The Hostage

XVII

[ONE] Approaching Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Newbery Buenos Aires, Argentina 0535 29 July 2005 Castillo was flying. The night was clear and he could see the glow of the lights of Buenos Aires as he began his descent. As he dropped lower, the lights became more distinct. What had looked like a single orange line pointing at the city became a double line, and he could see headlightsmoving along what he now recognized as Route 8 and the Acceso Norte leading from Pilar to the city.

It had been quite a trip. The Lear was fast-its long-range cruise speed was three-quarters the speed of sound-but it was not intended or designed for flying across oceans. It had been necessary to make refueling stops within the limitations of the aircraft's range, about 1,900 nautical miles. The first leg-about 1,500 nautical miles-had been a three-and-a-half-hour flight from Budapest to Casablanca, Morocco. After refueling, they had flown 1,250 nautical miles in a bit under three hours to Dakar, Senegal, on the extreme west coast of the African continent.

From Dakar, it had been a four-hour, 1,750-nautical-mile flight, the longest leg, southwest across the Atlantic Ocean to Recife, Brazil. This had been the iffy leg. There are no alternative airfields in the Atlantic Ocean on which to land when fuel is running low. They had approached the Point of No Return with their fingers crossed, but there had been no extraordinary headwinds or other problems to slow them, and Torine, who was then flying in the left seat, had made the decision to go on. What could have been a real problem just hadn't materialized.

Recife apparently was not accustomed to either refueling small private jets or providing food at half past two in the morning, and it had taken them an hour and a half to get both. But with that exception, they had been able to land, refuel, check the weather, and file flight plans in remarkably little time everywhere else.

From Recife they had flown south to Sao Paulo- 1,150 nautical miles in just under two and a half hours- and then begun the last leg, to Buenos Aires, which would be a just-over-two-hour flight covering 896 nautical miles.

Alex Pevsner's down there, Castillo thought, and I have a gut feeling I'm going to need him. And by now, Howard Kennedy has told him that I'm not going to point him in Jean-Paul Lorimer's direction so he can give him a beauty mark in the center of his forehead. That will be a problem, one that I'll have to think about later. Right now I'm too tired to make difficult decisions.

Castillo pushed the TRANSMIT lever.

"Jorge Newbery, Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five. I am forty kilometers north at five thousand feet. Request approach and landing." "Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five," Jorge Newbery ground control ordered, "at the end of the active, turn right, and proceed to parking area in front of the Jet-Aire hangar. Customs and immigration will meet your aircraft."

"Seven-Five understands right at the threshold, taxi to Jet-Aire parking area," Castillo replied. "Wait for customs and immigration."

As he approached the Jet-Aire hangar a ground handler in white coveralls came out and, with illuminated wands, directed him to park beside an Aero Commander.

When Castillo had finished the shutdown procedures, he took a closer look at the Aero Commander. If the light, high-wing twin wasn't derelict, it was close. The fabric-covered portions of the rear stabilizer assembly were missing or visibly decayed. The tire on the left landing gear was flat. The left engine nacelle was missing.

"I know just how that Commander feels," Castillo said to Colonel Torine, who was in the right seat. "Old, battered, and worn out."

Torine looked at the Aero Commander and chuckled.

"It has been a rather long ride, hasn't it?" Torine replied, in something of an understatement, as he unfastened his harness.

"And here comes what looks like the local officialdom," Fernando said from the aisle behind them.

Castillo saw two Ford F-150 pickup trucks with Grimes lights flashing from their roofs approaching them. Two uniformed men got out of the first, and a man in civilian clothing out of the second.

"The civilian is SIDE," Castillo said. "I don't know his name, but I saw him somewhere."

He unfastened his harness and stood.

When Castillo went down the stairs to the tarmac, he saw both that the SIDE agent's eyebrows had risen when he saw him, and that he immediately had taken out a cellular telephone.

Well, this time I'm arriving as C. G. Castillo, carrying a brand-new passport with no stamps on it at all.

When the SIDE agent came to the Lear, he gave no sign that he had recognized Castillo, even after he had examined his passport. The customs and immigration procedures were polite but thorough. The aircraft and their luggage were submitted to testing for drugs and explosives, which might or might not have been standard procedure for civil aircraft arriving from outside the country. Castillo was glad that he hadn't brought any weapons from Fort Bragg.

No questions were raised about Kranz's "satellite telephone antenna," which might or might not have been because Castillo had asked them if it would be safe to leave it on the aircraft while they were in Buenos Aires. Neither did the "laptop"-which actually controlled the radio and held the encryption system-cause any unusual interest. It had been designed to look like a typical laptop computer.

