Hunters

IX

[ONE] Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Newbery Buenos Aires, Argentina 0720 8 August 2005 Castillo had flown in the right seat on the last leg from Recife, Brazil, with Torine in the left seat. But as they had approached Jorge Newbery, Torine had said, "If you have your ego under control, First Officer, you may land the aircraft."

And then, when they had shut down the Gulfstream on the tarmac in front of the JetAire hangar, Torine had two more comments.

"You came in a little long, Charley."

"I know."

"The less the gross weight, the harder these are to get on the ground."

"I'll remember."

Torine handed him the plastic envelope holding the aircraft documents.

"Dealing with the local authorities is beneath the dignity of the captain," Torine said.

"Yes, sir," Castillo said. When he came down the stair door, Castillo saw that in addition to the Argentine customs and immigration authorities a Mercedes Traffik van also was there to meet the Gulfstream.

The driver was leaning against the van. Castillo recognized him. He was a CIA agent named Paul Sieno. He had met him the morning they had found J. Winslow Masterson's body. And when he looked closer at the van, he saw another man he recognized, Ricardo Solez, of the Drug Enforcement Administration.

Jesus, I hope Fernando doesn't take one look at him, get carried away, and pick Ricardo up in a bear hug!

Sieno walked over and in heavily accented English said, "We are from the estancia, senor, when you have finished with these officers."

"Thank you," Castillo said and turned to the Argentine officials. "Where would you like us to put our luggage for exam-"

Max came bounding down-more accurately, over-the steps in the stair door and headed for the nose gear, where he raised his leg.

The Argentine customs officer smiled.

"That won't be necessary, sir. If we can go aboard, we'll deal with the passports."

"You are very kind," Castillo said.

He went quickly back into the fuselage.

"Passports, please, everybody," he called. "And then please board the van, which will take us to the estancia."

Eric Kocian's bushy white eyebrow rose at that, but he said nothing. He handed the immigration officer his passport as if it identified him as the personal representative of, if not God, then at least the pope.

"Welcome to Argentina, senor," the immigration officer said.

Five minutes later, everyone was in the van and had left the airport. Where's this estancia we're going?" Castillo asked Sieno when it seemed to him the van was not headed for any of the highways leading to the countryside.

"In Belgrano," Sieno replied, chuckling. "Fifteen-sixty-eight Arribenos."

Belgrano was one of Buenos Aires's upscale neighborhoods.

"What's there?"

"My apartment, Major," Sieno said. "Sixteenth floor."

"Your apartment?"

"The Cuban embassy is on the next corner. We use the apartment to take pictures of people going into the embassy and to grab their radio transmissions. Not exactly a safe house, but there's a steel door and TV monitors, and Alex Darby figured it will do until you decide what you really need."

"He's a colonel now," Solez called from the backseat, and added for Castillo, "Dona Alicia sent me an e-mail."

"You and Dona Alicia have big mouths," Castillo said and then asked Sieno, "Where is Alex Darby?"

"I'm hoping he'll be at the apartment when we get there."

"And Tony Santini?"

"Your Major Miller called Darby, Maj-Colonel-and asked him to have somebody meet the seven twenty-five American Airlines flight from Miami. Tony said he'd do it. I overheard enough of the conversation to think that the corporal-from the Marine guard detachment at the embassy-you took to the States and some other military type, a replacement for the guy you lost, will be on it."

I wonder what the hell that's all about? Castillo thought, and then said it: "What's that about?"

"I don't have any idea, but Alex should be at the apartment when we get there and he'll know."

"Paul, can you get out of the habit of calling me Colonel? My name is Charley."

"Sure."

"And you, Ricardo, get in the habit of keeping your mouth shut."

"You going to tell Abuela that, Colonel Gringo?" Fernando asked, coming to Ricardo's aid.

Castillo ignored him and asked, "Where's Sergeant Kensington?"

"All alone-except for his radio, of course-in that luxury suite of yours in the Four Seasons," Solez said.

"Darby decided keeping him there, and the radio linkup, was more important than worrying about what that's costing," Sieno said. "At least until he heard from you."

"I am often known as the last of the big spenders," Castillo said.

He had a sudden flash of memory: Betty Schneider in his arms in the enormous bed in the master bedroom of the El Presidente de la Rua suite at the Four Seasons Hotel.

And then these bastards shot her.

And I didn't-as promised-go to see her before I started this round of the Grand Tour of Europe and South America.

I'm either a dedicated professional who allows nothing to get in the way of carrying out the mission or a four-star, world-class prick.

And if Betty believes the latter, who can blame her?

Well, I'll get on my knees, apologize, and beg for forgiveness when I see her. [TWO] The apartment building at 1568 Avenida Arribenos was on the corner of Avenida Jose Hernandez, a block off Avenida Libertador. The lobby, behind walls of plate glass, was brightly lit, and Castillo wondered if the Cubans-tit for tat-might be keeping it under surveillance.

Rule 17: Always give the bad guys more credit for smarts than they probably deserve. If Darby is working on their embassy, they almost certainly know it. They may not be able to do anything to stop the snooping, but they certainly can take pictures of everybody going into the apartment building and pass them around.

He felt a sense of relief when the Traffik turned off Avenida Arribenos, crossed the sidewalk, and almost immediately disappeared from sight down a steep ramp into a basement garage.

Castillo spotted surveillance cameras in the garage and another in the elevator, and still another when the elevator opened onto a foyer on the sixteenth floor. He had just decided that the cameras in the basement and elevator were connected with the apartment building's security system but that the one in the foyer might not be when he spotted a third lens hidden in the tack of a prancing-stallion wall decoration.

That one goes to a monitor inside the apartment.

The door from the foyer was steel. Sieno unlocked it by punching in a series of numbers on a small numerical keyboard. When Sieno pulled the door open, Castillo was surprised to see another steel door behind it, and even more surprised when that door opened inward, revealing a trim, pale, freckled redhead in a white blouse and blue jeans who smiled and said, "Welcome!"

Everyone filed inside.

"Gentlemen, this is my wife, Susanna," Sieno said, and then, pointing, "Susanna, this is Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith, and, of course, you know Ricardo."

"I'm very pleased to meet you all," she said. "How are you, Ricardo?"

Sieno smiled and said, "I was hoping the boss would be here before we got here, so he could make the introductions."

"I'm a little surprised that your wife is here," Castillo said, not very pleasantly.

"Well, she both lives here and works here," Sieno said. "Another reason I was hoping the boss would get here before we did, so he could explain that."

"Why don't I get us all some coffee while we're waiting?" Mr. Sieno said.

"Paul, why would I not be surprised to learn your charming wife has a security clearance-clearances-not normally given to diplomats' wives?" Castillo said.

"Actually, she has several. Some with names."

"Issued here? Or?"

"In Virginia, as a matter of fact," Mr. Sieno said.

"I've heard of husband-and-wife teams," Castillo said. "But this is the first one I've ever actually met."

"We're double-dippers," Susanna Sieno said. "The rule is that both can get paid only if both were field officers before they marched down the aisle."

Castillo smiled at her and then said, "Okay. Let me make if official. Anything that you hear here or see here, Mr. Sieno, is classified Top Secret Presidential."

"I understand."

Castillo thought: Only a Langley chairwarmer who's never been in the field would be naive enough to think that Sieno hasn't told her-she's not only his wife but a working spook-everything that's happened from the moment Mr. Masterson was grabbed.

Including that a hotshot named Castillo showed up down here and started giving everybody, including the station chief, orders.

