The Hostage

XVI

[ONE] Danubius Hotel Gellert Szent Gellert ter 1 Budapest, Hungary 0930 28 July 2005 When they walked up to the registration desk of the hotel, the manager on duty said that Herr Goerner had a call, and led him around the corner of the marble desk to a bank of house telephones.

Castillo watched him impatiently.

Goerner returned after a minute wearing a wide smile.

"That was Eric Kocian," he announced, "and what we're going to do now is go to our rooms, put on our robes, and visit the baths."

"I don't have time for a swim or a steam bath," Castillo said. "I came here to see this man Kocian."

"To accomplish the latter, Karl, I'm afraid you must do the former."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"In a way I'm looking forward to this," Goerner said, smiling. "What is that line, 'What happens when the irresistible force meets the unmovable object'? I think we are about to see."

"Are you going to explain that? Or keep talking in riddles with a smug smile on your face?"

"Eric has the habit at this time of day of visiting the baths," Goerner said. "He suggested that we could talk there. The alternative is to meet him for lunch at the Karpatia at half past one. That's on Ferenciek tere, in the-"

"I know where it is," Castillo cut him off. "Jesus Christ!" Wrapped in thick white terry cloth robes, their feet in slippers, and their genitals contained in small-and, Castillo was convinced, transparent-when-wet-cotton swimming pouches, Castillo, Goerner, Fernando, Torine, and Kranz entered the thermal baths of the hotel.

"Fancy," Sergeant Kranz said. "Looks like something from ancient Rome."

"It was intended to look like ancient Rome," Goerner said. "They say there has been a thermal bath here for centuries."

"Where's Kocian?" Castillo asked.

"About halfway down the pool," Goerner said. "See the man with the float?"

There were perhaps fifteen people in the water, their individual conversations unintelligible as the hard acoustics of water and tile created a sort of deep-toned white noise. Halfway down the steaming pool, in water reaching almost to his neck, a head covered with luxuriant silver hair was almost hidden behind a floating table. On the table were a metal pitcher, an ashtray, several newspapers and magazines, two books, and a cellular telephone.

The man was looking at them without expression, his jaws clamped around a large, black cigar.

"What do we do, just jump in and swim up to him?" Castillo asked.

"It would be more polite if you slowly lowered yourself into the water and waded to him," Otto said. "This is a bath, Karl, not a swimming pool."

Goerner tossed his robe on a marble bench, slid out of his slippers, and went slowly into the pool by a flight of underwater stairs.

I never thought I would be a prude, Castillo thought, but the only word to describe Otto with his privates in that tiny jockstrap is "obscene."

When Otto reached the bottom of the stairs, he was in water just over his waist.

Well, at least his crotch and far-from-athletic buttocks are now concealed from public view.

Castillo shook his head, quickly tossed his robe on a marble bench, and very quickly went down the stairs into the water and then waded across the pool after Goerner.

Fernando, Torine, and Kranz took off their robes, looked at each other, shook their heads, and then, as if someone had barked "Ready! Run! Dive!" took running dives into the water.

The bushy white eyebrows on Eric Kocian's ruddy, jowly face rose in amazement at this display of bad manners.

"Good morning, Eric," Goerner said, when he'd waded close.

"Gruss Gott, Otto," Kocian replied in a thick Viennese accent.

"This is Karl Gossinger, Eric," Goerner said. "Do you remember him?"

"The distinguished Washington correspondent of the Tages Zeitung? That Karl Gossinger?"

"Guten morgen, Herr Kocian," Charley said.

"I was fond of your mother and your grandfather," Kocian said. "I never thought much of your uncle Willi. You look a lot like Willi."

"Thank you for sharing that with me," Castillo said in German and then switched to Viennese gutter dialect. "Can we cut the bullshit, Herr Kocian? I don't have time to play games with you."

"I'm crushed," Kocian said. "I know you have time to play games with Otto and our readers."

"Excuse me?"

A hand came out of the water and a pointing finger dripped water on one of the magazines. It was The American Conservative.

"There's a reason for that," Castillo said.

"It's easier to steal someone else's story than to write your own?"

"There's a reason for that," Castillo repeated.

"I'd love to know what it is," Kocian said.

"Because being the Washington correspondent for the Tages Zeitung is a cover for what I really do," Charley said.

"Which is?"

"I'm an Army officer."

Kocian considered that long enough to puff twice on his cigar.

"An Army intelligence officer, you mean?" he asked.

Castillo nodded.

Kocian looked at Otto Goerner, who nodded.

"You'll have to forgive me, Herr Gossinger. I'm an old man, my brain is slowing down, and for the life of me I can't understand why an American Army intelligence officer would confess that. To anyone, much less a real journalist."

"Because Otto has led me to believe we're on the same side."

"The same side of what, Mr. Intelligence Officer?"

"I'm after the people who are willing to kill to keep it from getting out that they've profited from the oil-for-food arrangement. Isn't that what you're doing?"

"You told him that, did you, Otto?" Kocian asked.

Goerner nodded.

"And what are you going to do if you learn who these people are?"

Castillo didn't immediately reply. He looked around and saw that they had an interested audience in Torine, Fernando, and Kranz.

Kranz may, just may, understand the Viennese patois. But Torine and Fernando don't. All they see is that the old guy and I are sparring, and not very politely.

"I'm unable to believe the U.S. government doesn't already know who they are," Kocian went on. "And that there are political considerations involved that have kept it from coming out."

