The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

“Until you got that speed bump, Karl, I was feeling all right.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  Munz made a deprecating gesture.

  “Who are we running from?” Castillo asked. “And why?”

  “People are watching me,” Munz said, seriously, and then, when he heard himself, chuckled and added, “‘They probably want to beam me up to their spaceship and extract my sperm,’ said the paranoid.”

  Castillo chuckled. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. What I do know is the morning after you went to the States—I slept all of the day you left and right through the night, thanks to those little yellow pills Sergeant Kensington gave me—when I went onto my balcony, there was a car, a Citroën, with two men in it, parked across the street. There was a pair of binoculars on the dashboard. And there have been other cars, other people, ever since.”

  “But you don’t know who?”

  “No, and I wasn’t—still am not—in any condition to ask people questions.”

  “Did you tell Pevsner?”

  Munz shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  Castillo sensed that Munz was making up his mind whether to reply at all.

  “Now that I’m no longer the head of SIDE, I’m not as much use to Señor Pevsner as I was,” he said, finally. “Perhaps he’s decided I’m now a liability. If I wasn’t around, there are all sorts of questions that I would not be able to answer about him.”

  Castillo considered his own reply carefully before making it. “Unfortunately, Alfredo, that’s a real possibility.”

  Munz nodded.

  “I didn’t ask about your shoulder,” Castillo said.

  “And I didn’t ask what you’re doing back here in Argentina.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I wasn’t at all sure you would tell me. The truth, that is. So why bother?”

  “Write this down, Alfredo. I’m one of the good guys.”

  “You very well may be,” Munz said. “But I don’t know that, do I?”

  “Tell me about your shoulder.”

  “Two days ago—my wife insisted—I went to Dr. Rommine’s apartment. You remember him?”

  “From the German Hospital?”

  Munz nodded. “He’s a friend. He owes me a couple of favors. He didn’t believe me when I told him I’d had an accident cleaning my pistol.”

  “Why not?”

  “He said, ‘Well, whatever physician removed the bullet did a first-class job. He must be a foreigner or you weren’t in Argentina when you shot yourself. Those degradable sutures aren’t available here.’”

  “You didn’t tell him what happened?”

  Munz shook his head.

  “He knows better than to ask. He really doesn’t want to know.”

  “I’m sorry you took that bullet, Alfredo.”

  “I was hoping by now you would have learned who those bastards were,” Munz said, “and would be willing to tell me.”

  “I’ve got some suspicions, but I just don’t know.”

  “If I have to say this, I can take care of myself. It’s my family I’m worried about.”

  And that’s a bona fide worry, after what these bastards did with Mr. Masterson.

  “How much can you tell me about the money?” Munz asked.

  “What money?”

  “Howard Kennedy said there was a lot of money in Lorimer’s safe,” Munz said.

  “He asked you about the money?” Castillo asked, incredulously.

  Munz nodded.

  “I realize, Karl, that there are things you can’t tell me,” Munz said.

  “Did Kennedy say how much money?”

  “No. But I had the feeling there was a lot. What did you do, find it after I was hit?”

  When Castillo didn’t immediately reply, Munz said, “I just finished saying I understand there are things you can’t tell me. But I’m desperate, Karl. This now involves my family.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can do, Alfredo. I can take you and your family to the States, where you’ll all be safe, until I find out who these bastards are and deal with them.”

  “That’s a nice thought, but I don’t have the money for airplane tickets, much less to support my family in the States.”

  “The Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund will take care of that,” Castillo said.

  “The what?”

  “There was a lot of money—in sort-of cashier’s checks—in Lorimer’s safe, Alfredo. Almost sixteen million dollars. I’d like to know how Kennedy knew about it. Anyway, we took it. It’s out of the country. I control it. I call it the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund. You and your family will have all the money you need in the States for as long as you need it.”

  “Can you do that? Why would you?”

  “You took a bullet for us. We owe you.”

  “I knew what I was doing when I went with you.”

  “We owe you,” Castillo said, flatly. “You’ve got your passports?”

  Munz nodded. “But not visas. Could you arrange visas?”

  “Not a problem.”

  I’ll get you visas if I have to go to the President.

  “I’m not going,” Munz said.

  “Don’t be a fool, Alfredo.”

  “I accept, with profound gratitude, Karl, your offer for my wife and daughters. But I’m not going to let these bastards chase me out of Argentina.”

  Castillo looked at him but said nothing.

  “Maybe I can be of some small use to you, Karl,” Munz said, “in finding these people.”

  “You can be of a lot of use to me, if you’re willing. And understand what you’re getting into.”

  “Whatever you ask of me,” Munz said.

  Castillo reached for the ignition key and started the engine.

  “Where are we going?” Munz asked.

  “To an apartment in Belgrano,” Castillo said. “In the U.S. Army, mi coronel, this is known as getting the fucking circus off its ass and onto the road.”

  Before he left the parking lot, when he was still waiting for a break in the traffic on Avenida Libertador, Castillo had second thoughts.

  Jesus, what am I going to do with Munz at that apartment?