That's why she told me she was a double-dipper, a spook herself, not just married to one.

"That being understood between us, I'm Charley Castillo. This is Colonel Jake Torine, my cousin Fernando Lopez, Sandor Tor, and Eric Kocian."

"And that is Max," Billy Kocian said in English as he walked to her and-some what startling her-took and kissed the hand she extended to him. "It is my great pleasure, madam."

There was the sound of door chimes playing a melody as if one chime didn't work.

"That's probably the boss," Susanna Sieno said. "The chimes go off when somebody pushes the clicker for the garage door."

She turned and opened what looked like a closet door. Behind the door was a bank of monitors. One showed a Jeep Cherokee waiting for the door to the basement garage to open. Others showed the garage, the elevator, the foyer outside, the lobby, the sidewalks outside, and several antennae on the roof.

Eric Kocian's eyebrows rose but he said nothing.

One of the monitors showed the Jeep Cherokee pulling into a slot in the garage. Alex Darby got out. A monitor showed him unloading a large duffel bag that looked like it contained heavy metal objects-like guns-and walking toward the elevator.

Mr. Sieno opened the door to the foyer before the elevator got there. Darby walked into the apartment, set the heavy bag down, and put out his hand to Castillo.

Castillo took it and said, "Good to see you, Alex."

Darby had just put out his hand to Torine when the chimes with one missing note sounded again. Everyone looked at the monitors. There was now a Volkswagen Passat station wagon waiting for the door to completely open.

Other monitors showed the Passat parking and Tony Santini, a Secret Service agent, getting out and going to the back of the vehicle and raising the rear hatch. Sergeant Major Jack Davidson, USA, and Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, both in civilian clothing, got out and joined Santini at the back of the station wagon.

Castillo grinned slightly.

Davidson! I don't know how you got down here, Jack, but am I glad to see you! When the monitor showed them inside the elevator, it also showed Davidson looking around for-and then spotting-the monitor camera lens.

Castillo looked at Torine and saw in his raised eyebrow that he had recognized Davidson, too. Torine saw that Castillo was watching him and raised his eyebrow even higher but didn't say anything.

Susanna Sieno opened the door for them.

Davidson, smiling, put his suitcase down and saluted Castillo.

"Good morning, Colonel," he said. "May the sergeant major offer his congratulations on your promotion?"

"The sergeant major may. But the colonel is surprised that the sergeant major doesn't know you're not supposed to salute when not in uniform," Castillo said.

"The sergeant major begs the colonel's pardon for his breach of military custom."

They looked at each other, then chuckled.

Castillo said, "I don't know what you're doing here, Jack, but-and I know I shouldn't tell you this-I'm damned glad you are."

"Oh, goody!" Davidson said and spread his arms wide as he approached Castillo, then wrapped him in a bear hug, crying, "It's good to see you, Charley!"

When he freed himself, Castillo turned to Bradley.

"I'm not so sure about you, Lester," he said. "I thought you were safely on ice at Mackall."

"That was not one of your brightest ideas," Davidson said. "Deadeye Dick stood out in Mackall like a whor-"

Davidson saw Susanna Sieno.

"Like a lady of dubious virtue in a place of worship?" she furnished, smiling.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mr. Sieno, Sergeant Major Jack Davidson," Castillo said.

"You can call me Susanna," she said.

"Good to see you, Jack," Jake Torine said to Davidson. They shook hands.

The other introductions were made.

Alex Darby said, "Before this goes any further, I need a private word with you and Tony, Charley."

Castillo nodded.

"Okay if we go in there, Susanna?" Darby asked, gesturing toward a door.

"Of course," she replied. [THREE] Darby led them into a large marble-walled bathroom. The bathtub and the separate shower were stacked high with electronic equipment and there was more on a long, twin-basin washstand. The water closet was still functional, but there were racks of electronics rising almost to the ceiling on either side of it.

"We're watching the Cubans," Darby explained. "Not so much them as the people who go in and out of their embassy. And, of course, their communications. Sometimes, that's very interesting."

"Sieno told me."

Darby turned to face him.

"You've got me on a spot again, Charley," he said. "Ambassador Montvale called me and said I was to call him immediately-him personally, not through the agency-if you showed up here."

Castillo nodded and then asked, "If I showed up here, or when?"

"If," Darby said. "So what I've done-or didn't do-was not call him to let him know you had called from Recife. But now that you're here…you tell me what you want me to do."

"Call him and tell him I'm here. Better yet, call him and tell him I called you to tell you to call him and tell him I'm here and will call him as soon as I have a chance."

Darby considered that a moment.

Then he turned and picked up a heavily corded telephone sitting on top of the water reservoir of the toilet, then looked at Castillo.

"It's half past six in the morning in Washington," he said, making it a question.

"The ambassador said immediately, didn't he?"

Darby shrugged and put the telephone to his ear.

"This is Darby. Get me a secure line to the Langley switchboard," he ordered.

"Oh, the miracle of modern communications!" Castillo said. "How did the ambassador react to having his sleep disturbed?" Santini asked.

"He asked what else Charley had had to say."

"And when you told him I had had nothing else to say?" Castillo asked.

"And when I told him that, he said when you called to tell you to call him immediately."

"Okay. Give me until noon and then call him and tell him you have relayed his message to me."

Darby nodded again.

"What's the problem with you and Montvale, Charley?" Santini asked.

"He has a tendency to try to tell me what to do," Castillo said. "As in, 'Tell Castillo to call me immediately.'"

"Well, he is the director of National Intelligence," Santini said. "Maybe he feels that entitles him to order a lowly lieutenant colonel around."

"You heard about that, huh?"

"You got promoted, Charley?" Darby asked.

Castillo nodded.

"From both the director of National Intelligence and Corporal Bradley," Santini said. "Congratulations, Charley."

"Thank you. After what happened in Afghanistan, I was beginning to think I'd never get promoted."

"Based on my personal knowledge of what happened in Afghanistan," Darby said, "that was a reasonable conclusion to draw."

"The bottom line," Castillo said, "is that I made a deal with Montvale. In theory, I tell him what I'm doing and plan to do and he leaves me alone and helps me."

"Helps you how?"

"For example, getting to use the agency's air taxi services."

"Then why are you dodging him?"

"I told you, because he's still trying to tell me what to do. Tit for tat, I don't tell him any more about what I'm going to do than I have to."

Darby shook his head.

"Which leaves Tony and me between a rock and a hard place," Darby said. "Okay, so who's the old guy?"

"His name is Eric Kocian. He runs the Budapest Tages Zeitung. He's been looking into the oil-for-food scandal."

"That could be dangerous. How much has he found out?"

"Enough so there have been two attempts to kidnap him to see how much. The other Hungarian-his name is Sandor Tor-is an ex-cop who before that did a hitch in the French Foreign Legion. He kept the first attempt to kidnap/ whack Kocian from coming off. One of those guys-there were three; two got away-told the cops he was a vacationing housepainter from Dresden and had the papers to prove it."

"You don't think he was?" Santini asked, and then, when Castillo shook his head, asked, "So who were they?"

"I'm guessing ex-Stasi. But I don't know that. And I have no idea who they're working for. The second time they tried to kidnap and/or whack Kocian, there were two guys. They had Madsens and no identification. Like the people at the estancia."

"What's their story?" Santini asked.

"I had to take them down. So I don't know more than I told you."

"You had to take them down?" Darby asked, and then, after Castillo nodded, he shook his head and asked, "And how many waves did that make?"