"We don't know who murdered our chief of mission in Buenos Aires, a very nice young Marine sergeant, and seriously wounded one of my agents."

"Okay. Let's talk about that. If you find out who these people are, then what?"

"I'll deal with them."

" 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,' Herr Gossinger."

"My orders are to deal with them."

"Your orders from who?"

"Someone who remembers that the Bible also says, 'An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.' "

"Someone with the authority to give an order like that?"

Castillo nodded.

"And what will happen when, say, your secretary of state or, for that matter, your President learns-as they inevitably will-that someone has given you these orders?"

"That's not going to be a problem, Herr Kocian."

"You're not afraid that you and whoever gave you this order will not be-what's that wonderful American phrase?-'hung out to twist in the wind'?"

"No, I'm not."

"You will excuse me, Herr Gossinger, if I think you are being naive," Kocian said. "Junior intelligence officers-and you're not old enough to be anything but a junior intelligence officer-are expendable."

"So what?" Castillo said.

"I was very fond of your grandfather and your mother. I don't want it on my conscience that I was in any way responsible for Little Karlchen being left hanging out twisting in the wind or, more likely, being strapped into a chair with his throat cut after his teeth were extracted with pliers."

"Why don't you let me worry about that?" Castillo said.

"I just told you, I was very fond of your mother and your grandfather."

"Eric, I'm as concerned as you are that Karl may be hurt, even murdered," Otto Goerner said, in the Viennese patois. "But I have reason to believe that he won't be left hanging in the breeze."

"What reason?"

"Otto," Castillo said. "Stop right there."

"What reason, Otto?" Kocian pursued.

"I know who gave him his orders."

"Otto, goddammit!" Castillo said.

"He told you who did, or you know?"

"Let me put it this way, Eric," Goerner said. "I know he's not as junior an intelligence officer as you might think he is; quite the opposite."

"Are you going to tell me how you know that?"

"Not unless Karl tells me I can," Goerner said.

"And are you, Herr Gossinger, going to give Herr Goerner permission to tell me?"

"No," Castillo said. Then he chuckled.

"What's funny, Herr Gossinger?" Kocian asked, politely.

"If I told you that, Herr Kocian, I would have to kill you."

Kranz laughed.

"I'm only kidding, Herr Kocian," Castillo said. "That's a special operations joke."

Kocian met Castillo's eyes for a long moment. Then he shrugged and said, almost sadly, "I'd be more comfortable, Karl, if I was sure you were not kidding."

Castillo didn't reply.

"All right. May God forgive me, but all right," Eric Kocian said. "I will tell you what I know. Come with me."

He started to wade toward the side of the pool, pushing the floating table before him. When he reached the side, he carefully put his cigar in the ashtray, then moved the ashtray to the low-tiled coping surrounding the pool. He did the same thing with his cellular telephone, the metal pitcher, the newspapers, and the copy of the American Conservative. Then he pushed the floating table away into the center of the pool and with surprising agility hoisted himself out of the pool and sat with his feet dangling into the water.

Out of the water, Kocian looked his age. The flesh on his arms and chest and legs sagged. His jockstrap was almost hidden by a roll of flesh that sagged down from his abdomen. There were angry scars on his upper shoulder, his abdomen, and his left leg.

"You speak German," Kocian said to Kranz. "I could tell."

"Yes, sir, I do."

"These two don't," he said, gesturing at Fernando and Torine. "You want all these people to hear what I have to say, Karl?"

"Bitte," Castillo said.

"Then I will speak English," Kocian said in English. "Very softly, because speaking English in here will attract attention." He switched back to German and pointed at Kranz. "In each of those cubicles," he went on, pointing, "there is a bucket and a water glass or two. Go get two buckets and six-no, eight-glasses, and bring them here."

Kranz hoisted himself out of the pool.

He then switched to English and quietly ordered, "The rest of you get out, and lay close to me-there are towels in the cubicles-and if you have something to say, say it very softly."

In a minute, after two trips to the dressing cubicles lining one wall of the pool, Kranz had arranged on the tile coping two white buckets, capable of holding perhaps a gallon each, and eight water glasses about six inches high, and everybody was sitting or lying on thick white towels on the tiled floor beside the pool.

"This," Kocian said softly, splashing his feet in the pool, "is the nearly limitless pool of oil under Iraq. It was controlled-owned-by Saddam Hussein. When Hussein was quote President of Iraq end quote, he was more of an absolute ruler than the king of Arabia.

"He had many vices, including greed, which did him in. He wasn't satisfied with what he had. He wanted the oil which lay under the sands of Kuwait… down there."

He pointed.

"If Hussein had not invaded Kuwait, we almost certainly would not be sitting here today, but he did.

"This bothered the Americans, and even some members of the United Nations. Some say the Americans rushed to defend poor little Kuwait because they believed that Saddam Hussein was naughty, and needed to have his wrist slapped. Others suggest that they were afraid Saddam also had his eyes on the oil under Arabia… over there… which was and is essential to the American economy.

"Whatever the reasons, there was a war. Iraq lost. Some of you may remember that."

"We were all there, Herr Kocian," Castillo said. "Can we get to the end of the history lesson?"

"I'm surprised that no one has taught you, Karl, that those who do not understand history are doomed to repeat it," Kocian said. "Would you like me to go on?"

"Sorry," Castillo said.