  There’s already too many people there and more are coming.

  You’re not thinking clearly, Carlos.

  That your ass is dragging, for understandable reasons, is an explanation, not an excuse.

  He looked out the back window of the Cherokee, then shifted into reverse and quickly backed the truck into an open space.

  “Was ist los, Karl?” Munz asked, concerned.

  “I need to think a minute, Alfredo,” Castillo said. “Believe it or not, there are people who think I don’t do nearly enough of that.”

  He shut off the ignition, took out a cigar, carefully lit it, and for the next three minutes appeared to be doing nothing more than puffing on the cigar and staring in rapt fascination at the glowing tip.

  Then he exhaled audibly, took out his cellular phone, and punched an autodial button.

  Alex Darby answered on the second ring.

  “Have you been keeping Santini up to speed?”

  Darby didn’t seem surprised or off ended at the lack of opening courtesy.

  “I thought that was the thing to do,” he said.

  “I want to meet with your boss,” Castillo said, “as soon as possible.”

  “I think that’s a good idea. You want me there?”

  “That’s why I asked about Santini. I’d rather you did the real estate.”

  “Okay.”

  “Could you take Sergeant Kensington and his radio out there with you? I’d like to get that set up as soon as possible.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Where’s Yung?”

  “Howell just called. Yung should be at Jorge Newbery in thirty minutes.”

  “Can you have somebody—Solez, maybe, or Sieno—meet him and sit on him anywhere but where you are for a couple of ho
urs?”

  “We are a little crowded here, aren’t we?” Darby replied. “Solez, I think. I’d rather have Sieno here.”

  “Okay.”

  “You want me to call our friend and tell him you’re coming? Hell, I don’t even know if he’s there.”

  “I don’t want to go to his office.”

  “Any reason?”

  “I don’t want the Argentine rent-a-cops to recognize who I have with me.”

  “Let me call him and see what he suggests. I’ll call you back.”

  “Tell Tor and Davidson that Kocian is not to leave the apartment or make any telephone calls under any circumstances.”

  “Okay. I’ll get right back to you, one way or the other.”

  “¿Hola?”

  “How long will it take you to make it to our friend’s house on Libertador?” Darby asked.

  “Give me thirty minutes.”

  “He’ll be waiting for you on the sidewalk. Drive past his office on the way.”

  “You mention the rent-a-cops to him?”

  “He understands.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Castillo said, broke the connection, and turned to look at Munz.

  “I’ll get in the back again,” Munz said. “When we get close, pull onto a side road.”

  “You understood about the rent-a-cops?”

  Munz nodded.

  “So they do work for SIDE?”

  “Some of them do,” Munz said. “I didn’t know you brought Yung back with you.”

  “I sent him back here,” Castillo said. “And last night he was shot by a Uruguayan cop who killed the guy—no identification on the body—who was trying to stick a needle full of ketamine in him.”

  “They wanted to question him about the money? What else happened at the estancia?”

  “He’s not badly injured, Alfredo, just a flesh wound to the hand. Thank you for asking.”

  “If he was badly hurt, you would have said something,” Munz said, reasonably.

  Castillo shook his head, started the engine, and drove to Libertador. This time, there was a break in the traffic and he headed for Buenos Aires.

  X

  [ONE]

  Residence of the United States Ambassador

  Avenida Libertador y Calle John F. Kennedy

  Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina

  1505 8 August 2005

  The ambassador’s residence is a stately century-old mansion two blocks across a park from the rather ugly “modern” building of the embassy. By following Darby’s orders to “drive past his office on the way”—which meant approaching the ambassador’s office in the embassy from the Place d’Italia—Castillo, with Munz again on the back floor of the Cherokee, came up to the residence on Calle John F. Kennedy, a quiet street, instead of Avenida Libertador, which is eight lanes wide and heavy with traffic.

  There was more reason, too, to Darby’s orders. Castillo saw Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio standing on the sidewalk, smoking a cigar, and apparently having a pleasant chat with members of both the Policía Federal and the embassy-hired Argentine rent-a-cops.

  When the Cherokee’s turn signals indicated Castillo’s intention to enter the driveway of the residence, two of the rent-a-cops quickly moved to see who he was.

  “¡Hola, Carlos!” Ambassador Silvio cried, cheerfully. He moved quickly to the Cherokee, gesturing for Castillo to put the window down. Then he called for one of the Policía Federal to open the gate.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Carlos,” Silvio said through the window opened barely more than a crack. “As soon as they get the gate open, drive right in and around the corner of the building.”

  No rent-a-cop was going to push the ambassador himself aside to inspect the interior of a vehicle.

  The gate opened and Castillo drove into the drive, past the ornate front door, and around the corner of the building. As he did, a service door of some kind opened and a man Castillo recognized as Ken Lowery, the embassy’s security officer, appeared and came up to the car.

  “Where’s your passenger, Colonel?” he asked.

  “In the backseat,” Castillo said, then raised his voice. “You going to need some help to get out, Alfredo?”

  “Just open the door,” Munz said.

