"The garage is soundproofed," Munz said, professionally. "And the poor girl in the cashier's office is going to cower in her little cubicle and do nothing whatever until she is sure we are gone and the police are here. And she will tell them that she saw nothing for fear we'll be back. We have another minute, perhaps, until someone finishes dinner and comes for their car."
Sergeant Robert Kensington came running up and dropped to his knees beside Janos.
"What's he doing?" Pevsner asked.
"Whatever he can to keep Janos alive," Munz said. "He's a medical soldier."
"Janos needs a hospital, a surgical doctor," Pevsner pursued.
"Who will ask questions," Munz said. "Kensington can treat him, Alek. He took a bullet from my shoulder."
"Your call, Alek," Castillo said, evenly. "You can stay here and wring your hands over Janos and deal with the cops or you can help us get him in the van. In thirty seconds, we're out of here."
Pevsner met Castillo's eyes for a moment, then moved to Janos, putting him in an erect position so that it would be easier to pick him up.
Thirty seconds later, Janos was stretched across the rear row of seats. Sergeant Kensington was applying a pressure dressing to Janos's side.
"Watch your feet," Delchamps called. "I grabbed two Madsens and they're still loaded."
Ten seconds after Castillo and Max got in the front seat and closed the door, Solez drove the Traffik to the exit ramp and took out the fragile barrier as he went up. Castillo heard an alarm bell start ringing.
Fifteen seconds later, they were in the one-hundred-thirty-kilometer-per-hour lane of Route 8 headed south.
Castillo turned to look out the rear window. The BMW was following them.
He looked at Delchamps.
"What else did you find at the laundry van?"
"I'll tell you later," Delchamps said. "If, as seems highly likely, we shortly find ourselves chatting with half a dozen of Pilar's finest law enforcement officers, it will be better if you don't know." [FIVE] Nuestra Pequena Casa Mayerling Country Club Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 2155 13 August 2005 Castillo, Pevsner, and Delchamps leaned against the wall of one of the down-stairs bedrooms, watching as U.S. Army Special Forces medic Sergeant Robert Kensington finished bandaging Janos. The bed had been raised three feet off the floor on concrete blocks to make a perfectly serviceable operating table.
"Bullets are like booze," Kensington observed, professionally. "The larger the body-unless, of course, the bullets hit something important-the less effect they have. And we have here a very large body."
Janos, feeling the effects of three of Kensington's happy pills, agreed cheerfully. "Oh, yes," he said. "I am much larger than most men."
"Perhaps not as smart but indeed larger," Pevsner said, fondly.
Castillo and Delchamps chuckled.
Pevsner's cellular buzzed. He looked at its screen to see who was calling and then pointed to the French doors leading from the room to the backyard.
"May I?" he asked.
"Sure," Castillo said.
Pevsner left the room and walked to the center of the backyard with the cellular to his ear. The floodlights which normally illuminated the backyard had been turned off but there was still enough light from the house and the quincho so that he could be seen clearly. Castillo and Delchamps left the bedroom and stood on the tile-paved patio.
When Pevsner took the cellular from his ear, they walked to Pevsner.
"Anna and the children are pleased that I am impulsively taking them to our place in San Carlos de Bariloche for a little skiing," Pevsner said. "Anna is concerned that they will lose a few days in school, but under the circumstances…"
"I understand," Castillo said.
"They are en route to the Jorge Newbery airfield by car," Pevsner went on. "I have arranged for a Lear to fly us to Bariloche. Now, if I can further impose on your hospitality, there is something else I'd like you to do for me."
"Which is?" Castillo asked.
"I don't want Anna and the children to see Janos in his present condition, of course, and Janos-despite his present very good humor-is really not in shape to fly halfway across Argentina. There is a place not very far from here that is both safe and where he can recuperate in peace. What I would like to do is have the Ranger pick us up…"
"Not here," Castillo interrupted. "Sorry."
"Of course not," Pevsner said. "Please let me continue, my friend."
"Okay. Continue."
"There are eight polo fields at the Argentine Polo Association on the north of Pilar. Do you know where I mean?"
