The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Certainly they knew he was in the Telki Private Hospital,” Tor argued. “Why would they think he was here?”

  “But they didn’t know how badly he was hurt. It made more sense for them to come here in case he was here than to try a snatch at the hospital where he might not be.”

  Tor looked at Castillo carefully for a long moment, then turned to the man holding the gas can.

  “Rákosi, leave us alone for a minute, please,” he said. “See if you can find anything in their pockets. See if we can tie them to a car anywhere around here.”

  “I saw an Uzi in the sitting room?” Rákosi questioned.

  Tor looked at Castillo, who, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded.

  Tor waved his hand at Rákosi, ordering him out of the room. Then he walked to the door and closed it.

  “Úr Gossinger, we are both very concerned about Úr Kocian’s safety. I can do my job better if I am not in the dark.” He paused and waited until he understood Castillo was not going to reply, then went on: “Forgive an old policeman for not believing you are who you say you are, Úr Gossinger.”

  Well, he had to be told sooner or later.

  “I’m an American intelligence officer.”

  The nod Tor made automatically told Castillo he wasn’t surprised.

  “CIA?”

  Castillo shook his head. “No.”

  Sándor Tor visibly didn’t believe that.

  “And what is your interest in Úr Kocian?”

  “Right now, to keep him alive,” Castillo said, and then, gesturing for Tor to follow him, added, “Come with me, please.”

  Castillo led him into Kocian’s bedroom and pointed to the photograph of Eric Kocian holding his mother’s and his uncle Willi’s hands.

  “That’s my mother as a girl. And,” he went on, pointing to the pictures of him holding his mother’s hand, “that’s her as a young woman and me as a boy.”

  Tor looked at the photographs, then at Castillo, and pointed to the photo of Castillo with the newly awarded medals on his tunic.

  “And you were a soldier. So was I.”

  “I am a soldier. Lieutenant colonel.”

  “I suppose that would explain the marksmanship,” Tor said. “But this raises more questions than it answers.”

  “When there is time, I will try to answer those questions. But for now, my government is interested in what Úr Kocian has learned about the oil-for-food scandal.”

  “Enough, obviously, for those involved to send these scumbags to kill him.”

  “First to find out how much he knows and then to kill him.”

  “He told me that the night they tried to kidnap him on the bridge,” Tor said.

  “He tell you anything else?”

  “He said he had files here in the apartment.”

  “Did he say where?”

  Tor shook his head. “He said he didn’t want me to know.”

  “Well, he can tell us in the morning.”

  “And how are we going to protect him after that?”

  “In my business, there are times when you have to trust your gut feeling about somebody,” Castillo said. “And tell him things that just might come around and bite you on the ass.”

  “I know,” Tor said, simply. “And what is your gut feeling about me?”

  “In a couple of hours, an airplane will land at Ferihegy Airport. After we get Úr Kocian out of the hospital here, and he has his files, I’m going to take him to Argentina in it.”

  “Argentina is halfway around the world,” Tor said. “It must be quite an airplane.”

  “A Gulfstream III,” Castillo furnished.

  Tor nodded his recognition of the airplane.

  “Why not to the United States?”

  “Two reasons. One, that Úr Kocian doesn’t want to go to the States, and, two, I think we’re going to find what we’re looking for in southern South America. And maybe three, I think I can protect him better there than I could in the States.”

  “That doesn’t seem reasonable.”

  “I think I may be able to get word to whoever is trying to get to Úr Kocian that it no longer makes sense to try to get his information or kill him because the information is now in my hands.”

  “I will ensure that Úr Kocian gets safely from the hospital to here and then to the airport.”

  Castillo said, “What would it take to get you to come to Argentina with us?”

  Tor met Castillo’s eyes.

  “You would not have to ask permission to do something like that?” Tor said.

  Castillo shook his head. “Will you come with us?”

  “Of course.”

  “What are we going to do about the police?” Castillo said.