"It was not a total victory," Kocian resumed. "President Bush the First decided he did not need to occupy Baghdad to win the war. Ten years later, President Bush the Second decided that it would take American flags flying over Saddam Hussein's castles to win that war.

"At the end of the first Iraqi war, to make Saddam Hussein live up to what he promised to do at the armistice, and of course did not do, the Americans got the UN to place an embargo on the sale of Iraqi oil. That meant Iraq would have no money from the sale of their oil.

"France and Russia primarily, with some other nations, were suddenly deeply concerned with the helpless women and children of Iraq. Without some income to buy food, the French and the Russians cried, Iraqi babies would starve. Without medicine and medical supplies for Iraqi hospitals, Iraqi women and the elderly would die in agony.

"Oil for Food was born. Iraq would be permitted to sell enough of its oil to buy food and medicine. The United Nations would monitor the sale of the oil, and ensure that nothing entered Iraq that wasn't food or medicine.

"United Nations inspectors were stationed-primarily at Basra on the Persian Gulf… down there… and in other places-to count the barrels of oil-the allocations-that would be shipped out for sale, and to make sure that nothing was shipped into Iraq that wasn't supposed to be."

Kocian examined the two buckets Kranz had fetched for him.

He dipped the larger bucket in the pool and hauled it out.

"This is how much oil it would take to buy food and medicine. You will notice that when I took it out, it did not noticeably lower the level of the water in the pool."

He leaned forward, took his cigar from the ashtray, relit it, puffed on it, examined the coal, took another puff, and went on.

"Saddam found himself sitting on-swimming in?-a sea of black stuff that was worthless to him, but considered black gold by the rest of the world. All he had to do was figure some way to get it out of Iraq, past the wall the UN had set up."

He tapped the tiled coping.

"First, he tried diplomacy. He would get the UN to relax or remove the embargo. To do this, he would have to have important friends in the UN. How does one acquire friends? Give them something. He arranged to have the oil allocations assigned to people he thought might become his friends. Many of these were French and Russians, but there were others, too.

"To keep this simple, what he did was arrange-by bribing a UN official-for his oil allocations to come into the hands of these people at prices lower than the going price for crude oil. Say, fifty cents a barrel lower. Fifty cents a barrel becomes a lot of money when one is dealing in terms of, say, two million barrels of oil-one tanker full of oil.

"All these people had to do to turn a quick profit of a million dollars was sign over their allocation of two million barrels of oil-for-food oil to someone else. Saddam also let it be known that if he were permitted to export more oil, there would be more millions-many more millions-of dollars coming into the hands of those who caused the UN to relax the embargo.

"He also made friends by not complaining when the medicine shipped into Iraq for the poor Iraqi children and women had a high price. Aspirin at five dollars a pill, for example. Flour at twenty dollars a kilo. Und so weiter.

"Now to do this, of course, he had to have friends among the UN officials who were checking to see that he didn't get anything he wasn't supposed to have. How to make these friends? Give them something. What did he have to give? This black stuff that was worthless to him anyway. How was he going to get it to them? Bribe the UN official checking the outgoing oil. If he happened to be looking the other way when, say, a hundred thousand barrels of oil was mistakenly pumped into a tanker hauling off the legitimate oil-for-food allocation, he could expect to have party or parties unknown drop off a package of crisp brand-new U.S. one-hundred-dollar bills at his grandmother's apartment."

He picked up the water bucket and poured from it into four of the water glasses. Then he picked up one of the water-filled glasses and moved it down the tile coping.

"This one goes to the UN official who happened to be looking the other way when the tanker was overloaded," he said.

He picked up a second of the water-filled glasses, moved it down the tile coping, and explained, "And this one goes to the UN official who sees nothing suspicious about five-dollar-a-pill aspirin, or twenty-dollar-a-kilo flour, and authorizes the bill therefore to be paid."

He picked up the two remaining water-filled glasses and moved them to a narrow shelf on the pool side of the tile coping. "And these two, now converted to packages of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, go back across the border to Saddam, where they are thus available to build palaces for his sons and to bribe other people.

"You will notice, again, that filling the glasses did not appreciably lower the level of water in the bucket."

He paused, looked at everybody for a moment, and then filled the remaining water glasses.

"There are many refineries in Iraq," Kocian went on, "capable of producing far more gasoline, for example, than Iraq needs. What to do with this?"

He picked up two of the glasses and leaned forward to where Torine was lying on the tiles, and set them down by one of Torine's elbows.

"You are now Jordan," Kocian said. "Jordanians don't hate Americans as much as most other Arab countries,possibly because the widow of the late king was the daughter of an American general. And America tends to look less critically at Jordan than it does at other Arab countries. In any event, Jordan has a need for gasoline. There is no pipeline or port, but Iraq has many twenty-thousand-gallon tanker trucks. How to get it across the border? Bribe somebody."

He slid the water glasses from Torine's elbow to his waist, and picked up one of them. He moved it inside the tile coping. "This one, now miraculously converted to dollars, goes back to Iraq."

"Jesus!" Castillo said.

"Now, there were certain logistical problems to be solved, as well," Kocian went on. "Saddam wanted certain things-his sons, for example, liked Mercedes sports cars and Hustler magazine-which he could not legally import into Iraq. You may notice I am not even talking about war materiel, aircraft parts, etcetera, which is another story in itself. So, how to do this?

"Bribe a UN inspector into finding nothing suspicious, say, that an X-ray machine intended for an Iraqi hospital came from the Mercedes-Benz plant in Stuttgart. Or that a crate labeled 'Medical Publications' actually was full of pornographic videotapes.

