the President’s going to be in Mississippi. The Secret Service will be all over Keesler. And the head of the protection detail has to know how pissed off he is about Masterson getting whacked.”

  “The President’s not going to stay in Mississippi.”

  “Good point. I’ll talk to Joel and see what he says. Anything else?”

  “Can’t think of anything.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you down there.”

  Castillo called Ambassador Silvio and told him that Betty wa
s out of the operating room but still unconscious, and that her doctor had said she could travel either the next day or the day following.

  Then he got off the floor and looked down at Betty again. She was still out.

  Castillo turned to the heavyset nurse.

  “How long will she be like this?” he asked.

  “Probably for at least an hour, señor.”

  “If she wakes before I get back, tell her I’ll be back,” Castillo ordered.

  “I will.”

  Castillo unplugged the cellular from the charger, saw that he now had enough battery remaining to get to the Four Seasons, then unplugged the charger from the wall and put both devices in his pocket. Then he walked out of the room.

  Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, who was sitting beside Jack Britton, got quickly to his feet when he saw Castillo.

  Castillo met Britton’s eyes.

  “She’s still out. The nurse says she’ll be out for an hour or more. So Corporal Bradley and I are going to go pack. I’ll have them move your stuff and hers into my room and settle those bills. After we’re gone tomorrow, there will be people to relieve you and Solez and—”

  “Got it,” Britton said.

  “While I’m dealing with the hotel, Bradley will go where his billet is and pack enough clothing—including his dress blues—for a week. Then he will go back to the hotel, pick me up, and we’ll come back here.”

  “Sir?” Bradley said.

  “What?”

  “My orders are that I’m not to leave you. And . . . why do I need my dress blues?”

  “Because you have the sad duty, Corporal, of taking Sergeant Markham home and burying him.”

  “The gunny didn’t say anything about that, sir.”

  “The gunny doesn’t know about it yet.”

  “Sir, I can’t go without orders.”

  “You just got your orders,” Castillo said. “If it makes you feel better, call your gunny and tell him what I have ordered.”

  “Yes, sir,” Corporal Bradley said, doubtfully.

  One of the SIDE agents in the corridor followed Castillo and Bradley onto the elevator, and when the elevator door opened in the basement, two more men, obviously SIDE agents also, were waiting for them.

  Castillo wondered how they had been notified; he hadn’t seen the SIDE man use a cellular.

  Obviously, stupid, one of the other SIDE agents called and said we were getting on the elevator.

  And since it took you some time to figure that out, it means you’re tired and not thinking clearly.

  “Sir, I am the Major Querrina of the SIDE, with the honor of having your security—”

  “I speak Spanish, Major,” Charley interrupted him.

  Major Querrina’s relief was visible.

  “You’re going someplace, sir?”

  “First to the Four Seasons. And while I am in there, my bodyguard here is going to the Marine barracks, or whatever it’s called, to quickly pack a suitcase.”

  Major Querrina looked dubiously at Corporal Bradley but didn’t say anything.

  “When he’s done that,” Castillo went on, “he’s going to go back to the Four Seasons and pick me up, and we’re coming back here.” He turned to Bradley. “Where is this place, Corporal?”

  “Just off Libertador—” Bradley started.

  “I know where it is,” Querrina interrupted. “It’s a twenty- to thirty-minute drive from the Four Seasons. Is time important?”

  “I want to get back here as quickly as I can.”

  “May I suggest, sir, that we send the corporal to the Marine House in one of my cars? That will save time, and so far as security for yourself is concerned, there will be two SIDE cars with you.”

  Or I could ride with SIDE, and send Bradley in the embassy car.

  But if I do that, and these bastards want to—what did Tom McGuire say?—“send a message” by taking me out, then I might have two dead Marines on my conscience. And, God, I don’t want that.

  “Major Querrina has kindly offered one of his cars to take you to the Marine House.” He saw Bradley’s face drop. “Corporal, you will go in one of their cars, which will bring you back here to the hospital. That’s not open for discussion.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Bradley said, with a visible lack of enthusiasm.

  [THREE]

  El Presidente de la Rua Suite The Four Seasons Hotel Cerrito 1433 Buenos Aires, Argentina 2240 24 July 2005

  “Why don’t you fix yourself a drink, Major?” Castillo said to Querrina as they came into the sitting room of the suite. “I won’t be long.”

  “Very kind of you, sir. But no thank you. I have the duty.”

  “I have it, too,” Castillo said. “But there are exceptions to every rule, and I have just decided this is one of those times.”