Castillo shook his head.
"Right off Route 8," Pevsner said. "I would like to rendezvous with the Ranger there on the most remote of the polo fields, take Janos to the place I mentioned, then have the Ranger take me to Jorge Newbery to meet my family. Would you carry us to the Polo Association?"
"When?"
"Right now, if that would be possible."
Castillo exhaled audibly.
Then he said: "Set it up, please, Edgar. Lead car, Traffik, trail car. Shooters in everything. I'll ride with Alek and Janos in the Traffik."
Delchamps nodded and walked toward the house.
"Thank you, friend Charley," Pevsner said. "I am greatly in your debt."
Castillo shrugged.
"Can I give him some money?" Aleksandr Pevsner asked.
Castillo looked at him and saw that he was looking toward the house where Kensington was leaning against the wall outside his "operating room," puffing on a cigar.
"You mean Sergeant Kensington?" Castillo asked.
"Your doctor. I am very grateful for what he did for Janos. I would like to show my appreciation."
"Giving Sergeant Kensington money-how do I put this?-would be like slipping your priest a few bucks for granting you absolution. Except that if you tried, Kensington would probably rearrange your face so you would remember not to make that particular faux pas again."
"Please tell him I consider myself in his debt and if there is anything I can ever do for him…"
"Tell him yourself, Alek," Castillo said. "He'll be in the Traffik with us and Janos." He paused, chuckled, and went on: "But as a shooter, he has pretty much given up his medical career."
"Similarly, my friend Charley, I am deeply in your debt. And not solely for saving my life."
"You can pay that debt by staying out of my way while I'm running down our great mutual friend Howard Kennedy. I want him, Alek."
"If I knew where he was, I'd tell you."
"I want him without a beauty hole in his forehead, you understand that?"
"With great difficulty," Pevsner said, nodding slowly. "There is only one suitable punishment for a man who enters your life dishonestly and gains your confidence and affection…"
"Got a little egg on your face, do you, Alek?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Aleksandr Pevsner, that great judge of character, trusted the wrong guy and mistrusted the good guy. Good guys, plural."
"I'm not familiar with the expression."
"You know what I mean, Alek."
"I am where I am today because I…"
"By where you are today, I guess you mean hiding under your Mercedes from your good friends in the FSB while they tried to whack you?"
Pevsner's face tightened.
"If that was the case…"
"No 'if' about it, Alek. Edgar Delchamps knew one of the guys in the laundry truck. Lieutenant Colonel Yevgeny Komogorov, deputy to Colonel Pyotr Sunev, director of the FSB's Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight Against Terrorism."
Pevsner glared at him.
"That's a mouthful, isn't it?" Castillo asked. "'Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight Against Terrorism'? And I guess they define 'terrorist' as anyone who might be able to identify former Lieutenant Colonel Putin of the KGB as just one more maggot in the oil-for-food scam."
"If Putin
was involved in that, I don't know about it."
"Sunev and the late Colonel Komogorov must have thought you did. Otherwise, why did they try to whack you?"
Pevsner didn't reply.
"And to whack you, Sunev didn't send some second-rate Cuban-he sent Komogorov."
Pevsner stared icily at Castillo for a long moment.
"Howard Kennedy is not stupid," Pevsner said, finally. "He knew that you were sooner or later going to suspect him of ties-or find ties, as you did in fact-with the FSB, and that if you did, you would probably tell me. I think it's entirely possible that he told Sunev that we were becoming too close, exchanging information…"
"And after all, Kennedy had been really working for Sunev all along, hadn't he? Getting paid-better paid, obviously-to provide just that sort of information?"
"I paid Howard well, but nothing like nearly sixteen million dollars," Pevsner said. "The first suspicion I had of Howard-and, of course, I felt guilty about having it-was when he was so upset about those bank drafts you took from Lorimer's safe. He acted almost as if you had stolen the money from him."
"I really hope I did," Castillo said.
