Hunters

"CIA?"

Castillo shook his head. "No."

Sandor Tor visibly didn't believe that.

"And what is your interest in Ur Kocian?"

"Right now, to keep him alive," Castillo said, and then, gesturing for Tor to follow him, added, "Come with me, please."

Castillo led him into Kocian's bedroom and pointed to the photograph of Eric Kocian holding his mother's and his uncle Willi's hands.

"That's my mother as a girl. And," he went on, pointing to the pictures of him holding his mother's hand, "that's her as a young woman and me as a boy."

Tor looked at the photographs, then at Castillo, and pointed to the photo of Castillo with the newly awarded medals on his tunic.

"And you were a soldier. So was I."

"I am a soldier. Lieutenant colonel."

"I suppose that would explain the marksmanship," Tor said. "But this raises more questions than it answers."

"When there is time, I will try to answer those questions. But for now, my government is interested in what Ur Kocian has learned about the oil-for-food scandal."

"Enough, obviously, for those involved to send these scumbags to kill him."

"First to find out how much he knows and then to kill him."

"He told me that the night they tried to kidnap him on the bridge," Tor said.

"He tell you anything else?"

"He said he had files here in the apartment."

"Did he say where?"

Tor shook his head. "He said he didn't want me to know."

"Well, he can tell us in the morning."

"And how are we going to protect him after that?"

"In my business, there are times when you have to trust your gut feeling about somebody," Castillo said. "And tell him things that just might come around and bite you on the ass."

"I know," Tor said, simply. "And what is your gut feeling about me?"

"In a couple of hours, an airplane will land at Ferihegy Airport. After we get Ur Kocian out of the hospital here, and he has his files, I'm going to take him to Argentina in it."

"Argentina is halfway around the world," Tor said. "It must be quite an airplane."

"A Gulfstream III," Castillo furnished.

Tor nodded his recognition of the airplane.

"Why not to the United States?"

"Two reasons. One, that Ur Kocian doesn't want to go to the States, and, two, I think we're going to find what we're looking for in southern South America. And maybe three, I think I can protect him better there than I could in the States."

"That doesn't seem reasonable."

"I think I may be able to get word to whoever is trying to get to Ur Kocian that it no longer makes sense to try to get his information or kill him because the information is now in my hands."

"I will ensure that Ur Kocian gets safely from the hospital to here and then to the airport."

Castillo said, "What would it take to get you to come to Argentina with us?"

Tor met Castillo's eyes.

"You would not have to ask permission to do something like that?" Tor said.

Castillo shook his head. "Will you come with us?"

"Of course."

"What are we going to do about the police?" Castillo said.

"Nothing. If my people can find their car-and I think they will be able to-we will put the bodies in it, take it into the woods, and burn the car with them in it."

"And that'll be the end of it?"

"We will hope so." [FIVE] Danubius Hotel Gellert Szent Gellert ter 1 Budapest, Hungary 0550 7 August 2005 "Why does finding you awake and dressed at oh-dark-hundred and with an Uzi on the coffee table make me uncomfortable, Charley?" Colonel Jake Torine asked as he and Fernando Lopez walked into the living room. And then, as Max trotted in, showing his teeth, he exclaimed, "Jesus Christ!"

"They're good guys, Max," Castillo said, in Hungarian. "Down."

Max walked to where Castillo was sitting and lay down at his feet.

"What is that, a Hungarian Great Dane?" Torine asked. "Where did he come from?"

"He's Billy Kocian's."

"What happened to his head?"

"We have problems, Jake. We have to go wheels-up as soon as possible."

"Charley, we just flew here from Baltimore, with only a piss stop at Frankfurt."

"What kind of problems, Gringo?" Fernando Lopez asked.

"The bad guys tried to kidnap Billy Kocian. Max grabbed the arm of one of them and the bad guy clobbered him with his pistol, whereupon another bad guy shot Billy. Twice. Luckily, not bad. We're getting him out of the hospital right about now. As soon as he shows me where his files are, we're going back to the airport."

"Why the hurry?"

"Getting him out of here is the best way I can think of to keep him alive."

"He wouldn't be safe here?" Fernando asked. "At least for eight hours, so we can get some sleep? Christ, there were half a dozen of what I presume are Hungarian rent-a-cops in the lobby and four more when we got off the elevator."

"You can sleep as long as you want to and then catch a plane home," Castillo said. "Jake and I have to get Billy out of Budapest."

"You really think they'll try something again?" Torine asked.