The customs officer did, however, unfold the aluminum foil in which the Wiener schnitzel in the freezer was wrapped. It might have been idle curiosity or he might have been looking for a package of cocaine.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Wiener schnitzel," Castillo told him. "Sort of a veal milanesa."

And if you hadn't gone in there and found it, I probably would have forgotten it, and with the juice turned off, when I finally remembered it, it would have been rotten Wiener schnitzel.

"I think I'd better take that with me," Castillo said as the customs officer started to put it back in the freezer. He put it into his laptop briefcase.

"Enjoy your stay in Argentina, gentlemen," the customs officer said.

"We'll certainly try," Castillo said. [TWO] El Presidente de la Rua Suite The Four Seasons Hotel Cerrito 1433 Buenos Aires, Argentina 0605 29 July 2005 A sleepy-eyed Special Agent Jack Britton answered the door in his underwear.

"That was a quick European tour," he said, offering his hand.

"The last two hotels we were in, we didn't even get to muss the beds," Castillo said. "Except Kranz, of course. He's smarter than we are. Whenever he's not eating, he's sleeping."

"I'm Kranz," Kranz said.

"He's our communicator," Castillo said.

"Jack Britton," Britton said as he shook Kranz's hand. "I'm impressed with your buddy Kensington. He's got that fantastic radio set up in his room. All he has to do is open the drapes and the window, and we're talking to Dick Miller."

"That's great," Castillo said. "Even if it may require yet another shuffling of living arrangements."

"I'm in your bed…" Britton said.

Yeah, you are, and I don't like to think of anyone else sleeping in the bed where Betty and I were.

"Not for long," Castillo said. "When I told the desk I needed more rooms, they told me this suite is expandable. So I took a three-room expansion. But I forgot about Sergeant Kensington."

"I can bunk with Kensington, Major," Kranz said. "Not a problem."

"Dibs on that bed," Fernando said, pointing through the door at the huge bed in the master bedroom from which Britton had just risen.

"Like hell; that's mine. I'm now the chief, and you're just a lousy airplane pilot, in any interpretation of that term you may wish to apply."

Fernando, shaking his head and smiling, gave him the finger.

Castillo walked to the telephone and picked up the handset and punched the FRONT DESK key on the base.

"I'm going to need one more room," he said. "And send up several large pots of coffee." He hung up and turned to Britton. "Did Tony Santini get you a cellular phone?"

Britton nodded. "Me and Kensington."

"With his number and Darby's on them?"

Britton nodded again.

"May I have it, please?" Castillo asked.

Britton went into the master bedroom.

"You're going to get Santini out of bed at this unholy hour?" Torine asked.

"Santini and Ricardo Solez and Alex Darby, and then as soon as one of them tells me how to get him on the phone, Special Agent Yung in Montevideo."

"I am awed by this very early morning display of energy," Torine said.

"Jake," Castillo said, very seriously, "if Jean-Paul Lorimer is here, and I have a gut feeling he is, I want to find him before anyone else does."

"Point taken," Torine replied. "I wasn't thinking. Sorry, Charley."

Britton, now wearing trousers but no shirt and still barefoot, came back into the room and handed Castillo a cellular telephone.

"Santini's on two," he announced. "And Darby on three."

"And Ricardo Solez?"

"After you left, he went back to drugs," Britton said. "I don't have a number for him."

"I've got his home number," Fernando said.

"Yeah, that's right, Don Fernando, you would have it," Castillo said, not very pleasantly. "Well, get on the phone, call him, tell him to call in to the embassy that he'll be late, and to come over here. And because you'll be on an unsecure cell, figure out some way without using my name to tell him not to tell anyone I'm back."

"Is that a secret?" Fernando asked.

"For the time being," Castillo said, and punched autodial button two on Britton's cellular. Then he said, "Shit!" and pushed the END button. He went to the minibar in one of the cabinets, took the ice trays from it, and in their place put the foil-wrapped Wiener schnitzel. Then he pushed the cellular's autodial button two again. Tony Santini arrived first.

"Looks like old home week," he said when he saw everybody. "Welcome back to Gaucholand. I guess you got something in Europe?"

"I'll have to remember to tell Tom McGuire to button his lip," Castillo said.

"Tom and I go back a long way, Charley. But while we're on the subject of what Tom told me, where do I go to enlist?"

"Excuse me?"

