When they were in a spacious, nicely furnished living room with plateglass walls offering a view of the garden, she pointed.
“The Grand Duke seems to be satisfied with our humble offering,” she said.
Eric Kocian, elegant in an entirely white outfit, from hat to shoes, was sitting in a white-leather-upholstered stainless steel recliner beside the swimming pool. He was drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigar. A matching table held an ashtray, a coffee service, and a copy of the Buenos Aires Herald.
To the right of the swimming pool was a small cottage built in the style of the main house, obviously the quincho that Darby had mentioned. There was a DirecTV satellite dish antenna mounted on the roof. Castillo looked but could not see the antenna that he knew Kensington had put up for the AFC Delta Force radio.
Kensington knows what he’s doing. The radio is set up somewhere.
And there are two of them. I’ve never heard that any of them ever went down, but redundancy is always nice.
“I’ve got to talk to Billy and right now,” Castillo said.
“Privately?” Darby asked.
“No. I want both of you in on it,” Castillo said.
“You took your time coming, Karlchen,” the old man greeted him poolside. “And as you can see, Max has found a new friend. He probably won’t even notice you’re here.”
He gestured to the other side of the swimming pool, where Max was chasing after a soccer ball that Corporal Lester Bradley had kicked into the distance.
Castillo saw the grip of a Model 1911A1 Colt pistol sticking out of Bradley’s waistband, under his jacket.
I can’t let Billy get away with that crack, Castillo decided. He whistled shrilly.
Max, who had just picked up the soccer ball in his mouth with no more difficulty than a lesser canine would have had with a tennis ball, stopped, looked, then came happily running over to him.
Castillo looked at Kocian, smiled smugly, then looked back at Max and said, “I can’t believe he got that in his mouth.”
“It no longer holds air,” Kocian said. “Max was annoyed the first time he bit into it and it hissed at him. So he gave it a good bite to make it behave.”
Max dropped the limp soccer ball at Castillo’s feet. Castillo rubbed his ears, then kicked the ball as hard as he could so that it would sail over the swimming pool. He failed. The ball landed in the pool. Max ran up to the four-foot-tall fence that surrounded the pool, looked at the barrier, then, with no apparent effort, jumped over it. He then leaped into the pool, grabbed the ball, paddled around a moment until he figured the best way to get out of the pool was via the steps on the shallow end, swam there, got out, jumped back over the fence, and trotted over to them.
“That was a mistake, Karlchen,” Kocian said. “What he will do now is drop the ball at our feet and shake himself.”
Max did precisely that.
“Max, you sonofabitch!” Castillo said, laughing.
“You would find that amusing!” Kocian said. “Look at my trousers!”
“That isn’t the only mistake I’ve made. Does that surprise you?”
“Not at all, frankly,” Kocian said. “But we all make them. The last time for me was in January. Or was it December? I misspelled a word. Are you going to tell me what yours was?”
Colonel Alfredo Munz walked up.
“Am I intruding?” he said.
“Of course not,” Castillo said. “Your family is in the Belmont House Hotel. Everything went perfectly.”
“Am I going to get a chance to talk to them?”
“Can you wait until we get to Quito, Ecuador?”
“Of course.”
“The Herr Oberstleutenant, Herr Oberst,” Kocian said, “is about to tell us all of a mistake he made. I’m breathless with anticipation.”
“My mistake was in thinking we could hide Herr Kocian here,” Castillo said. “But now I realize that would be about as difficult as concealing a giraffe on the White House lawn.”
Munz, Susanna Sieno, and Darby could not resist smiling at the image.
Kocian glared at them.
“So what do you suggest?” Kocian asked, rather icily.
“The opposite,” Castillo replied. “He’s an important journalist, publisher of the Budapester Tages Zeitung, vice chairman of the board of directors of Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H….”
Castillo saw the sour look on the old man’s face and had a hard time restraining a smile. You didn’t mind me mentioning that, did you, Uncle Billy?
“…and I don’t think the Argentine government would be happy if anything happened to him.”
“I see where you’re going,” Munz said.
“I don’t,” Kocian said.
“They would want SIDE to keep an eye on you, Herr Kocian,” Munz said. “They would not want anything to happen to an important man such as yourself.”
“You think it’s a good idea, Alfredo?” Kocian said.
“I think it’s a very good idea,” Munz said.
“All I am is a simple journalist plying his trade,” Kocian said.
“We know that, but the Argentine government doesn’t,” Castillo said. “We’ll get Otto to exaggerate when he calls the German ambassador here.”
Kocian glared at him.
“Okay, so that’s what we’ll do,” Castillo said. “I’ll get on the horn right now.”
When they walked to the quincho, Corporal Lester Bradley came to attention as they approached him.
“Lester, try not to do that,” Castillo said. “You’re in civilian clothing.”
“Yes, sir,” Bradley said and lost perhaps ten percent of his rigid posture.
Sergeant Kensington was inside the quincho, on a twin of Kocian’s recliner, reading the Herald. There was a Car-4 leaning against the recliner. Kensington lowered the newspaper but did not get up.
“How soon can you get the radio up, Bob?” Castillo asked.