"I hope none. Sandor took them away in their car."

Darby shook his head again.

"You can't keeping walking through the raindrops forever, Charley."

"That thought has occurred to me. I didn't have any choice, Alex."

"If they're ex-Stasi, who are they working for now?" Santini asked.

Castillo shrugged.

"That's what I'm hoping to find out. Kocian gave me everything he had. So did Ed Delchamps in Paris."

"Ed's a good man," Darby said. "So you put him on the spot with Montvale, too?"

"I suppose it's very unprofessional of Delchamps getting emotionally involved, but I have the feeling he's as pissed off at these people as I am. Or maybe with the agency for doing nothing with what he's been sending them."

"I guess that makes me unprofessional, too. Jack Masterson was a friend of mine," Darby said. "I'd really like to nail these bastards."

"What does that make, counting me?" Santini asked. "Four amateurs?"

"And I think Yung may have something in his files…and may not know it," Castillo said. "Speaking of him, where is he?"

"Odd that you should ask," Darby said. "I was just about to say, 'Speaking of coincidences.'"

"What are you talking about?"

"Guess who got shot in Montevideo last night by parties unknown?"

"Yung?" Castillo asked, incredulously.

"They were waiting for him at his apartment when he came back from the estancia. They probably would have got him-by which I mean grabbed him-if the Uruguayan cops hadn't been sitting on him."

"How bad is he hurt?"

"The Uruguayan cops got one of the guys going after him with three shots of double-aught buckshot. The others, probably two, got away. Yung took one pellet in his left hand. Just gouged it. No bone damage, just a canal. Yung's like you, Charley: he walks through raindrops. He was standing right next to the bad guy when the cops took him out."

"And the guy the cops shot?"

"No identification. But he did have a hypo full of ketamine-a strong tranquilizer-that I think he wanted to stick in Yung."

"Jesus Christ!" Castillo exclaimed.

"You got the word that Ambassador McGrory thinks Lorimer was a drug dealer?"

Castillo nodded.

"Well, he's been told that the people who shot Yung were carjackers."

"The Uruguayan cops went along with that?"

Darby nodded.

"For reasons of their own, they suggested that story to Yung. I can't imagine why."

"Neither can I."

"Well, if McGrory believes Lorimer was a drug dealer, he'll probably conclude that the Uruguayan cops know Yung was shot by another drug dealer and don't want to admit. I sure hope so. If McGrory finds out what really happened at that estancia, the shit will really hit the fan. And some of it will splatter on Ambassador Silvio and I don't like that."

"Can you contact Yung? Is he in the hospital?"

"He wouldn't stay. He's in his apartment. Bob Howell is sitting on him, Howell and another FBI agent who was at the estancia, and-bad news-according to Howell has figured out what really happened at the estancia."

"Well, let's get him over here. I don't want him grabbed in Montevideo. How soon can you get him here?"

"Two hours from the time I call him," Darby said, nodding at the telephone.

"That raises the question of a safe house," Castillo said. "I don't think this place is going to work. Too many people for one thing. Can we use the place we used before?"

"Mayerling? No and, maybe, yes."

"Come on, Alex."

"The place we used before is not available," Darby said. "But there's a place for rent out there that would really be better."

"Rent it," Castillo said. "How quickly can you do that?"

"The problem there is the rent. Four thousand a month. First and last month due on signing, plus another two months up front for a security deposit. That's sixteen thousand. I have just about that much in my black account. If I ask for more, Langley's going to want to know what for."

"Money's not a problem," Castillo said. "We now have the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund to draw on."

"The what?"

"Lorimer had almost sixteen million in three banks in Montevideo. Most of it is now in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank in the Cayman Islands."

"In your account?" Darby asked.

Castillo nodded.

"How'd you manage that?"

"You don't want to know," Castillo said. "I spent seven million five of it to buy an airplane. A Gulfstream."

"You bought a Gulfstream with Lorimer's money?" Santini asked, incredulously.

Castillo, smiling, nodded.

"A G-III. It's really nice, Tony, to be able to avoid all that frisking and baggage searching and standing in line at airports. You really ought to get one for yourself."

"Jesus Christ, Charley! You're insane!" Darby said. "What's Montvale going to do when he hears you stole Lorimer's money and then bought a Gulfstream with it?"

"Actually, taking the money was Montvale's idea. I think he saw it as a source of unaccountable funds for him. Which, of course, it would be if I didn't control it. And I haven't gotten around to telling him about the airplane yet."

"And when he finds out?"

"All he can do is go to the President and tell him-as he predicted-that I have acted impulsively and unwisely and the airplane is the proof. On the other hand, he may decide it's a good idea. If he can get the Office of Organizational Analysis under him-which is his announced intention-the airplane would come with it."

"And what's the President going to do when he finds out about the money?" Santini asked.

"He knows about the money," Castillo said. "Which brings us back to that. How do I get the rent money to you, Alex?"

Darby thought that over a moment before replying.

"The black account is in the Banco Galicia. The agency wires money into it from a Swiss account. I suppose you could do the same thing."

"How long would it take to wire it from the Riggs Bank? Before you could get at the money?"

"I don't know. Twenty-four hours, I'd guess."

"You give me the numbers and the routing and I'll call Dick Miller and have him wire a hundred thousand down here. There's going to be other expenses, and I'm going to have to give Davidson some walking-around money, too."

"Is Davidson who I think he is?" Darby asked.

"That would depend on who you think he is."

"If I'm not mistaken, the last time I saw him was in Kabul. You were both wearing robes and beards. That was when you were in charge of babysitting the eager young men Langley sent over there to win that war in two weeks."

"Yeah, that was Jack. And he never lost one of those starry-eyed young men, either. I was really glad to see him get out of your car."

"You didn't know he was coming?" Santini asked.

Castillo shook his head, then asked, "While we're waiting for the money to get here, can you rent this house right away-today, maybe-with the money you have?"

"I can," Darby said. "You sure you don't want to stash the old man here?"

"His name is Eric Kocian," Castillo said. "He's both a very old friend and a good guy. I would love to stash him here but I don't think he'd stay. A house in Mayerling might be just what he's looking for. He thinks-because of the name-that there might be a connection with Austrians or Hungarians involved in the oil-for-food business."

"I don't understand," Darby confessed.

"You don't know the story? Shame on you, Alex."

"What story?" Santini asked.

"Mayerling was the Imperial Hunting Lodge of Franz Josef. It was in Mayerling that Crown Prince Rudolph, after his father told him he had to get rid of some sixteen-year-old baroness he was banging, that he whacked the baroness and then shot himself. That's one version. The one I got from my Hungarian aunt-the version Kocian believes-is that Franz Josef had the crown prince whacked after he learned the kid was talking to the Hungarians about becoming king of Hungary. Kocian thinks maybe Mayerling, the country club, was built with oil-for-food money and named Mayerling to be clever."

"That sounds pretty far-fetched, Charley," Santini said.

"So does six guys dressed like Ninja characters in a comic strip going to Estancia Shangri-La to whack Lorimer. I'm not saying I believe Kocian, but, on the other hand, he's one hell of a journalist. Whoever's trying to whack him thinks he knows more than he should. Anyway, if I can get him out there and keep him alive for a couple of days, maybe I can get the bad guys to back off."

"How are you going to do that?" Darby asked.

"You don't want to know, Alex."

Darby shrugged.

"What I need now," Castillo said, "is the boxes I sent to the embassy under diplomatic seal and a black car."

