“If my friends had tried to whack you, Charley, we wouldn’t be talking,” Pevsner said, matter-of-factly. “Other people—not my friends—might be interested in what Munz knows about that missing money in Uruguay.”
“Why don’t you have Howard tell the other people that I have it?”
“That presumes Howard—and, for that matter, me—know who the other people are.”
“Yes, it does. I hope Howard has relayed my message that anything done to Eric Kocian I will take personally.”
Pevsner didn’t reply.
“Since you brought it up, Alek,” Castillo pursued, “that’s the real reason I called. Has Howard relayed it?”
There was a brief hesitation as Pevsner carefully framed his reply. “I believe Howard has spoken to some people who may know some other people.”
“Well, tell him to speak to them again and this time tell them I’ll take anything that happens to Alfredo or his family just as personally as I would anything that happens to Kocian.”
“Why are you so concerned about Munz? Does he know something you don’t want other people to know?”
“You sonofabitch! I’m concerned because he’s a friend of mine. For Christ’s sake, he took a bullet for me! We apparently define the word ‘friend’ differently!”
“‘Sonofabitch’?” Pevsner parroted, coolly. “It’s a good thing you’re a soldier, friend Colonel Charley. Soldiers swear. Otherwise, I would really take offense at that.”
“Would it break your heart to hear that I hope you did?”
“No,” Pevsner said, chuckling. “Not at all. Would you be surprised if I told you you’re wrong? That I think we both define ‘friend’ the same way?”
“Yeah, it would.”
“Alfredo Munz is a good man. He has become almost as close a friend of mine as Howard is. I trust him as I do Howard. He worked well for me. I try very hard to take care of my friends. As you do, Charley.” He paused, then went on: “If anything happens to my friend Munz or his family, then I would take it personally.”
I’ll be a sonofabitch if I don’t believe him!
“Maybe you better tell Howard to tell some friends who may know some other friends that you feel that way, Alek.”
“I have,” Pevsner said, simply.
“I’m on my way to the States,” Castillo said. “If you hear anything, let me know. Howard always seems to be able to find me.”
“Is your friend Kocian going with you?”
“So long, Alek. Always nice to talk to you.”
Because of the complex connection, there was no easy way to hang up. All Castillo could do was cover the receiver with his hand and hope that Pevsner would become impatient and hang up before the White House or embassy switchboard operators came on the line.
He was lucky. He first heard Pevsner swear, then the sound of Pevsner slamming his handset into its cradle three seconds before the White House switchboard operator asked, “Are you through, Colonel?”
“Mr. Alicia Castillo, please. The White House is calling.”
“This is Alicia Castillo.”
“One moment, please…
“Colonel Castillo, this line is not secure. Your party is on the line.”
“Thank you, I understand,” Castillo said, then asked, “Abuela?”
“I’m very impressed, Carlos. Or should I call you ‘Colonel’? It’s been a long time since I had a call from the White House.”
“Don’t be.”
“Are you all right? Is Fernando with you?”
“We’re both fine. He’s getting the airplane ready. We’re about to leave Buenos Aires for home.”
“By home you mean San Antonio?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How long can you stay?”
“Just long enough to drop Fernando off. Then, via Midland, I’m headed for Washington.”
“And you can’t—or won’t—tell me about Midland?”
“The same people who murdered Mr. Masterson have threatened the family of a man who works with me. An Argentine. We’re bringing them with us to protect them until we get this mess straightened out. That’s why I don’t want you anywhere near the Double-Bar-C.”
“They’ll be in danger at the ranch?”
“They’ll be protected at the ranch by the Secret Service until I can make other arrangements for them. I’m sorry I have to use the ranch, but I just didn’t have any other options.”
“You can do whatever you please with the Double-Bar-C, Carlos. You own it.”
“That was an inheritance tax thing and you know it. It’s your ranch, Abuela.”
“Whose ever it once was, the Double-Bar-C is now yours. Your grandfather left Hacienda San Jorge to Fernando and the Double-Bar-C to you. He thought you both should have a ranch for your families.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know.”
“How many people are you taking there?”
“My friend’s wife and two daughters. Young women.”
“When will you be going there?”
“We should leave in two or three hours. It’s about a thirteen-hour flight.”
“It’s ten after nine here. If you leave there in three hours, that should put you in here about one in the morning, right?”
“And don’t even think what I know you’re thinking about,” Castillo said. “Fernando can take a cab from the airport. And please don’t tell Maria he’s coming.”
“I hadn’t planned to say anything to Maria. Your plans have a way of changing.”
“We’ll only be on the ground long enough to clear customs and take on fuel, Abuela,” he said, reasonably, “so don’t think of coming to the airport.”
“Won’t you be tired after a long flight like that? Too tired to fly on to Midland and then all the way to Washington?”
“I plan to sleep all the way to San Antone,” Castillo said. “Fernando may be a little tired. But that’s not a problem.”
“Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing,” she said.
“Fernando will tell you all that’s happened,” Castillo said. “I don’t want to do that over the telephone.”