"They already did," Castillo said. "Two of them came in here at half past one."

"And?" Fernando asked.

"Max woke me up. I took them out."

"You took them out?" Torine repeated.

Castillo nodded.

"Jesus Christ!" Torine said.

"I didn't have any choice, Jake."

"And are there going to be complications from that? The local cops, for example?"

"I don't think so."

"Are you all right, Gringo?" Fernando asked.

"I'm fine," Castillo said and turned to Torine. "If you get the Gulfstream in the air, Jake, I can steer while you take a nap."

Torine's face showed he was less than enthusiastic about that idea.

"I wouldn't ask you to do this unless I thought it was really necessary," Castillo said.

Torine shrugged.

"I penciled in a flight plan to Buenos Aires on the way over," he said. "Budapest, Dakar, and across the drink to Recife, Brazil. Then down to Buenos Aires. It's about six hours from here to Dakar. Figuring two fuel stops at an hour each and fifteen hours in the air, give or take. If we leave here at, say, eight, we should be in Buenos Aires-there's a four-time-zone difference-we should be in BA before midnight."

"That'll work," Fernando said. "We can take turns sleeping. One of us on one of the couches, the other in the right seat."

"You're not going," Castillo said. "You're going home, commercial."

"I'll go home commercial from Buenos Aires," Fernando said. "Not open for discussion."

"Who all's going," Torine asked, "besides Kocian?"

"Billy, me, a guy named Sandor Tor, and Max."

"And Sandor Tor is?" Torine asked.

"Billy's bodyguard, and a good one."

"He knows what's going on?"

Castillo nodded.

"The dog is going?" Fernando asked.

"Absolutely," Castillo said.

"I'll call for the weather," Torine said. "Somebody order up some breakfast. And-can we do this, Charley?-some in flight rations." [SIX] Danubius Hotel Gellert Szent Gellert ter 1 Budapest, Hungary 0720 7 August 2005 Eric Kocian, visibly in a foul mood, was rolled into his apartment in a wheelchair by Sandor Tor. He was accompanied by three security guards and Dr. Czerny. Czerny, the reason for Kocian's foul mood, had made his personal approval of where Kocian would be resting in bed a condition to discharge the old man from the hospital.

Castillo wondered if Czerny's concern was based on friendship for the old man or was a manifestation of his professional concern for Kocian's health, and when the doctor came out of Kocian's bedroom Castillo took him aside and told him that he planned to leave Budapest immediately if Kocian's physical condition would make that possible.

"Ordinarily, I'd say no," Czerny replied, "but I know-Tor told me-not only what happened on the bridge but what happened here earlier this morning. So with my priority being keeping my patient alive, I prescribe getting him as far away from Budapest as possible as quickly as possible."

"That's what I'm thinking," Castillo said. "I think it'll be a day or two before these people realize he's gone. And there will be no record-no airline tickets, no rail tickets, etcetera-to give them an idea where he might be. I'm hoping they think Vienna or Fulda."

Dr. Czerny nodded his agreement.

Czerny said, "I just wish those bedlike seats on airplanes were really beds. What he should be doing is lying down."

"There are real beds-actually, couches-on the airplane where he could lie down and be strapped in. That is, if I can get him to lie down, much less get him to allow me to strap him down."

Dr. Czerny reached in his pocket and came out with a plastic vial.

"Give him one of these air-sickness pills. In ten minutes, he'll get drowsy."

"And if he won't take one?"

"Break open the capsule and mix the powder with anything he'll drink." Three minutes after Dr. Czerny had checked Kocian a final time-to make sure he was in bed in his pajamas-and had given Castillo a package of bandages and medicines and then left the apartment, and as Castillo was wondering how soon he could get Kocian to dress, Kocian appeared in the sitting room, awkwardly trying to button the sleeves of his shirt. Castillo went to help him.

"What time's the plane?" Kocian demanded, casually.

"Just as soon as we can get your files and to the airport."

"Have you thought about Argentine regulations about taking a dog into their country?" Kocian asked, and, when he saw the look on Castillo's face, added: "I didn't think you would have, Karlchen. I have looked into the matter. What we have to do is go to Dr. Kincs-Max's veterinarian-and get a certificate of health and a copy of his inoculations record."

"Can we send Tor?"

"I'll call and find out," Kocian said.

Five minutes later, Tor was on his way to the veterinarian's office.

"What about your files, Eric?" Castillo asked after Tor had left.

"Oh, yes, those," Kocian replied and walked over to a bookcase.