"Saddam Hussein International Airport in Baghdad saw a lot of cargo airplanes-many of them owned by a Russian by the name of Aleksandr Pevsner-flying in things like hospital X-ray machines from the Mercedes-Benz plant-"

"Tell me about Pevsner, please, Herr Kocian," Castillo said.

"Tell you what about him?"

"How deep was he in the oil-for-food business?"

"He made a lot of money."

"He was one of those bribed?"

"We're playing semantic games here," Kocian said. "Did somebody hand him some money and say, 'Please defy the UN sanctions and airlift this Mercedes in an X-ray crate to Baghdad?' No. Did he carry an X-ray machine to Baghdad without looking to see what the crate really held? Yes. Did he charge twice or three times-five times-the standard rate for flying X-ray machines to Baghdad? Yes. Did he look to see if a case of ten million aspirin pills really contained aspirin instead of, for example, ten million dollars in U.S. currency? No. Was he bribed? That would be an opinion. Was he paid in cash? Yes. Was the cash he got from Saddam Hussein cash that had come into Saddam's hands for oil that he exported that he wasn't supposed to export? Almost certainly; where else would Saddam have gotten it? Can I prove any of this? No."

"Interesting," Torine said.

"What's your interest in Aleksandr Pevsner, Karl?" Kocian asked.

"The name has come up in conversation," Castillo said. "How were all these bribes paid, Herr Kocian, do you know?"

"In oil or cash, I told you."

"No. I mean, for example, you mentioned that a party or parties unknown would hand somebody's grandmother a stack of cash. Who was that party unknown? Who actually made the payoffs?"

"There was an elaborate system set up to do that," Kocian said. "What's your American name, Karl? 'Charles'?"

"Carlos," Castillo said. "That's Spanish for Karl and Charles."

"Yes, of course. Well, you're going to love this, Carlos."

"Love what?"

"When this business began to grow, and it became inconvenient to pass money through banks, laundering it, etcetera, Saddam began looking around for a paymaster. He needed someone, preferably an official of some sort, ideally a diplomat, who traveled around the area, and whose baggage would not be subject to search. The only people who did that routinely were members of the UN. So they started looking around the UN people they already had on the payroll, and they weren't very impressed. Finally they found their man in Paris, working for the UN. He was a UN bureaucrat, not a bona fide diplomat. He worked for-"

"The European Directorate of InterAgency Coordination, something like that?" Castillo interrupted.

"He was the chief of the European Directorate of InterAgency Coordination," Kocian said, looking at him strangely. "Which entitled him to a UN diplomatic passport. The passport-which, in addition to getting you through customs and immigration without getting your bags searched, exempts you from both local taxes and taxes in your homeland-is a prize passed out to deserving middle-level UN bureaucrats."

"What does the European Directorate of InterAgency Coordination do, Herr Kocian?" Castillo asked. "I've always wondered."

"I don't really know," Kocian said. "From what I have seen of the UN, probably nothing useful. But this fellow had for ten, fifteen years been running all over Europe and the Near East and the United States, doing his interagency coordination, whatever that might be.

"He had other things going for him. He wasn't married, so there would be no wife boasting about what her husband was doing; and he wasn't homosexual, so there would be no boyfriend doing the same. And he wasn't very well paid. Even tax exempt, and taking into consideration his travel and representation allowances, his salary wasn't very much.

"But most important, he was not only American, which would keep the Americans off his scent, but he was an anti-American American. Possibly because he was black. Maybe not. But his being black was something else that would keep the Americans from looking too closely at him."

"And his name is Jean-Paul Lorimer," Castillo said. "And I want to know where he is."

"Just to satisfy an old man's curiosity, Karl, how long have you Americans known about Lorimer?"

"Not long. Where is he, Herr Kocian?"

"Possibly out there," Kocian said, gesturing toward the stained-glass windows lining two walls of the baths.

"You mean in Budapest?"

"I meant in the Danube," Kocian said. "Or possibly in the Seine."

"What makes you so sure he's dead?"

"Or possibly in a cell somewhere, where they are asking him for names, so there will be fewer witnesses around. But if I had to bet, I'd bet on one of the two rivers."

"What was his connection with Henri Douchon?"

"Ah, now I know why you came to see me. Otto told you about him."

"That's part of it. What about Douchon?"

"He was one of Lorimer's assistant paymasters," Kocian said. "He handled Lebanon, Egypt, Cyprus, and Turkey… maybe some other places, but that's all I've been able to confirm."

"Who killed him?"

"If I had to bet, I'd say either the French or the Egyptians. Possibly the Germans, or maybe even the Turks. I just don't know, but I'd bet on the French or the Egyptians."

"And you think the same people killed Lorimer?"

"The list of people who wanted to silence Lorimer includes all of the above, plus Russians, Syrians, Iranians… It's a long list, Herr Gossinger."

"You don't think Lorimer would be in hiding somewhere?" Castillo asked.

"I think he might have tried to hide, after he saw what they had done to M'sieu Douchon."

"And you're sure he knew about that?"

"An old friend of mine in Vienna showed me photos of Lorimer entering and leaving Douchon's apartment in Vienna. They were taken after someone had pulled his teeth and carved him up. After that, Mr. Lorimer disappeared. It could be, of course, that he was taken bodily into heaven, but I think it far more likely that someone besides the Austrian Geheimpolizei were keeping an eye on that Cobenzlgasse apartment to see if Lorimer might show up, and they grabbed him."