  “Nothing. If my people can find their car—and I think they will be able to—we will put the bodies in it, take it into the woods, and burn the car with them in it.”

  “And that’ll be the end of it?”

  “We will hope so.”

  [FIVE]

  Danubius Hotel Gellért

  Szent Gellért tér 1

  Budapest, Hungary

  0550 7 August 2005

  “Why does finding you awake and dressed at oh-dark-hundred and with an Uzi on the coffee table make me uncomfortable, Charley?” Colonel Jake Torine asked as he and Fernando Lopez walked into the living room. And then, as Max trotted in, showing his teeth, he exclaimed, “Jesus Christ!”

  “They’re good guys, Max,” Castillo said, in Hungarian. “Down.”

  Max walked to where Castillo was sitting and lay down at his feet.

  “What is that, a Hungarian Great Dane?” Torine asked. “Where did he come from?”

  “He’s Billy Kocian’s.”

  “What happened to his head?”

  “We have problems, Jake. We have to go wheels-up as soon as possible.”

  “Charley, we just flew here from Baltimore, with only a piss stop at Frankfurt.”

  “What kind of problems, Gringo?” Fernando Lopez asked.

  “The bad guys tried to kidnap Billy Kocian. Max grabbed the arm of one of them and the bad guy clobbered him with his pistol, whereupon another bad guy shot Billy. Twice. Luckily, not bad. We’re getting him out of the hospital right about now. As soon as he shows me where his files are, we’re going back to the airport.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  “Getting him out of here is the best way I can think of to keep him alive.”

  “He wouldn’t be safe here?” Fernando asked. “At least for eight hours, so we can get some sleep? Christ, there were half a dozen of what I presume are Hungarian rent-a-cops in the lobby and four more when we got off the elevator.”

  “You can sleep as long as you want to and then catch a plane home,” Castillo said. “Jake and I have to get Billy out of Budapest.”

  “You really think they’ll try something again?” Torine asked.

  “They already did,” Castillo said. “Two of them came in here at half past one.”

  “And?” Fernando asked.

  “Max woke me up. I took them out.”

  “You took them out?” Torine repeated.

  Castillo nodded.

  “Jesus Christ!” Torine said.

  “I didn’t have any choice, Jake.”

  “And are there going to be complications from that? The local cops, for example?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you all right, Gringo?” Fernando asked.

  “I’m fine,” Castillo said and turned to Torine. “If you get the Gulfstream in the air, Jake, I can steer while you take a nap.”

  Torine’s face showed he was less than enthusiastic about that idea.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do this unless I thought it was really necessary,” Castillo said.

  Torine shrugged.

  “I penciled in a flight plan to Buenos Aires on the way over,” he said. “Budapest, Dakar, and across the drink to Recife, Brazil. Then down to Buenos Aires. It’s about six hours fro
m here to Dakar. Figuring two fuel stops at an hour each and fifteen hours in the air, give or take. If we leave here at, say, eight, we should be in Buenos Aires—there’s a four-time-zone difference—we should be in BA before midnight.”

  “That’ll work,” Fernando said. “We can take turns sleeping. One of us on one of the couches, the other in the right seat.”

  “You’re not going,” Castillo said. “You’re going home, commercial.”

  “I’ll go home commercial from Buenos Aires,” Fernando said. “Not open for discussion.”

  “Who all’s going,” Torine asked, “besides Kocian?”

  “Billy, me, a guy named Sándor Tor, and Max.”

  “And Sándor Tor is?” Torine asked.

  “Billy’s bodyguard, and a good one.”

  “He knows what’s going on?”

  Castillo nodded.

  “The dog is going?” Fernando asked.

  “Absolutely,” Castillo said.

  “I’ll call for the weather,” Torine said. “Somebody order up some breakfast. And—can we do this, Charley?—some in flight rations.”

