"This is first thing in the morning."
Castillo looked at his watch. "Half past four, which means it's half past ten in Germany. Which brings me to this."
He walked to the bar, picked up a telephone, and punched in a long series of numbers from memory. [FOUR] Executive Offices Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H. Fulda, Hesse, Germany 1029 2 August 2005 Frau Gertrud Schroder, a stocky sixty-year-old who wore her blond hair in a bun, put her head in the office door of Otto Gorner, the managing director of Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H. She had on a wireless headset.
"Karlchen is favoring you with a call," she announced, her hand covering the microphone.
"How kind of him," Gorner replied. He was a well-tailored sixty-year-old Hessian whose bulk and red cheeks made him look like a postcard Bavarian. As he reached for one of the telephones on his desk, he added, "Well, at least he's alive."
Frau Schroder walked to the desk and Gorner waved her into a chair opposite him.
"And how are things in South America?" Gorner said into the handset.
"I have no idea, I'm in Mississippi. And I'm fine. Thank you for asking."
"May I ask what you're doing in Mississippi?"
"I'm in Penthouse C of the Belle Vista Casino in Biloxi about to have steak and eggs for breakfast."
"Why do I suspect that for once you're telling me the truth?"
"But speaking of South America, you might take a look at the Reuters and AP wires from Uruguay starting about now."
"Really?"
"I think both you and Eric Kocian might be interested in what might come over the wire."
"Well, I'll keep an eye out, if you say so."
"It might be a good idea."
"Is that why you called, Karl, or is there something else on your mind?"
"Actually, there is. How much trouble would it be for Frau Schroder to open a bank account for me in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank in the Cayman Islands?"
"Why would you want to do something like that?"
"And put, say, ten thousand euros in it?"
"Why would you want to do something like that?" Gorner asked again.
"I've always been frugal. You know that, Otto. 'A penny saved,' as Benjamin Franklin said, 'is a penny earned.'"
"Gott!"
Frau Schroder shook her head and smiled. Gorner gave her a dirty look.
"And tell them to expect a rather large transfer of funds into the account in the next few days, please," Castillo said.
"I really hate to ask this question, but didn't you just say you're in the penthouse of a casino?"
"In the Belle Vista Casino."
"And did you put the penthouse on the Tages Zeitung's American Express card?"
"No. Actually, I'm staying here free."
"How much did you lose to get them to give you a free room? A penthouse suite?"
"Why do you think I lost?"
Gorner exhaled audibly.
"When do you want this bank account opened?"
"How about today?"
"If you're telling the truth-and I would be surprised if you are-and you're trying to hide money from the IRS, you're probably going to get caught."
"Thank you for your concern. Just have Frau Schroder open the account and e-mail me the number so I can make a deposit. I'll worry about getting the money out later."
"All right, Karl. But I wish I really knew what you're up to this time."
"I'll tell you the next time I see you."
"And when will that be?"
"Maybe soon. I'm going from here to see my grandmother and then I'll probably come over there."
"I hope I can believe that."
"Tell Frau Schroder thanks, Otto. I've got to run."
The line went dead.
Gorner put the handset in the cradle and Frau Schroder took off her headset.
"I wonder what that's all about?" he asked.
"Gambling? I never knew of his gambling."
"Not with money," Gorner said. "The last I heard, when he was in Budapest with Eric and me, he was going-they were all going-to Argentina."
"I wonder what we're supposed to find on the South American wires?"
"He said 'Uruguay' wires."
"I wonder what we're supposed to find on the 'Uruguay' wires?"
Gorner shrugged.
"Is there going to be any trouble with opening that account? Don't we have some money in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank?"
"Quite a bit, actually," she said. "I'll send them a wire and have them open an account for him. Shouldn't be any trouble at all." She paused. "The question is, though, in whose name do I open it?"
"I think we're supposed to cleverly deduce who he is right now."
"Shall I try to get him back and ask him?"
