The shooters pa-4

by W. E. B Griffin

  Oh, for Christ's sake, stop it!

  You're here on business, not to pretend you're the kid's loving uncle.

  As Castillo completed the landing roll, he saw three SUVs quickly approaching the field. Then, as he taxied back to the single hangar where a sparkling V-tail Beechcraft Bonanza was tied down, he saw people. He recognized Winslow Masterson and his wife, and their daughter and her three children. There was an older couple standing with them. Logic told him they were the other grandparents, Ambassador Lorimer-the man he had come to see-and his wife.

  And logic told him, too, that the two approaching-middle-aged men in business suits were members of China Post No. 1 in Exile, the retired special operators whom Castillo had arranged for Masterson to hire to protect his daughter-in-law and grandchildren.

  Winslow Masterson was a tall, slim, elegant, sharp-featured man. He had told Castillo that he suspected his ancestors had been Tutsi.

  The men in business suits watched carefully as Castillo parked the airplane, and then one of them nodded-but didn't smile-at Castillo when he apparently recognized him. Both men then leaned against the fender of their SUV as everybody else walked up to the airplane.

  "Welcome back to the recently renamed Overturned Oaks Plantation, Major Castillo," Masterson said when Castillo climbed out of the airplane. "This is a pleasant surprise."

  "Good to see you, sir," Castillo said. "Anybody afraid of dogs?"

  The question seemed to surprise everybody, but no one expressed any concern.

  Neidermeyer opened the aircraft's rear double door, stepped out, commanded, "Okay, Max," and let loose of his collar.

  At the command, Max jumped out of the plane, headed for the nose gear, and relieved himself.

  The older Masterson boy laughed.

  "It took months to train him how to do that," Castillo said after everyone else had crawled out of the airplane through the same double door.

  Jesus Christ it's hot! Castillo thought. And the humidity is damn near unbearable. Worse than at Rucker.

  "I'm not going to call you Major," Elizabeth Masterson, a tall, slim, thirty-seven-year-old, said. "You're a friend, Charley."

  She advanced on him and kissed his cheek.

  "Actually, I'm a lieutenant colonel, he announced with overwhelming immodesty."

  "Good for you," she said. "And is this your son, Charley?"

  "No. Randy is General Wilson's grandson."

  Castillo made the introductions.

  "General Wilson," Castillo then went on, "flew with my father in Vietnam. I bumped into him at Fort Rucker, and since we were going to fly over what used to be the beautiful Gulf Coast, and there was room in the plane…"

  "Welcome to Overturned Oaks, formerly Great Oaks, General," Masterson said. "Any friend of Colonel Castillo is welcome here. We're all indebted to the colonel. And in that connection, Colonel, let me say that whenever your promotion came through it was long overdue."

  "I am ready and willing to sign autographs," Castillo said.

  Max had already discovered the Masterson children, and they him.

  "Where'd you get the dog, Colonel?" J. Winslow Masterson III asked, as he shook Max's paw. "He's awesome!"

  "My grandmother told me that since I didn't have a family, I should get a dog. And I always do what my grandmother says."

  "Pay attention," Mrs. Winslow Masterson said.

  "And speaking of grandparents," Betsy Masterson said. "Dad, Mother, this is Charley Castillo, who took such great care of us in Argentina, and brought us home."

  "My wife and I are very grateful to you, Colonel," Philippe Lorimer said. He was a very small, very black man with closely cropped white hair and large intelligent eyes. If there was visible evidence of his heart condition, Castillo couldn't see it.

  "How do you do, sir? Ma'am? Mr. Ambassador, the secretary of State sends her best regards to you and Mrs. Lorimer."

  "That's very kind of her," Lorimer said. "But why do I suspect that's not all she sent?"

  "Sir, in fact, the secretary hopes that you'll be willing to have a private minute or two with me. Perhaps out of this heat?"

  "Of course. But why do I suspect that's going to take a lot longer than a minute or two?"

  Castillo was aware that General Wilson was taking all this in but had absolutely no idea what anyone was talking about.

  Ambassador Lorimer looked at Jamie Neidermeyer, then at Castillo.