  [SIX]

  Danubius Hotel Gellért

  Szent Gellért tér 1

  Budapest, Hungary

  0720 7 August 2005

  Eric Kocian, visibly in a foul mood, was rolled into his apartment in a wheelchair by Sándor Tor. He was accompanied by three security guards and Dr. Czerny. Czerny, the reason for Kocian’s foul mood, had made his personal approval of where Kocian would be resting in bed a condition to discharge the old man from the hospital.

  Castillo wondered if Czerny’s concern was based on friendship for the old man or was a manifestation of his professional concern for Kocian’s health, and when the doctor came out of Kocian’s bedroom Castillo took him aside and told him that he planned to leave Budapest immediately if Kocian’s physical condition would make that possible.

  “Ordinarily, I’d say no,” Czerny replied, “but I know—Tor told me—not only what happened on the bridge but what happened here earlier this morning. So with my priority being keeping my patient alive, I prescribe getting him as far away from Budapest as possible as quickly as possible.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Castillo said. “I think it’ll be a day or two before these people realize he’s gone. And there will be no record—no airline tickets, no rail tickets, etcetera—to give them an idea where he might be. I’m hoping they think Vienna or Fulda.”

  Dr. Czerny nodded his agreement.

  Czerny said, “I just wish those bedlike seats on airplanes were really beds. What he should be doing is lying down.”

  “There are real beds—actually, couches—on the airplane where he could lie down and be strapped in. That is, if I can get him to lie down, much less get him to allow me to strap him down.”

  Dr. Czerny reached in his pocket and came out with a plastic vial.

  “Give him one of these air-sickness pills. In ten minutes, he’ll get drowsy.”

  “And if he won’t take one?”

  “Break open the capsule and mix the powder with anything he’ll drink.”

  Three minutes after Dr. Czerny had checked Kocian a final time—to make sure he was in bed in his pajamas—and had given Castillo a package of bandages and medicines and then left the apartment, and as Castillo was wondering how soon he could get Kocian to dress, Kocian appeared in the sitting room, awkwardly trying to button the sleeves of his shirt. Castillo went to help him.

  “What time’s the plane?” Kocian demanded, casually.

  “Just as soon as we can get your files and to the airport.”

  “Have you thought about Argentine regulations about taking a dog into their country?” Kocian asked, and, when he saw the look on Castillo’s face, added: “I didn’t think you would have, Karlchen. I have looked into the matter. What we have to do is go to Dr. Kincs—Max’s veterinarian—and get a certificate of health and a copy of his inoculations record.”

  “Can we send Tor?”

  “I’ll call and find out,” Kocian said.

  Five minutes later, Tor was on his way to the veterinarian’s office.

  “What about your files, Eric?” Castillo asked after Tor had left.

  “Oh, yes, those,” Kocian replied and walked over to a bookcase.

  He took a book from the shelf and handed it to Castillo.

  Castillo had read the book title—Ot Pervovo Litsa (First Person)—a collection of interviews with Russian president Vladimir Putin that Putin authorized to be published as a sort-of autobiography.

  Castillo looked quesioningly at Kocian.

  “You can’t judge a book by its cover, Karlchen.”

  Castillo opened the book. It had been carefully hollowed out enough to hold a black leather-and-chrome object a half inch thick, three inches wide, and nine inches long. Castillo knew what it was: a state-of-the-art external hard drive for a computer.

  “Eighty gigabytes,” Kocian said. “Those Japanese are really clever, aren’t they, Karlchen?”

  “The Japanese are good at making things, but this technology came out of Las Vegas, Nevada,” Castillo said, “not Japan.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because Aloysius Francis Casey of the AFC Corporation, who came up with the technology, sent me a prototype. I’ve got it in my briefcase. One hundred twenty gigs. Would you like to see it?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Everything’s in here?”

  “Just about. I have a few tidbits between my ears.”

  “Is it encrypted?”

  Kocian nodded.

  “Microsoft encryption?”

  Kocian nodded again.

  “Well, see if you can remember the key while I go get my hard drive.”