"I think he had a deal with the Cuban. The Cuban would shut Lorimer's mouth, take the bank drafts, give them to Howard, and they would split the proceeds. And you ruined this plan for him, Charley."
"I want him, Alek."
"What will happen to him after you interrogate him?"
"I've given that some thought. The first one I had was to have him sent to a really terrible prison in Colorado where the prisoners spend twenty-three hours a day in solitary cells with no contact with other prisoners. But then an FBI friend of mine said that all we could convict him of is stealing FBI investigation reports. That would put him away for five-to-ten, maybe. He'd be out in a couple of years."
"So you'll just…"
"I would like to, but we don't operate that way. What I think I'll try to arrange for him is to be sent to a medium-security prison where he would be in what they call 'the general population.' Unpleasant things happen to former FBI agents in the general population. There're even rumors that they get raped. Regularly."
There was a shrill whistle and they looked toward the house where Edgar Delchamps was standing in the door to the living room. He was signaling that the convoy was ready.
"One last time, Alek," Castillo said. "Don't get in my way."
"If I find him before you do, I'll tell you where he is. Somehow the notion of Howard being regularly traded as a sexual commodity seems a fitting consequence for his actions."
They started walking toward the house. [SIX] Nuestra Pequena Casa Mayerling Country Club Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1005 14 August 2005 What Castillo thought of as the Philosophers, as opposed to the Shooters, were gathered in the quincho, the main room of which looked very much like a schoolroom complete to blackboards, a teacher, and nine overage eighth-graders raising their hands for permission to offer the teacher their deep thoughts.
The teacher was FBI Inspector Jack Doherty. The Philosophers were Special Agent Yung, Eric Kocian, Alex Darby, Colonel Alfredo Munz, and Mr. and Mr. Paul Sieno. Also present was Colonel Jake Torine, who was included not so much for his knowledge of the situation but for his brains. Castillo and Delchamps sat in, although both regarded themselves far more as Shooters than Philosophers. And there was the class pet, who lay asleep with his head on Castillo's shoe and from time to time made strange, pleased sounds, which Castillo thought might be because he was dreaming of a shapely Bouvier des Flandres of the opposite gender.
Corporal Lester Bradley, technically a Shooter, was manning the radio with instructions to tell anyone who called from Washington that Colonel Castillo was momentarily unavailable but would get back to them as soon as possible.
There were still a lot of pieces to fit together and Castillo didn't want to interrupt that process.
The Shooters-Sergeant Major Davidson, Sergeant Kensington, Sandor Tor, and Ricardo Solez-were on perimeter guard duty, no less efficient because they were seated comfortably in strategically placed upholstered chairs.
Edgar Delchamps not only approved the perimeter guard but suggested that Castillo recruit more Shooters for it. He said that he trusted Aleksandr Pevsner about half as far as he could throw him vis-a-vis not revealing the location of the safe house and pointing out that Pevsner was now aware that just about everybody with knowledge was gathered in one place, which made it one hell of a rich target for somebody who wanted mouths shut permanently.
Delchamps also volunteered the hope that Castillo was not holding his breath waiting for Pevsner to tell him anything about the location of Howard Kennedy. The race was on-and in high goddamned gear-if Castillo wanted to get the sonofabitch before Pevsner did.
Castillo was of two minds.
Professionally, he agreed with Delchamps-and just about everybody else-that Pevsner couldn't be trusted and wouldn't hesitate to have them all killed to protect himself-or, perhaps more important, to reduce or remove a threat to his family.
Personally, Castillo trusted Pevsner, at least to a degree.
But, obviously, he had to go with his professional judgment.
When his cellular went off, he had just about decided that school was going to be in session for a week-or longer-and to tell Bradley to get Dick Miller at the Nebraska Avenue Complex on the horn and to tell Miller to call either General Bruce J. McNab or Vic D'Allessando at Bragg and tell them to get a ten-man A-Team on the next flight out of Miami-put 'em in civvies and tell 'em to make like they're soccer players-and, yeah, we have weapons here.
"?Hola?" Castillo said to his phone.
"You, on the other hand, sound like a Porteno," his caller said.
