The shooters pa-4

by W. E. B Griffin

  "A lot of drugs are brought across the border in light aircraft like this one," Munz said. "They don't take off or land at airports with their contraband, of course, but they sometimes-when empty-put down at airfields like this one to take on fuel or whatever. Sometimes, the sniffer dogs pick up traces of heroin or cocaine or marijuana, and that lets the police know that the aircraft is involved in the trade and they thereafter try to keep an eye on it. It's about as effective as trying to empty the River Plate with a spoon, but…"

  He shrugged, and Castillo nodded.

  They landed at Pettirossi International immediately after an Aerolineas Argentinas 727 set down.

  "That's the last flight today from Buenos Aires," Munz said. "And it will return. What that means is we're going to have to wait until the authorities deal with both flights before they turn their sniffer dogs loose on this airplane."

  "Wonderful! More delay," Castillo said, disgustedly.

  Standing on the tarmac waiting for the Paraguayan officials, Castillo saw on the terminal building that it was possible to still make out the lettering of AEROPORTO PRESIDENTE GEN. STROESSNER under the fresh paint of its new name.

  For some reason, the wait wasn't as long as they feared. They got lucky.

  And when they finally made it through customs and were in the unsecured area of the terminal, they saw that a van with HOTEL RESORT CASINO YACHT amp; GOLF CLUB PARAGUAY painted on its side was waiting for guests.

  "Alfredo, why don't you take Lester out there, get us rooms, and-without asking-see if you can't find my shooters? I'm ashamed to admit I don't have their names, which they almost certainly aren't using anyway."

  When Castillo arrived with Lieutenant Lorimer, Sergeant Mullroney, and Max at the U.S. embassy at almost eight o'clock, an officious Paraguayan security guard at the well-lit gate informed Castillo and his party that the embassy had closed for the day.

  "Get the Marine guard out here," Castillo ordered, angrily, in English.

  As Castillo listened to the security guard speak into his radio in Spanish, he pretended not to understand the unkind things the guard said under his breath about Americans in general and this one in particular.

  The Marine guard who came to the guardhouse several minutes later recognized Lorimer.

  "Hello, Lieutenant," he said.

  "We need to get inside."

  "I can let you in, but I can't let your friends in-"

  "We're American," Castillo offered.

  "-without getting one of the officers to pass them in."

  "Well, then, Sergeant," Castillo said. "Get an officer. Preferably Mr. Crawford."

  The Marine guard now examined him more closely.

  "Mr. Crawford, sir? Our commercial attache?"

  "Mr. Jonathon Crawford, whatever his title," Castillo said.

  "May I ask who you are and the nature of your business with Mr. Crawford, sir?"

  Castillo handed him the credentials identifying him as a supervisory agent of the United States Secret Service.

  The sergeant examined the credentials very carefully.

  "And this gentleman, sir?"

  "He is Detective Sergeant Mullroney of the Chicago Police Department. Show the sergeant your tin, Sergeant."

  Mullroney did so. The sergeant examined the leather folder carefully and then handed it back.

  "I guess I can let you gentlemen in as far as Station One, sir," the sergeant said. "I mean to the building, but not inside. I'll call Mr. Crawford from there, sir."

  "Thank you."

  "But you can't bring that dog into the building, sir."

  "Why don't we take Max as far as Station One and then see what Mr. Crawford has to say about that?"

  "I don't know, sir…"

  "That was more in the nature of an order, Sergeant," Lorimer said, "than a question."

  "Yes, sir," the Marine sergeant said.

  There was a row of chrome-frame plastic seats in the lobby of the building, and two sand-topped, chrome-can ashtrays despite the ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING! signs on two walls.

  Mr. Jonathon Crawford, "commercial attache" of the embassy, appeared thirty minutes later. He was a nondescript man in his fifties whose only distinguishing characteristic was his eyes. They were deep and intelligent.

  "You wanted to see me?" he asked, without any preliminaries.

  "If you're Crawford, I do," Castillo said, and handed him the Secret Service credentials.

  Crawford examined them and looked at Mullroney.