"We know that somebody bought a train ticket to Paris on his UN American Express card," Castillo said. "Let's say it was Lorimer himself. They didn't grab him in Vienna, in other words. Let's say they didn't grab him in Paris, either. If he saw what happened to Douchon, he was watching his back. Let's say he got on the train, and didn't go to Paris because he thought they might be looking for him there. So, say he got off the train in Munich. Or didn't even get on the train to Paris. He could have bought a ticket to Paris on his credit card, then bought another for cash to… anywhere. Maybe even to Budapest."

"That's possible, of course," Kocian said. "But I don't think you're going to be able to find him."

"If he was going to hide-and why wouldn't he have thought of having someplace to hide if something went wrong?-where do you think he might have gone?"

"Anywhere," Kocian said. "The south of France. Lebanon. Maybe even the United States. Anywhere. Who knows?"

"You didn't mention South America," Castillo said. "Argentina or-"

Castillo stopped in midsentence, surprised when Kocian flashed Otto Goerner an angry look. This caused Kocian to look at him.

"Why not South America?" Castillo pursued.

Yeah. Why not? Did these bastards abduct Mrs. Mastersonin Buenos Aires and murder her husband in South America because when they couldn't find Lorimer here, they figured he might be in South America, and if his sister was there, she would probably know where he was? Or that he was there because she was?

"Otto, have you been talking to our Little Karlchen about South America?" Kocian inquired sarcastically.

"Some," Goerner admitted. "Not in this context."

"In what context?"

"I told him of your suspicions-my suspicions, too- that some of this oil-for-food money in Germany might find its way over there."

"Might find its way over there?" Kocian snapped. "The sun might come up tomorrow."

"You want to tell me about that, Herr Kocian?" Castillo asked.

"No."

"But you will, right?"

"No."

"Kranz, get out the pliers," Castillo said. "We're going to do a little dentistry."

"Karl, that's not funny!" Otto Goerner said.

"What's funny, Otto," Kocian said, seriously, "is that I'm not really sure he's kidding. I said something before about him looking like Willi. His eyes right now make him look very much like the Old Man. When the Old Man looked at you with that look in his eyes, you knew he was determined to get what he wanted."

"What I really want is to find Jean-Paul Lorimer," Castillo said.

"And what I really want is to burn the greedy bastards in Germany who were involved in slimy profits from Oil for Food," Kocian said. "I'm close to having proof they won't be able to deny. And I don't want anyone-you- rushing over there and letting them know I'm getting close and giving them a chance-"

"I'm not interested in greedy German bastards unless I find out they're responsible for the death of Masterson and Sergeant Markham," Castillo said.

"Are we back to vengeance?"

"I'm back to following my orders," Castillo said.

"You heard that a lot at the Nuremberg Nazi trials," Kocian said. " 'All I was doing was following my orders.' "

"They said that to justify the murder of innocent people," Castillo replied. "These bastards are neither innocent nor helpless."

Kocian nodded. "That's true." He looked into Castillo's eyes. "You never told me exactly what your orders are."

"I'm to find the people responsible for the murders and render them harmless," Castillo said.

" 'Render them harmless'? Is that the same as 'terminate with extreme prejudice'?" Kocian asked. "Isn't that the euphemism for assassination you Americans used in Vietnam?"

"My orders are to 'find them and render them harmless, ' " Castillo repeated. "The idea is to make it clear that there are certain things you can't get away with."

"And that sounds like vengeance to me. So what does that make you, the agent of the Lord?"

"No. Not of the Lord. It doesn't say 'Gott Mit Uns' on my uniform buckle."

Kocian nodded at him. "Touche," he said, and then looked at Goerner. "There's a lot of the Old Man in him, isn't there?"

"Yes," Goerner said, simply. "There is."

"Your grandfather was a man of his word," Kocian said. "When he told you something, you could trust him. Are you that way, Karl?"

"I like to think of myself as an officer and a gentleman, if that's what you mean."

"That's what I mean," Kocian said. "What I'm going to do, Karl, if you give me your word you won't turn it over to the CIA, or anyone in your government, is give you the names of Germans I believe have both profited from Oil for Food and are now trying to hide that money in Argentina, Brazil, Paraguay… all over the southern tip of South America. If you can use this information to find Lorimer, fine. But you give me your word you won't use it for anything else."

"You have my word."

"And that you won't tell anyone where you got it."

"Agreed."

"And that these gentlemen will be similarly bound by our agreement."

"Agreed. When do I get the names?"

"Once I get to the office, it will take me an hour or more to go through what I have. I want to make sure in my own mind that if you have to render any of these people harmless-that's a much nicer phrase than 'terminate with extreme prejudice,' isn't it?-that they really deserve such treatment."

"Fair enough."

"And I don't want you-especially Otto-coming to the office and making people curious. So why don't you meet me at the Karpatia at noon? You know where it is, Otto."

Goerner nodded.

"And so do I," Castillo said. "Not far from the American embassy."

Kocian nodded. "We can have a nice lunch," he said and, not without effort, got to his feet. Then, grunting, he bent over and picked up his ashtray, his cellular telephone, and the books and magazines.

Then he waddled down the tiled floor of the bath and disappeared through a door.

"You got more out of him, Karl," Otto Goerner said, thoughtfully, "than I thought you would. I can only hope that's a good thing. What he didn't say was that these people would torture and kill him without thinking twice about it if they knew he knows as much as he does. And unless you're very careful with those names, they will learn he does."