  "I'm surprised that someone like you, Colonel, needs a bodyguard," Lorimer said.

  "Dad!" Betsy Masterson protested.

  "The one advantage to being an old and retired ambassador, sweetie," he said, "is that after a lifetime of subtlety, evasion, and innuendo, you can just say whatever pops into your mind."

  "The same thing is true of being a retired general, Mr. Ambassador," General Wilson said.

  "Actually, sir, Jamie is my communicator," Castillo said. "They keep me on a short leash to make sure I don't say whatever pops into my mind."

  Lorimer laughed.

  "He's got one of those satellite telephones in that suitcase?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "With which you have direct contact with the secretary of State?"

  "Yes, sir, if you'd like to."

  "Don't plug it in yet, young man," Lorimer ordered. "I don't wish to speak to Secretary Cohen until after the colonel and I have had our two-minute chat."

  "You have a beautiful home," General Wilson said when they were in the foyer of the house.

  Castillo thought the house made Tara, of Gone With the Wind, look like a Holiday Inn. Off of the foyer, a curved double stairway rose to the second floor. It was not hard to picture Clark Gable carrying Whatshername, the English actress, up the steps to work his wicked way on her.

  "Thank you," Mrs. Masterson said. "It's been here a very long time, and God spared it."

  "I told her that was God's reward for her unrelenting battle against the gambling hells of the Mississippi Gulf Coast," Masterson said.

  "Don't mock me, Winslow!" she said. "But you'll notice what did happen to the casinos."

  "Faulty argument, darling. Katrina also wiped out Jefferson Davis's home, and you know that he was a God-fearing gentleman always battling the devil and all his wicked works."

  "That's right," General Wilson said. "I'd forgotten that. My wife and I went to his home twice when I was at Fort Rucker. That was damaged?"

  "Wiped out," Masterson said. "Utterly destroyed."

  "Then you were very lucky here," Wilson said.

  "Yes, we were," Masterson said. "And thanks more to the charm of the salesman than any wise planning on my part, there were diesel emergency generators in place to kick in as they were supposed to when the electricity went off. When my cousin Philip flew in with emergency rations-that's his Bonanza in the hangar-he found us with Betsy and the Lorimers watching the aftermath of the disaster on television."

  Wilson shook his head.

  "You were very lucky," he said.

  "You're an admirer of Jefferson Davis, General?" Masterson asked, changing the subject.

  "We went to the same school," Wilson said. "At different times, of course." Then he added, very seriously, "Yes, I am."

  "That's the right thing to say in this house," Masterson said. "From which my ancestors marched forth to do battle for Southern rights."

  "And just as soon as the history lesson is over," Ambassador Lorimer said, "I'm sure Colonel Castillo would like to have our little chat."

  "Why don't you take the colonel into the library, Philippe?" Masterson said, smiling tolerantly. "I'll send Sophie in with coffee and croissants."

  "This way, Colonel, if you please," Lorimer said.

  The library, too, would have been at home in Tara, except that an enormous flat-screen television had been mounted against one of the book-lined walls and half a dozen red leather armchairs had been arranged to face it.

  And there was an array of bottles and glasses above a wet bar set in another wall of books.
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  Ambassador Lorimer headed right for it.

  "May I offer you a little morning pick-me-up from Winslow's ample stock?" he asked.

  "No, thank you, sir. I'm flying."

  "One of the few advantages of having a heart condition like mine is that spirits, in moderation of course, are medically indicated," Lorimer said as he poured cognac into a snifter.

  "Churchill did that," Castillo said. "He began the day with a little cognac."

  "From what I hear, it was a healthy belt. And he was a great man, wasn't he? Who saved England from the Boche?"

  "Yes, sir, he was."

  "In large part, in my judgment, because he put Franklin Roosevelt in his pocket."

  "Yes, sir, I suppose that's true."

  Lorimer waved Castillo into one of the armchairs and sat in the adjacent one.

  A middle-aged maid wearing a crisp white apron and cap came in a moment later with a coffee service and a plate of croissants. Lorimer waited for her to leave before speaking.