"Ambassador Silvio turned them over to me and didn't even ask what was in them. He's a good guy, Charley. I really don't want him to get burned in this."

"I'll do my best to see that doesn't happen," Castillo said. "Where are the boxes now?"

"In the backseat of the Cherokee," Darby said, and added, "which is registered to a guy in Mar del Plata." He tossed Castillo a set of keys. "Registration's in the glove compartment."

"Thanks," Castillo said. "Now, let me get on the horn to Dick Miller and get some money down here."

Darby nodded.

"Do you-either of you-have to rush back to the embassy?" Castillo asked. "Or would you have time to look at some of Kocian's files and see if anything rings a bell? At least until I get back?"

"Back from where?"

"Where I'm going, Alex," Castillo said, smiling.

"Curiosity underwhelms me. I'll make time," Darby said, smiling back.

"Me, too," Santini said.

As he picked up the heavily corded telephone, Darby asked, "White House, right?"

"Right."

"Darby again," Darby said into the telephone. "Get me a secure line to the White House switchboard." [FOUR] Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1025 8 August 2005 Castillo was glad when he saw the sign indicating the exit from Route 8 to the Pilar Sheraton Hotel. He hadn't been certain that he was on the right road to the Buena Vista Country Club or, for that matter, even on the right road to Pilar.

He hadn't been able to ask directions from Santini or Darby; that would have given them more than a hint of where he was going. He had had trouble getting on the Panamericana, the toll highway that led to Pilar, but he'd finally-after ten minutes-found it.

And then he had trouble with the tollbooth. He had sat there for Christ only knew how long, holding a ten-peso note out the window with angry horns bleating behind him, until the horns finally woke him up to the fact that not only was there no attendant in the booth but that the barrier pole was up.

As he pulled away, he saw an electronic gadget mounted inside the windshield, under the rearview mirror. The gadget had triggered the barrier-raising mechanism as he approached. He hadn't noticed it.

From the tollbooth to the sign pointing to the Sheraton Hotel exit, he had wondered about a number of things, including how he was going to get past the gate of the Buena Vista Country Club once he got there-if he got there. And what he was going to do if Aleksandr Pevsner wasn't there. Or was there and didn't want to see him.

And how he was going to protect Eric Kocian if he couldn't get through to Pevsner, presuming he could get past the Buena Vista Country Club gate to get in to see him.

He knew that he wasn't functioning well and the reason for it.

In the past forty-eight hours-give or take; having crossed through so many time zones, he didn't know how long it had been in real time-he had flown across the North Atlantic, then, at the controls of an airplane he'd never flown before, across the Mediterranean. And then, while Jake and Fernando were flying across the South Atlantic, instead of crashing on one of the Gulfstream's comfortable couches he'd consumed at least a gallon of coffee so he could stay awake while trying to make some sense of Eric Kocian's notes, much of which had been written in abbreviations known only to Kocian. And then he'd made his second takeoff and landing in the Gulfstream, coming down from Recife.

And while he had been making a whirlwind tour of Paris, Fulda, and Budapest, there had been an attempt on his life, which had forced him to kill two people. Killing people always bothered him even when it was necessary.

He knew that he was exhausted and that what he should be doing-especially if he was going to have to deal with Aleksandr Pevsner, where he would really need all his faculties, presuming he was going to be able to see Aleksandr Pevsner-was to crash for at least twenty-four hours.

The problem there was, he didn't think he had twenty-four hours. He approached the Pilar exit from Route 8.

If memory serves-and please, God, let it serve-I get off here, make a sharp left onto the highway overpass, drive past the Jumbo supermarket on the left and the Mercedes showroom on the right, take the next right and then the next left, and then drive past the hospital, and, four clicks later, maybe a little less, turn right into the Buena Vista Country Club, where I probably won't be able to get in. Or Pevsner won't be there.

There was a red traffic light when he reached the intersection where he was to turn right.

For the first time, he looked at the instrument panel. A warning light was flashing. The fuel gauge needle was resting on EMPTY.

"Oh, fuck! You've done it again, Inspector Clouseau!"

There was a Shell gas station to his immediate left. But there also was a steady line of oncoming traffic that kept him from turning into it. And when the light turned green, he realized that his first idea-waiting for a chance to make the turn-was impractical. There was a symphony of automobile horns blasting angrily behind him.

He made the right turn and then the left, and there was an ESSO station right in front of him.

He pulled in.

"Thank God!"

Two attendants appeared.

"Fill it up," Castillo ordered.

He took his wallet from his pocket to get his credit-card.

He dropped it.

It bounced under the car and he and one of the attendants got on their hands and knees to retrieve it.

He stood up.

A tall, dark-haired, well-dressed man who appeared to be in his late thirties was walking purposefully toward the service station's restroom.

Jesus Christ, I'm hallucinating. That guy looks just like Pevsner!

He looked around the pumps. There was a black Mercedes-Benz S600 at the next row of pumps. A burly man was speaking to the attendant. Another burly man walked to the hood of the car and leaned against the fender and watched the door to the men's room.

Castillo walked to the men's room, pushed the door open, and walked to the urinal next to the man, who didn't turn to look at him.

"I just love these service station pissoirs," Castillo announced, in Russian. "You never know who you'll bump into in one of them."

Aleksandr Pevsner's head snapped to look at him.

The hairs on the back of Castillo's neck rose.

His eyes are like ice.

And then Pevsner smiled.

The door of the men's room opened and the burly man who had been leaning on the Mercedes came in. He had his hand inside his suit jacket.

"If he takes out a gun, Alek, I'll have to kill him," Castillo said.

"It's all right, Janos," Pevsner said, in Hungarian. "The gentleman and I are old friends." Then he switched to English. "How nice to see you, Charley. And quite a surprise. I somehow had the idea you were in the United States."

"Well, I get around a lot."

"And what brings you to this service station pissoir?"

"Aside from having to take a leak, you mean?"

"Uh-huh," Pevsner said, chuckling.

"Actually, bearing a small gift, I was on my way to see you."

"What is it they say? 'A small world'? Or is it 'truth is stranger than fiction'?"

"Some people say both," Castillo said.

Pevsner turned from the urinal and walked to the washbasins. Castillo heard water running, then the sound of the hot-air blower of the hand dryer.

"I hate these things," Pevsner announced.

Castillo finished and turned around. The burly Hungarian was gone. Castillo washed his hands, put them under the dryer, and said, "Me, too."

Then he offered his hand to Pevsner, who took it and then wrapped his arm around Castillo's shoulder and hugged him.

Then he turned him loose, put his hands on Castillo's arms, and looked into his eyes.

"You are a man of many surprises, Charley."

"I guess I should have called and told you I was coming."

"That would have been a good idea. Am I supposed to believe you just walked in here and were surprised to see me?"

"No, I knew you were in here," Castillo said. "I had just told the attendant to fill my tank-I was running on fumes when I pulled in-when I saw you headed for the men's room."

Pevsner smiled at him but didn't say anything.

"If you doubt me, Alek, check the pump to see how much they've pumped into it."

"Oh, I trust you, Charley. Why would you lie to me?"

"Thank you. I would never lie to you unless it was necessary."

Pevsner smiled.

"Well, let's go out to the house and have what the Viennese call a kleines Fruhstuck."

"Thank you."

Pevsner waved him ahead of him out of the men's room. When they were outside, he walked directly to the pump beside the Cherokee and examined the dial.

"You were really out of petrol, weren't you?"

"You have a suspicious soul, Alek."