He took a book from the shelf and handed it to Castillo.

Castillo had read the book title-Ot Pervovo Litsa (First Person)-a collection of interviews with Russian president Vladimir Putin that Putin authorized to be published as a sort-of autobiography.

Castillo looked quesioningly at Kocian.

"You can't judge a book by its cover, Karlchen."

Castillo opened the book. It had been carefully hollowed out enough to hold a black leather-and-chrome object a half inch thick, three inches wide, and nine inches long. Castillo knew what it was: a state-of-the-art external hard drive for a computer.

"Eighty gigabytes," Kocian said. "Those Japanese are really clever, aren't they, Karlchen?"

"The Japanese are good at making things, but this technology came out of Las Vegas, Nevada," Castillo said, "not Japan."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because Aloysius Francis Casey of the AFC Corporation, who came up with the technology, sent me a prototype. I've got it in my briefcase. One hundred twenty gigs. Would you like to see it?"

"That won't be necessary."

"Everything's in here?"

"Just about. I have a few tidbits between my ears."

"Is it encrypted?"

Kocian nodded.

"Microsoft encryption?"

Kocian nodded again.

"Well, see if you can remember the key while I go get my hard drive."

"You want to see this now?" Kocian asked, surprised.

"I want to copy it to my hard drive and then encrypt it with another little gift from Mr. Casey. There are a lot of people, many of them unfriendly, who know how to get around Mr. Gates's encryption technology. So far as I know, nobody's ever been able to crack the AFC encryption logarithm."

"You're serious, aren't you, Karl?"

Castillo picked up on that: I'm not Karlchen right now. The old man is impressed.

"Absolutely," Castillo said. "Have you got another hard drive?"

"A spare, you mean?"

Castillo nodded.

"Why?"

"Because what I really would like to do just as soon as I get this data off your drive and properly reencrypted is put it on another drive and send that in the diplomatic pouch to the United States. In case something happens to our copies."

Kocian considered that and nodded.

"There's a store across the river which sells them," he said. "They're expensive."

"Can we send somebody to buy one?"

Kocian nodded again. "Shall I have it put on my Tages Zeitung American Express card? Or are you going to pay for it?"

"Better yet, we'll have the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund pay for it," Castillo said. "Will this store take dollars?"

"Probably, at a very bad rate of exchange."

"Get one of the security guys in here. You tell him what store and I'll tell him to get a receipt," Castillo said and took a wad of currency from his pocket.

"You going to tell me what that fund-'the Lorimer Charitable and Whatever Fund'-is all about?"

"On the way to Buenos Aires. There's no time now." Castillo carefully pried the portable hard drive from the pages of Ot Pervovo Litsa, then connected it to his laptop computer.

"Okay, Eric, it's hooked up. Let me have the password."

"You trust that machine?"

"I won't erase your data until I'm sure it's in here," Castillo said. "But, yeah, I trust it."

"I put a lot of time and effort into what's in there," Kocian said. "I'd hate to lose it."

"Not as much as I would," Castillo said, "and therefore I am going to be very careful. Let's have the password."

Kocian gave it to him, then added: "Never in my worst nightmares did I see myself as a lackey of the CIA."

Castillo entered the password, decrypted the data on Kocian's hard drive, then transfered it to his.

When he saw that was working, he said, "I don't work for the CIA, Eric."

"So you say. But if you did, you wouldn't say you did, would you?"

"Probably not," Castillo said.

Kocian elected to change the subject.

"I really hate to destroy any book," he said. "But I had seen all the spy movies on the TV and hiding the hard drive in a book seemed like a good idea. And Ot Pervovo Litsa was a garbage book." He paused, then added, "Full of bullshit, like the dispatches from Washington you send all the time."

Is he trying to piss me off?

Or do my paraphrases from The American Conservative really offend his sense of journalistic integrity?

Castillo said, "You don't think Mr. Putin told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth to those reporters?"

"You read it?"

Castillo nodded.

"In Russian or the translation?"

"In Russian."

"Then you will recall he told one journalist that practically right out of university, he went in the KGB and learned his craft by suppressing 'dissident activities' in Leningrad. That, I believe. I also believe that his father was a cook, first to the czars-where he cooked for Rasputin-and then to the Bolsheviks, most significantly Lenin himself, and then in one of Stalin's dachas outside Moscow, as he told other Russian journalists. He also said that his father served with the Red Army during the Great Patriotic War. He was a little vague about what his poppa did in uniform."