Castillo nodded but didn't reply. Then he stood up.

"Let's get out of here," he said, wrapping a towel around his waist. "I want to get on the horn." [TWO] The Embassy of the United States of America Szabadsag ter 12 Budapest, Hungary 1105 28 July 2005 Otto Goerner touched Castillo's arm as they started to get out of the taxi in front of the American embassy, a seven-story century-old mansion.

"You're not going to need me in there, are you?" Goerner asked.

"No."

"And it might even be a bit awkward, no?"

"I'll handle it," Castillo said.

"Why don't I keep the cab, go to the Karpatia, get us a table, get myself a cup of coffee…"

"Okay, Otto. This won't take long. We'll see you there," Castillo said, and he and the others got out of the taxi. As Castillo watched it drive away, Sergeant Seymour Kranz touched his arm.

"Major, what the hell is that?" he asked, pointing.

Castillo looked. In the park facing the embassy was a statue of a man in uniform with his hands folded behind his back.

"It's a statue, Seymour. Budapest is full of them. They even have a section of the Berlin Wall around here somewhere."

"That's an old-timey American uniform," Kranz said.

"I'll be damned, I think he's right," Colonel Torine said.

Castillo looked again and asked, "What time is it in Washington, Seymour?"

Kranz consulted his watch and reported, "Oh-four-oh-five, sir."

"Since it won't make much difference to whoever we get out of bed whether it is oh-four-oh-five or oh-four-ten, let us go and broaden our cultural horizons by examining the statue," Castillo said. "Why the hell would there be a statue of an American officer in a park in Budapest?"

They walked to the statue. It was indeed of an American, wearing a World War I-era uniform of riding boots and breeches. He looked as if he were examining the embassy and found it wanting.

There was a bronze plaque with a legend in English beneath it. Kranz read it aloud: "Harry Hill Bandholtz, Brigadier General, U.S. Army. 'I simply carried out the instructions of my Government, as I understood them, as an officer and a gentleman of the United States Army.'"

"I wonder what the hell that's all about?" Fernando said.

"I wonder what the instructions he carried out were to get him a statue?" Kranz asked.

"Gentlemen," Castillo said, "fellow history buffs. Perhaps there is a public information officer in the embassy who can enlighten us all. Shall we see?"

There might have been a public information officer at the embassy, but they never got to meet him.

They encountered first a Marine guard, a buck sergeant, who politely but firmly told them there was no way they could see the ambassador without an appointment.

Colonel Torine produced his Air Force identification.

"Sergeant, you get the defense attache on the phone, or down here, and do it now."

The Marine guard examined the photo ID carefully, and then picked up his telephone.

"There is a USAF colonel here who wants to talk to a defense attache," he announced, and then handed the telephone to Torine.

"This is Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF. Are you the defense attache, Captain?" Brief pause. "Then get him on the goddamned horn, or down here, and right goddamn now!"

An Army lieutenant colonel appeared.

"Colonel Torine?" he asked.

"Right."

"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Martin, sir. I'm the Army attache. May I see your identification, please, sir?"

Torine produced his identification again.

"How may I help you, Colonel?"

"We would like to see either the ambassador or the chief of mission," Torine said.

"May I ask why?"

"No, goddammit, you may not!" Torine exploded.

"Jake!" Castillo said, warningly. "Colonel, what we need to do is get into the White House switchboard on a secure line."

"And you are, sir?"

"My name is Castillo. I'm with the Secret Service."

He showed Lieutenant Colonel Martin his credentials.

"This is very unusual," Lieutenant Colonel Martin said.

"I'm prepared to explain it to the ambassador or the chief of mission," Castillo said.

"One moment, please," Lieutenant Colonel Martin said, and motioned for the Marine guard to slide him the telephone. He punched in a number. "This is Colonel Martin. We have an Air Force colonel here, I've checked his ID, who wants to be connected to the White House switchboard. Can we do that?"

There was a reply.

Lieutenant Colonel Martin turned to Colonel Torine.

"He said that you have to be authorized to connect to the White House switchboard. Do you have that authorization?"

"I do," Torine said.

"Excuse me, sir. But how do I know that?"

Torine threw up his hands in disgust.

"That was your commo room?" Castillo asked.

Lieutenant Colonel Martin nodded.

"Is it tied into the White House switchboard?"

"To the State Department switchboard."

"Tell him to get the State Department switchboard operator. Tell her, or him, as the case may be, that C. G. Castillo wants to talk to the secretary of state, and that if she is not available, to be connected to the White House switchboard."

"You want to talk to the secretary of state, Mr. Costello?"

"It's Castillo. See that you get that right when you call."

"Sir, it's four o'clock in the morning in Washington."

"So I have been told."

"Just one moment, please," Lieutenant Colonel Martin said, and took his hand off the mouthpiece of the telephone. "Mr. Costello-"

"Castillo. Castillo. With an 'a' and an 'i,'" Castillo said.

"Mr. Castello wonders if it would be possible for you to contact the State Department switchboard and ask… see if they will take his call for the secretary of state." Martin turned to Charley. "The office of the secretary, Mr. Castello, or Secretary Cohen personally?"

"Castillo with an 'i,'" Castillo responded. "Secretary Cohen personally."

"Secretary of State Cohen personally," Lieutenant Colonel Martin parroted. He put his hand over the mouthpiece again. "It'll be just a moment."

