The Hostage

XI

[ONE] Catedral Metropolitana Plaza de Mayo Buenos Aires, Argentina 0940 25 July 2005 When the three-car convoy carrying Castillo and Corporal Lester Bradley-a leading SIDE car, the embassy BMW, and a trailing SIDE car-approached the rear of the cathedral, Castillo saw that the entire block was ringed with brown-uniformed Gendarmeria National troops armed with submachine guns.

When he and Bradley got out of the embassy car and started for the side door of the church, they were stopped, and it was only after Major Querrina more than a little arrogantly flashed his SIDE credentials at the Gendarmeria major in charge that they were passed inside.

In the corridor just inside the door, there were uniformed Policia Federal officers and men in civilian clothing who Castillo presumed were SIDE agents. They guarded the door to the alcove in which the Mastersons would be seated.

With Bradley on his heels he went through the door to the alcove. Once inside, he could see Masterson's casket, covered by an American flag. At each corner of the casket, two soldiers, one Argentine and the other American, stood facing outward, at Parade Rest, their rifles resting on the ground.

There were people seated in the alcove across the nave, obviously Argentine dignitaries. There were four empty chairs in the front row, which suggested that the President and the foreign minister and their wives-or two other dignitaries-had not yet arrived.

El Coronel Alejandro Gellini of SIDE was standing to one side of the alcove, with another burly, mustachioed man Castillo guessed was one more SIDE officer. Gellini met Castillo's eyes, but there was no nod or other sign of recognition.

Castillo looked again at the absolutely rigid soldiers at the corners of the casket. The Argentines were in a dress uniform that looked as if it dated back to the early nineteenth century. They wore black silk top hats with a ten-inch black brush on the side. They were armed with what looked like Model 98 Mausers, which had been chrome-plated. The Americans were in class A uniforms with white pistol belts. They were holding chrome-plated M-14 rifles on which chrome-plated bayonets had been mounted. The U.S. Army had stopped using the M-14 during the Vietnam war. But the M-16, which replaced it, did not lend itself to the ballet-like Manual of Arms practiced by the Old Guard.

Castillo had the unkind thought that whatever kind of soldiering they had done before they had been assigned to the 3rd Infantry-and to judge from the medals glistening on their tunics, they had heard shots fired in anger-what they were now were actors in a pageant.

He turned and for the first time saw a first lieutenant in an incredibly crisp and precise Old Guard uniform standing stiffly, almost at Parade Rest, in a corner of the alcove.

That beret he's wearing looks like those molded leather hats the Spanish Guardia Civil wear. What did he do, soak it in wax?

And it's not a green beret, or even a tan Ranger beret. Anybody who can stumble through basic training gets to wear what he has on, thanks to the remarkably stupid idea of the chief of staff that putting a beret on any soldier's head turns him into a warrior.

The lieutenant looked at Castillo, but there was no nod nor a hint of a smile.

And all of those medals glistening on his chest are I-Wuz-There medals. Plus, of course, the Expert Infantry badge, which means he's never been in combat. And-why I am not surprised?-he's wearing the ring identifying him as a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point.

More important-he's the officer in charge of a guard detail-why the hell didn't he ask me who I am? Or, if he knows who I am, why didn't he say, "Good morning, sir"?

Castillo walked over to him.

"Good morning, Lieutenant."

"Good morning, sir."

"I was wondering how much ammunition your men have."

The question surprised the lieutenant.

"Actually, none, sir."

"Why is that?"

"Sir, we're a ceremonial unit."

"You are aware, aren't you, that the man in the casket was murdered?"

"Yes, sir."

"And that last night, the bad guys-presumably the same ones-murdered a Marine sergeant and seriously wounded a Secret Service agent?"

"Yes, sir."

"Under those circumstances, Lieutenant, don't you think it behooved you to acquire enough ammunition for your men so that they could at least defend themselves?"

The lieutenant didn't reply.

"And possibly even be in a position to contribute to the defense of Mrs. Masterson and her children should that situation arise?"

The lieutenant colored but did not reply.

"To answer the unspoken question in your eyes, Lieutenant-to wit, 'Who the fuck is this civilian questioning the behavior of a professional officer such as myself?'-I'm Major C. G. Castillo, U.S. Army, charged with the security of this operation."

"Permission to speak, sir?"

"Granted."

"Sir, I have been taking my direction from the defense attache."

"And?"

"Sir, I can only presume that if he wanted my men to have live ammunition, he would have issued live ammunition."

"Lieutenant, I was a Boy Scout. Therefore, even before I was told by my tactical officer at that school on the Hudson River of which we are both graduates that the second great commandment for any officer-right after Take Care of Your Men-is that he be prepared for the unexpected, I knew that Be Prepared is a commendable philosophy to follow. Since you were apparently asleep when your tac officer tried to impart that philosophy to you, I suggest you write it down so you won't forget it."