  He walked to the bar and poured an inch and a half of Famous Grouse into a glass. He took a sip, and then held the glass up in a second invitation.

  “As you say, sir, there are always exceptions,” Querrina said.

  “Help yourself, I won’t be long,” Castillo said, and carried his glass into the bedroom and closed the door.

  He found a socket for the cellular charger behind the bedside table and plugged it in. When he connected his cellular to it, he found that he wasn’t going to have to sit on the floor. He laid the charging cellular on the bed, and then started to pack.

  It didn’t take him long, and he was just about to zip the bag closed when he remembered the bill he’d gotten at the desk. There was no sense carrying that around in his pocket for God knows how long, and he couldn’t just toss it, because the Teutonically efficient financial department of the Tages Zeitung demanded a copy of his bills to compare with what American Express said he had spent.

  He patted his pockets, found the bill, and started to put it in his laptop briefcase when a warning light lit up in the back of his brain.

  What the hell is wrong?

  He looked at the bill carefully.

  Well, the Four Seasons doesn’t give its accommodations away. But there’s nothing on here out of the ordinary—

  Except that it’s made out to Karl Gossinger.

  There’s nothing wrong with that, either, except that Gossinger entered the country, which means Castillo didn’t, and Castillo’s going to leave tomorrow. All sorts of questions would be asked about the German national getting on the USAF Globemaster with the Widow Masterson and her husband’s body.

  Shit!

  You fucked up again, Inspector Clouseau!

  As a practical matter, however, when Argentine Immigration shows up at Ezeiza, I don’t think they are going to peer suspiciously at C. G. Castillo’s passport to see if he entered the country legally, especially since C. G. Castillo will be surrounded by SIDE agents.

  So what I’ll do is hand them my American passport, hope they don’t look closely, and worry about Gossinger’s immigration problems later.

  He put the Four Seasons bill in the briefcase and checked to make sure Gossinger’s passport was concealed in the lid with his other alter ego identification.

  Then he sat on the bed and pushed an autodial number.

  A deep-voiced male answered, “¿Hola?”

  “My name is Castillo,” he said in Spanish. “May I speak with Señor Pevsner, please?”

  “One moment, señor.”

  Castillo glanced around the room and saw something he hadn’t seen before. On the bedside table on the other side of the bed was some sort of package. Whatever it was, it was wrapped in tissue, and a rose lay across it.

  What the hell is that?

  “Charley? I was hoping you would call,” Aleksandr Pevsner said in Russian.

  “Were you? Why?”

  “To learn that you’re all right. I heard what happened to your driver and agent.”

  “Well, if you heard that from somebody close to Colonel Munz, Alex, you better get a new source. They fired Munz.”

  “I heard that, too. I’m sorry about your people,
Charley.”

  “Alex, I want the bastards who did that.”

  “I understand.”

  “This is personal, Alex.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation before Pevsner replied.

  “I would expect nothing less of you as an officer. Or do you really mean personal?”

  “I mean really personal, Alex.”

  “Oh, then I really am sorry, my friend.”

  “I spoke with Howard just before he left.”

  “He didn’t mention that.”

  “I asked him to find out what he could about a man named Jean-Paul Lorimer, a UN diplomat in Paris. The next time you speak with him, would you tell him that I now really want to know about this man?”

  “I’ll have Howard contact you. Where will you be?”

  “Here until about noon tomorrow. That’s when we leave with Masterson’s family. And his body.”

  “I doubt if I’ll hear from him before that. Then you’ll be in Washington?”

  “First Mississippi, then Washington. Tell him to call my cellular or the hotel.”

  “I will. And I will also see what I can learn about this Lorimer person. Jean-Paul Lorimer, you said?”

  “Right. I would really be grateful.”

  “I hesitate to say this to someone of your background, but are you adequately protecting yourself?”

  “I have two SIDE cars, four SIDE agents—including a major—and, far more reassuring, an American Marine I’m not sure is old enough to vote.”

  Pevsner chuckled, then said, seriously: “There are some very dangerous people—obviously professionals— involved in whatever’s going on. I’m sure you appreciate that.”

  “I do. You haven’t had any fresh ideas about what this is all about, have you?”

  “No. And no one I’ve talked to—people one would think would have at least an idea—have any idea, either.”

  “Keep asking, will you?”

  “Of course. And Anna will pray for you—and yours— my friend.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Friends take care of friends, my friend. We’ll be in touch, Charley. Be careful.”

  “Goodbye, Alex.”

  Pevsner switched to German: “Not goodbye. Auf wiedersehen.”

  Castillo broke the connection, then looked at the cellular.