  “You want to see this now?” Kocian asked, surprised.

  “I want to copy it to my hard drive and then encrypt it with another little gift from Mr. Casey. There are a lot of people, many of them unfriendly, who know how to get around Mr. Gates’s encryption technology. So far as I know, nobody’s ever been able to crack the AFC encryption logarithm.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you, Karl?”

  Castillo picked up on that: I’m not Karlchen right now. The old man is impressed.

  “Absolutely,” Castillo said. “Have you got another hard drive?”

  “A spare, you mean?”

  Castillo nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Because what I really would like to do just as soon as I get this data off your drive and properly reencrypted is put it on another drive and send that in the diplomatic pouch to the United States. In case something happens to our copies.”

  Kocian considered that and nodded.

  “There’s a store across the river which sells them,” he said. “They’re expensive.”

  “Can we send somebody to buy one?”

  Kocian nodded again. “Shall I have it put on my Tages Zeitung American Express card? Or are you going to pay for it?”

  “Better yet, we’ll have the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund pay for it,” Castillo said. “Will this store take dollars?”

  “Probably, at a very bad rate of exchange.”

  “Get one of the security guys in here. You tell him what store and I’ll tell him to get a receipt,” Castillo said and took a wad of currency from his pocket.

  “You going to tell me what that fund—‘the Lorimer Charitable and Whatever Fund’—is all about?”

  “On the way to Buenos Aires. There’s no time now.”

  Castillo carefully pried the portable hard drive from the pages of Ot Pervovo Litsa, then connected it to his laptop computer.

  “Okay, Eric, it’s hooked up. Let me have the password.”

  “You trust that machine?”

  “I won’t erase your data until I’m sure it’s in here,” Castillo said. “But, yeah, I trust it.”

  “I put a lot of time and effort into what’s in there,” Ko
cian said. “I’d hate to lose it.”

  “Not as much as I would,” Castillo said, “and therefore I am going to be very careful. Let’s have the password.”

  Kocian gave it to him, then added: “Never in my worst nightmares did I see myself as a lackey of the CIA.”

  Castillo entered the password, decrypted the data on Kocian’s hard drive, then transfered it to his.

  When he saw that was working, he said, “I don’t work for the CIA, Eric.”

  “So you say. But if you did, you wouldn’t say you did, would you?”

  “Probably not,” Castillo said.

  Kocian elected to change the subject.

  “I really hate to destroy any book,” he said. “But I had seen all the spy movies on the TV and hiding the hard drive in a book seemed like a good idea. And Ot Pervovo Litsa was a garbage book.” He paused, then added, “Full of bullshit, like the dispatches from Washington you send all the time.”

  Is he trying to piss me off?

  Or do my paraphrases from The American Conservative really offend his sense of journalistic integrity?

  Castillo said, “You don’t think Mr. Putin told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth to those reporters?”

  “You read it?”

  Castillo nodded.

  “In Russian or the translation?”

  “In Russian.”

  “Then you will recall he told one journalist that practically right out of university, he went in the KGB and learned his craft by suppressing ‘dissident activities’ in Leningrad. That, I believe. I also believe that his father was a cook, first to the czars—where he cooked for Rasputin—and then to the Bolsheviks, most significantly Lenin himself, and then in one of Stalin’s dachas outside Moscow, as he told other Russian journalists. He also said that his father served with the Red Army during the Great Patriotic War. He was a little vague about what his poppa did in uniform.”

  Castillo nodded.

  He dropped his eyes to his laptop and saw that the transfer of files procedure was just about finished.

  He held up his hand to signal Kocian that he needed a moment and then typed in the encryption code.

  Kocian waited until Castillo raised his eyes to him and then went on: “Do you think that Putin’s father spent that time boiling beets for the Red Army in some field mess? Or is it more likely that Putin’s father—whom the regime trusted enough to let him cook for Stalin—served as a political officer, making sure no officer strayed from the path of righteousness?”