“We’re up and all green, sir,” Kensington said. “I just talked to Major Miller.”
“Where’s the antenna?”
“On the roof, sir. It says DirecTV on it.”
“Oh, you are a clever fellow, Robert.”
“My mother always told me that, sir.”
“Here’s what I want to do, Bob. You tell me if I can do it and, if so, how.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want a secure line wherever possible. I have to make calls to Ambassador Montvale, to a civilian number in Germany, to a civilian number in San Antonio, and another one to a local number here in Argentina—either cellular or a regular phone—and I really don’t want that party to know where it’s coming from.”
“Yes, sir. The ambassador’s no problem at all. We get Miller at the Nebraska Complex on the horn. That’ll be encrypted with our—AFC’s—logarithms. Miller can decrypt and patch you into the White House switchboard and you’ll have a secure line…”
“Instantaneous?”
“Yes, sir,” Kensington said, then reached to the floor beside him and extended a telephone handset to Castillo. “Just like a telephone.”
“And the others? How do I do that?”
“A couple of problems there,” Kensington said. “You’ll be secure as far as the White House switchboard for Germany and San Antonio, but not beyond, and, as far as here goes, the White House can get you secure as far as the embassy here, but I don’t know if they can patch you into the local phone company.”
“No problem,” Susanna said. “But unless we block it, if the person you’re calling has caller ID, they’ll know where it’s coming from, and, if they’re any good at all, they could trace it to the embassy. Override the block, I mean.”
“That’s no problem,” Castillo said. “Let him think I’m calling from the embassy. I mean, we’ll put the caller ID block in, but there’s no real harm if they get around it.”
Kensington finally rose from the recliner. He walked to what looked like a kitchen cabinet, opened the door, squ
atted to examine the AFC radio, then turned and said, “All green, sir. You want the Nebraska Complex now?”
“Please. Put it on speakerphone.”
“You’re up.”
“And how else may I be of assistance to you, Sergeant Kensington?” Major H. Richard Miller’s voice—having been encrypted in Washington, D.C., then sent twenty-seven thousand miles into space to a satellite, then bounced back another twenty-seven thousand miles to earth and decrypted in the dining room of a quincho thirty-odd miles outside Buenos Aires—inquired cheerfully and with such clarity that amazement was on everybody’s face except that of Sergeant Kensington.
“You can first get your bum leg off my desk,” Castillo said, “and then we’ll talk.”
“Oh, good morning, Colonel. I’ve been wondering when we were going to hear from you. Ambassador Montvale is, in his words, ‘quite anxious to chat’ with you.”
“Oddly enough, that’s why I called. Patch me into the White House switchboard and eavesdrop, please.”
“You got it, Charley.”
Twenty seconds later, a pleasant voice announced, “White House. This line is secure, Colonel Castillo. Sir, Ambassador Montvale has been trying to reach you.”
“Will you get him for me, please?”
“Hold one, please.”
“Ambassador Montvale’s secure line,” the now very familiar voice of Truman Ellsworth announced.
The sonofabitch really won’t answer his own phone.
“Lieutenant Colonel Castillo for the ambassador, please,” Castillo said.
“Hello, Charley!” Ambassador Montvale said cheerily a moment later. “And how are you, wherever you are?”
“I’m in Buenos Aires, sir. In three or four hours, I’m leaving for the States.”
“Nice not having to worry about airline schedules, isn’t it?” Montvale said, and, without waiting for an answer, went on: “So I’ll see you in what—twelve hours or so?”
“It’ll probably be a little longer than that, sir. I’m going first to Texas and then to Pennsylvania…”
“That’s one of the things I’m quite anxious to chat with you about, Charley: briefcases in Pennsylvania. The man you said was going to report to me has never shown up. No matter the hour, call me when you get to Washington. And bring him with you.”
“If that’s possible, sir, I will. But I will see him before I come to Washington.”
“May I inquire why you’re going to Texas?”
“What I consider to be a bona fide threat has been made against the family of one of my primary sources. I’m bringing them to the States for their protection.”
“Why do you consider it to be a bona fide threat? Source and family? Or just family? And where are you taking them?”
“Among other reasons, an attempt was made—there is good reason to believe by the same parties who were at the estancia—to kidnap Special Agent Yung. He was wounded in the process.”
“What’s the good reason?”
“Absolutely no identification on the body we have, and he had a hypodermic full of a tranquilizer with him. Same modus operandi as the attempted kidnapping—both attempts—of my source in Budapest. And, of course, the kidnapping of Mr. Masterson.”
Montvale grunted.
“You still have no idea who these people are, Charley?”
“I’ve got a couple of theories. I’ll tell you about them when I see you.”
“How’s Yung? He’s going to be all right?”
At long last, he asks about Yung.
“He has a gouge from a double-aught buckshot pellet in his hand. He was lucky.”
“Now they’re using shotguns?”
“Yung took a hit when the Uruguayan police took down the bad guy.”
“And what do the Uruguayan police think about all this?”
“That’s something else I want to talk to you about,” Castillo replied, and thought: Although right now I have no idea what I’ll say.