Gorner thought that over for a moment and then said, "No. Open it for Karl W. Gossinger. That'll raise fewer questions than if we opened it for Carlos Castillo." [FIVE] Penthouse C The Belle Vista Casino and Resort U.S. Highway 90 ("The Magic Mile") Biloxi, Mississippi 0835 2 August 2005 Vic D'Allessando, smiling and shaking his head, pointed to Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, who was sitting sound asleep in an armchair.
Castillo smiled and then motioned for D'Allessando to go into the bedroom. He followed him in and closed the door.
"Jesus Christ, he's just a kid," D'Allessando said. "You going to tell me what he's doing here?"
"I didn't know what else to do with him," Castillo said.
"Meaning?"
"He's seen too much, he's heard too much, he's done too much. He's either eighteen or nineteen and I wonder if he can keep his mouth shut."
"Oh," D'Allessando said.
"I couldn't leave him in Buenos Aires," Castillo went on. "He's in the Marine Guard detachment at the embassy. I think he was the clerk. The detachment is run by a gunnery sergeant-good guy-but a gunnery sergeant who's going to ask, the moment he sees him, 'Lester, my boy, where have you been and what have you been doing?'"
"Yeah," D'Allessando agreed.
"As a rule of thumb, Marine corporals, when a gunny asks a question, answer it," Castillo said.
"Even if some Army major has told them to keep their mouth shut," D'Allessando said. "And since you can't have the gunny knowing what went down… You have a problem, Charley."
"Yeah, compounded by the fact that Bradley not only saved my bacon but I really like him."
"Isn't his gunny going to wonder where the hell he is?"
"I told Alex Darby to tell the ambassador I exfiltrated Bradley with us. That'll hold off the gunny for a couple of days, but even if the ambassador and Darby tell the gunny not to get curious he will."
"So get him out from under the gunny. Get him transferred out. Can you do that?"
"Get him transferred where? 'Welcome to Camp Lejeune, Corporal Bradley. Where have you been, what have you been doing, and why have you suddenly been transferred here? What do you mean you can't tell me, it's classified Top Secret Presidential'?"
"Yeah," D'Allessando agreed again, chuckling. "Okay, stash him at Bragg. Call McNab and tell him the problem."
"A Marine corporal would stand out like a sore thumb at the Special Warfare Center."
"Not necessarily," D'Allessando said. "There's been some talk about taking some Marines-a lot of Marines, two or three thousand-into Special Operations. Another of Schoomaker's brainstorms, I think."
General Peter J. Schoomaker was chief of staff of the U.S. Army.
"Schoomaker's one of us, Vic," Castillo said.
"Yeah, I know. I knew him then, too. I was the armorer on his A-Team. Good guy. I wasn't saying it's a bad idea, just where I think it came from. Anyway, what they're doing right now is running some Marines-mostly from their Force Recon-through the Q course. So they can tell us what we're doing wrong, I guess. Anyway, we can stash the kid with them."
"Where Corporal Bradley would stand out like a sore thumb among the hardy warriors of Marine Force Recon," Castillo said. He chuckled. "M
ost of them have gone through that SEAL body building course on the West Coast and look like Arnold Schwarzenegger."
"That's my best shot, Charley. Take it or leave it."
"I'll take it. I'll call General McNab."
"I'll deal with McNab. Just leave the kid here with me. There will be a Special Ops King Air here around noon. I'll put him on it and it'll take him to Bragg."
"Thanks, Vic."
As they were walking out of the bedroom, there was a melodious chime and Vic D'Allessando walked to the door and pulled it open.
"Good morning, Mr. Masterson," he said. "Come on in."
"I'm sorry to be late," J. Winslow Masterson said. "It was unavoidable."
He was a very tall, very black sharp-featured man wearing a crisp, beautifully tailored off-white linen suit. He held a panama hat in his hand.
Castillo smiled as what his grandfather had said about linen suits-or, rather, about seersucker suits-popped into his memory: The reason I wear seersucker suits is, they come from the tailor mussed and people expect that. When I put on a linen suit, it's mussed in ten minutes and people come up to me sure that I know where they can find dope or whores or both.
"You're smiling, Charley," Masterson said, crossing the room with large strides to put out his hand. "There must be good news."