  "I was trained to be a soldier, Colonel," he said. "Are you familiar with Norwich University?"

  "Yes, sir, I am."

  "It was one of the few places in the old days where a black man had a reasonable chance to get a regular Army commission. So I went there with that intention. Just before graduation, however, I was offered a chance to join the foreign service, and took it primarily, I think, because I thought someone of my stature looked absurd in a uniform."

  "I have a number of friends who are Norwich, sir."

  "I remember a pithy saying I learned as a Rook at Norwich: 'Never try to bullshit a bullshitter.' Keeping that and the fact that I spent thirty-six years as a diplomat in mind, why don't you tell me why Secretary Cohen is trying to put me in her pocket?"

  "I'm not sure I know what you mean, Mr. Ambassador."

  "I think you do, Colonel. Let's start with why she doesn't want me to go to my late son's… estancia… in Uruguay."

  "The secretary believes that would be ill-advised, sir," Castillo said. "She asked me to tell you that."

  He nodded. "She sent the same message to me through others. What I want to know is: why? I'm old, but not brain-dead. I don't think it has a thing to do with my physical condition, or for that matter do I swallow whole the idea that the secretary, as gracious a lady as I know she is, is deeply concerned for Poor Old Lorimer. Why doesn't she want me to go down there?"

  Castillo didn't reply immediately as he tried to gather his thoughts.

  Lorimer went on:

  "I have my own sources of information, Colonel. Let me tell you what I've learned. It is the belief of our ambassador there, a man named McGrory, who is not known for his dazzling ambassadorial ability, and that of the Uruguayan government, that my son died as the result of a drug deal gone wrong. I'm having trouble accepting that."

  "I don't know what to say, Mr. Ambassador," Castillo said.

  "Let me clarify that somewhat," Lorimer said. "Sadly, I did not have the same relationship with my son that Winslow Masterson enjoyed with his son Jack. I didn't particularly like Jean-Paul and he didn't like me. I doubt that Jean-Paul was involved in the illicit drug trade, not because he was my son and thus incapable of something like that, but because it's out of character for him."

  He paused, then finished: "So, if he wasn't in the drug trade, Colonel, what was he doing that caused his murder?"

  Castillo didn't reply.

  "Please do me the courtesy, Colonel, of telling me 'I can't tell you' rather than 'I don't have any idea what you're talking about.'"

  "I can't tell you, Mr. Ambassador."

  "We are now at what is colloquially known as 'the deal breaker,'" Lorimer said. "You have your choice of telling me, which means I will listen to whatever else you have to say, or not telling me, which means our little chat is over, and Mrs. Lorimer and I will be on the first airplane we can catch to Uruguay. We've been imposing on the Mastersons' hospitality too long as it is."

  "Mr. Ambassador, this information is classified Top Secret Presidential."

  Lorimer didn't seem surprised.

  "To me," Lorimer said simply, "that strongly suggests there has been a Presidential Finding."

  Castillo didn't reply.

  "I will take your silence to mean that there is a Presidential Finding and you don't have the authority to confirm that. Your choice, Colonel. Get on that satellite telephone and tell the secretary-or whoever has put you in your present predicament-that unless you are authorized to tell me about the Finding, the Lorimers are off to Estancia Shangri-La."

  Well, what the hell!

  If he goes down there-and there's no way I can stop him-the chances are that he'll do something-not on purpose-to compromise that operation, and thus the Presidential Finding.

  And for some reason-which is probably foolish-I trust him.

  He's a tough old bastard.

  "I have that authority, Mr. Ambassador."

  "And you're not going to tell me?"

  "The President was at the air base in Biloxi when we returned from Argentina with Mr. Masterson's remains and his family. He informed me there that he had made a Finding. A covert and clandestine organization had been formed and charged with finding and rendering harmless those responsible for…"

  Tapping the balls of his fingers together, Ambassador Lorimer considered for a good sixty seconds what Castillo had told him before raising his eyes to Castillo.

  "So the ever-present silver lining is that Jean-Paul was not a drug dealer," he said. "Hell of a note when you're happy to hear your only son was just a thief from other thieves, not a drug dealer."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Ambassador."