Castillo nodded.

He dropped his eyes to his laptop and saw that the transfer of files procedure was just about finished.

He held up his hand to signal Kocian that he needed a moment and then typed in the encryption code.

Kocian waited until Castillo raised his eyes to him and then went on: "Do you think that Putin's father spent that time boiling beets for the Red Army in some field mess? Or is it more likely that Putin's father-whom the regime trusted enough to let him cook for Stalin-served as a political officer, making sure no officer strayed from the path of righteousness?"

"Good point."

"Whatever he did, it made Poppa an important apparatchik. Important enough to get his son into law school at Leningrad State University and then into the KGB, where he promptly began to suppress the local dissidents. Then, he told another so-called journalist, he was next assigned to East Germany, to a minor administrative position."

"I wondered about that," Castillo said.

"Do you think, having learned how to suppress Russian dissidents, that the KGB might have had him doing the same thing in East Germany?"

"Which, of course, he would like to keep quiet," Castillo said. "In the interests of friendship between the Russian president and a now-reunited Germany."

"Think about it, Karl. After serving in a 'minor administrative position' in the KGB in East Germany, he went back to Leningrad State University, if we are to believe what he told these reporters, where he worked in the International Affairs section of the university, reporting to the vice rector. Do you suppose he got that job because he was such a good student the first time he was there? Or because-having been all the way to East Germany-he was an expert in international affairs? Or maybe because the KGB wanted somebody with experience in suppressing dissidence suppressing dissidence at the university?"

"Where are you going with this, Eric?" Castillo asked, softly,

Kocian held up a hand, signaling him to wait, and then went on: "After a year of that-in 1991, if memory serves, and it usually does-Putin was put in charge of the International Committee of the Leningrad Kommandatura-excuse me, Lenin no longer being an official saint of Russia, Leningrad was Saint Petersburg once again.

"That made it the International Committee of Saint Petersburg Kommandatura. Where he handled international relations and foreign investments. To show that he had put all the evil of the Soviets behind him, Mr. Putin resigned from the KGB two months after getting that job. Correct me if you think I'm wrong, but if he resigned from the KGB in 1991 wouldn't that suggest he was in the KGB until 1991? I mean, how can you resign from something you don't belong to?"

Castillo chuckled but didn't reply.

"Would you be cynical enough to think, Karl, that the man in charge of foreign investments in Saint Petersburg would be in a position to skim a little off the top and spread it around among what in the former regime had been deserving apparatchiks?"

"That evil thought might occur to me," Castillo said. "Okay, what else?"

"Well, he did such a good job building foreign goodwill and attracting foreign investment that Putin suddenly found himself first deputy chairman of the whole city of Saint Petersburg, and, soon after that, he was summoned to Moscow, where he served in what he told the reporters who interviewed him were various positions under Boris Yeltsin. What they were was not mentioned. A cynical man might suspect this was because he might have been involved again with the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, otherwise known…"

"As the KGB," Castillo said and laughed.

"Or the Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti…"

"FSB," Castillo said, still chuckling.

"…The Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation," Kocian finished, nodding, "which replaced the evil KGB, and of which Putin became head, and remained head, until he assumed his present role as an international statesman."

"You think he was personally involved in the oil-for-food scam, Eric?"

"Up to his skinny little ass," Kocian said, bitterly. "Both as a source of money for the FSB and personally."

"Can you prove it?"

Kocian shook his head.

"But I'm working on it. I think I may be getting close to getting something I can print."

"You think he knows that?"

"We have more spies per square meter in Budapest than Vienna and Berlin did in their heyday. Of course he knows."

"And the people who tried to whack you? They were Spetsnaz sent by the FSB?"

"Whack meaning 'kidnap'? Or 'assassinate'?"

"Assassinate. Kidnap is 'grab' or simply 'kidnap.'"

Kocian nodded.

"Maybe, but I don't think so. They weren't Russian. They were German, which makes me think they were sent by the KSB. The KSB is too smart to send Spetsnaz. They might be identified and Putin wouldn't like that. More than likely, as we were discussing yesterday, former East German Stasi. What about the people who-what was that word you used, 'whacked'? I like it-whacked Mr. Lorimer?"

"They were professionals," Castillo said. "No identification on them. They had Swedish Madsen submachine guns. The CIA guys in Montevideo and Buenos Aires are trying to identify them. I don't think we're going to get lucky. They could be Stasi, or not."