Castillo was finally able to get off the couch.
"Actually, sir, when I saw that beautiful suit I thought of something my grandfather said."
"I'd love to hear it," Masterson said.
Charley repeated his grandfather's trenchant comment.
Masterson laughed.
"Your grandfather had a way with words," he said. "Did you ever tell Mr. D'Allessando about Lyndon Johnson?"
"No, sir."
"Mr. Castillo had a magnificent bull registered as Lyndon Johnson. The animal, from the time it was a calf, had eaten heartily and therefore had droppings far above average…"
"No kidding?" D'Allessando said, laughing. "I didn't know you knew Charley's grandfather."
"Not as well as I would have liked," Masterson said. He looked expectantly at Castillo.
"Yes, sir. I have news. Whether it's good or not is a tough call."
"May I help myself to your coffee?" Masterson asked.
"Oh, hell, excuse me," D'Allessando said. "Let me get it for you."
"I'm old but I can still pour my own coffee, thank you just the same."
As he walked to the wet bar, Masterson saw Corporal Lester Bradley for the first time. Bradley was dozing in an armchair. Masterson looked curiously at Castillo.
"That's Corporal Bradley of the Marine Corps, sir," Castillo said.
That woke Bradley up. He erupted from the armchair, saw Masterson, and quickly came to attention.
D'Allessando smiled and shook his head.
"At ease, Corporal," Castillo said. "This is Mr. Masterson's father, Bradley."
"Yes, sir," Bradley said.
"Bradley was involved in the protection of the family in Buenos Aires," Castillo said.
"How do you do, Corporal?" Masterson said, advancing on Bradley with his hand extended. "I'm very pleased to meet you."
God, he's really a gentleman, Castillo thought. You'd never know from his face that's he's wondering what this boy could possibly have been doing on a protection detail. What he's doing is putting him at ease. That's class.
"How do you do, sir?" Bradley said.
"Please, sit down," Masterson said.
Bradley looked at Castillo, who signaled for him to sit down.
Castillo waited until Masterson had poured the coffee.
"Sir," he began, "the President has authorized me to tell you and Mr. Masterson anything I think I should. I'll tell you what I know and you can tell me how much I should tell her."
"Whatever you say."
"And I have to tell you, sir, that this is highly classified and is to go no further than yourself and Mr. Masterson."
"There are two ladies so identified," Masterson said.
"I will trust your judgment with regard to both. And as far as that goes, with regard to Ambassador and Mr. Lorimer."
"Thank you."
"Jean-Paul Lorimer," Castillo reported, "was shot to death by parties unknown at approximately 9:20 p.m. local time, 31 July, in Tacuarembo, Uruguay."
Masterson's eyebrows rose.
"You're sure of this?" Masterson said.
"Yes, sir, I was there," Castillo said. "As was Corporal Bradley. Bradley took out the men who killed Mr. Lorimer."
That got Masterson's attention. He looked first in uncontrollable surprise at Bradley and then shifted his curious look to Castillo. There was a question in his eyes. It hung in the air but was not asked.
"Mr. Masterson," Castillo said, carefully, "once I located Mr. Lorimer, it was my intention to repatriate him-willingly or otherwise. I had just identified myself to him when he was shot."
"I have two questions," Masterson said. "Who shot him? And what was he doing in Uruguay?"
"I have no idea who shot him. Every one of them-there were six men in the group who attacked us-were killed by my people. As to what he was doing in Uruguay, I believe he was trying to establish a new identity. Actually, he had established one. He had a Lebanese passport in the name of Jean-Paul Bertrand. He was legally-as Bertrand-a resident in Uruguay, where people believed he was a successful antiquities dealer."
"Antiquities dealer? Can you tell me-I have the feeling you know-why he was doing something like that?"
"Apparently, he was involved with the Iraqi oil-for-food scandal. Specifically, I believe, as the paymaster. He knew who got how much money, and when and what for. That could have been the reason he was killed. Additionally, I believe he skimmed some of the payoff money. He had almost sixteen million dollars in several bank accounts in Uruguay. He may have been killed as punishment for stealing the money."
