Hunters

VIII

[ONE] Arlington National Cemetery Arlington, Virginia 1600 6 August 2005 There is an average of twenty burials every day at Arlington. There is a prescribed routine for enlisted men, one for warrant officers and officers, and one for general or flag officers.

Enlisted men being interred are provided with a casket team (pallbearers), a firing party to fire the traditional three-round salute, and a bugler to sound taps.

In addition to the basics, warrant and commissioned officers may be provided with an escort platoon, its size varying according to the rank of the deceased, and a military band.

Officers are entitled to the use of a horse-drawn artillery caisson to move the casket to the grave site. Army and Marine Corps colonels and above are entitled to have a caparisoned, riderless horse. General officers are also entitled to a cannon salute-seventeen guns for a four-star general, fifteen for a three-star, thirteen for a two-star, eleven for a one-star.

There is almost never a deviation from the prescribed rites and the late Sergeant First Class Seymour Kranz was entitled to the least of these prerogatives.

But from the moment the hearse bearing his casket arrived near the grave site, Sergeant Kranz's internment did not follow the standard protocol.

As the immaculately turned-out officer in charge reached for the door handle at the rear of the hearse, an immaculately turned-out Special Forces sergeant major stepped up and spoke to him.

"With your permission, sir, we'll take it from here," Sergeant Major John K. Davidson said.

"Excuse me?" the OIC, a first lieutenant, said.

It was the first time anyone had ever interrupted his procedure.

"The sergeant major said we'll take it from here," another voice said. "Do you have a problem with that, Lieutenant?"

The lieutenant turned and found himself facing another Green Beret, this one with three silver stars glistening on each of his epaulets.

"Sir…" the lieutenant began to protest.

"Good. I didn't think there would be a problem," Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab said. "Carry on, Sergeant Major."

"Yes, sir," Sergeant Major Davidson said, then raised his voice slightly. "Casket detail, ten-hut. Execute!"

Seven Green Berets of varying ranks-including one lieutenant general plus one corporal, USMC-marched up to the rear of the hearse, halted, then did an about-face without orders. When Sergeant Major Davidson pulled open the hearse door, the casket was removed and raised onto the shoulders of the casket detail.

"Escort detail, ten-hut!" Sergeant Major Davidson barked softly, and very quickly twenty-odd Special Forces soldiers, mostly sergeants of one grade or another but including one full colonel, one lieutenant colonel, two majors, a captain, and two lieutenants, formed a column of twos and snapped to attention.

"Chaplain! Detail!" Sergeant Davidson barked. "At funeral pace, forward harch!"

The chaplain from the Military District of Washington, a captain, who now found himself standing beside a Green Beret major-whose lapels carried the silver cross of a Christian chaplain and whose breast bore the Combat Infantry Badge-looked around in some confusion until his brother of the clergy took his arm and gently prodded him forward.

The casket team and escort detail marched at funeral pace toward the open grave. As the last of them passed the hearse, a Special Forces major in a wheelchair, pushed by a Special Forces sergeant, joined the detail. Then several men in civilian clothing followed the wheelchair.

The rear was brought up, after a moment's indecision, by the Arlington National Cemetery's official casket team.

As the column made its way through the sea of crosses and Stars of David to the open grave, another detail of Special Forces soldiers, eight enlisted men under a captain, relieved the eight-man cemetery firing party of their weapons and ordered them to form a single rank behind the new firing party.

When the casket team reached the grave, the casket was lowered onto the green nylon tapes of the lowering device. All but two of them came to attention.

Sergeant Major Davidson then handed the national colors to Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, USA, and Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, who placed them on the casket, making sure they were stretched out level and centered over the casket.

Then they assumed the position of attention, and when Sergeant Major Davidson gave the order the entire casket team took two steps back from the grave.

The Green Beret chaplain then led the graveside ritual prescribed for members of the Lutheran faith. Then he stepped back from the casket and grave.

The captain in charge of the new firing party barked, in rapid order, "Present, h'arms. Ready, aim, fire! Ready, aim, fire! Ready, aim, fire!" And then, a moment later, "Or-duh h'arms."

"Bugler, sound taps!" Sergeant Major Davidson barked.

When the bugler was done, Sergeant Major Davidson and Corporal Bradley began folding the colors. When they had finished, the flag, now folded into a crisp triangle of blue with white stars, was given to Lieutenant General McNab, who waited until the casket team had marched away from the grave and then presented it to Sergeant Kranz's sister.

General McNab spoke briefly with Sergeant Kranz's sister, then saluted her and respectfully backed away.