“I understand,” she said.
“I’ll see you soon, Abuela,” Castillo said. “I promise.”
“Yes, I’m sure you will,” Doña Alicia said. “Via con Dios, mi amor.”
“You can break it down, Bob,” Castillo said to Sergeant Kensington.
“Yes, sir.”
Castillo looked out the plateglass window of the quincho and saw that Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, was again playing with Max.
“Keep an eye on Lester, will you, Bob?”
“The kid’s going to be all right, Colonel,” Kensington said.
“‘You don’t need to be all muscle to be a good special operator’—is that what you mean?”
“Yeah, that, too, Colonel. Kranz was even smaller than Lester, and he was a one hell of a soldier until these bastards got him…”
“Operative words, Bob: ‘until these bastards got him.’ Keep an eye on Bradley.”
“…but that’s not what I meant.”
Castillo looked at him, then made a Well, let me know what you do mean gesture.
“He knows how to handle tough situations.”
“Well, he certainly performed at the estancia, didn’t he?”
“I was talking about Mackall. No orders, except from you and Vic D’Allessando not to say one word about what went down here and what he was doing there. A—what?—hundred-and-thirty-pound Marine? A corporal and everybody else is a sergeant or better. You do know what happened there?”
Castillo shook his head.
Kensington grinned. “Jack Davidson told me. He thought some jarhead sergeant major was pulling his chain, that Lester was sent there as a joke. So he asked Lester how come he got sent to the Q course. When Davidson asks somebody something, he usually gets an answer. What Lester told him was, he didn’t know. Davidson asked him where he came from and Lester told him he’d been sor
t of the clerk typist for the Marine guard detachment at the embassy here. So Davidson told him he’d better forget about taking the course, nothing personal, he just didn’t have what it takes. He hadn’t even been to jump school, for one thing. But since he was a clerk typist, until Davidson could straighten things out, that’s what he would do. Punch keys on a computer keyboard. Lester didn’t even tell him he’d done a tour in Iraq.
“So that’s what he did, until General McNab and Vic showed up at Mackall to take him to Kranz’s funeral and McNab thanked him for saving your ass with those two head shots in the Ninjas.”
Castillo chuckled. “I would like to have seen Sergeant Major Davidson’s face when McNab told him that. But Jack is formidable…”
“Yes, he is.”
“…and maybe Lester was just afraid to say anything.”
“Oh, no. I asked him why he hadn’t said anything, and what he said was that he knew you and Vic didn’t want him to make waves, so he didn’t. He said he knew everything would come out sooner or later. That’s my point. He’s a smart little sonofabitch and I like him.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“You still have some clout with McNab, Colonel?”
“Nobody has clout with McNab.”
“I was hoping maybe you could get Lester a waiver—probably, waivers—and let him take the Q course. He really wants to.”
“He wants to take the Q course?” Castillo asked, dubiously.
“He wants in Special Ops. Bad. And as far as I’m concerned, he’s welcome.”
“Well, we know he performs, don’t we? When this is over, if that’s what he wants I’ll see what I can do. I owe him.”
“Speaking of that, Colonel, when you finally locate these bastards and start taking them out I’d like to be in on the operation.”
“If it can be arranged, sure.”
“Are you getting close?”
“I wish I could tell you I was. A lot depends on what Eric Kocian, Yung, and Munz come up with. So keep your other eye on them. They already tried to whack Yung.”
“Will do, Colonel. Have a nice flight.”
Although he wasn’t in uniform and therefore was not supposed to salute, Sergeant First Class Kensington saluted crisply.
Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, who was also in civilian clothing, returned it just as crisply.
“Try hard to keep your dick—and Lester’s—out of the wringer, Sergeant,” Castillo said and walked out of the quincho.
[THREE]
Aeropuerto Internacional de Carraso General Cesáreo L. Berisso
Carrasco, Montevideo
República Oriental del Uruguay
1305 9 August 2005
“It looks like Yung got carried away again, Charley,” Jake Torine said, pointing out the cockpit window of the Gulfstream as they taxied up to the business aircraft tarmac of the airport. “What I told him to do was get a picnic lunch.”
Castillo, who was kneeling in the aisle just behind the pilot’s seat, looked where Torine pointed and saw they were being met by ground handlers, customs and immigration officials, and a large, white van, on the body of which was lettered AIRPORT GOURMET.
“Isn’t ‘airport gourmet’ something like ‘military intelligence’?” Fernando Lopez, in the copilot’s seat, inquired innocently.
Castillo was less amused.
“The idea was not to attract attention,” he said.
He pushed himself upright and walked into the cabin, sat on one of the couches, and looked out the window.
The ground handlers guided the Gulfstream to a place to park and Torine shut down the engines.
Castillo lowered the stair door and looked out.
The customs and immigration officers walked up to the airplane.
“Welcome to Uruguay, señor,” one of them said, in English. “May we come aboard?”
“Certainly,” Castillo replied and stepped out of the way.
“We understand that you are discharging no passengers or cargo?”
“That’s correct.”
But how the hell did you know that?