  "Why should you be sorry? From what I hear, you've been the knight in shining armor on a white horse in the whole sordid affair."

  "That's not an accurate description, Mr. Ambassador."

  "It's my judgment to make, Colonel," Lorimer said. "How much of what you have just told me does my daughter know?"

  "Very little of it, sir. She doesn't have the need to know. I did tell her-and Mr. Masterson-that I was almost certain that the people who had murdered Mr. Masterson-"

  "Were 'rendered harmless'?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "How can you be 'almost certain' of that?"

  "You don't have the need to know that, sir."

  "You wouldn't have told them that unless you were 'almost certain,' which means you weren't repeating what someone else had told you, but rather that you were personally involved."

  Castillo didn't reply.

  "All of this except for your possible concern that I would go down and somehow compromise the Presidential Finding-which is absurd-doesn't explain why you-and I mean you, not the secretary-don't want me to go to Uruguay."

  "May I go off at a tangent for a moment, Mr. Ambassador?"

  Lorimer nodded.

  "I understand, sir, why you're anxious to…get out from under Mr. Masterson's hospitality-"

  "Guests, as with fish, you know, begin to smell after three days."

  "My grandfather was known to say that, often in more colorful terms," Castillo said. "Mr. Ambassador, what would it take to get you to go someplace-Paris, for example; Mr. Lorimer's apartment is there and available to you-for sixty days before you go to Uruguay?"

  "The apartment is no longer available, Colonel. The man from the UN who brought me the check for Jean-Paul's death benefit-one hundred thousand euros-also brought with him an offer for Jean-Paul's apartment. Time and half what it was worth. They obviously wanted to make sure Jean-Paul was forgotten as soon as possible; now I know why."

  "Mr. Ambassador, I am prepared to offer you fifty thousand dollars a month for two months to lease Estancia Shangri-La."

  "Either that's your remarkably clumsy way of offering me a bribe to keep me away from the estancia-which raises again the unanswered question of why you don't want me down there-or you really want to lease the ranch, and that raises the really interesting question of why. What would you do wi
th it?"

  "I understand Phoenix, Arizona, is very nice this time of year, Mr. Ambassador."

  "So is Bali, but I'm getting a little old for bare-breasted maidens in grass skirts. What do you want with the estancia, Colonel?"

  "I'm running another operation down there, sir."

  "You going to do it under the nose of this fellow McGrory again?"

  Castillo nodded.

  "I want to use it as a refueling point for several helicopters I want to get into Argentina."

  "You mean get into Argentina black," Lorimer replied. He considered that a moment. "Okay. You're going to fly them off some ship in the middle of the night and under the radar, right? Refuel them in the middle of nowhere in Uruguay, and then on to Argentina?"

  Castillo nodded.

  "What's the operation?"

  "We're going to try to get a DEA agent back from the drug dealers who kidnapped him."

  "That sounds like a splendid idea," Lorimer said. "It also sounds like the DEA agent is not an ordinary DEA agent. We lose a lot of DEA agents in Mexico and all we do is wring our hands. We certainly don't send Special Forces teams in unmarked helicopters to get them back."

  "This one's grandfather is a friend of the mayor of Chicago."

  "That would make him special, wouldn't it? Okay, you can use the estancia, and I will forget that money you offered. If I remembered it, it would make me angry."

  Castillo looked him in the eyes a long moment and said, "Thank you, sir."

  "You're welcome. And now you can tell me the best way to get from the airport in Montevideo to Shangri-La. Rent a car? Buy one? How's the roads?"

  Oh, shit!

  I totally misread him…he's still determined to go.

  "I can't talk you out of going down there, sir?"

  "You didn't really expect that you could, did you?"

  "I really hoped that I could."

  Lorimer held up his hands in a gesture of mock sympathy.

  "Look at it this way, Colonel," he said. "If I'm there-Jean-Paul's father, come to look after his inheritance-far fewer questions will be asked than if two or three men of military age showed up there by themselves and started hauling barrels of helicopter fuel onto the place."

  Castillo didn't say anything.