"If you're really not CIA, Karl, how do you know what the CIA is doing? Or, for that matter, that they'd tell you the truth about what they're doing or have found out?"

Castillo didn't immediately reply, then he said, "I work for the President, Eric."

"Directly?"

Castillo nodded.

"And he's ordered the agency-and everybody else in the intelligence community-to tell me anything I want to know and give me whatever I ask for."

Kocian met his eyes for a moment, then nodded, then pointed at Castillo's laptop.

"Either your encryption process is awfully slow or your machine is not working."

"It's a little slow but very good." He looked at the screen. "Ninety-one percent encrypted."

"Well, while we're waiting I'll get packed. It's winter in Argentina now, right?"

"Yeah, but don't put on long underwear. We have to go to Equatorial Africa before we go to South America." It was a little after twelve before all the errands had been run and they made their way to Ferihegy International Airport.

Castillo didn't think it would be likely that anyone would be looking for Billy Kocian at the airport or keeping the Gulfstream under observation, but he decided nevertheless that the smart way to get the old man on the airplane was to take him there in an unmarked van from the Tages Zeitung. With a little bit of luck, he and Sandor Tor could rush Kocian up the steps and get him and Max aboard unnoticed while the luggage and in flight rations were being loaded.

Just before they went to the airport, Castillo had Kocian's Mercedes brought to the loading dock in the basement of the Gellert. With one of the Tages Zeitung security men at the wheel and another behind the darkened windows in the backseat, the car took off for Vienna.

There was no way of telling, of course, if the bastards who had tried to whack Kocian were surveilling the Gellert, but if they were they just might follow the Mercedes. They might also try something with the car once it was on the highway. Castillo almost hoped they would: He had given the security men the Madsens the Stasi-or whoever the hell the bastards were-had brought to the hotel to use on Kocian. And he hadn't had to show them how to use them.

As the Mercedes pulled away from the loading dock, they had shaken hands with Otto Gorner, who was going to stay in Budapest for at least a day before returning to Fulda, and then gotten in the van.

Billy Kocian, surprising Castillo, had not objected to traveling in the van, and surprised him again once they were aboard the Gulfstream by taking without question the air-sick pill Dr. Czerny had provided. Deceiving the old man had made Castillo feel a little ashamed.

Jake Torine and Fernando Lopez, who had ridden to the airport in a taxi, came up the stair door two minutes after the van had driven off.

"Everything okay, Charley?" Torine asked.

"If you've filed the flight plan and remembered to get the weather, it is."

"There is one small problem," Fernando said.

"Which is?"

"I know American Express boasts that there's no spending limit," Fernando said. "But what happens if they err on the side of caution and call the office and ask if I really filled the tanks on this thing in Baltimore, Frankfurt, and then here? They're used to charges for fueling the Lear, not a Gulfstream, and not in Europe. And not nearly as much fuel. They're liable to suspect that somebody's using my Amex numbers."

"Shit!" Castillo said. "Good point. Well, the damage is done. From here on, we'll use my card and then when we get to Buenos Aires I'll call Dick and have him write a check on the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund to your account at American Express."

"I think we ought to do something," Fernando said.

"Agreed," Castillo said. "Jake, do you want me to sit in the right seat now and take over once we're wheels-up?"

"I want you to sit in the left seat now," Torine said. "Preliminary flight instruction will begin immediately." "Ferihegy Departure Control clears Gulfstream Three-Seven-Niner for takeoff. Climb to flight level thirty-one thousand on a course of two-three-five degrees. Contact Zagreb Area Control on two-three-three-point-five when passing through twenty thousand."

"Three-Seven-Niner understands number one to go," Torine replied. "Climb to thirty-one thousand on two-three-five. Report to Zagreb Area Control on two-three-three-point-five when passing through twenty thousand."

"Affirmative."

Castillo pushed the throttles forward.

"Three-Seven-Niner rolling," Torine reported. "Thank you."

Then he switched to intercom. "Presuming you can steer it down the runway," Torine's voice came over Castillo's earphones, "I'll tell you when to rotate. And then when to get the gear up." [SEVEN] Yoff International Airport Dakar, Senegal 1835 7 August 2005 Max stood beside Castillo as he opened the stair door and, the moment it had extended, pushed Castillo aside and bounded down the stairs, startling more than a little the Senegalese airport authorities who had come to meet the Gulfstream.

Max took a quick look around, then headed for the nose gear, where he raised his leg and voided his bladder. It was an impressive performance, in terms of both volume and duration.