A middle-aged gray-haired woman-an "Arlington Lady," one of the wives of retired general officers who voluntarily appear at every funeral-then presented a card of condolence from the chief of staff of the United States Army to Sergeant Kranz's sister, offered her personal condolences, and kissed her on the cheek.

As this was going on, the Special Forces firing detail returned the rifles of the Arlington firing detail to them, then marched to the waiting line of cars on the road lined up with the escort detail. They were joined by the casket detail, but without General McNab and Corporal Bradley, who was standing beside the general. Bradley then followed the general and Sergeant Kranz's sister as the general walked with her past the lined-up Green Berets to her limousine.

When he had seen Sergeant Kranz's sister into the limousine, General McNab stepped back and Corporal Lester Bradley stepped up.

"Ma'am," he said. "I shall treasure for the remainder of my life my privilege of having been with Sergeant Kranz when he fell. Please accept again my profound condolences on your loss."

When she looked at Corporal Bradley's young-boyish-face and saw the tears in his eyes, Sergeant Kranz's sister lost control for the first time.

"Thank you," she said, barely audibly, then turned her face away.

General McNab gently pushed Corporal Bradley out of the way and closed the limousine door. The car then slowly pulled away. At the grave, the officer in charge of the burial detail-who had waited to over-see the one soldier, "the Virgil," whose job it was to remain at the grave until it was closed-saw that the Green Berets had decided to participate in that, too. A Green Beret sergeant first class was standing at parade rest at the head of the casket.

The officer in charge looked at the Arlington Lady, whom he had seen at many another funeral, and the two of them wordlessly agreed to walk together back to the waiting cars.

Halfway there, the lieutenant said, "Well, that was interesting, wasn't it? Different?"

"Lieutenant," the Arlington Lady said, "my husband and I spent thirty-three years on active duty. One of the few things I know for sure about the Army is that Special Forces soldiers are indeed interesting and different." [TWO] Office of Organizational Analysis Department of Homeland Security Nebraska Avenue Complex Washington, D.C. 1745 6 August 2005 Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., his tunic unbuttoned and necktie pulled down, sat at the desk of the chief of the Office of Organizational Analysis with his leg resting on an open drawer of the ornate desk.

There was a glass dark with whiskey on the desk and a capped plastic vial of medicine issued by the pharmacy of the Walter Reed Army Medical Center.

He knew what the label on the medicine vial warned about taking alcohol after taking "one or two tablets as necessary for pain," but he picked up the vial and read it again anyway.

"When it doubt, do both," he said aloud.

He pried the lid open, shook out two white tablets, and put them in his mouth. Then he picked up the whiskey glass, raised it, and said, "Mud in your eye, Seymour, you little shit. Vaya con Dios, buddy."

Then he drank half of it and set the glass on the desk.

He looked at the whiskey glass for a moment, then picked it up again and drained it.

The instant he set the glass very carefully on the green blotter of the desk pad, a light flashed on one of the telephones on the desk. He looked at it, wondered if he could ignore it, then reached for it.

"Miller," he said.

"Major, there are two gentlemen to see you," Mr. Agnes Forbison said.

"This is a really bad time. Is this important?"

"I think you'd better see them."

"Give me ninety seconds," Miller said.

He put the telephone back in its cradle, then, wincing with the pain, lifted his leg off the open drawer and carefully lowered it onto the floor. He then put the whiskey glass and the bottle of Famous Grouse into the drawer, then closed it.

Again wincing with the pain it caused, he shifted his body so that he could get the vial of painkillers into his trousers pocket. Finally, he pulled up his necktie and buttoned his uniform tunic.

Almost immediately, there was a discreet knock at the office door.

"Come!"

Sergeant Major John K. Davidson and Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, marched into the office, stopped twelve inches from the desk, and saluted.

"Good evening, sir!" Davidson barked.

Miller-in perhaps a Pavlovian reflex-returned the salute.

"Jack, it's been a bad day and I'm not drunk enough to be amused. What's on your mind?"

"Sir, the sergeant major has come to enlist."

"What?"

"Sir, I have a permission to enlist note from my daddy," Davidson said.

He took a half step forward, laid a small sheet of paper on the desk, then stepped back and resumed the position of attention.

Miller picked up the piece of paper, saw it was general officer's notepaper, and read it.

6 August 2005 Chief Office of Organizational Analysis Washington I will defer to your judgment as to where SgtMaj Davidson will be of the greatest value to the service. McNab

Miller looked up at Davidson and saw that he and Bradley were still standing at attention.