  "Show Mr. Crawford your badge, Charley," Castillo said, then turned back to Crawford. "I think you know Lieutenant Lorimer?"

  Crawford examined the credentials and handed them back, but said nothing to-or about-Lorimer.

  "This wouldn't have kept until morning? I have guests at my house."

  "If it would have kept till morning, I would have come in the morning," Castillo said.

  "That your dog?"

  Castillo nodded.

  "No dogs in the embassy, sorry."

  "What do you want me to do, Crawford, call Frank Lammelle-or, for that matter, John Powell-and tell him that you find it impossible to talk to me right now because you have guests and don't like dogs?"

  "I don't think I like your attitude, Castillo."

  "Well, then we're even, aren't we? I don't like being kept waiting for half an hour while you schmooze your guests and finish your drink. Frank sent you a heads-up that I was coming. You should have been expecting me."

  Crawford looked at him a long moment with tight lips.

  "Make a note in your log, Sergeant," Crawford ordered, "that-over my objections-Mr. Castillo insisted on bringing his dog into the embassy."

  Then he gestured for the sergeant to open the door. There came the sound of a solenoid buzzing, and then Crawford pushed the door open.

  He led them to an elevator, waved them onto it, then punched in a code on a control panel to make the elevator operable. It rose two floors. He led them down a corridor to an unmarked door-also equipped with a keypad-punched in the code, and then pushed open that door.

  They entered an outer office, and he led them through that to a larger office and then gestured for them to sit in the leather-upholstered chairs.

  "I'm sorry I kept you waiting," he said. "The cold truth of the matter is my wife flipped when I told her I had to come down here. I was not in a very good mood. Can we start all over?"

  "My name is Castillo, Mr. Crawford. How are you tonight?"

  "Thanks. I think I just told you how I am. How are you, Lorimer?"

  "I'm fine, thank you."

  "You're now working for the Office of Organizational Analysis, I understand. What's that all about? What is the Office of Organizational Analysis?"

  Castillo answered for him.

  "And that transfer, Mr. Crawford," he concluded, "was already in the works when Special Agent Timmons went missing," he said. "I brought Lorimer with me because he had been stationed here. I've never been in Paraguay."

  "Do you speak Spanish?"

  Castillo nodded. "I'm a Texican."

  "A what?"

  "A Texan with Mexican roots. I speak Mexican Spanish."

  I also can pass myself off as a Porteno, and after I'm here three days, people will swear that I sound just like whatever they call the natives here. Asuncionites?

  But the less qualified you think I am, the better.

  "I heard you were coming here, Mr. Costello…"

  "Castillo," Castillo corrected him.

  "Castillo. Sorry. But not from Deputy Director Lammelle. Actually, it was back-channel."

  "You want to call Lammelle and check my bona fides before this goes any further?"

  "No. I understand you're here officially; there's no need to bother Deputy Director Lammelle. But I don't know exactly why you're here."

  "There's unusual interest in Special Agent Timmons. My boss sent me down to find out what I can."

  "And your boss is?" Crawford asked, casually.

  "And
to report to him what I find out," Castillo went on.

  "You didn't say who your boss is."

  "No, I didn't."

  "Are those Secret Service credentials the real thing?"

  "About as real as your 'commercial attache' diplomatic carnet. If somebody were to call the Secret Service, they would be told there is indeed a Supervisory Special Agent by the came of Castillo."

  "Exactly what is it that you want from me, Mr. Castillo?"

  "I want you to give Lieutenant Lorimer and Sergeant Mullroney access to all information regarding this incident, and that means I want them to have access to your people. Alone."

  "What exactly is Sergeant Mullroney's role in this?"

  "Personal and professional. Professionally, he works drugs in Chicago. Personally, he's Special Agent Timmons's brother-in-law."

  "That's not a problem. But is that all?"

  "That's all I'm going to do for now," Castillo said. "I'll write my report, then see if these people turn him loose or not. Or if he dies of an overdose."

  "Well, I don't think that's going to happen. Timmons will more than likely be turned loose. Maybe tonight. Maybe two weeks from now. But, for the sake of knowing…what do you plan to do if he isn't released?"