A moment later, he announced: "They will take your call, Mr. Castillo, but Secretary Cohen is not available. She's in Singapore."

"What time is it in Singapore, Seymour?"

"Jesus, Major, I don't know," Sergeant Kranz confessed.

It was apparent to Castillo that Lieutenant Colonel Martin had picked up on Seymour's use of his rank.

"I don't think this is a secure line, is it, Colonel?" Castillo said. "I need a secure line."

"Yes, of course," Lieutenant Colonel Martin said, and thought that over. "If you'll give the sergeant your identity documents, gentlemen, he'll give you a visitor's badge and I'll escort you to a room with a secure telephone."

They were in the process of handing over their documents when a tall, rather distinguished-looking man walked through the door, smiled, and said, "Good morning."

"Good morning, Mr. Ambassador," Lieutenant Colonel Martin said.

"You're the ambassador?" Castillo asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am," the ambassador said. "And you are?"

"He's from the Secret Service, Mr. Ambassador," Lieutenant Colonel Martin offered helpfully.

"Really?"

"And he wants to talk to the secretary of state, sir, personally."

"Indeed?" the ambassador said, and went to the counter and examined the identification documents.

"You did tell Mr. Castillo that the secretary of state isn't here, didn't you, Colonel?" the ambassador asked.

"Actually, she's in Singapore," Castillo said.

"Is she indeed?" the ambassador said. "Would you mind telling me what this is about, Mr. Castillo?"

"I will tell you, sir. But I suggest this isn't the place to do that, sir."

"Well, then, why don't we go to my office and we'll see if we can get to the bottom of this."

"Thank you very much, sir," Castillo said. "I knew Jack Masterson," the ambassador said. "He was a good man."

"Yes, sir, he was."

"You're in Budapest, so there's obviously a Hungarian connection. Are you going to tell me what that is?"

"I was running down a source of information, sir. There is no Hungarian connection I know of to Mr. Masterson's murder."

The ambassador considered that a moment, then pointed at a telephone on his desk. "Help yourself, Mr. Castillo."

"Thank you, sir." He picked it up and punched the "O" key.

"My name is Castillo. Would you get me the state department switchboard on a secure line, please?"

"Sir, I'll have to have someone authorize that."

Castillo pushed the SPEAKERPHONE button. "Mr. Ambassador, I'm going to need your authorization."

"It's okay," the ambassador said, raising his voice.

Castillo started to push the SPEAKERPHONE button again to shut it off but changed his mind.

"One moment, please," the embassy operator said.

"State Department."

"This line is secure?"

"Yes, sir."

"My name is C. G. Castillo. Can you patch me through to the secretary, please?"

"No, sir. The secretary is out of the country, and the secure voice link is down."

"Okay. Put me through to the White House switchboard, please." "White House."

"C. G. Castillo on a secure line for the secretary of state, please."

"Her voice link is down, Mr. Castillo. We have a secure teletypewriter link. You'll have to dictate what-"

"Before we try that, put me through to Secretary Hall's office in the Nebraska Complex, please."

"Secretary Hall's office or your office, Mr. Castillo?"

"Okay, my office."

There was the sound of the phone ringing twice.

"Mr. Castillo's line. Mr. Miller speaking."

"What are you doing there at four o'clock in the morning?"

"I had them move a cot in. It's a long ride back and forth to your apartment in the back of a Yukon. I was starting to feel like a dummy in a disaster exercise. Where are you?"

"Budapest."

"Montvale wants to talk to you. So does the boss. And we have a mysterious message from your pal Natalie. The encrypted voice link on her plane is down, and so is the one in the embassy in Singapore. Heads are going to roll about that."

"Read me the message. Maybe I won't have to talk to Montvale."

"Okay. You going to write this down, or do you just want to hear it?"

"Just read it."

"Okay. 'Top Secret-Presidential. From SecState to SecHomeSec. Start Please convey following personal to C.G. by most expeditious means. Charley, believe me, I didn't know Yung was working for me until an hour ago. I have spoken with Ambassador Silvio in Buenos Aires and Ambassador McGrory in Montevideo and told both to tell Yung he is to put himself and whatever intelligence he has developed at your disposal. That's all I felt safe in doing as there is something wrong with the secure voice link on both the plane and in the embassy, believe it or not. Let me know what else I can do. Best personal regards. Natalie. End Personal message from SecState.'"

"Got it, Dick."

"Who the hell is Yung?"

"He's an FBI agent in Montevideo."

"And he's working for Cohen? What's that all about?"

"I don't know. And I guess I won't find out until we get to Buenos Aires."

"When are you going there?"

"Just as soon as we have lunch."

"Will that little airplane make it across the South Atlantic?"

"God, I hope so. Dick, wait until we're out of here- say, nine your time-and then tell Secretary Hall I called and have Secretary Cohen's message. I don't want to wake him or Ambassador Montvale at four in the morning. And send one to Secretary Cohen, quote Got it. Many thanks. Charley, end quote. And send one to Ambassador Silvio saying we're on our way and will be there however long it takes to get there. We should be wheels-up out of here in no more than two or three hours."

"The Gray Fox radio link is up and running in Buenos Aires. Should I use that?"

"Absolutely."

"Anything else, Charley?"

"Get your filthy rotten smelly cast off my desk."

"Go fuck yourself. I say that with all possible respect. Watch your back, buddy."

"I will. Break it down, please."