“In that case, señor, there will be no customs or immigration formalities. The crew may go to Base Operations to check the weather and file a flight plan.”
“Thank you.”
“Will you require fuel or any other service?”
“We just need to top off the tanks. And we’d like to take some food for the flight.”
The officer gestured at the van.
“The food has been arranged for,” the officer said.
“Thank you,” Castillo said.
By that goddamned over efficient Yung!
“And we can have a fuel truck sent out quickly,” the officer said. “Please come again and stay longer,” he added, smiling, then went down the door stairs with the other official following.
Castillo went to the cockpit.
“Jake, no formalities. Just file a flight plan.”
“Where the hell are our passengers?” Torine wondered aloud.
“I don’t know. First things first: file the flight plan.”
By the time Torine reached the doorway, the Airport Gourmet truck had backed up to it, so close that when the doors in the rear swung open they almost touched the fuselage.
Dammit! Torine thought. Careful near the aircraft!
A man in a business suit leaped nimbly from the truck into the Gulfstream.
“¡Buenos tardes!” he said, cheerfully, then looked at the distance between the truck and where he stood, shook his head in disappointment, and went down the stairs. He stood at the rear of the truck and held up his hands, as if to catch someone.
A young girl jumped down. She kissed the man on the cheek, then looked at Castillo, as if asking for permission to climb the stair door steps.
Castillo thought, That has to be Alfredo’s youngest daughter.
He smiled and waved her onto the plane.
In short order, another young woman and then an older one jumped from the truck, kissed the man in the suit, and came onto the airplane. The man then climbed the stairs, looked around the cabin, and went in.
“Just to be careful, I think we’d better close these,” he said and pulled down the curtains over the windows beside the couches.
FBI Special Agent William D. Yung, Jr., jumped from the truck into the airplane.
“You are going to tell me what’s going on, right?” Castillo asked Yung.
“Colonel Castillo, this is Chief Inspector Ordóñez,” Yung said, gesturing to the man in the suit.
Jesus Christ, what the hell’s the matter with Yung introducing me by name? And by rank?
Ordóñez smiled at Castillo, put out his hand, and said, “Let me express my gratitude to you, Colonel, for doing what you are doing for the family of our mutual friend, Alfredo.”
Castillo shook the hand but didn’t reply.
Ordóñez turned to Torine.
“You’re the pilot?”
Torine nodded.
“Operations is right over there,” Ordóñez said, pointing. “I suggest that you file to Porto Alegre, Brazil. That will attract far less attention than a destination farther north.”
Torine shrugged, then looked at Castillo, his facing asking, Why not?
Castillo nodded.
“And I further suggest that the sooner you get off the ground, the better,” Ordóñez said.
Torine went down the stairs and, passing a fuel truck that had just pulled up alongside the portside wing, walked quickly to the Base Operations building.
Ordóñez turned to Yung. “You will help me with the picnic lunch, David?”
Yung nodded.
Ordóñez looked at the women, who were now all sitting on the couch.
“You are in good hands. I will look after Alfredo. ¡Via con Dios!”
Then he went down the stairs and started to climb onto the truck.
Yung handed Castillo a folded sheet of typewriter paper.
“Everything I
know is on here,” he said and went down the stairs.
Castillo started to unfold the sheet of paper, but before he had finished he heard Yung call his name. He went to the door. Yung was extending an insulated container to him. Castillo went halfway down the stairs and took it from him. He some what awkwardly turned and set the container on the floor of the passenger compartment.
When he turned again, Yung was holding another identical container. By the time he got that into the airplane and turned again, he saw that Ordóñez was hauling Yung into the Airport Gourmet truck.
“Call the office and leave a number where I can reach you!” Castillo called out.
Yung nodded as the truck doors swung closed. A moment later, the truck pulled away.
Castillo smiled.
“Call the office and leave a number where I can reach you,” said the aluminum-siding sales manager to one of his problematic sales counselors.
Jesus H. Christ!
He sensed the eyes of the women on him. He walked into the cabin.
“I’m Carlos Castillo, a friend of your father,” he said to the youngest daughter.
She smiled shyly at him.
“You speak Spanish very well for a Norteamericano,” the girl said.
“Thank you very much,” Castillo said.
“Here comes Jake!” Lopez called from the cockpit.
Five minutes later, after Torine dealt with the fuel crew and did his walk-around inspection of the aircraft, he came up the stairs and pulled the door shut behind him.
“Wind it up, Fernando,” he called and turned to Castillo.
“We can take off local and change to Porto Alegre in the air,” he said.
Torine looked at the women and addressed the youngest girl.
“Do you speak English?”
“Sí, señor. A little.”
Torine smiled. “I’m the pilot. If the flight attendant here doesn’t give you everything you want, you just let me know. I have to tell you, he’s one of our worst.”
She smiled at him and then at Castillo.
There came the whine of an engine starting.
Sixty seconds later, the Gulfstream started to move.
Castillo had unfolded the sheet of typewriter paper and was reading it before they reached the threshold of the active runway.
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