"In my line of business, I have to," Pevsner said. "Why don't we have Janos drive your Cherokee? If you wouldn't mind? That would get us past the guards at the gate to Buena Vista easier."

"The keys are in it," Castillo said. "Just let me pay the bill."

"Janos," Pevsner ordered in Hungarian, "settle my friend's bill, then drive his car to the house."

"You are too generous, Alek." As the Mercedes approached the redbrick, red-tile-roofed guardhouse at the entrance to the Buena Vista Country Club, the yellow-and-black-striped barrier pole across the road went up. They rolled past the two uniformed guards standing outside the guardhouse. Castillo saw two more inside, standing before a rack of what looked like Ithaca pump riot shotguns.

The Mercedes rolled slowly-neat signs proclaimed a 30-kph speed limit and speed bumps reinforced it-down a curving road, past long rows of upscale houses set on well-manicured half-hectare lots. They passed several polo fields lined with large houses, then the clubhouse of a well-maintained golf course. There were thirty or so cars in the parking lot.

They came next to an area of larger houses on much larger lots, most of them ringed with shrubbery tall enough so that only the upper floors of the houses were visible. Castillo saw that the shrubbery also concealed fences.

"This is really a very nice place, Alek," Castillo said.

"And it never snows," Pevsner said.

The car slowed, then turned right through a still-opening sliding steel door the same shade of green as the double rows of closely planted pines cropped at about twelve feet. There was a fence of the same height between the rows.

Inside, Castillo saw Pevsner's Bell Ranger helicopter parked, its rotors tied down, on what looked like a putting green. A man in white coveralls was polishing the Plexiglas.

Then the house, an English-looking near mansion of red brick with casement windows, came into view. Another burly man in a suit was standing outside waiting for them.

"Come on in," Pevsner said, opening the door before the burly man could reach it. "I'm looking forward to my kleines Fruhstuck. All I had before I took Aleksandr and Sergei into Buenos Aires was a cup of tea."

He waited until Castillo had slid across the seat and gotten out and then went on: "They were late-again-getting to Saint Agnes's, which meant they missed the bus to Buenos Aires, which meant that I had to take them."

"What are they going to do in Buenos Aires?"

"Tour the Colon Opera House. You know, backstage. Did you know, Charley, the Colon is larger than the Vienna Opera House?"

"And Paris's, too," Castillo said. "The design criteria was make it larger than both. That, of course, was when Argentina had money."

"You know something about everything, don't you?" Pevsner said as he led Castillo up a shallow flight of stairs and into the house.

A middle-aged maid was waiting in the foyer, her hands folded on her small, crisply starched white apron.

Pevsner said, in Russian, "Be so good as to ask madam if she is free to join Mr."

He hesitated and looked at Castillo.

"Castillo," Charley furnished.

"…Castillo and I in the breakfast room."

When the maid bobbed her head, Pevsner switched to Hungarian and added, "I hope that since Herr Gossinger is not here, that means Senor Castillo is not working."

"You're out of luck," Castillo said. "And actually, Alek, I know everything about everything. Like you."

A glass-topped table in the French-windowed breakfast room was set with linen and silver for two. Pevsner waved Charley into one of the chairs and a moment later a maid-a different one, this one young and, Castillo suspected, Argentine-came in, pulled a third chair to the table, and set a third place.

"Bring tea for me, please," Pevsner ordered, "and coffee for Senor Castillo."

She had just finished when Janos appeared in the door, dangling the keys to the Cherokee delicately in sausagelike fingers.

Castillo put his hand out for them, then said, "I would ask Janos to bring in your present, but it's not for the house and he'd only have to carry it out again."

"Where should it go?"

"Who maintains the avionics in your Ranger?" Castillo asked.

When he saw the confusion on Pevsner's face, he added: "What I've done is get you some decent avionics for your helicopter."

"What's wrong with the avionics in it?"

"On a scale of one to ten, they're maybe one-point-five."

"I was assured they were the best available."

"Write this down, Alek. Never trust someone selling used cars or aircraft."

"You're saying I was cheated?"

His eyes are cold again.

"Of course not," Castillo said, chuckling. "Everyone knows you can't cheat an honest man. All I'm saying is that you don't have the best available and, as a small token of my gratitude for past courtesies, now you do."

Pevsner looked at him and smiled.

"What is it they say down here? Beware of Americans bearing gifts?"

A tall, trim woman with her hair done up in a long pigtail came into the room.

"What a pleasant surprise, Charley!" she exclaimed, in Russian.

Castillo stood and kissed her cheek.

"It's nice to see you, Anna," he said. "Alek saw me on the street, saw that I was starving, and offered me breakfast."

"Actually, he accosted me in the men's room of the ESSO service station just past the hospital," Pevsner said.

She looked at her husband, then at Castillo.

"I never know when he's teasing," she said.

"Neither do I," Castillo said.

"Regardless of where you met, I'm glad you're here," she said. "And so far as breakfast is concerned, how about American pancakes with tree syrup?"

"Maple syrup, maybe?"

"Maple syrup," she confirmed. "They bleed trees to make it?"

"Indeed they do."

"There's an American boy-actually, there's several-in Aleksandr's class at Saint Agnes's. They sometimes spend the night together, at the boy's house or here. They served Aleksandr pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast. He couldn't get enough. So that's what they gave him for his birthday present. A bag of the flour"-she demonstrated the size of a five-pound bag with her hands-"and a liter can of the syrup."

"How nice for Aleksandr."

"And, of course, Alek's curiosity got the best of him and…"

"Tell me about bleeding the tree," Pevsner said.

"Actually, they tap it. Maple trees. In the winter, when it's cold. They drive a sort of funnel into the tree, the sap drips out into a cup below the funnel, they collect it and boil it until it's thick. That's all there is to it."

"Extraordinary," Pevsner said.

"We Americans are an extraordinary people, Alek. I thought you knew that."

The older maid appeared with the tea and coffee and Anna ordered pancakes with sausage. The maid, looking uncomfortable, reported she wasn't sure there was enough flour left to make pancakes for everybody.

"Then just forget it," Castillo said. "I don't want to steal Alek Junior's breakfast."

"Nonsense," Pevsner announced. "Make what you have, and I'll see about getting more of the flour."

"I'm sure they sell it in the embassy store," Castillo said. "I'll get you some before I go."

"Go where?"

"To the States."

"And when will that be?"

"Tomorrow maybe. More likely, the day after tomorrow."

"Oh, Charley," Anna Pevsner said, laying her hand on his, "could you really? I've tried every store in Buenos Aires and they just look at me as if I'm crazy."

"Consider it done."

And if that store in the embassy doesn't have any, the chief of the Office of Organizational Analysis will make sure there's five-ten-pounds of the best pancake flour available in the next diplomatic pouch.

Pleasing Madam Pevsner and Alek Junior is sure to please Alek Senior. Probably more than the fifty thousand-maybe more-dollars' worth of avionics in the Cherokee.

"How would you get it out here?" Pevsner asked.

The translation of that is, "Without anybody learning A. Pevsner, prominent Russian mafioso and international arms dealer, resides in the Buena Vista Country Club?"

"If I can't bring it myself, maybe you could have Janos meet me someplace."

"You just say when and where, Charley," Pevsner said, "and Janos will be there. Alek is really crazy for pancakes."

"Both of them are," Anna said.

"Or maybe Howard Kennedy can meet me," Castillo said. "He's in the Four Seasons, right? Where I'm staying?"