Then he looked around again, saw where the setting sun had cast a shadow to one side of the aircraft, trotted to it, and vacated his bowels in another impressive performance. Then he returned to the stair door and looked up at it, his posture suggesting, Well, I'm finished. What are you waiting for?

Billy Kocian came down the stairs both regally and carefully. He was wearing his wide-brimmed panama hat and a white linen suit. The jacket was draped rakishly over his shoulder and the arm he carried in a sling. His free hand held his cane like a swagger stick.

He looked at the airport authorities, nodded, and said, in Hungarian, "Good God, it's hot! How long do we have to stand here in the sun in whatever obscure developing country we find ourselves?"

Castillo thought: Well, there's now no question in the minds of the customs guys who owns this airplane.

"We're in Dakar, Senegal," Castillo replied, in Hungarian. "Unless I'm mistaken, that bus will take us to the transient lounge."

He pointed to a Peugeot van.

"Do you suppose it has air-conditioning or is that too much to expect?" Kocian asked and walked to the bus.

Sandor Tor came down the stairs and followed Kocian. Max trotted after them.

Jake Torine came down the stairs, carrying the aircraft's documents, and then Fernando Lopez exited.

"I hate to tell you this, Gringo," Lopez said, "but that landing was a greaser."

"A greaser? For my very first touchdown, it was magnificent!"

"You and I will fly across the drink, Fernando," Torine said. "There is nothing more dangerous in the sky than a pilot who thinks he really knows how to fly." [EIGHT] Carrasco International Airport Montevideo, Republica Oriental del Uruguay 2030 7 August 2005 "Legal Attache" David W. Yung, Jr., was in a strange, good-almost euphoric-mood as the Policia Federal helicopter carrying him, "Cultural Attache" Robert Howell, "Assistant Legal Attache" Julio Artigas, and Chief Inspector Jose Ordonez came in for a landing at the military side of the airport.

It was an almost complete turnaround of feelings from when he'd gotten on the same ancient and battered Huey at eight that morning for the flight to Estancia Shangri-La in Tacuarembo Province.

Then he had been very worried. He had just about convinced himself that the whole thing was going to blow up in his face and God only knew what that would mean, either to the mission ordered by the Presidential Finding or to David W. Yung, Jr., personally. And he hadn't been the only one worrying that he was about to fuck up spectacularly. He could tell that Howell and Artigas were watching him almost as closely as was Ordonez.

That hadn't happened. He hadn't done anything stupid, even though on the flight to the estancia he had wallowed in the discomfiting thought that while he had conducted a great many interrogations himself, this was the first time he had been on-and all day would continue to be on-the receiving end of an interrogation conducted by an interrogator as skilled-perhaps, better skilled-in that art as he was.

And since he was lying through his teeth-and had very little experience doing that-the odds were that he had already said something, had revealed something, that he shouldn't have. And, if he hadn't, that would happen before the day was over.

That hadn't happened, either.

There had been three police vehicles-two cars and a small van-parked in front of the estancia and, as the helicopter approached, a half dozen policemen came out from under the shielded veranda of the house to watch the helo land.

And there was another man, a burly, middle-aged Uruguayan wearing a suit jacket and tie and gaucho pants stuffed into red rubber boots. He knew that had to be Ricardo Montez, the manager of the estancia.

Early in the assault, Montez had been tied, blindfolded, and "tranquilized" by one of Castillo's Green Berets, but there was still a very good chance that he would somehow recognize Yung, or at least eye him suspiciously, which, of course, would immediately be picked up by Ordonez.

That hadn't happened. When Ordonez introduced them to Montez and the police as "representatives of the U.S. embassy" and said they had come to have a look at the crime site and to begin the process of protecting the late Senor Lorimer's property, there had been not even a glimmer of recognition.

Ordonez gave them a guided tour of the crime scene, beginning by showing the Americans the chalk body outlines indicating where two of what everyone was now calling the Ninja had fallen on the veranda.

Next, Ordonez showed them the chalk body outline of the Ninja who had fallen just inside the front door. Yung had been more than a little surprised at his reaction to that one-virtually none-although he'd killed that Ninja himself, taking him down with two quick shots as he had been trained to do at the FBI school at Quantico. It was the first time since he'd been in the FBI that he'd ever taken his pistol from its holster with any prospect at all of having to use it.

What the hell is wrong with me? Am I a cold-blooded killer?

Remembering suddenly that he was still carrying his pistol had caused another moment of anxiety.

I haven't even cleaned it. Not smart, Yung!