"I told you, Jack," Miller said, "I am not in a mood to be amused."

Davidson didn't move.

"Stand at ease, goddamn it," Miller said.

Davidson relaxed.

"You want to enlist in what?" Miller asked.

"Oh, come on. I know what's going on here, Dick."

"What's going on here is classified Top Secret Presidential," Miller said.

"So Vic D'Allessando said."

"And the pride of the jarheads here? Has he also been running off at the mouth?"

"Only after Vic told him to fill me in on the details. Before that, Lester was like a clam."

"How did you get this out of General McNab?" Miller asked, waving the sheet of notepaper.

"I reminded him that Char-Colonel Castillo-was going to need a replacement for Kranz. And that we were going to have to find a better place to hide Lester; Mackall wasn't hacking that. The jarheads going through the Q course were already getting curious."

"That's all?"

"And that I'd been around the block with Charley a couple of times and knew when he had to have someone sit on him."

"That's all?" Miller asked again.

Miller happened to be glancing at Bradley and saw on his face that there was indeed something else.

"Well, I told McNab that I was getting so tired of Camp Mackall that I was giving serious thought to taking my retirement," Davidson admitted.

"You had the balls to threaten McNab?"

"That was more like a statement of fact, Dick," Davidson said.

Miller saw on Bradley's face that he was shocked to hear Sergeant Major Davidson address a major by his first name.

"What do you think Charley's going to say?" Davidson asked.

"Inasmuch as Colonel Castillo is unable to accept that there are times when he should indeed be restrained from an impulsive act and that he knows you are one of the very few people who have proved themselves willing and able to restrain him, the colonel's reaction to being informed that you want to join his merry little band is almost certainly going to be not only no but hell no!"

Davidson exhaled audibly.

"I could be useful, Dick, and you know it. Could you talk to him?"

"I could, but that would be what is known as pissing into the wind," Miller said, and then articulated what he had been thinking. "What we're going to do is present him with the fait accompli. When he gets to Buenos Aires, he's going to find you there. We are going to suggest, imply-anything but outright bold-faced lie-that this is another brainstorm of Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab."

"Thanks, Dick," Davidson said, simply. "He'll accept that. It won't be the first time the general has sent me to try to keep a tight rein on him."

"How do you think we should handle Corporal Big Mouth?" Miller asked, looking at Bradley.

"Hide him in plain sight," Davidson said. "At the embassy in Buenos Aires."

"One of the reasons Castillo brought him here was because he knew the gunnery sergeant of the guard detachment there was going to want to know what he's been up to and wasn't going to back off until Bradley told him."

"I know a master gunnery sergeant named MacNamara at Eighth and Eye-Marine Corps Headquarters?"

"I know where it is," Miller said.

"He's a heavy hitter in Force Recon. Lester said if he got on the horn to the gunnery sergeant in Argentina and told him to ask no questions, he would ask no questions."

"What are you going to tell your friend about why you want him to make that call?"

"I'll tell him I can't tell him. He'll go along."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Let's not cross that bridge until we get there."

"See if you can get him on the horn now. If you can, tell him to come here. We'll dazzle him with Charley's office and my Class A uniform and see what happens."

Davidson nodded.

"You pack a suitcase?" Miller asked.

Davidson nodded again.

"Okay. If your master gunnery sergeant will go along, we'll get you both on a flight out of Miami tomorrow night." [THREE] Danubius Hotel Gellert Szent Gellert ter 1 Budapest, Hungary 0125 7 August 2005 Lieutenant Colonel Castillo-half asleep-became aware that something wet and cold was pressing against his face. The first thing he thought was that he had drooled on his pillow, then rolled over onto the wet spot.

This happened to him every once in a while and he hated it. Telling himself that he couldn't be held responsible for drooling while he was asleep didn't help any more than applying the same logic to what was euphemistically known as nocturnal emissions. It was embarrassing, annoying, and even shameful. Age seemed to have dealt with the nocturnal emission problem, but drooling remained a real pain in the ass.

He put his hand out to push himself away from the wet spot-and suddenly was wide awake, his heart jumping.

There was something warm, firm, and hairy in bed with him.

In the same split instant, he became aware of a deep growl.

"Max, you sonofabitch! How did you get in bed?"

Max growled again-but not at Castillo.