"Yes, sir."

Castillo heard the door to the alcove open, and turned.

Ambassador Silvio and Alex Darby came through the door.

Jesus! Castillo suddenly thought. What was that all about?

Why did I jump all over that guy?

Not that he didn't deserve it.

Because you're angry with the world, and want to vent it on somebody and he was there.

But it wasn't smart.

"Good morning, sir," Castillo said. "Alex."

"The Mastersons are three minutes out," the ambassador said. "We just got a call from Mr. Santini."

"Yes, sir."

"What I would like to do," Silvio went on, "if it's all right with you, is stay behind when the Mastersons go to Ezeiza, then go out there with the casket."

"Anything you want to do, sir, is fine with me."

"Tony needs to know, Charley, if you're going to go out there with the Mastersons," Darby said.

"Tony has more experience than I do," Castillo said. "I don't want to get in his way."

"Then I'll go with the family," Darby said, "my wife and I will."

"Fine. And I'll go out there with the ambassador."

"Okay," the ambassador said. "Let's go find our seats, Alex."

A moment after they had left, Castillo decided he should be outside when the Mastersons arrived, and walked out of the alcove. Corporal Lester Bradley followed on his heels.

They found themselves standing alone in the narrow street outside the church.

I wonder where the hell the gendarmes are?

Then he saw. There were gendarmes at either end of the street. Some were blocking the street where it entered Plaza de Mayo. At the other end, a gendarme was making policeman-like traffic-control gestures, and a moment later a Peugeot sedan started backing into the street. An embassy BMW followed, then a GMC Yukon XL.

"I guess they're backing the convoy in so they can get out quick," Lester said.

"My thoughts exactly, Corporal Bradley."

"Permission to speak, sir?"

"Granted."

"You really ate that lieutenant a new asshole, didn't you, sir?" Bradley said, admiringly.

"You weren't supposed to hear that, Corporal."

"Hear what, sir?"

Castillo smiled at him and shook his head.

Bradley pointed up the street.

Tony Santini and two other Americans whose faces Castillo recognized but whose names he didn't know were walking quickly down the street to them. Both were wearing topcoats Castillo knew concealed submachine guns.

"How's Schneider?" Santini greeted him.

"Awake and hurting. She was really unhappy that she didn't hit one of the bastards with the one shot she got off. Britton and a DEA agent named Ricardo Solez are with her."

"You checked inside?" Santini asked, nodding toward the cathedral.

Two embassy Yukons had now backed down the street to where they were standing. One of them discharged six Americans, three armed with M-16 rifles, two with Uzi submachine guns, and one with a Madsen. Santini motioned one of the men with an Uzi to them, and then looked at Castillo.

"You checked inside?" he repeated.

Castillo nodded. "Argentine VIPs, but neither the President nor the foreign minister is across the aisle."

"They probably want to come in last, for the show," Santini said.

"The ambassador and Darby and wives are here," Castillo went on. "Darby and his wife want to go to Ezeiza with you and the Mastersons. The ambassador wants to go with the casket."

"And you?"

"I thought that's what I'd do."

Santini nodded. "Scenario," he said, "Masterson family convoy leaves. We head for Ezeiza via Avenida 9 Julio and the autopista. As soon as the street is clear, the ambassador's car, the embassy Yukons-three, one for the casket, two for the honor guard-plus a bus for the Argentine soldiers, back in here with the SIDE tail vehicles. Mass is over, honor guard moves casket to Yukons, that convoy takes same route to Ezeiza. Okay with you?"

"Fine."

"Where's your car?"

"Around the corner," Castillo said, gesturing. "With two SIDE cars."

"I'd say go with the ambassador, but these SIDE people are not going to like it if they're not in the parade. Your call."

"I'd say screw them, but they're liable to insist and cause trouble."

"I agree. I'll have your car and theirs lined up back there," Santini said, pointing to the rear of the cathedral. "When the SIDE and embassy lead cars pull out of the street, the ambassador's car will get in the line, and then after the Yukon with the casket passes, you'll get in the line with your SIDE cars, then everybody else. Okay?"

"Tony, you know what you're doing. We'll do whatever you think we should."

Santini nodded, then turned to the man with the Uzi. "You heard that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Set it up."

"Yes, sir."

Santini raised his voice for the benefit of those out of earshot: "I'm going to check inside. If everything looks all right, we take the Mastersons in."

"You want me to go inside with you?" Castillo asked.

"Your call, Charley."

"I'll follow the Mastersons in," Castillo said.

Santini nodded and entered the cathedral. Ninety seconds later, he came out again.

"Okay, we move them!" he ordered, and walked quickly to the closest Yukon and opened the rear side door.