"I hadn't planned to make this pitch with anybody listening, but what the hell. I'll eventually go home, but they'll never assign me to the presidential protection detail again. Falling off a limo bumper is just about as bad as goosing the first lady. People aren't supposed to snicker when the motorcade rolls by. From what Tom told me about what you're going to be doing, that'll be at least as interesting. How about it?"

Do I have the authority to just say, "Yes, sure"?

I do until someone-and that means the President- tells me I don't.

"Welcome aboard, Tony," Castillo said. "That's presuming someone important doesn't say 'Not only no, but hell no you can't have Santini.'"

"We'll worry about that when it happens. From what Tom told me, I don't think it will. So what's up?"

"You have a look at the package from Fort Bragg?"

Santini nodded. "Very impressive weaponry," he said. "And black jumpsuits. And those face masks! This may be an indelicate question, but who are we going to whack?"

"The answer to that is Top Secret-Presidential, Tony," Castillo said, seriously.

"Okay," Santini said, his voice now serious. "Understood."

"My orders are to locate and render harmless the people who murdered Masterson and Markham."

"It's about time we started playing by their rules," Santini said after a moment.

"The President apparently has made that decision," Castillo said.

"Now all we have to do is find them, huh? How do we do that?"

"You remember Mrs. Masterson's brother, the UN guy we couldn't find to tell him about Masterson?"

Santini nodded.

"It seems he was the head bagman for the oil-for-food payoffs," Castillo said. "He went missing-probably from Vienna-immediately after he found one of his assistants dead of a slit throat in Vienna. Nasty. Before they killed him, they pulled several of his teeth with a pair of pliers.

"The CIA guy in Paris and my source in Vienna think Lorimer is probably in the Seine or the Danube. I don't."

"Why not?"

"Wait until you hear this. When we landed in Mississippi, Mrs. Masterson told me the reason she was abducted was because they thought she would know where her brother was. They killed Masterson to show her how serious they were about wanting to know; the Masterson kids would be next. And I think they whacked Sergeant Markham and almost whacked Schneider to show her they could get to whoever they wanted to."

"I had a gut feeling at the time they were after you," Santini said. "It was your car."

"That thought has run through my mind," Castillo said.

"She didn't know where he was? Or she figured her kids were more important? Which?"

"She didn't know," Castillo said.

A knock at the door announced the arrival of Alex Darby.

"Why do I feel I'm late for the party?" Darby asked, and then looked at Fernando and Kranz.

"Fernando Lopez, Seymour Kranz, Alex Darby," Castillo said.

"And these gentlemen are?" Darby asked.

"Mr. Lopez is an airplane pilot under contract to the Office of Organizational Analysis," Castillo said.

"To the what?"

"The Office of Organizational Analysis. You don't know what that is?"

"Never heard of it," Darby confessed.

"I'm surprised. It's in the Department of Homeland Security."

"I told you, Charley, I never heard of it," Darby said.

Using my miraculous powers to judge a man's thoughts by looking into his eyes, I deduce that Darby really doesn't know.

"There's been a Presidential Finding, Alex," Castillo said. "A clandestine and covert organization charged with finding and rendering harmless those responsible for Masterson's and Markham's murders has been set up within the Department of Homeland Security."

"And who was put in charge of this It's About GoddamnTime for Payback organization? And why didn't I hear about it?"

Torine pointed at Castillo and said, "Say hello to the chief, Alex."

"The answer asks more questions than it answers," Darby said, "starting with why didn't I hear about it?"

"I just told you about it," Castillo said.

"And who's Kranz?"

"He's our communicator."

"There's a rumor floating around that there's already a special communicator down here," Darby said.

"Now there's two. They call that redundancy."

"I'm getting the feeling you know who these bastards are," Darby said. "And I would really like to help you render them harmless."

"We don't know who they are," Castillo said. "But there's a guy I think is here who can probably tell us."

"Who?"

"Jean-Paul Lorimer."

"I thought they couldn't find him in Paris. What's he got to do with this? He's here?"

"I think so. Somewhere here in the Southern Cone. What he has to do with it is that he was the bagman for Oil for Food. Not only did he skim a large sum-sixteen million, according to one source-from the bribe money, but he knows who got how much, when, and what for. That's what the whole thing was about. The people who want his mouth permanently closed-and their money back-really want to find him."

"That sounds pretty far-fetched, Charley. Lorimer-I told you I met him-is a typical UN bureaucrat. I can't imagine him being involved in something like that. Where'd you get it?"