He had left Max in Billy Kocian's bedroom, presuming Max would prefer sleeping in there-on a huge, fluffy dog bed on the floor next to Kocian's enormous, antique canopied bed-instead of here, in another bedroom. Castillo had felt like an intruder, a voyeur, in Kocian's apartment, especially the bedroom. But curiosity had overwhelmed those feelings, and he and Otto Gorner had spent a half hour in the huge, high-ceilinged rooms, examining the photos on the walls and furniture. There were all sorts of photographs, some of which were obviously of Kocian's family and many of what obviously had become Kocian's second family, the von und zu Gossingers.

There were several of Castillo's grandfather and Kocian together, in uniform. And more of the former Herr Oberst in shabby civilian clothing, apparently taken right after the Second World War. There were others as Castillo remembered him, elegantly tailored.

In Kocian's bedroom there had been a photograph on the bedside table of a young girl in braids and a near-adolescent boy holding Kocian's hand-Castillo's mother and his uncle Willi. There had been others of Kocian and Otto Gorner.

The walls and furniture had held framed photographs at various places of Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger-aged three, five, seven, ten-holding his mother's hand. There had been several of Carlos Guillermo Castillo, as a skinny Boy Scout, as a teenager on a horse at Hacienda San Jorge wearing a far-too-large cowboy hat, as Cadet Sergeant C. G. Castillo of the Corps of Cadets of the United States Military Academy, and as Second Lieutenant Castillo with just-awarded Distinguished Flying Cross, Bronze Star, and Purple Heart medals dangling from the breast of his tunic.

And more than a dozen photographs of women, ranging from in their twenties to middle age. They had been obviously important to Kocian, if not important enough for him to have married them.

Castillo had left Kocian's bedroom feeling sad, almost to the point of tears. The old man had to be lonely. No wonder that he was bananas about Max. Max gave him the only love he had in his life. Castillo patted Max and was surprised at how tense-actually, he was quivering-the dog's body was. And he realized the dog was still growling, softly, deep in his throat.

"Hey, pal! What's the matter?"

Max, who had been lying next to Castillo, suddenly got half to his feet and slinked off the bed.

Castillo's heart jumped again. He sat up.

There was just enough light for Castillo to be able to see Max stalking across the floor toward the door leading to the sitting room.

He's like a lion, a panther, stalking its prey!

Castillo rolled on his side far enough so that he could slide open the drawer of the bedside table. His fingers found the suppressed Ruger pistol. He quickly chambered a round, then sat up, pushing back on the bed until his back was resting against the headboard.

It's probably Otto, looking for a glass of water. Or another dog. Maybe somebody cleaning the corridor outside the apartment.

Calm down, for Christ's sake!

Max was now crouched but no longer growling.

There was a squeak.

What the hell is that?

The door swung open quickly and two men jumped into the room in crouching positions. Both held Madsen submachine guns at the ready. Max leaped at the first one, locking his massive jaws on the man's arm. The man yelped in surprise and pain. The second pointed his Madsen at Max.

Without thinking what he was doing, Castillo raised the Rugerin both hands and fired instinctively-twice, as are flex action-at the second man. The suppressed muzzle made a soft tut-tut sound. Then, without waiting to see if he had hit the second man, Castillo fired at the first. Tut-tut. And then he looked back at the second man. He was now sliding limply down the doorframe. Tut-tut. Castillo's eyes and the Ruger went back to the first man, who was now sitting down. It looked as if Max was about to drag him somewhere. Tut-tut.

The Ruger's magazine had held ten.22 Long Rifle cartridges. Castillo had subconsciously counted as he had fired; he had two rounds left. He leaped out of the bed and ran to the dresser, where he had left the Micro Uzi. Its magazine was fully charged and he could get it much quicker than he could charge the Ruger's magazine, the extra cartridges for which he had put in the same drawer as the Uzi.

He grabbed the Uzi and dropped to the floor, pulling the action lever back and then rolling over twice before sitting up with the Uzi pointed at the door.

There was no burst of gunfire.

Max trotted over and licked Castillo's face.

Castillo felt tear swelling.

"You big sonofabitch," he said. "I love you, too."

He got to his feet and went to the men in the door.

The one Max had grabbed was on his back, openmouthed, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Castillo could see no entrance wounds. The second man was sitting in the doorway. There were two small holes in his forehead and a third next to his nose.

Castillo's heart jumped again and he felt a chill.

Jesus Christ, Otto!

He ran across the living room to the second guest room, put his hand on the doorknob, then pushed it open quickly and jumped inside, holding the Micro Uzi in both hands. There was just enough light to make out the bed.

He fumbled on the wall inside the door until he found the light switch and tripped it.

For a moment, the body on the bed didn't move-Oh, shit, not another garroting! Not Otto!-and then Otto sat up.