A very tall slim girl of thirteen or so got out first. Santini smiled at her, then showed her the door to the cathedral. Then a ten-year-old boy got out and followed his sister into the cathedral, and then Mrs. Masterson climbed down from the Yukon. She looked at Castillo, and then turned back to the truck.

"Just climb over the seat, Jim," she ordered, and then a six-year-old appeared in the open door.

Mrs. Masterson put her arm around his shoulders and led him toward the door in the cathedral wall.

As she passed Castillo, she said: "I can't tell you how sorry I am about Betty and the Marine."

Castillo didn't reply.

The only difference between the Masterson kids and Pevsner's kids is the color of their skin. Same sexes, same ages, same intelligent eyes.

Wrong. There's one more difference: Some sonofabitch shot the Masterson kids' daddy.

Castillo followed Mrs. Masterson and the six-year-old into the cathedral.

The President of the Republic of Argentina, whose face Castillo recognized, was now sitting across the nave of the cathedral with another man and two women, who Castillo guessed were the foreign minister and the appropriate wives. Colonel Gellini stood behind the President.

The organ, which had been playing softly, suddenly changed pitch and volume, and Castillo heard the scuffling of feet as people stood up.

Thirty seconds later a crucifer appeared in the nave, carrying an enormous golden cross and leading a long procession of richly garbed clergy, in two parallel columns, which split to go around the flag-draped casket of the late J. Winslow Masterson. [TWO] Estancia Shangri-La Tacuarembo Province Republica Oriental del Uruguay 1045 25 July 2005 Jean-Paul Bertrand had been sitting in his silk Sulka dressing robe before the wide, flat-screen Sony television in his bedroom since nine o'clock, watching the ceremonies marking the departure of J. Winslow Masterson from Argentina, first on Argentina's Channel Nine, and then on BBC, CNN, and Deutsche Welle, and now on Channel Nine again.

Jean-Paul Lorimer had acquired a Uruguayan immigration stamp on Jean-Paul Bertrand's Lebanese passport indicating Bertrand had legally entered Uruguay on July fourth, and another document dated the next day attesting to his legal residence in that country as an immigrant.

July fourth, of course, predated by nine days Jean-PaulLorimer's having gone missing from his apartment in Paris. It was unlikely that any party attempting to find Lorimer would be interested in anyone crossing any border on a date prior to a date Lorimer was known to have been in Paris.

He could, of course, have picked any date to be placed on the passport-the immigration stamp and the Certificate of Legal Residence had cost him ten thousand U.S. dollars in cash-but he had picked, as a fey notion, July fourth because it was now his, as well as the United States', independence day.

Once Jean-Paul Bertrand had the documents in his safe at Shangri-La, Jean-Paul Lorimer had ceased to exist, and Jean-Paul Bertrand could-after a suitable period, of course, of at least eighteen months, probably two years during which he would be very discreet-get on with his life.

Bertrand had been a little surprised at the amount of attention Jack Masterson's murder had caused around the world. He would not have thought the BBC or Deutsche Welle would have had nearly the interest in the murder of a relatively unimportant American diplomat that they showed. Jack had been the chief of mission, not the ambassador, and Buenos Aires was not really a major capital city of the world, although, in honesty, it had to be admitted that its restaurants did approach the level of those in Paris.

He was not surprised by the attention being paid by Argentine and American television. Jack had been shot in Argentina, which explained the Argentine interest. In all the time Jean-Paul had been coming to Uruguay, and especiallysince satellite television had become available, he had seen, with mingled amusement and disgust, that Argentine television was even more devoted to mindless game shows and gore than American television, which was really saying something.

The coverage of the murder-and today's events-by American television seemed to be based more on Jack's fame as the basketball player who had been paid sixty million dollars for getting himself run over by a beer truck than on his status as a diplomat. They had even sought out and placed the driver of the truck on the screen, asking his opinion of the murder of the man obviously destined for basketball greatness before the unfortunate accident.

And of course his fellow players, both from Notre Dame and the Boston Celtics, had been asked for their opinions of what had happened to Jack the Stack and what effect it would have on basketball and the nation generally. Jean-Paul had always been amused and a little disgusted that a basketball team whose name proclaimed Celtic heritage had been willing to pay an obscene amount of money to an obvious descendant of the Tutsi tribes of Rwanda and Burundi for his skill in being able to put an inflated leather sphere through a hoop.

From the comments of some of Jack's former play-mates, Jean-Paul was forced to conclude that many of them had no idea where Argentina was or what Jack the Stack was doing there at the time of his demise. One of them, who had apparently heard that Jack was "chief of mission," extrapolated this to conclude that Jack was a missionary bringing Christianity to the savage pagans of Argentina and expressed his happiness that Jack had found Jesus before going to meet his maker.

Jean-Paul had also been surprised by the long lines of Argentines who had filed into the Catedral Metropolitana to pass by Jack's casket. He wondered if it was idle curiosity, or had something to do with the funeral of Pope John Paul-also splendidly covered on television- or had been arranged by the Argentine government. He suspected it was a combination of all three factors.