"Howard's not here right now," Pevsner said.

"Well, then, maybe Colonel Munz?"

"Didn't he tell you, Charley?" Anna said.

"Tell me what?"

"You're not going to believe this," she said, "and I know I shouldn't be smiling, but he is-or was-a policeman for all those years before he came to work for Alek. What he did, Charley, was shoot himself in the shoulder while he was cleaning his pistol."

"Is he all right?" Castillo asked, looking at Pevsner.

"He's fine," Pevsner said.

"And terribly embarrassed," Anna said.

"Well, give him my best regards," Castillo said. "Don't mention that you told me what happened. I can understand-sympathize with-his embarrassment." [FIVE] "If you'll excuse us, darling," Pevsner said over their second cups of tea and coffee, "Charley and I are going to have a look at the helicopter."

"And then I'll have to be getting back to Buenos Aires," Castillo said. "So thank you for the breakfast. You saved my life."

He stood up and Anna gave him her cheek to kiss.

Pevsner stood up, opened one of the French doors, and signaled for Charley to go ahead of him.

When they were halfway across the lawn toward where the helicopter was parked, Pevsner said, "When do you want to talk about what you're really out here for? Before you show me how that bastard cheated me on the avionics when I bought that helicopter? Or after?"

"After," Charley said, and then, after considering it, added: "Alek, I didn't say he cheated you. I just said you don't have the best equipment available. There's a difference."

"No there's not. I told him I wanted the best and I didn't get it. That's cheating."

"Cheating would be if he charged you for better avionics than you got. If he charged you fairly for what he sold you, that's not cheating."

Pevsner didn't argue but his face showed he had not accepted Charley's argument.

Christ, is he thinking of whacking the salesman?

"Alek, an aircraft salesman with a beauty mark in the center of his forehead would make people ask questions. You want as few questions raised as possible."

Pevsner nodded, not happily, but the nod was enough to make Castillo think: That argument may have gotten home. "So that's it, Alek," Castillo said after pointing out to Pevsner where the new avionics would goon the instrument panel and in the avionics compartment. "Installation is no big deal. The new stuff will fit right in where they'll take the old stuff out. Just make sure…just make sure your pilot watches the calibration."

"I'll be sure to do that," Pevsner said. "Thank you very much, Charley."

"Like I said, a small token of my appreciation for your courtesy."

"In anticipation of asking for another favor?"

"Not right now anyway."

"Looking the gift horse in the mouth, how much is that equipment worth?"

"Do you really care?"

"I care about who paid for it," Pevsner said.

"If you're really asking is there some kind of locator device-or something else clever in there-the answer is no. If your avionics guy is any good at all, he can check that for you."

"So who's paying for it?"

"Let's just say that your friend Charley recently came into a considerable sum of money and wanted to share his good fortune."

"So I understand."

"Excuse me?"

"I heard you came into a lot of money. Nearly sixteen million dollars."

"You do keep your ear to the ground, don't you?" Castillo asked, and then went on before Pevsner had a chance to reply: "So we are now in part two of our little chat, is that it?"

"You tell me, Charley."

"Let's talk about Budapest," Castillo said. "You're a Hungarian, right? Or at least have a Hungarian passport?"

Pevsner didn't reply.

"Well, as someone who knows Budapest and keeps his ear to the ground, I guess you know who Eric Kocian is."

"I've heard the name."

"He's a fine old gentleman," Castillo said. "More important, he's almost kin."

"Meaning?"

"Well, he was a friend of my grandfather and my mother."

"Oh, yes. The Gossinger connection," Pevsner said. "I forgot that."

"And Uncle Billy bounced me on his knee, so to speak, when I was a little boy." He paused. "So you will understand how upset I was when some unpleasant people tried to kidnap him on the Szabadsag hid and, when that failed, tried to kill him."

"Charley, sometimes people who put their noses in places they shouldn't be…"

"And how upset I was just the other day when the same people-I admit they were probably looking for my uncle Billy-came into my room in the Gellert and pointed Madsens at me. That so upset me that I actually lost control of myself."

"I'm really surprised to hear that," Pevsner said.

"I didn't think," Castillo said. "I just took them down. Which, of course, means I couldn't ask who sent them."

"You don't know who sent them?"

"No. But I strongly suspect the people who made me lose my temper were either Stasi or Allamvedelmi Hatosag."

"But there is no Stasi anymore. Or Allamvedelmi Hatosag."

"In the United States, the Marines say, 'Once a Marine, always a Marine.' And who else do you know who uses the garrote to take people out?"

"I don't know anyone who uses the garrote," Pevsner said. "And I can't imagine why you're telling me this."

"I'm about to tell you, Alek. You're right. My uncle Billy does have the unfortunate habit of putting his nose in places other people don't think he should. Like under rocks to see what slime the rock conceals. So I have this theory that whoever tried to kidnap my uncle Billy did so to see how many names he could assign to the maggots and other slimy creatures he's found under the rocks. Sound reasonable to you?"

"It could well be something like that, I suppose."

"The sad thing about all this is, these people were trying to close the barn door long after the cow got away."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," Pevsner said.

"I mean that I know everything that Kocian learned and by now his files are in Washington. These people can't put the cow back in the barn, in a manner of speaking. The only thing that any further kidnappings or murders are going to accomplish is to draw even more attention to them and I don't think they want that. And if any further attempt is made to kill Kocian, or kidnap him, I will take that personally."

"As I said, I can't imagine why you're telling me this."

"Because I want you to get to these people and tell them what I just told you."

"What makes you think I even know who they are? Or if I did that I would go to them?"

"Oh, you know who they are, Alek. They're the people who told you about the sixteen million and…"

"Has it occurred to you that Munz may have told me?"

"He couldn't have, Alek. He didn't know about it," Castillo said. "And on the way down here, I read Kocian's files. Long lists of names. Some of them had data after their names. Some names, like Respin, Vasily, for example, and Pevsner, Aleksandr, had question marks after their names. Which meant they had come to Kocian's attention and, when he got around to it, he was going to see what he could come up with."

Pevsner, his eyes again icy, met Castillo's eyes but he said nothing.

"Your name-names-were also on a list that I got from the CIA station chief in Paris," Castillo said. "I didn't have a chance to ask the CIA in Budapest what they have on you. But I wouldn't be at all surprised if they have a file on you, would you?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if they did, but they don't have anything tying me to the oil-for-food business because I wasn't involved in that."

"So you keep telling me," Castillo said. "Right now, Alek, you don't have to worry about what the CIA has or doesn't have on you. Right now, we're friends, and the President has called off the CIA and FBI investigations of you. What you have to worry about is your other friends going after Kocian again. If that happens, the deal is off. Not only will I give Kocian's files to every American intelligence agency, I'll spread them around to anyone and everyone who might be the slightest bit interested."

"I thought you said Kocian's files were already in Washington."

Castillo nodded. "They are. But I haven't shared them with anybody. Yet."

Pevsner looked into his eyes again and again said nothing.

Castillo stared him down and then asked, "Did I mention, Alek, that if there is another attempt to get at Kocian, I will take that personally?"

"You did. But I wonder if you really understand who these people are. Don't take offense, Charley, but you're only a major. Could it be that your understandable affection for this man Kocian has clouded your judgment to the point where you think you're more important than you really are? Can do things you really can't do?"

"Actually, I'm a lieutenant colonel now," Castillo said.

"All right, a lieutenant colonel," Pevsner said, impatiently. "You take my point."