"What the hell!" Gorner grumbled. "What are you doing with that gun?"

"You better get up, Otto," Castillo said. "There's a problem."

"A problem? What kind of a problem?"

"You'd better get up, Otto," Castillo repeated, then went quickly through the living room to the door to the corridor.

There was a man down-one of the security people from the Tages Zeitung-sprawled on his back by the door to the stairway. His pistol was lying on the carpet.

Castillo ran to him, saw his bulged eyes and blue skin, then the blued-steel garrote around his neck.

He ran back into the apartment, found his Swiss Army knife in his suitcase, and ran back into the corridor.

He managed with great difficulty to trip the lever locking the garrote, but, when it was free, he decided that it had been an exercise in futility.

This guy is dead.

He looked down at the man's face. There was no sign of life.

What the hell!

He pressed with all his weight on the man's abdomen and felt the expulsion of air from the man's lungs. But there was no sign of breathing.

Castillo inhaled deeply, then bent over the man, pinched his nostrils closed, and exhaled into his mouth.

There was no reaction.

Castillo pressed on the man's abdomen again and sensed again an expulsion of air. And then there was a sucking sensation. A small, short suck. Then another, a little greater. And then, all at once, a large intake of air.

And a gasping groan.

I have absolutely no idea what to do now.

The man thrashed around, clawing at his throat.

"Just breathe, that's all. Just lie there and breathe," Castillo ordered.

It sounded as if the man was trying to say something.

Castillo sensed someone behind him and quickly reached for the Micro Uzi.

"I'll call for the police and an ambulance," Otto Gorner said, softly.

"No police. No ambulance," Castillo said. "Get Sandor Tor over here."

Gorner looked as if he was going to argue but then said, "My cellular's next to my bed," and went back into the apartment.

The security man tried to sit up.

Castillo pushed him back down.

"Stay there," he said. "Help is on the way." [FOUR] Danubius Hotel Gellert Szent Gellert ter 1 Budapest, Hungary 0150 7 August 2005 "What did you shoot them with?" Sandor Tor asked.

He was squatting beside the second intruder, who was sitting against the doorframe.

Castillo said, "A.22 pistol."

"You are either a fool or have a lot of faith in your marksmanship," Tor said. "Where is it?"

"On the dresser in my bedroom," Castillo said and pointed.

Tor walked to the bedroom. Castillo followed him. Tor picked up the pistol.

"Okay," he said. "A silenced.22 pistol."

"Suppressed," Castillo corrected him without thinking.

"Very few newspaper publishers know the difference, much less how to use one of these…certainly not as well as you did."

"If you're waiting for me to respond to that, don't hold your breath," Castillo said.

Another burly, middle-aged Hungarian came into the bedroom. He carried a ten-liter red plastic gas can. Castillo saw that he was wearing rubber gloves.

"There's two more of these in the stairwell," the burly Hungarian announced.

Tor nodded.

"Does that suggest anything to you, Ur Gossinger?" Tor asked.

"Plan C," Castillo said. "If they couldn't snatch Ur Kocian-Plan A-or something went wrong and they had to kill him-Plan B-then they were going to torch the place in the hope that it would destroy Ur Kocian's files."

"You think they thought Ur Kocian was here?"

"Otherwise, they would have gone to the Telki Private Hospital. I think they were watching this place and saw the lights in the apartment and decided he was here. Maybe they saw Max on the balcony. When he didn't take his usual midnight stroll, they decided to come after him."

"Certainly they knew he was in the Telki Private Hospital," Tor argued. "Why would they think he was here?"

"But they didn't know how badly he was hurt. It made more sense for them to come here in case he was here than to try a snatch at the hospital where he might not be."

Tor looked at Castillo carefully for a long moment, then turned to the man holding the gas can.

"Rakosi, leave us alone for a minute, please," he said. "See if you can find anything in their pockets. See if we can tie them to a car anywhere around here."

"I saw an Uzi in the sitting room?" Rakosi questioned.

Tor looked at Castillo, who, after a moment's hesitation, nodded.

Tor waved his hand at Rakosi, ordering him out of the room. Then he walked to the door and closed it.

"Ur Gossinger, we are both very concerned about Ur Kocian's safety. I can do my job better if I am not in the dark." He paused and waited until he understood Castillo was not going to reply, then went on: "Forgive an old policeman for not believing you are who you say you are, Ur Gossinger."

Well, he had to be told sooner or later.

"I'm an American intelligence officer."

The nod Tor made automatically told Castillo he wasn't surprised.