He had hoped to see more of Betsy and the children-they were, after all, his sister and niece and nephews, and God alone knew when, or if, he would see them again. He didn't see them at all at the cathedral. There had been a shot from a helicopter of a convoy of vehicles racing on the autopista toward the Ezeiza airport that was described as the one carrying the Masterson family, but that might have been journalistic license, and anyway, nothing could be seen of the inside of the three large sport utility trucks in the convoy.

There was a very quick glimpse of them at the airfield, obviously taken with a camera kept some distance from the huge U.S. Air Force transport onto which they were rushed, surrounded by perhaps a dozen, probably more, heavily armed U.S. soldiers.

That whole scene offended, but did not surprise, Jean-Paul Bertrand. It was another manifestation of American arrogance. The thing to do diplomatically- using the term correctly-would be for the U.S. government to have sent a civilian airliner to transport Jack's body and his family home, not a menacing military transport painted in camouflage colors that more than likely had landed in Iraq or Afghanistan-or some other place where the United States was flexing its military muscles in flagrant disregard of the wishes of the United Nations-within the past week. And if it was necessary to "provide security"-which in itself was insulting to Argentina-to do it with some discretion. Guards in civilian clothing, with their weapons concealed, would have been appropriate. Soldiers armed with machine guns were not.

Jean-Paul corrected himself. Those aren't soldiers. They're something else: Air Force special operators wearing those funny hats with one side pinned up, like the Australians. They're-what do they call them?-Air Commandos.

That distinction is almost certainly lost on the Argentines.

What they see is heavily armed norteamericanos and a North American warplane sitting on their soil as if they own it.

Will the Americans ever learn?

Probably, almost certainly not.

I have seen this sort of thing countless times before.

The only difference is this time I have no reason to be shamed and embarrassed by the arrogance of my fellow Americans, for I am now Jean-Paul Bertrand, Lebanese citizen, currently resident in Uruguay.

Nothing much happened on the television screen for the next couple of minutes-replays of the activity at the cathedral, the convoy on the way to the airport, and the far too brief glimpse of his sister and niece and nephews being herded onto the Air Force transport-and Jean-Paulhad just stood up, intending to go into his toilet, when another convoy racing down the autopista came onto the screen.

This convoy, the announcer solemnly intoned, carried the last remains of J. Winslow Masterson, now the posthumous recipient of Argentina's Grand Cross of the Great Liberator.

Jean-Paul Bertrand sat back down and watched as the convoy approached the airfield and was waved through a heavily guarded gate and onto the tarmac before the terminal where the enormous transport waited for it.

The soldiers-he corrected himself again-the machine gun-armed Air Commandos were out again protecting the airplane as if they expected Iraqi terrorists to attempt to seize it at any moment.

Now more soldiers appeared. These were really soldiers, wearing their dress uniforms. Some of them lined up at the rear ramp of the airplane, and half a dozen of them went to the rear of one of the sport utility trucks, opened the door, and started to remove a flag-draped casket.

When they had it out, they hoisted it onto their shoulders and started, at a stiff and incredibly slow pace, to carry it up the ramp and into the airplane.

The Air Commandos gave the hand salute.

Some other people got out of the trucks. Jean-Paul had no idea who they were. They went into the airplane. A minute or so later, four people, two men and two women, came back out. They were followed by eight or ten other people, some of them-including two Marines-in uniform. They all headed for the Yukons and got into them. The remaining soldiers and the Air Commandos went quickly up the ramp and into the airplane.

The four people who had come out of it watched as the ramp of the airplane began to close, and then got in two of the trucks.

The huge transport began to move.

Jean-Paul Bertrand watched his television until it showed the airplane racing down the runway and lifting off.

And then he went to the toilet. [THREE] Aeropuerto Internacional Ministro Pistarini de Ezeiza Buenos Aires, Argentina 1110 25 July 2005 Colonel Jacob D. Torine, USAF, who was wearing a flight suit, had been standing on the tarmac beside the open ramp of the Globemaster III when the first convoy had arrived.

He had saluted when Mrs. Masterson and her children, surrounded by the protection detail, approached the ramp.

"My name is Torine, Mrs. Masterson. I'm your pilot. If you'll follow me, please?"

She smiled at him but said nothing.

He led them down the cavernous cargo area of the aircraft, past the strapped-down, flag-covered casket of Sergeant Roger Markham, USMC. A Marine sergeant standing at the head of the casket softly called "Atenhut," and he and a second Marine, who was standing at the foot of the casket, saluted.

Torine led the Mastersons up a shallow flight of stairs to an area immediately behind the flight deck. Here there was seating for the backup flight crew: two rows of airline seats, eight in all, which often doubled, with the armrests removed, as beds.