“We do have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”
“Sir, I apologize, but I’ve forgotten your other questions?”
Montvale took a moment to remember what they were.
“Oh, yes. Are you bringing your source and family? Or just the family?”
“Just the family, sir. His wife and two daughters.”
“And where are you taking them in Texas?”
“To the Double-Bar-C. It’s a ranch my family has in Midland. It’s isolated.”
“And floating over a sea of sweet crude oil in the Midland Basin, right?”
Jesus Christ, he knows about that, too?
“That proved very useful only yesterday,” Montvale said. “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”
Castillo didn’t respond. What the hell is he talking about?
Montvale went on, “Presumably, you’ve thought about security on the ranch?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve arranged for the Secret Service to be there by the time we get there.”
“I didn’t hear about that,” Montvale said, making it an accusation. “I wonder why?”
Castillo again didn’t reply.
“Is there anything I can do to help you, Charley? Anything you need?”
“How difficult would it be to have Edgar Delchamps brought home from Paris until we get this sorted out? He’s the CIA station chief…”
“I know who he is,” Montvale interrupted. “If you think it’s necessary, I’ll have him here as soon as he can get on a plane.”
“I think it’s important, sir.”
“Then he’ll be on the next plane. He’ll probably be here before you get here. Is there anything he should be told?”
“No, sir.”
“But you will tell me, right, why you need him when we have our chat?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“At the risk of repeating myself, let’s have that chat as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything else, Charley?”
“No, sir.”
“Nice to talk to you,” Montvale said and hung up.
“White House.”
“I need to speak with Mr. Otto Görner in Fulda, Germany,” Castillo said. “The number is…”
“Otto Görner,” Görner’s voice came over the phone.
“This is the White House calling, Herr Görner,” the operator said, in German. “Will you hold please for Colonel Castillo?
“Colonel, this line is not, repeat, not secure.”
“I understand. Thank you,” Castillo said. “Wie gehts, Otto?”
Otto Görner was not at all happy to be reminded that Kocian needed protection at all and that Castillo wanted to get at least part of it from the Argentine SIDE.
“You know what happened in Budapest, Otto,” Castillo said. “Even without involving the Argentines, he’s safer here than he would be there.”
“And you trust the Argentines?”
“I trust them to act in their best interests. Keeping Eric safe is in their best interests. And I’ll have people—good people—on him as well.”
It was a moment before Görner responded. “I’ll call as soon as we hang up.”
“I’ll keep you posted,” Castillo said.
“Yes, of course you will,” Görner said and hung up.
Castillo turned to Alex Darby.
“The next call is the local one,” he said. “Will you call the embassy switchboard and get the operator to block the caller ID?”
Darby nodded, took out his cellular, and punched an autodial button.
“This is Darby,” he announced. “In the next thirty seconds or so, there will be a secure call from Colonel Castillo from the White House. He will give you a local number to call. Block the embassy’s caller ID.” He paused. “Yes, I understand that from our switchboard the call here will not be secure.”
He broke the connection and looked at Castillo. “Done.”
“Go kick the ball for Max, Alex, and take Susanna with you, ple
ase.” He looked at Kensington. “You stay, Bob, but go deaf.”
“Yes, sir.”
Darby and Susanna walked out of the quincho.
“Okay, Bob,” Castillo ordered, motioning with the handset, “get me the embassy on here.”
“¿Hola?”
The male voice answering Pevsner’s home telephone did so in Spanish, but the thick Russian accent was apparent in the pronunciation of the one word. Castillo thought it was probably the gorilla who had followed Pevsner into the men’s room at the service station.
“Let me speak to Mr. Pevsner, please,” Castillo said, politely, in Russian.
“There is no one here by that name.”
“Tell him Herr Gossinger is calling and get him on the line,” Castillo ordered, nastily.
There was no reply, but twenty seconds later Aleksandr Pevsner came on the line.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Gossinger,” he said.
“Did Alfredo get the pancake flour and maple syrup to you all right, Alek?”
“Yes, he did, and thank you very much. But why do I suspect that isn’t the purpose of this call?”
“Paranoia?” Castillo asked, innocently.
It was a moment before Pevsner replied, a chuckle in his voice. “Do you know how many people dare to mock me, friend Charley?”
“Only your friends. And I don’t suppose there are many of those, are there?”
“Or insult me?” Pevsner asked.
“Probably about the same number,” Castillo said, solemnly.
“When was the last time you saw Alfredo?”
“When I gave him the syrup and flour. Paranoia makes me wonder if that question implies more than idle curiosity?”
“He seems to have disappeared,” Pevsner said. “I’m concerned.”
That sounded sincere.
“Have you asked Howard Kennedy?”
“Kennedy’s the one who told me. He can’t find him. Or his wife and daughters.”
I am going to have to resist a strong temptation to trust him—and not tell him not to worry.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Castillo said, hoping he sounded concerned and angry. “What the hell would your friends want with Munz?”
“What friends would those be, Charley?”
“You know goddamned well what friends. The ones who tried to whack me in Budapest and tried to kidnap and/or whack one of my men in Montevideo.”
The Hunters Page 47