"So how's the skiing?"
"Very nice, thank you. Our friend is in 1808 at the Conrad in Punta del Este."
"You're sure?" Castillo said, but after a moment he realized he was talking to a broken connection.
Delchamps looked at him with a question in his eyes.
"O ye of little faith!" Castillo said, and turned to Yung. "What's the Conrad in Punta del Este?"
"Fancy hotel. Fanciest. With a casino."
"Is there an airport there?"
"Yeah."
"Jake, could we take the Gulfstream from here to wherever Punta del Este is in Uruguay…"
"On the Atlantic, about a hundred kilometers from Montevideo," Yung furnished.
"…and then to Quito without refueling?"
"No problem. What do you plan to do about immigration?"
"Worry about that when we get to the States," Castillo said.
He stuck out his tongue at Delchamps, made a loud humming sound, then said: "You can interpret that-it's the best I can do-as sounding 'Boots and Saddles.' Kennedy is in room 1808 of the Conrad and we're going to go get him."
"Who we?" Delchamps asked.
"You, Munz, me, and Two-Gun," Castillo said. "Alex, can you get on a secure line and tell the CIA guy in Montevideo…what's his name?"
"Robert Howell," Darby replied. "Bob Howell."
"…to meet us with a car-better yet, a Yukon, or at least a van, something big-at the Punta del Este airport? And that we're leaving right now?"
"Do I tell him why?"
"No, just that it's important."
Max happily trotted after Castillo as he headed for the quincho door.
"Not this time, pal," Castillo said.
He could hear Max barking and whining even after he'd entered the big house and headed for the driveway. [SEVEN] Punta del Este Airport Punta del Este, Republica Oriental del Uruguay 1335 14 August 2005 Robert Howell, the "cultural attache" of the U.S. embassy, was waiting for them at the small but well-equipped airport with a blue Yukon displaying diplomatic tags.
Castillo introduced Delchamps to him-Howell knew who Delchamps was but had never met him-then explained what he intended to do: Grab Howard Kennedy, bring him back to the airport, and fly him to the States, with only a fuel sto
p in Quito.
"I'd like to have you in on this, but if it would make things awkward for you just give us the truck and come back in two hours. If we're lucky, I'll leave the key under the mat."
Howell said, "I'm in. We may need my diplomatic carnet. If there's trouble, all they can do is expel me as persona non grata."
"Thank you."
"How do we get him out of the hotel and into the truck?"
"Let's make sure he's there first, then worry about that," Delchamps said. "Our noble leader is placing a lot of faith where I'm not at all sure it belongs."
Castillo ignored him.
"How come this place looks so deserted?" Castillo asked. "There's nothing here but a couple of light twins and some Cessna 172s."
"It's winter," Howell said. "Punta del Este is just about closed in the winter. Wait till we get downtown." Ten minutes later, Castillo could see a long line of high-rise apartment buildings overlooking a wide, nice-looking beach. When they came close to the apartments, however, he was surprised at what he found: The blinds were drawn behind almost all of the apartment windows, there were few cars on the street (and even fewer in the parking lots under the high-rise buildings), and only a very few people on the streets.
This is almost surreal, Castillo thought.
Five minutes after that, the Conrad came into view, an imposing structure Castillo guessed was twenty stories high.
"They keep this open for the gamblers," Howell said. "But I'd say it's not even one-quarter full."
He turned off the road and drove up the driveway.
"Well, there's activity here," Delchamps said. "Why does that make me feel uneasy?"
The parking area in front of the main door of the resort was crowded with vehicles. With the exception of two stretch limousines and a Volkswagen bug, they were all police vehicles of one description or another.
"Why do I think going back to the airport would be a good idea?" Delchamps asked.
"Oh, let's go play the slots!" Castillo said. "I feel lucky."
"Well, I suppose it's remotely possible that somebody tried to knock off the casino and the entire Uruguayan police force has responded," Delchamps said and opened his door.
They walked up a wide flight of marble stairs and were halfway across the lobby when a voice called, "Alfredo!"
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