Torine installed the Mastersons in the front row, where the kids would be able to see the cockpit, pointed out the toilet, and offered them coffee or a Coke. There were no takers.

"I'll be with you in a moment," Torine said. "Just as soon as everybody's aboard."

Mrs. Masterson nodded, made a thin smile, but again said nothing.

Torine went back to the ramp, where the loadmaster, a gray-haired Air Force chief master sergeant, was waiting for him.

"How we doing?" Torine asked.

"There was an unexpected bonus," the chief master sergeant said. "The caterers' lunch and dinner came with wine."

"Which you, of course, declined with thanks, knowing that consumption of intoxicants aboard USAF aircraft is strictly forbidden."

The chief master sergeant chuckled. "Nice food," he said. "Chicken and pasta for lunch, filet mignon and broiled salmon for dinner. And very cheap."

"And the headset?"

The chief master sergeant held up a wireless headset.

"Thank you," Torine said.

The chief master sergeant gestured toward the terminal. A second convoy of Yukons and security vehicles was approaching the Globemaster.

C. G. Castillo got out of an embassy BMW and walked to the ramp. A Marine corporal went to the trunk of the BMW and took luggage from it, then followed Castillo to the ramp.

"Put that inside, Corporal, and then find yourself a seat," Castillo ordered, and then turned to Torine. "Good morning, sir."

"How is she, Charley?"

"Her jaw is wired shut," Castillo said. "But she was awake and reasonably comfortable when I left her."

Torine shook his head sympathetically, and then said, "I spoke with Colonel Newley a few minutes ago. He assured me that the Gulfstream has been placed in the ambulance configuration and is ready to go wheels-up on thirty minutes' notice."

"Thank you."

"Chief Master Sergeant Dotterman, this is Major Castillo."

Sergeant Dotterman saluted. "The colonel's told me a good deal about you, sir."

He held out the wireless headset.

"Intercom is up," he said, indicating a switch. "Down is whatever radio the pilot is using."

Castillo examined the headset and then put it on.

"Voice-activated," Sergeant Dotterman said.

Castillo blew into the small microphone and then nodded, signifying both that he understood and that the device was working.

The flag-draped casket of J. Winslow Masterson, on the shoulders of the honor guard of the Old Guard, was now very slowly approaching the ramp.

"I better go up front, Charley," Torine said. "Dotterman will let me know when everybody's onboard."

"Yes, sir," Castillo and Dotterman said, almost in chorus.

The honor guard pallbearers slow-marched up the ramp and into the airplane with the casket.

Dotterman followed them inside to supervise its placement and tie-down. Castillo turned to watch and saw that Dotterman was placing it aft of Sergeant Markham's casket, and decided that meant they were going to unload Masterson first.

"How's Special Agent Schneider?" Ambassador Silvio asked, startling Castillo.

When he turned to look at him, he saw that Mrs. Silvio, Alex Darby, and another woman, probably Mrs. Darby, were also standing at the bottom of the ramp.

"She was awake when I left the hospital. Her jaw is wired shut."

The ambassador introduced Mrs. Darby, then said, "My wife and Mrs. Darby, if you think it's a good idea, will go to the hospital from here to let her know she's not alone."

"I think that's a wonderful idea. Thank you," Castillo said, and then had a sudden thought. "Where's Santini?"

Darby pointed.

Tony Santini, an M-16 rifle cradled in his arms like a hunter, was standing on the cab of an enormous yellow fire engine.

When he saw Castillo looking, Santini waved.

"Alex," Castillo said, returning the wave, "tell him thanks and that I'll be in touch, please."

"We'll tell the Mastersons goodbye and then let you get out of here," Ambassador Silvio said.

Castillo nodded.

As soon as they had moved into the fuselage, the Old Guard lieutenant walked-more accurately, marched- down the ramp to Castillo, came to attention, and saluted.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," Castillo said. "That was well done. At the cathedral and here."

"Thank you, sir," the lieutenant replied and then handed Castillo a handful of ribbon and a gold medal.

"Mr. Masterson's Grand Cross of the Great Liberator, sir. I took the liberty of removing it from the colors."

"Good thinking, Lieutenant. Thank you. No presentation box, I gather?"

"None that I saw, sir."

Castillo looked around to make sure no one was watching, then put the medal in his trousers pocket.

"I'll see that Mrs. Masterson gets this. Thank you."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said, saluted again, did a crisp about-face movement, and marched back up the ramp.

Castillo watched as he went. The difference between me and that natty young officer-when I was out of Hudson High as long as he's been out-was that I had already fallen under the mentorship-General Naylor called it "the corrupting influence"-of General Bruce J. McNab, and had already acquired at least some of his contempt for the spit-and-polish Army and a devout belief in the Scotty McNab Definition of an Officer's Duty: Get the job done and take care of your men, and if the rules get in the way, screw the rules.