  "Bring some people and other things down here to help you get him back."

  "Other things? For example?"

  "For example, a couple of helicopters. Ambassador Montvale is working on that now."

  Crawford's eyebrows went up. "The Paraguayan government is not going to let you try to get Timmons back," he said, "much less bring people and helicopters into the country to do it."

  "Ambassador Montvale is a very persuasive man," Castillo said. "And, besides, that wasn't my decision. I will just implement it."

  "How are you going to do that?"

  "I'm sure I will be told what to do, and how, and when."

  "I understand you met Milton Weiss," Crawford said.

  Castillo nodded, then said, "Is that who gave you the back-channel heads-up about us coming down here?"

  Crawford nodded.

  "Milton," he said, "led me to believe he let you know a little about an interesting operation we're planning here."

  "Grabbing the cruise ships?" Castillo said.

  Crawford didn't reply.

  "Well," Castillo went on, "I told Weiss I was not a DEA agent and my paycheck doesn't come from Langley, so that was none of my business, and I would-if possible-stay out of your way so I won't compromise your operation."

  "'If possible'?"

  "I'm not prescient, Crawford. I don't know what my orders will be if Timmons isn't turned loose and turns up dead. At that point, someone will decide what's important and I'll be told what to do. If this cruise-ship-grabbing operation of yours is so important, maybe you should start doing more than you have so far to get Special Agent Timmons back."

  Crawford sat up in his chair.

  "Just who the hell do you think you are, Castillo, to waltz in here and question what I've done or not done?"

  Castillo did not immediately reply. He thought, That took me a little longer than I thought it would to make him lose his temper.

  "Like you," Castillo then said, "I'm just a simple servant of the public, hoping I can make it to retirement. So tell me, what have you done, Crawford, to get Timmons back? Anything at all? Or have you placed your faith in the honesty and competence of the Paraguayan law enforcement community?"

  With a little luck, he will now say, "Fuck you, Castillo."

  Crawford glowered at him for a long moment, then said, "Is there anything else I can do for you tonight, Mr. Castillo? I really have to get back to my guests."

  "By ten o'clock tomorrow morning, Crawford, I need a list of the things you've done to get Special Agent Timmons back. My boss said I was to get that to him as soon as possible. Give it to Lorimer."

  Maybe now a "Fuck you!" or a "Kiss my ass!"?

  "Very well, Mr. Castillo," Crawford said. "But you'll really have to excuse me now."

  He stood up and smiled, then gestured toward the door.

  "I'll have to check you out with the Marine guard," he said.

  [TWO] Hotel Resort Casino Yacht amp; Golf Club Paraguay Avenida del Yacht 11 Asuncion, Paraguay 2120 11 September 2005 Just as the elevator door was closing, a tall, good-looking, olive-skinned young man stopped the door and got on. He wore his shiny black hair long, so that it covered his shirt collar. And on his hairy chest-his yellow shirt was unbuttoned almost to the navel-there gleamed a gold medallion the size of a saucer.

  "Thank you ever so much," he said, smiling broadly. "Muy amable."

  Castillo, who had automatically classified the Spanish as Mexican, managed a smile, but not without effort.

  I don't feel very amiable, asshole.

  The last thing I need right now is a Mexican drunk breathing charm and booze fumes all over me.

  The door closed and the elevator started to rise.

  As Pevsner had done in Llao Llao, the Mexican manipulated the control panel and stopped the elevator.

  Castillo felt a rush of adrenaline, and then the Mexican drunk said in English, "Welcome to the Hotel Resort Casino Yacht and Golf Club Paraguay, Colonel. Master Sergeant Gilmore, sir."

  "Gilmore?" Castillo asked, incredulously.

  "Yes, sir. My mother's the Texican. She married a gringo. If the colonel will give me a look at his room key?"

  Castillo held it up.

  "Sir, if the colonel will wait until they deliver his luggage, and then flick his lights three times, and then leave the lights off, repeat off, and unlock the balcony sliding door, Technical Sergeant Bustamante and I will be able to report properly without attracting attention."