"Don't underestimate lieutenant colonels. That's all that Mr. Putin was in the KGB. Putin's name, incidentally, is in Kocian's files, too, and there are no question marks after it."

"You're not actually thinking of going after Putin, are you?"

"I'm just a simple soldier, Alek, who will do his best to follow his orders, wherever that leads me."

"'Simple soldier'?" Pevsner parroted and chuckled. "And what exactly are your orders, Colonel Castillo?"

"To locate and render harmless the people responsible for the murder of Masterson."

"'Render harmless'?"

"The way the ex-Stasi, or ex-Allamvedelmi Hatosag in Budapest, whichever they were, were rendered harmless."

"You're not suggesting, are you, that if these people lose interest in your uncle Billy, you'll lose interest in them?"

"Absolutely not. I just want you to tell them there's no longer a reason to kill Eric Kocian."

"From all you've been telling me about these people, they are not very nice people, Charley. They may well decide that rendering harmless someone who has been too interested in what they've been doing might discourage others from looking under other rocks."

"In your own interests, Alek, I'd try very hard to convince them that would not be wise."

"And they may well come after you."

"They already have," Castillo said. "And nothing would give me greater pleasure than if they tried it again. The next time, I'll take prisoners. I know some people who are very good in teaching people how to sing."

"And, of course, this is all hypothetical. I have no idea who you're talking about."

Castillo laughed.

"Alek, you're one of a kind!" he said. "You said that with an absolutely straight face."

"There aren't very many people, my friend Charley, who would be so brave, or stupid, to mock me," Pevsner said and tried to stare Castillo down again and failed again.

"I wasn't mocking you, Alek. I said that with admiration. You would be one hell of a poker player."

Pevsner smiled. "Actually, I'm a rather good poker player. We must find the time to play sometime."

"I'd like that," Castillo said.

"Well, Charley," Pevsner said. "This has been an interesting conversation, and it's always a pleasure to see you, but I have a golf date…"

"Thank you for the kleines Fruhstuck," Castillo said. On the way back to Buenos Aires, Castillo-who looked carefully-couldn't find anyone following him. Nevertheless, he twice left the Autopista and drove around crowded neighborhood streets before getting back on the Autopista.

If anybody can trail me though all that, he's a genius.

Which is not the same as saying no one has. [SIX] The Restaurant Kansas Avenida Libertador San Isidro Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1305 8 August 2005 When he pulled into the parking lot, Castillo saw that despite the some what chilly weather there were a few people sitting under umbrellas in the patio outside the bar and he went there and took a table.

A strikingly good-looking waitress almost immediately appeared and he ordered a Warsteiner beer and a club sandwich, although after the pancakes he'd had at Pevsner's house he wasn't very hungry.

He took a cellular phone from his briefcase and tried to turn it on. The panel didn't light up.

Dammit! The battery's dead!

What did you expect, Inspector Clouseau? That you could just throw the phone-with a probably mostly exhausted battery-into your briefcase and then expect it to work when you want to use it a week later?

And what's going to happen if I find someplace that has a charger that will fit? When the battery is completely dead, does that wipe out the memory?

I have no damned idea at all where I can get Munz's cellular number-or, for that matter, Darby's or Santini's or anyone else's-if I can't get them off this cellular!

There was a pleasant chirp from the cellular. The cellular's panel lit up. A smiling cartoon face appeared, as did the greeting,?HOLA!

It works!

Castillo said, aloud, "?Hola, hola, hola!" and then punched an autodial number.

El Coronel Alfredo Munz answered on the second ring.

"Munz."

"How's your arm?" Castillo asked, in German.

There was a just-perceptible hesitation before Munz asked, "Same cellular number?"

"Yes."

"I'll call you," Munz said and the connection was broken.

Castillo took the phone from his ear and pushed the CALL END button. Something was really bothering Munz. It showed in his voice and what he said. If he was unwilling to speak on his cellular, that meant he suspected someone was listening to his calls.

Well, I'll find out what it is.

He pushed another autodial button and Darby answered on the second ring.

"?Hola?"

"Do they sell pancake flour in that embassy store?" Castillo asked.

There was a moment's hesitation and then Darby replied, "Yeah, I know they do."

"Send Ricardo Solez to get me five pounds of it," Castillo ordered. "And have him get me a charger for my cellular. It's a Motorola, model number…"

"I know what it is; it belongs to me."

"I'll explain later," Castillo said. "Is there another black car available?"

"Yes, there is."

"Maybe he could pick that up at the same time."

"You're not going to tell me what's going on?"

"When I see you. I'm expecting another call, Alex. Have to break this off." The cellular buzzed just as the beer and club sandwich were delivered.

"?Hola?"

"Where are you?" Munz asked.

"Kansas, in San Isidro."

"Are you alone? Driving?"

"I'm alone. I've got a Cherokee registered in Mar del Plata."

"Do you know where Unicenter is, on the Panamericana?"

Unicenter is the largest shopping mall in South America.

"Yeah."

"You approach it from the Panamericana and it's on your left, and when you turn in there are two garages, one for Jumbo, the other for Unicenter. Go into the Jumbo garage and park nose out close to the exit. Make sure your doors aren't locked. Fifteen minutes."

The cellular went dead.

What the hell is going on?

Castillo got up from the table, found the good-looking waitress, and handed her money.

"That was my wife," he said with a smile. "I was supposed to pick her up fifteen minutes ago." There was a good deal of traffic and Castillo had a little trouble finding Unicenter. It was twenty minutes before he pulled into the huge Jumbo Supermer-cado's parking lot.

He drove slowly through it, looking for Munz. When he couldn't find him, he backed the Cherokee into a slot as close to the exit as he could find, then turned off the ignition and checked to see the doors were unlocked.

Not quite a minute later, he heard the rear door opening.

"Don't turn around," Munz said. "Just get out of here. Turn left when you do. If there is no traffic at the next left, take that and get back onto the Panamericana. If there is traffic, don't make the left. Check to see if anyone's following."

There was a long line of cars and trucks inching along the street to the left, so Castillo continued straight. He looked into the outside mirrors to get a make on the cars immediately behind him and then adjusted the interior rearview mirror to see the backseat. He couldn't see Munz.

Which means he's lying on the floor.

"There's a green Peugeot, a Volkswagen bug, and Fiat Uno behind us."

"Try to lose them," Munz ordered.

Castillo made an abrupt right turn and accelerated. Fifty yards later, he hit a speed bump.

He heard Munz groan.

Jesus, he must be lying on his wounded shoulder. That must have really hurt.

"Sorry, Alfredo," Castillo called.

"Anybody behind you?"

"No."

"Then slow down a little and keep weaving through the streets. You might as well head for Libertador."

"Who's following us?"

"I wish to hell I knew," Munz said. "When you get to Libertador, turn toward the city. Look for a COTO supermarket on the left. Pull into the parking lot behind it." As Castillo parked the Cherokee, he saw that the only people in the parking lot were women loading plastic bags of groceries into their cars.

"Nobody followed us," Castillo said. "And there's nobody close in the parking lot. You want to come up front?"

Castillo heard Munz sigh, then the sound of the rear door opening. A moment later, he slipped into the front seat.

"So how are you, Alfredo?" Castillo asked, in German.

"Until you got that speed bump, Karl, I was feeling all right."

"I'm sorry about that."

Munz made a deprecating gesture.

"Who are we running from?" Castillo asked. "And why?"

"People are watching me," Munz said, seriously, and then, when he heard himself, chuckled and added, "'They probably want to beam me up to their spaceship and extract my sperm,' said the paranoid."