Ambassador Silvio, Alex Darby, and their wives came back through the fuselage.

Darby wordlessly offered his hand, and then, after the wives had done the same, started to help the high-heeled women down the ramp. Ambassador Silvio put out his hand.

"I expect we'll be seeing more of one another?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, I'm sure we will," Castillo said, and then remembered something. "I won't be needing this anymore, sir. Thank you."

He took the 9mm Beretta from the small of his back, cleared its action, and handed it to the ambassador, who matter-of-factly stuck it in his waistband.

"Muchas gracias, mi amigo," Silvio said. "And I don't mean only for the pistol."

Then he touched Castillo's shoulder and walked quickly down the ramp. The moment he had cleared it, the Air Commandos who had been on perimeter guard came trotting up to it. The moment the last of them had cleared the door, there was the whine of an electric motor and the ramp started to retract.

Castillo saw Chief Master Sergeant Dotterman with his hand on the ramp control, and then a moment later heard his voice on the headset.

"All aboard and closing the door, Colonel."

"Roger that," Torine's voice came over the headset. "Starting Number Three."

Five seconds after that, Dotterman reported. "All closed, Colonel."

"Roger that. Starting Number Two."

Castillo looked at Dotterman.

Dotterman, smiling, was bowing him into the fuselage in an "After you, Gaston!" gesture.

Castillo smiled back.

What I should do now is give Mrs. Masterson her husband's medal.

Fuck it. I don't want to see her right now.

Castillo sat down in the nearest aluminum pipe-framed nylon seat, next to one of the Air Commandos, and fastened the seat harness. Then he moved the switch on the headseat to the RADIO position.

"Ezeiza, U.S. Air Force Zero-Three-Eight-One," Torine's voice called. "Ready to taxi."

Ten seconds later, the Globemaster III began to move. They were still climbing to cruise altitude when Castillo unfastened his harness and made his way through the fuselage and up the stairs to the airliner seats. He stopped, took the Grand Cross of the Great Liberator from his pocket, folded the silk ribbon as best he could, and then walked to Mrs. Elizabeth Masterson.

"Mrs. Masterson," he said, extending it to her. "The officer in charge of the honor guard unpinned this from the colors and asked me to give it to you."

She took it from him, looked at it for a long moment, softly said, "Thank you," then put the medal in her purse.

When she looked up again, Castillo had moved to the head of the stairs.

"Mr. Castillo!" she called.

He stopped. When she realized that he was not going to come to her, she unfastened her seat belt and walked to him.

"I wanted to thank you for everything you've done," she said. "And to tell you how sorry I am about Miss Schneider and the sergeant."

Castillo didn't reply. He looked past her for a long moment, told himself to keep his thoughts private. But when he looked back at Mrs. Masterson, the scene of the shot-up embassy BMW fresh in his mind, he said, "His name was Sergeant Roger Markham, Mrs. Masterson. He was twenty years old. And in my judgment, that very nice young man would still be alive and Special Agent Schneider would not be in a hospital bed with three bullet wounds-and her jaw wired shut-if you had been truthful about the people who abducted you."

"How dare you talk to me in that manner?"

"My orders are to protect you and your children, Mrs. Masterson. I have done that to the best of my ability- and will continue to do so-until I am relieved of the responsibility. But there is nothing in my orders requiring me to politely pretend I think you were telling the truth to the officers investigating your abduction and your husband's murder when you and I both know you were lying."

He met her eyes for a moment, then nodded, and went down the stairs to the cargo section of the fuselage. Twenty minutes later, Chief Master Sergeant Dotterman walked up to Castillo, who was sitting on the floor of the fuselage-a good deal of experience in riding Globemasters had taught him the floor was far more comfortable than the aluminum pipe-supported nylon seats-and mimed that Castillo should put the headset back on.

When he had done so, Dotterman leaned over him and flipped the switch on the headset to INTERCOM.

"Castillo, you on?" Torine's voice asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You want to come up here, please?"

"Yes, sir."

Well, I put Jake Torine on the spot, didn't I?

In addition to flying the airplane and his other worries, he's had to contend with a furious female who didn't like being called a liar and wasted no time whatever to complain to the most senior officer she could find.

And he didn't need that. Torine is one of the good guys.

But am I sorry I told her what I thought?

Not one goddamn little bit!

Castillo pulled himself to his feet and went through the fuselage again and up to the cockpit. There was no way he could avoid seeing Mrs. Masterson, but if she saw him, she gave no sign.

He walked between the pilot's and copilot's seats, and when Colonel Torine didn't seem to be aware of his presence, leaned down and touched his shoulder.

Torine turned and looked up at him, smiling.

"Dotterman told me you were on the floor back there," Torine said. "If you want to lay down, Charley, and God knows you have every reason to be tired, just pull the armrests out from one of the seats. I've even got a blanket and pillow I'll loan you."