"I got the fact that people are looking for him from Mrs. Masterson. They kidnapped her because they thought she would know where he is. I think they believed her when she said she didn't. But they think he'll contact her. They told her that they'll kill her children if she does find out where he is and doesn't tell them. Masterson was blown away to make the point that they will kill to get what they want."

"You got that from Betsy Masterson?"

Castillo nodded.

"Why didn't she tell me?"

"She didn't tell me until we landed in the States. Her primary concern was protecting the children, and God knows she had reason not to feel secure in Argentina. I guess when she saw the Globemaster surrounded by Delta Force shooters she felt secure enough to tell me."

"Does she know why these people are looking for Lorimer?"

"If you mean, did she know he was the oil-for-food bagman, I don't think so. If she knew, she would have told her husband, and I don't think there's any question that Masterson would have blown the whistle on him."

"And he would have," Darby said. "So how are you going to find Lorimer?"

"I don't know. But the first thing I have to do is talk to Yung."

"The FBI guy in Montevideo? What's he got to do with this?"

"I don't know. But I do know he's not looking for money laundering, as he says he is…"

"How do you know that?" Darby challenged.

"… and that he's working for the State Department, not the FBI."

"I don't understand that."

"Neither do I, but I got that from Natalie Cohen. Who has told Ambassador Silvio and Ambassador Whatsisname in Montevideo…"

"McGrory," Darby furnished.

"… to tell him to, quote, put himself and whatever intelligence he has developed, end quote, at my disposal."

"She didn't tell you what he's doing?"

"She's in Singapore-or was-and believe it or not the secure voice links in both her airplane and the embassy were fucked up."

"You want to try to talk to her from the embassy?"

"What I want to do is talk to Yung."

"Here or in Montevideo?"

"Montevideo is where his files are going to be," Castillo said. "I want a look at them. How's the best way to get to Montevideo?"

"Starting about now, there's Austral flights from Jorge Newbery every hour or so. You want me to go with you?"

"What I'd like for you to do is show Lorimer's picture to everybody in the embassy-your people, the DEA, the military people-and see if it rings a bell. Don't tell them why we're looking."

"You have a picture?"

The CIA guy in Paris gave me two. I have them in my briefcase," Castillo said. "If I give you one, can you get me twenty copies of it?"

"No problem," Darby said.

"Do you have a safe house?"

"A safe apartment not far from here, and a safe house in Mayerling. That's a country club out in Pilar."

"Mayerling?" Castillo asked.

"Yeah. Mayerling. Upscale gated community where the guards at the gate have Uzis."

"Mayerling?" Castillo repeated.

"Is there something I don't know, Charley?" Darby asked.

"My mind is flying off at a tangent," Castillo said. "Let's suppose you're an Austrian, and you have some money you're not supposed to have from Oil for Food, and you manage to get the money laundered here in Argentina, and you're looking for an investment-"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I've got an envelope in my briefcase stuffed with names of Germans and Austrians who have-what's the phrase?-'ill-gotten gains' from Oil for Food that they've moved here."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Are you going to give it to me?"

"No. Sorry. I gave my word as an officer and a gentleman that I wouldn't give it to anybody in the CIA or other agency of the U.S. government.

"Now, let me finish what I was saying: So you're an Austrian and looking for a sound investment for your now thoroughly washed ill-gotten gains. Where to put it? Eureka! I know. Real estate. I will build an upscale country club and sell expensive houses to rich people wanting to escape crowded Buenos Aires. All I need is a romantic name, with overtones of aristocratic class. So what will I call it? Mayerling! That's what I'll call it, Mayerling! Ain't nothing no more classic than Mayerling! I'll have everybody in Argentina who traces his ancestry back to the glorious days of Franz Josef and the Austro-Hungarian empire standing in line to throw money at me so they can say, 'I live in Mayerling.'"

"What the hell are you talking about? What the hell is Mayerling?"

"Alex, for someone in your line of work, your ignorance of history is shocking," Castillo said solemnly. "You don't know about Mayerling?"

"No, goddammit, I don't."

"Once upon a time-in 1889-one version has it, Crown Prince Rudolph, who would on the death of his father, Franz Josef, become king and emperor of the Austro-Hungarian empire, was called in by Daddy and told to divest himself of his mistress.

"Crown Prince Rudolph was thirty-one. His mistress was a sixteen-year-old tootsie, the Baroness Maria Vet-sera. The relationship was embarrassing to the throne and had to be ended, Daddy said.