Castillo chuckled. "Who?"

"I don't know. What I do know is the morning after you went to the States-I slept all of the day you left and right through the night, thanks to those little yellow pills Sergeant Kensington gave me-when I went onto my balcony, there was a car, a Citroen, with two men in it, parked across the street. There was a pair of binoculars on the dashboard. And there have been other cars, other people, ever since."

"But you don't know who?"

"No, and I wasn't-still am not-in any condition to ask people questions."

"Did you tell Pevsner?"

Munz shook his head.

"Why not?"

Castillo sensed that Munz was making up his mind whether to reply at all.

"Now that I'm no longer the head of SIDE, I'm not as much use to Senor Pevsner as I was," he said, finally. "Perhaps he's decided I'm now a liability. If I wasn't around, there are all sorts of questions that I would not be able to answer about him."

Castillo considered his own reply carefully before making it. "Unfortunately, Alfredo, that's a real possibility."

Munz nodded.

"I didn't ask about your shoulder," Castillo said.

"And I didn't ask what you're doing back here in Argentina."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I wasn't at all sure you would tell me. The truth, that is. So why bother?"

"Write this down, Alfredo. I'm one of the good guys."

"You very well may be," Munz said. "But I don't know that, do I?"

"Tell me about your shoulder."

"Two days ago-my wife insisted-I went to Dr. Rommine's apartment. You remember him?"

"From the German Hospital?"

Munz nodded. "He's a friend. He owes me a couple of favors. He didn't believe me when I told him I'd had an accident cleaning my pistol."

"Why not?"

"He said, 'Well, whatever physician removed the bullet did a first-class job. He must be a foreigner or you weren't in Argentina when you shot yourself. Those degradable sutures aren't available here.'"

"You didn't tell him what happened?"

Munz shook his head.

"He knows better than to ask. He really doesn't want to know."

"I'm sorry you took that bullet, Alfredo."

"I was hoping by now you would have learned who those bastards were," Munz said, "and would be willing to tell me."

"I've got some suspicions, but I just don't know."

"If I have to say this, I can take care of myself. It's my family I'm worried about."

And that's a bona fide worry, after what these bastards did with Mr. Masterson.

"How much can you tell me about the money?" Munz asked.

"What money?"

"Howard Kennedy said there was a lot of money in Lorimer's safe," Munz said.

"He asked you about the money?" Castillo asked, incredulously.

Munz nodded.

"I realize, Karl, that there are things you can't tell me," Munz said.

"Did Kennedy say how much money?"

"No. But I had the feeling there was a lot. What did you do, find it after I was hit?"

When Castillo didn't immediately reply, Munz said, "I just finished saying I understand there are things you can't tell me. But I'm desperate, Karl. This now involves my family."

"I'll tell you what I can do, Alfredo. I can take you and your family to the States, where you'll all be safe, until I find out who these bastards are and deal with them."

"That's a nice thought, but I don't have the money for airplane tickets, much less to support my family in the States."

"The Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund will take care of that," Castillo said.

"The what?"

"There was a lot of money-in sort-of cashier's checks-in Lorimer's safe, Alfredo. Almost sixteen million dollars. I'd like to know how Kennedy knew about it. Anyway, we took it. It's out of the country. I control it. I call it the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund. You and your family will have all the money you need in the States for as long as you need it."

"Can you do that? Why would you?"

"You took a bullet for us. We owe you."

"I knew what I was doing when I went with you."

"We owe you," Castillo said, flatly. "You've got your passports?"

Munz nodded. "But not visas. Could you arrange visas?"

"Not a problem."

I'll get you visas if I have to go to the President.

"I'm not going," Munz said.

"Don't be a fool, Alfredo."

"I accept, with profound gratitude, Karl, your offer for my wife and daughters. But I'm not going to let these bastards chase me out of Argentina."

Castillo looked at him but said nothing.

"Maybe I can be of some small use to you, Karl," Munz said, "in finding these people."

"You can be of a lot of use to me, if you're willing. And understand what you're getting into."

"Whatever you ask of me," Munz said.

Castillo reached for the ignition key and started the engine.

"Where are we going?" Munz asked.

"To an apartment in Belgrano," Castillo said. "In the U.S. Army, mi coronel, this is known as getting the fucking circus off its ass and onto the road." Before he left the parking lot, when he was still waiting for a break in the traffic on Avenida Libertador, Castillo had second thoughts.

Jesus, what am I going to do with Munz at that apartment?

There's already too many people there and more are coming.

You're not thinking clearly, Carlos.

That your ass is dragging, for understandable reasons, is an explanation, not an excuse.

He looked out the back window of the Cherokee, then shifted into reverse and quickly backed the truck into an open space.

"Was ist los, Karl?" Munz asked, concerned.

"I need to think a minute, Alfredo," Castillo said. "Believe it or not, there are people who think I don't do nearly enough of that."

He shut off the ignition, took out a cigar, carefully lit it, and for the next three minutes appeared to be doing nothing more than puffing on the cigar and staring in rapt fascination at the glowing tip.

Then he exhaled audibly, took out his cellular phone, and punched an autodial button.

Alex Darby answered on the second ring.

"Have you been keeping Santini up to speed?"

Darby didn't seem surprised or off ended at the lack of opening courtesy.

"I thought that was the thing to do," he said.

"I want to meet with your boss," Castillo said, "as soon as possible."

"I think that's a good idea. You want me there?"

"That's why I asked about Santini. I'd rather you did the real estate."

"Okay."

"Could you take Sergeant Kensington and his radio out there with you? I'd like to get that set up as soon as possible."

"Not a problem."

"Where's Yung?"

"Howell just called. Yung should be at Jorge Newbery in thirty minutes."

"Can you have somebody-Solez, maybe, or Sieno-meet him and sit on him anywhere but where you are for a couple of hours?"

"We are a little crowded here, aren't we?" Darby replied. "Solez, I think. I'd rather have Sieno here."

"Okay."

"You want me to call our friend and tell him you're coming? Hell, I don't even know if he's there."

"I don't want to go to his office."

"Any reason?"

"I don't want the Argentine rent-a-cops to recognize who I have with me."

"Let me call him and see what he suggests. I'll call you back."

"Tell Tor and Davidson that Kocian is not to leave the apartment or make any telephone calls under any circumstances."

"Okay. I'll get right back to you, one way or the other." "?Hola?"

"How long will it take you to make it to our friend's house on Libertador?" Darby asked.

"Give me thirty minutes."

"He'll be waiting for you on the sidewalk. Drive past his office on the way."

"You mention the rent-a-cops to him?"

"He understands."

"I'll be in touch," Castillo said, broke the connection, and turned to look at Munz.

"I'll get in the back again," Munz said. "When we get close, pull onto a side road."

"You understood about the rent-a-cops?"

Munz nodded.

"So they do work for SIDE?"

"Some of them do," Munz said. "I didn't know you brought Yung back with you."

"I sent him back here," Castillo said. "And last night he was shot by a Uruguayan cop who killed the guy-no identification on the body-who was trying to stick a needle full of ketamine in him."

"They wanted to question him about the money? What else happened at the estancia?"

"He's not badly injured, Alfredo, just a flesh wound to the hand. Thank you for asking."

"If he was badly hurt, you would have said something," Munz said, reasonably.

Castillo shook his head, started the engine, and drove to Libertador. This time, there was a break in the traffic and he headed for Buenos Aires.