Christ, if Ordonez gets his hands on my pistol they can match it to the slugs in the Ninja I took down. Proof that not only was I involved in this but that I killed that man!

The anxiety hadn't lasted long: Calm down! You have diplomatic immunity. Ordonez can't even ask for the pistol.

Next came the chalk body outline in Lorimer's office, showing where Lorimer had fallen.

That produced virtually no reaction, either, although it did trigger a sharp and very unpleasant memory of Lorimer's body in the morgue refrigerator in the British Hospital in Montevideo the previous afternoon.

A Uruguayan pathologist who spoke English like the queen had pulled Lorimer's naked body from its shelf in the cooler and unceremoniously pulled the sheet from it.

"Just going through the motions, you know," the pathologist had said, conversationally. "Either of the bullets in the poor chap's brain would have killed him instantly. But the chief inspector said he wanted a full autopsy, so I did one."

He had gestured at the corpse. A full autopsy had apparently required that a large incision-sort of a flap-be made in the body from the upper chest to the groin. It had been sewn shut, some what crudely. So had the incisions made in Lorimer's face and skull. The bullets in his head had made large exit wounds and the skull was deformed.

Ordonez next showed them where the other three Ninja had fallen outside the house. Two of them, Ordonez said, to bursts of 5.56mm rifle fire, probably from an M-16 firing on full automatic close up. One of the bodies had five wounds; the other, three. The third had died of a 9mm bullet to the forehead. That body, Ordonez said, also had stab wounds, suggesting there had been hand-to-hand combat before he was killed by a bullet.

Yung, who had searched all the bodies and then photographed and finger-printed them right after the firefight, could only hope he was making the right facial expressions and asking the right kind of questions as he "learned this for the first time."

By the time Ordonez-watching all of them closely to see their reactions-had finished his guided tour of the main house and the grounds immediately outside and the field where he'd found the skid marks of the Bell Ranger, Yung felt a good deal less nervous. He felt that he'd handled himself well.

A four-hour search of the house had turned up nothing useful, which was not surprising, since immediately after the firefight Castillo had quickly gathered up everything he thought might be useful-including the entire contents of the safe-and loaded it on the Ranger.

That material, including an encrypted address book, was now being evaluated in Washington.

And, of course, Ordonez's men had conducted their own search of the house. If they had found anything interesting, Ordonez wasn't saying.

Most of the search was spent going through Lorimer's rather large library one book at a time to see if he had hidden something in the books. Or in the bookcase.

And going through his closets and bureaus, all that turned up was proof that Lorimer had spent a lot of money on luxury clothing.

Onan impulse, thinking of the crudely sewn corpse in the British Hospital, Yung took a Louis Vuitton suitcase from a shelf and put in it a nearly black custom-made Italian suit, handmade Hungarian shoes, and a shirt, socks, and underwear, all silk and all bearing labels: SULKA, RUE DE CASTIGLIONE, PARIS.

"What the hell are you doing?" Howell asked, softly.

"Taking this stuff to the undertaker's in Montevideo."

"Why?"

"The last time I saw Lorimer-we saw him-he was naked."

"So what? There's not going to be an open-casket viewing. Who'll know?"

"I will."

"Yung, you're something!" Howell said. He said it with admiration. Yung had thought of the admiration in Howell's voice on the flight back to Montevideo.

And of other things:

Artigas no longer thinks of me as a jerk, either. I told myself I didn't give a damn what the other FBI guys thought of me before all this happened. I was doing my job and doing it well, even if I couldn't let them know.

But I guess the truth is, I did mind.

And now, after I'm gone, instead of remembering me as the little Chink who was a flaming pain in the ass they'll wonder.

Artigas won't tell them what he suspects happened at the estancia, but they will all conclude that I was somehow involved in something important that they don't know about.

And Castillo, too. He didn't make much of a secret that he thought I was some sort of FBI goody-goody. The only reason he sent me back down here is that I was the only one who could hide the tracks of that sixteen million he made off with.

But he was right about that, too. I can never go back to the FBI. They gave me sort of a pass on being close to Howard Kennedy before he changed sides, sending me to Uruguay for the State Department.

But they won't give me another pass after this. They're going to want to know everything I know about Castillo, and since I won't-couldn't even if I wanted to-tell them anything about a Presidential Finding mission that'll be it. I really would, like Castillo said, wind up investigating parking meter fraud in Kansas for the rest of my career.

Working for Castillo-the Office of Organizational Analysis-now that I think about it, won't be as bad as I originally thought.