  "You don't just want to walk down the corridor and knock on the door? Who are we hiding from?"

  "There have been some unsavory characters, Colonel, who seem fascinated with Bustamante and myself. Bolivians, maybe. Maybe Cubans. But what would Cubans be doing here?"

  "I'll explain that when you surreptitiously appear in my room. But give me a couple of minutes. I've got some people with me. I want them to be there."

  "Yes, sir. Corporal Bradley told me."

  "He did?"

  "Mean little sonofabitch, isn't he?" Master Sergeant Gilmore said, admiringly. "I was having a surreptitious look at what looked like an AFC case in his room, when all of a sudden there he was, with his.45 aimed at my crotch. He got me hands down, Colonel. It was five minutes before he'd let me get off the floor. If I hadn't been able to tell him who Sergeant Major Jack Davidson was, I'd probably still be there."

  "Never judge a book by its cover, Sergeant. You might want to write that down."

  "Should I call him and the German guy and tell them you want to see them right now?"

  Castillo nodded.

  "And I'll call Lorimer and Mullroney," Castillo said.

  "Okay," Castillo ordered when everyone was in the room, "unlock the sliding door, then flick the lights three times and leave them off."

  Then he firmly grasped Max's collar. He didn't want to surprise the shooters when they came into the darkened suite.

  "I'll be curious to see how they do this, Charley," Munz said as the lights blinked. "These places are supposed to be burglar-proof. And we're on the third floor."

  "I have no idea," Castillo confessed.

  Corporal Bradley's voice in the darkness explained, "They're using a rubber-covered chain with loops every foot or so for handholds. And it has a collapsible grappling hook at the end, sir. Sergeant Gilmore showed me when he came to my room. I'd never seen a system like that before."

  Ninety seconds later, there was the sound of the sliding door opening and then closing.

  "The drapes are in place," Master Sergeant Gilmore said. "Somebody can hit the lights."

  When the lights came on, Castillo didn't see any kind of a chain on either Gilmore or Technical Sergeant Bustamante, who looked like Captain D'Elia's younger brother.

  "You used
a chain, Sergeant Gilmore?"

  Gilmore pulled a thin chain from a deep pocket on the hip of his trousers.

  "Clever," Castillo said.

  "Well, you know how it is when you're in the stockade, Colonel. You've got nothing to do but think up things like this."

  Castillo laughed.

  The Army's elite Delta Force-and some other, even more secret units-were housed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, in what at one time had been the post stockade.

  "Isn't a stockade a military prison?" Sergeant Mullroney asked.

  "Yes, it is, Mullroney," Castillo said, mock seriously. "It's where we keep people like these two chained up when they're not working."

  He went to Bustamante and offered his hand.

  "My name is Castillo, Sergeant. We're glad to have you."

  "I'm glad to be here, sir."

  "That's because you don't know what's going to happen," Castillo said.

  "Can I ask another dumb question?" Mullroney asked.

  Castillo thought, Not "no" but "hell no," and was about to say exactly that when Mullroney asked anyway.

  "Maybe I'm out of line, Colonel, but was pissing off that CIA guy the way you did smart?"

  You bet your ass you're out of line.

  Who the hell do you think you are, calling me on that?

  But, actually…

  "Actually, I'm glad you brought that up. What I was trying to do with Crawford was make him think I'm a wiseass out of my league." Much like you, Mullroney. "I think I managed to do that, but I couldn't make him lose his temper, and I tried. Okay?"

  Mullroney nodded.

  Castillo looked at the others and went on: "Crawford is dangerous. I still don't know what he's up to, but he's not on our side. Everybody got that?"

  There were nods.

  "Okay, the burglars are Sergeants Bustamante and Gilmore, from Captain D'Elia's team. This is Colonel Munz, who works for me; Lieutenant Lorimer, who also works for me; and Sergeant Mullroney, who is a Chicago cop and Timmons's brother-in-law. And Corporal Bradley, our designated marksman."

  Castillo looked at Gilmore.

  "So what have you got?"