He's neither pissed nor embarrassed, which he would be if the Widow Masterson had complained to him about me.

Well, maybe she's waiting to tell the President what a cold-hearted bastard I am.

And I really don't care if she does.

"Thanks, but I'm not sleepy, sir."

"Well, then, maybe you'd like to sit in the right seat for a while and see how real pilots aerial navigate over the Amazon jungle?"

"Is that where we are, over the Amazon jungle?"

"I don't know where we are," Torine said. He nodded at the copilot. "I'm relying on him, and my painful experience with him has been that he often gets lost in a closet. How about getting out of there, Bill, and we'll see if this Army aviator can find out where we are?"

The copilot smiled and unfastened his harness.

When Castillo had taken his seat and strapped himself in, the copilot leaned over him and pointed out a screen on which their location was shown. A well-detailed electronicmap showed that they were about two hundred miles from Buenos Aires, a few miles north of Rosario. The screen also showed their altitude, airspeed, course, and the distance and time to alternate airfields. Castillo was familiar with the equipment. There was a civilian version of it in the Lear Bombardier. Guided by data from three-or more-satellites fed through a computer, the location and ground speed provided on the screen was accurate within six feet and three miles per hour.

I wonder if Tom got Fernando permission to land at Keesler?

"That gadget takes all the fun out of flying," Colonel Torine said. "It was much more fun when you could stick your head out into the slipstream and see if the highway was still under you." [FOUR] Keesler Air Force Base Biloxi, Mississippi 2035 25 July 2005

As Castillo sat in the jump seat while Torine lined the Globemaster up with the Keesler runway and then smoothly sat the huge airplane down, he could see, bathed in the light of maybe a dozen pole-mounted banks of high-intensity floodlights, the Boeing 747-the Air Force called it the VC-25A, which when the President of the United States was aboard became Air Force One-parked at the end of the taxiway paralleling the runway. It was being protected not only by sentries but also by a half dozen Humvees with.50 caliber machine guns.

"Three-Zero-One on the ground at three five past the hour," Torine said into his microphone. "Close me out, please. And taxi instructions, please."

"Air Force Three-Zero-One, this is Keesler Ground Control. Halt in place at the termination of your landing roll. Be advised that you will be met by a follow-me vehicle. Be advised that you will be met by a vehicle which will take Major C. Castillo from the aircraft to his ground destination. Acknowledge."

"Keesler," Torine responded, "Three-Zero-One understands halt in place at termination of landing roll. Further understand follow-me vehicle will be there. Further understand Major Castillo will be taken by a second vehicle to his ground destination."

"That is correct, Three-Zero-One."

The copilot touched Torine's shoulder and then pointed out the window. An Air Force blue pickup truck with a FOLLOW ME sign mounted on the bed and a GMC Yukon were sitting side by side on a taxiway access ramp.

"Dotterman, you heard that?" Torine asked.

"I'm by the side door, Colonel."

Torine turned to Castillo.

"Why do I think your ground destination is that 747?"

"Keesler," the copilot said into his microphone. "Three-Zero-One is halted on the runway."

"We have you in sight, Three-Zero-One," ground control replied.

"Colonel," Dotterman announced, "here comes a Suburban and a Follow-Me. The Suburban sees me. He's coming up this side of the fuselage."

"That's probably a Yukon, Dotterman," Torine said.

"What's the difference?"

"I don't know," Torine confessed.

"People getting out of the whatever-the-hell-it-is," Chief Master Sergeant Dotterman reported.

When Colonel Torine started to unfasten his harness with the obvious intention of leaving his seat, Castillo got off the jump seat, folded it out of the way, and stood in the cockpit door. He felt Mrs. Masterson's eyes on him. He met them for a moment, and then looked away.

Thirty seconds later a tall, slim, Marine lieutenant colonel in dress blues, to which splendor had been added the golden aiguillettes worn by aides to the commander in chief, appeared at the head of the stairs.

He glanced at Castillo then headed straight for Mrs. Masterson.

"Mrs. Masterson, I'm Lieutenant Colonel McElroy, an aide to the President. What's going to happen next is the aircraft will taxi to a hangar. Ambassador and Mrs. Lorimer will come onboard at that time…"

"I'm Special Agent Willkie of the Secret Service," a stocky man announced in Castillo's ear. "Are you Mr. Castillo?"

Castillo was annoyed at the interruption. Mrs. Masterson had locked eyes with him again, and had been paying far more attention to him than to the President's aide.

And she wasn't angry. It wasn't a "Now you're going to get yours, you sonofabitch" look.

It was an "I need your help" look. Or a "We have to talk" look.

Or both.

What's going on?

And now this sonofabitch is in the way!

Castillo stopped himself at the last split second from pushing the Secret Service agent out of the way.