  Lowery opened it, then stood to the side, blocking the view of anyone who might have come around the corner of the building.

  Munz, his head ducked, went quickly into the building.

  Castillo followed him inside. Lowery then came in, closing the door after him. Castillo saw that they were in a corridor outside of what looked like an unused kitchen.

  “Good to see you again, Colonel Munz,” Lowery said, in Spanish, and put out his hand. When Munz winced as he shook it, Lowery asked, “What’s wrong? Hurt your shoulder?”

  “I don’t think you want to know, Ken,” Castillo said, quickly.

  Obviously, Silvio hasn’t told him much, if anything.

  How much am I going to tell him?

  “Sorry!” Lowery said and held up both hands, palms out.

  Ambassador Silvio appeared.

  “I think we better use the service elevator,” he said without further preliminaries and signaled them into the kitchen.

  The elevator was small and some what battered.

  “In the grand old days, this was used to carry food to the apartment,” Silvio volunteered. “About the only use it gets now is when there’s a reception. But you can’t see who gets on it by peering in the front door.”

  “Tony Santini’s on the way?” Castillo asked.

  “He should be here any minute,” Silvio said as he pulled open the elevator door and gestured for the others to get off.

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, sir,” Castillo said. "I was really hoping you would come to see me…Colonel.”

  “That news got around quick, didn’t it?”

  “From a very high source,” Silvio said. “She also said that the President was very pleased with the way you’ve been handling things.” He paused, smiled wryly, and added: “In diplomacy, that’s known as imparting information circuitously.”

  Castillo smiled at him.

  “Congratulations, Colonel,” Silvio said. “In my judgment, it’s well deserved.”

  “I can only hope, sir, that you will feel the same way when we’ve had our conversation,” Castillo said.

  Silvio led them into the living room of his apartment and waved them into a couch and armchairs.

  “Sir, I’d like a moment alone with you, please,” Castillo said.

  “Why don’t we step into my kitchen?” the ambassador said, nodding toward a swinging door.

  “Ken,” Castillo said, turning to look at Lowery, “years ago, when I was an aide-de-camp to a general officer known for his piquant speech, he told me that telling someone—a good guy—that he did not have the Need to Know of certain information was like telling him that his male member had been measured and judged not to be large enough for the task at hand.”

  Lowery smiled, but his face showed that he anticipated what he was sure was coming next.

  Silvio smiled and shook his head.

  “In your case,” Castillo went on, “I’m going to tell you that I am operating under the authority of a Presidential Finding and anything you might learn here today is classified Top Secret Presidential. And I’m going to evade my responsibility in this matter by dumping it on the ambassador.”

  He turned to look at Silvio.

  “You, sir, are authorized to tell Mr. Lowery anything you think he should know.”

  “I understand,” the ambassador said, simply.

  “And I still need a moment alone with you, sir.”

  Silvio waved toward the swinging door.

  “Thank you for that, Charley,” Silvio said when they were in the far corner of the kitchen. “Lowery is a good man.” He smiled, and added: “He would be hurt to be told his male member had been measured and found wanting.”

  “I’m not sure
it was the right thing to do,” Castillo said. “But I’m not thinking too clearly.”

  “You look exhausted,” Silvio said.

  “I am, and that’s dangerous. That’s why I’m grateful you could see me…”

  “Secretary Cohen made it clear—if obliquely—that you are calling all the shots.”

  “…because I need your advice.”

  “Anything I can do to help, Charley.”

  “I want to say this before we get started. I don’t want to drag you down with me if this whole thing blows up in my face…”

  Silvio made a deprecating gesture.

  “…which seems more likely every minute,” Castillo finished. “So I give you my word that I will swear on a stack of Bibles that I told you little—virtually nothing—about what’s happened and what I’m doing or trying to do.”

  “I very much appreciate that, but why don’t we cross that bridge when we get to it? And why do you think it’s going to blow up in your face? Everyone else, including me, seems to have a good deal of confidence in you.”

  “I’ve got too many balls in the air and I’m not that good a juggler,” Castillo said. “So what I’m going to do—with my word that I will deny having ever told you—is tell you what they are and ask for your suggestions.”

  “Before we get into that, may I ask about Mr. Masterson and the children? Where are they? How are they?”

  “They’re fine. They’re with Mr. Masterson’s family on their plantation in Mississippi. Until now, they’ve had some Delta Force shooters protecting them. Today, or maybe tomorrow, the shooters will be replaced by some retired Special Forces types who are pretty good. I think—and, God, I hope I’m right—that the threat to them has been drastically reduced by Lorimer’s death. They no longer need Mr. Masterson to point them to Lorimer.”

  “That makes sense,” Silvio said. “And Special Agent Schneider? How is she?”

  “She’s in a hospital in Philadelphia with her jaws wired shut. Almost certainly wondering why I haven’t been to see her as promised.”

  Silvio shook his head sympathetically.

  “I’m sure she’ll understand,” he said.

  “I hope you’re right, sir,” Castillo said.

  After a long moment, Silvio said, “Tell me what you think I should know, Charley, please.”