"One is not supposed to speak ill of the dead," Masterson said, "but that explains a good deal. Greed would motivate Jean-Paul. Coupled with the delusion that he was smarter than those from whom he was stealing, that would give him motivation sufficient to overcome his natural timidity."
"I can't argue with that, sir, but I just don't know why he did what He did."
"How did you find him? And so quickly?"
"Good question, Charley," D'Allessando said.
Castillo flashed him a dirty look, then said, "I don't mean to sound flippant, but I got lucky."
"And the money? What happens to that money? Sixteen million, you said?"
"Yes, sir. We have it."
"Does anyone-everyone-know you have it?"
"No, sir."
"What are you going to do with it? Jesus! Sixteen million!" D'Allessando said, earning him another dirty look from Castillo.
"Mr. Masterson, do you remember me telling you the day we came here that the President had ordered Ambassador Montvale, and the attorney general, and the secretaries of state and Homeland Security-everybody-to give me whatever I needed to track down Mr. Masterson's murderers?"
Masterson nodded.
"That was the truth, but it wasn't the whole truth. In fact-and this carries the security classification of Top Secret Presidential, and, if I somehow can, I'd rather not make Mr. Masterson privy to this-"
"I understand," Masterson interjected.
"In fact, there has been a Presidential Finding, in which the President set up a covert and clandestine organization charged with locating and rendering harmless those people responsible for the murders of Mr. Masterson and Sergeant Markham."
"'Rendering harmless'? Is that something like the 'terminating with extreme prejudice' of the Vietnam era?"
"Just about," D'Allessando said.
"I would rather not answer that, sir," Castillo said.
"I understand. And who-if you can't answer, I'll understand-is running this 'covert and clandestine' organization? Ambassador Montvale? The CIA?"
"I am, sir. And that's something else I would rather n
ot tell Mr. Masterson."
Masterson nodded and pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"The money will be used to fund that activity, sir," Castillo said.
"Is that what they call poetic justice?" Masterson said. "A moment ago, I was worried about Ambassador Lorimer…"
"Sir?"
"Jean-Paul's only blood kin are his parents and Betsy. That means unless he left a will bequeathing his earthly possessions to some Parisian tootsie, which I don't think is likely, they are his heirs. The ambassador would know there was no way Jean-Paul could have honestly accrued that much money. That would have been difficult for him. And God knows Betsy doesn't need it-and, of course, would not want it."
"Sir, Mr. Lorimer owned-and I don't think it was mortgaged-a large estancia-a farm-in Uruguay. And he owned-I know he owned-a nice apartment on rue Monsieur in the VII Arrondisement in Paris."
"Well, he lived in Paris, therefore he needed a place to live. Many people take insurance to pay off the mortgage on their apartments on their death. The same argument could be presented to the ambassador vis-a-vis the farm in Uruguay, which Jean-Paul could have acquired in anticipation of his ultimate retirement. The question is, how do we explain to the ambassador the circumstances of Jean-Paul's death?"
"That's what they call a multiple-part question," Castillo said. "Let me try to explain what we have. By now the local police in Tacuarembo have found out what happened. The question is, what have they found out?"
He let that sink in, then continued:
"We plastic-cuffed and blindfolded the servants that were in the house." He paused. "One of these was a young Uruguayan girl with whom Mr. Lorimer apparently had a close relationship."
He waited until he saw understanding and what could have been contempt in Masterson's eyes and then went on.
"We put her-and the estancia manager and his wife-to sleep. A safe narcotic, administered by someone who knew what he was doing.
"Now, everybody saw who did the cuffing: Spanish-speaking masked men wearing balaclava masks. You remember when the Alcohol, Firearms and Tobacco agents 'rescued' the Cuban boy in Miami? Their black ski masks?"
Masterson nodded. His face showed his contempt for that act.
"And everybody was wearing what are essentially black coveralls. That description will be reported to the police. When the police arrive-and by now they almost certainly have-they will have found six men in dark blue, nearly black coveralls. But no masks. Which poses a problem…"
Hunters pa-3 Page 7