"I'm Castillo."

"Will you come with me, please, sir? The President would like a word with you."

Castillo nodded.

Special Agent Willkie started down the stairs. As Castillo turned to follow him he looked at Mrs. Masterson again. Their eyes locked again.

She looks distressed, almost frightened.

She doesn't want me to leave.

Mrs. Masterson stood up and pushed Lieutenant Colonel McElroy to one side and called, "Mr. Castillo!"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"May I have a moment alone with you, please?"

"Yes, ma'am. Of course."

She brushed past McElroy and walked up to the cockpit opening. She got so close that Castillo backed up, which pushed him right up against Torine.

"What can I do for you, ma'am?" Castillo asked. "Is something wrong?"

She looked up at him. He saw tears forming.

"I was afraid to say anything in Buenos Aires, Mr. Castillo," she said. "My priority was keeping my children safe."

He nodded.

Elizabeth Masterson took a deep breath.

"But now we're out of Argentina. We're here." She paused, and then went on, slowly and carefully, as if she had rehearsed what she was going to say: "The people who abducted me wanted me to tell them where my brother is. They said that unless I told them, they would kill my children, one at a time. And they said they would kill my children and my parents if I said anything about it. And then they killed Jac-" Her voice caught. She swallowed and went on, "Then they killed my husband to show me they mean what they say."

"And you don't know where your brother is, do you?" Castillo asked, gently.

She shook her head.

Castillo put his hands on her arms.

"Listen to me, Mrs. Masterson. You have my word that no one is going to hurt your children. Or your parents. Or you…"

"I just didn't know what to do. That's why I didn't-"

"Mr. Castillo, the President is waiting!" Secret Service Special Agent Willkie impatiently announced.

"He's just going to have to wait," Castillo snapped, and then looked down at Mrs. Masterson again.

She was shaking her head and smiling through her tears.

He looked at her quizzically.

"I knew I was going to have to tell somebody," she said. "And I guess I was right in choosing you."

"I don't under-"

"How many people do you think there are who, on being told the President of the United States is waiting for them, would say, 'He's just going to have to wait'?"

"That just may be an indication that I act impulsively," Castillo said.

"No, Mr. Castillo. What it is is that you're what Alex Darby told me you are."

He looked at her quizzically again.

She explained: "One really tough sonofabitch, and just the guy you need in your corner when you're really in trouble."

"Well, if you believe that, ma'am, please believe I'm in your corner."

"Mr. Castillo, for God's sake, the President is waiting!" Special Agent Willkie called.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Castillo said.

She reached up and kissed his cheek, said, "Thank you," and went back to her seat.

Castillo looked at Colonel Torine.

"You heard all that, right?"

Torine, his face stern, nodded.

"Would you come with me, please? I may need a witness."

"Sure," Torine said, turned his head and raised his voice. "Bill, I'm leaving the aircraft. It's now yours."

"Yes, sir."

When Special Agent Willkie saw Colonel Torine follow Castillo down the stairs, he looked at him in surprise, and then announced, "The President said nothing about wanting to see anyone but you, Mr. Castillo."

"Well, then I guess he'll be surprised when he sees Colonel Torine, won't he?" As soon as they were standing on the runway beside the Globemaster, Special Agent Willkie spoke to his lapel microphone.

"Mr. Castillo insists on bringing the pilot with him."

"Not 'the pilot,' my friend," Torine said, not very pleasantly. "Colonel Jake Torine, U.S. Air Force."

"He says his name is Torine," Special Agent Willkie said to his lapel microphone.

Thirty seconds later, Special Agent Willkie said, "If you'll get in the Yukon, please, gentlemen, I will escort you to the President."

They had been in the backseat of the Yukon about thirty seconds when Torine touched Castillo's shoulder and pointed out the window.

Castillo looked and saw soldiers armed with Car 16 rifles forming a perimeter guard around the Globemaster.

"I didn't know they trusted Air Force guys with loaded guns," Castillo said.

Torine smirked. "Those aren't Air Force guys, wiseass. They're soldiers, almost certainly Special Forces and probably Delta Force. And at least one of them is Gray Fox. That is Sergeant Orson, isn't it?"

Castillo looked. One of the soldiers was a tall, blond sergeant first class named Orson. The last time Castillo had seen the Gray Fox communicator/sniper was in Costa Rica, where Orson had very professionally taken out two of the terrorists who had stolen the 727.

"I'll be damned, that's Orson all right."

What the hell is going on? The Yukon stopped in front of the wide flight of stairs that had been rolled up to the huge Boeing, and Castillo and Torine got out. There was a knot of people guarding access to the stairs, including two females who were obviously Secret Service agents.

One of them spoke to her lapel microphone, and then turned to Castillo and Torine.

"You may board, gentlemen," she said. "The President is expecting you."