"After eavesdropping on your conversation, Mr. Castillo," the ambassador said, "I don't really know much more about what you're doing than I did before, except I now have no question about your right to use my secure voice link."

"Thank you very much for the use of it, sir."

"It should go without saying that I really hope you can find whoever murdered Jack Masterson. Is there anything I can do, anything at all?"

"I can't think of anything, sir," Castillo said. "Except one thing. Who was the American officer whose statue is across the street?"

The ambassador chuckled. "You saw that, did you?" he asked, rhetorically. "Brigadier General Harry Hill Bandholtz was sent here in 1919 to be the American on the Inter-Allied Control Commission which was supervising the disengagement of Romanian troops from Hungary.

"The Romanians thought disengagement meant they could help themselves to the Transylvanian treasures in the National Museum. General Bandholtz didn't think that was right. So, on October 5, 1919, he showed up at the museum, alone, and armed only with his riding crop, ran the Romanians off like Christ chasing the money-lenders out of the temple. He must have been one hell of a man."

"Obviously."

"And when they asked him why, he said something to the effect that he was only obeying his orders as he understood them as an officer and a gentleman. You don't hear that phrase much anymore, do you, 'an officer and a gentleman'?"

"Mr. Ambassador," Torine said, "oddly enough, I heard it earlier today."

"Said seriously, or mockingly?"

"Very seriously, sir," Torine said. "Spoken by an officer and a gentleman."

"The Hungarians loved Bandholtz and had the statue cast," the ambassador went on. "They set it up in 1936. The Hungarian fascists and the Nazis didn't bother it, but when the Russians were here, right after the war- before they let us reopen the embassy-they took it down and away 'for repair.' We heard about it, of course, from the Swiss, who were supposed to be guarding the embassy property. We were actually in the process of having another made when we learned that the Hungarians had stolen it from the scrap yard, and were concealing it so it could be put back up when the Russians left. The Russians left, and General Bandholtz is back on his pedestal."

"Mr. Ambassador, that's a great story, and I'm really glad I asked. But now, sir, with our profound thanks, we won't take any more of your time," Castillo said.

"Where are you going now, to the airport?"

"First to the Karpatia, sir, then to the Gellert to check out, and then to the airport."

"I'll get you one of our cars," the ambassador said, and reached for a telephone. "Then I can tell myself I at least did something to help." [THREE] Karpatia Ferenciek tere, 7-8 Budapest, Hungary 1215 28 July 2005 Otto Goerner and Eric Kocian were already mostly through what looked like liter-sized glasses of beer when Castillo and the others came into the restaurant. And the moment they sat down, a plump waiter with a luxuriant mustache showed up with a tray full of the enormous beer glasses.

"None for those two, thank you just the same," Castillo said in Hungarian, pointing to Torine and Fernando. "They're driving."

Goerner and Kocian chuckled.

"Are you going to tell us what you just said about us?" Fernando challenged.

"No booze, you're flying," Castillo said.

"And what about you?"

"I'll be doing the flight planning. I can do that with a little beer in my system."

"I'll do the flight planning, thank you just the same, Major," Torine said, and slid Castillo's beer away from him, picked it up, took a healthy swallow, sighed appreciatively, and added, "As an officer and a gentleman, I'm sure you're aware that Rank Hath Its Privileges."

"Well, in that case, I guess there's nothing for me to do but eat," Castillo said. "What do you recommend, Herr Kocian?"

Kocian reached into his pocket and handed Castillo a business-sized envelope. It was stuffed with paper.

"I would only give this to a friend," he said. "You may therefore call me Eric."

"Thank you very much, Eric," Castillo said, putting the envelope in his inside jacket pocket. "Seymour, you can put the pliers back in the tool kit. Dentistry is apparently not going to be necessary."

"Ach Gott, Karl!" Goerner said.

"You're aware, I'm sure, Karl, that the Hungarians taught the Machiavellians all they knew about poisoning people?" Kocian asked.

"And with that in mind, Eric, what do you recommend? Gulyas lightly laced with arsenic?"

"Wiener schnitzel," Kocian said. "The Karpatia serves the best Wiener schnitzel in the world."

"Better than in Vienna?"

"Actually, you can get better Hungarische gulyas in Vienna than you can here," Kocian said. "Things are not always what they seem, Karl. Do you know what the people in Hamburg call what you call a frankfurter?"

Castillo shook his head, then asked, "A frankfurter?"

"Right. And what do the people in Frankfurt call what you and the Hamburgers call a frankfurter?"

"Don't tell me-a hamburger?"

"A sausage," Kocian said. "And what do the Hamburgers call chopped and fried beef?"

"I know they don't call it a frankfurter."

"They call it fried chopped beef unless they don't fry it, and instead serve it raw, in which case it becomes steak tartar."

"Actually, Eric, I have a real fondness for Wiener schnitzel. Do you suppose you could have the kitchen make up a dozen of them, and wrap them in foil so that we can take them with us on the plane?"

"Won't they go bad?"

"There's a little kitchen on the plane, with a freezer. The only thing in it right now is a bottle of beer and Colonel Torine's Viagra."

"Oh, Jesus Christ!" Torine said.

"My friend Karl," Eric Kocian said, "inasmuch as this is all going on Otto's American Express card, you can have anything your greedy little heart desires."

"In that case, a dozen Wiener schnitzels," Castillo said. "Plus one for my lunch, of course. I really love Wiener schnitzel."