It would seem, really, that I have a talent for that sort of thing. I would have given odds that I would have broken out in a cold sweat when I saw where I dropped that Ninja. I didn't.

The sonofabitch had a submachine gun he would have used on me if I hadn't blown him away. Why should I feel guilty about taking him down?

Castillo may not be thrilled about having me. Okay. But he's stuck with me. All I'll have to do is play my cards right and eventually he'll accept me. I can do a lot for OOA. They need somebody like me. And they know when something goes down, I can hold my own. I proved it.

Fuck the FBI! "You want to get a drink somewhere?" Artigas asked as they walked from the helicopter to their cars.

All of their cars were parked nose up against the Policia Federal hangar. Howell had picked up Artigas that morning and driven him to the airport. Both lived in apartments not far from the embassy on the Rambla. Ordonez had met them at the airport. Yung had driven to the airport in his own car from his apartment in Carrasco.

"My ass is dragging," Yung replied. "I'm going to get in a shower and then go to bed. I'll see you at the embassy about nine, okay?"

"Your call. Goodnight, Dave," Artigas said, touched Yung's shoulder, and opened the passenger's door of Howell's car.

"Thanks for everything, Ordonez," Yung said. "I really appreciate all you've done."

"Di nada, mi amigo," Ordonez said. "I'll probably see you tomorrow."

"Absolutely."

And you won't learn anything more tomorrow than you did today.

Yung put the Louis Vuitton suitcase in the backseat of his Chevy Blazer and got behind the wheel.

It was a ten-minute drive from the airport to Yung's apartment.

He lived in a three-story building, two apartments to a floor, on Avenida Bernardo Barran. All the apartments had balconies overlooking the beach. He thought his-the right-hand apartment on the third floor-had the best view, and he thought that he would probably miss the apartment when he was back living in D.C., where the rents were astronomical and he couldn't afford anything this nice.

Well, fuck it. Maybe working for Castillo, I won't be spending all that much time in Washington.

The garage was in the basement of the building. There was a clicker-activated solenoid that opened the steel-mesh door most of the time when you pushed the button after you pulled off the street and into the steeply slanted driveway.

If the clicker didn't work, you had to get out of the car and open the door with a key.

The clicker didn't work.

Shit!

He turned the ignition off, took the keys from the ignition, and opened the Blazer's door.

As he squeezed past the front fender, he noticed two things. First, the floodlight that went on when you pushed the clicker-even if the goddamned door didn't open-hadn't come on.

What the hell!

And then he noticed that a bag, a cloth-something-was covering the clicker receiver.

What the hell!

And then in the same split second, he saw that a man was coming quickly down the driveway and that a car was entering the drive.

Backward! What the hell?

He pushed his jacket aside and took out his pistol.

There was a sudden burst of light, from a large handheld floodlight.

"Policia!" a voice shouted.

The car-he saw now that it was a small Fiat van-started up the driveway, its tires squealing.

The man coming down the driveway shielded his eyes from the floodlight. Then he put his other hand to his eyes. That hand held a pistol.

"Don't shoot him!" Yung screamed, in Spanish.

There came three shots-booms rather than cracks, telling Yung they were from a shotgun and not a pistol-and the man who had been shielding his eyes looked as if something had shoved him hard against the concrete driveway wall. He slid down it.

Yung dropped his pistol and raised his hands over his head. He started screaming, "Policia! Policia! Policia!"

Something warm dripped onto his face.

In a moment, he realized that he was bleeding.

A Uruguayan policeman, a sergeant with his pistol drawn, came down the driveway.

"Are you all right, Senor Yung?"

How the hell did he know my name?

"May I put my hands down?"

"Of course, Senor," the sergeant said, then added, "You've been hit, Senor Yung!"

Yung looked at his left hand. It looked as if someone had gouged a two-inch-long, quarter-inch-deep channel across it. It was starting to bleed profusely.

Yung thought: There are usually twelve pellets, with a total weight of 1.5 ounces, in a 00-Buckshot cartridge. Each pellet has roughly the knockdown power of a.32 ACP bullet.

Wyatt Earp fired three times. That translated to thirty-six pellets, each with roughly the knockdown power of a.32 ACP slug bouncing around in the OK Corral here. I guess I'm lucky I got only one of them.

He leaned against the wall and took out his handkerchief.

When he applied the handkerchief as a pressure bandage to his hand, he saw there were at least a half dozen holes in the glass and metal of the Blazer.