"Rudolph took Maria to his hunting lodge, which was called Mayerling, to break the bad news to her. After talking it over, they decided that since (a) Rudolph could not disobey his father the emperor and (b) that life was not worth living without each other, there was only one solution, and they took it. Rudolph popped Maria with his Steyr automatic and then popped himself in the temple.

"He was given a state funeral, and the entire Austro-Hungarian empire went into an official state of mourning. Maria's body was sent back to her village.

"The other version, according to Otto Goerner, who got it from my aunt Olga-she was actually my grandaunt-who was Hungarian and moved in high social circles, was that Franz Josef really didn't give a damn who Rudolph was diddling-ol' Franz Josef's own mistress lived with him in Schonbrunn palace-but was really annoyed when he found out that Rudy was in serious conversations with some Hungarians vis-a-vis what we now call regime change. Rudy wanted to be king and emperor now, not when the old guy finally kicked off.

"According to that version, Franz Josef had Rudolph popped while he was fooling around with Maria in his hunting lodge, which, if I didn't happen to mention this before, was called Mayerling.

"The result of Rudy's sudden demise at Mayerling was that his cousin, Franz Josef's nephew, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, became heir to the throne. On 28 June 1914, in Sarajevo, a Serbian anarchist tossed a bomb into his car, mortally wounding poor Franz Ferdinand.

"Franz Josef simply couldn't put up with having his heir whacked, so he declared war on Serbia, and World War One was off and running. And it all started in Mayerling. I'm really surprised you didn't know this, Alex."

"Jesus, Charley, you're amazing," Darby said. "You're not really suggesting there's a connection with this country club and oil-for-food money?"

"Far be it from me to suggest anything to an old spook like you, Alex, but if I were in your shoes, I'd have a good close look at it. Truth is stranger than fiction. There's a reason they call your country club Mayerling. And you are looking for foreign-laundered money, right?"

"The trouble with you, you sonofabitch, is when you come off the wall like this, half the time you're right," Darby said.

"Actually, it's closer to seventy-five percent of the time," Castillo said. "Now tell me, do you think you can smuggle the stuff I had sent from Bragg past the Uziarmed guards at Mayerling?"

"No problem," Darby said.

"How about moving it out there while I talk to Yung? You said something about airplanes to Montevideo every hour on the hour?"

"Yeah, but if you don't want me to go with you-"

"I thought I'd take Jack. He's an ex-cop."

"You and Britton had better take Tony with you."

"Okay. Why?"

"Because he has a diplomatic passport and is accredited both here and in Uruguay. They're not going to search him for weapons."

Darby opened his briefcase and took out two Beretta 9mm semiautomatics, opened their actions, and handed them to Charley.

"Thanks, Alex," Castillo said.

"Buenos Aires cellulars work in Montevideo-and some other places over there," Darby said, and went back into his briefcase.

"I've got two cellulars," Tony Santini said. "And also a couple of Berettas."

"Spread them as far as they'll go," Castillo ordered. "And then, Alex, can you take care of those who need either a pistol or a phone or both?"

Darby nodded. "You're going to need wheels, too," he said. "But to get them for you, Ambassador Silvio will have to know you're here."

"I sent word that we were coming," Castillo said. "But I'm not going to tell him any more than I have to about what we're going to do. He's a good guy, and I want him to be able to honestly say he knew nothing about it."

" 'It' covers a lot of territory, Charley," Darby said.

"That's because, right now, I don't know what's going to happen," Castillo said. "How do we get to Jorge Newbery?"

"I've got a car," Santini said.

"With CD tags?" Darby asked.

Santini shook his head.

"Then take mine. That way you can park right in front." [THREE] Aeropuerto Internacional General C. L. Berisso Carrasco, Montevideo Republica Oriental del Uruguay 0710 29 July 2005 There had been a parking area for perhaps thirty cars reserved for the Corps Diplomatique against one wall of the Jorge Newbery passenger terminal and fifteen minutes after Santini parked Darby's embassy BMW they were aboard Austral flight 311, Boeing 737 nonstop service to Montevideo.

Immigration formalities for leaving the Republic of Argentina and entering the Republic of Uruguay had been simple. Castillo saw that Argentine and Uruguayan nationals simply had to show their national identity cards. He made a mental note to see if the friendly folks at Langley could make him one.

As foreigners, Castillo and Britton had to go through formal procedures. These consisted of submitting their passports to an Argentine immigration officer, who exposed them to a computer reader. He then applied the EXIT stamp in the appropriate spot, and then handed the passport to the Uruguayan official sitting next to him. The passport was again exposed to a computer reader, stamped with an ENTER stamp, and then handed back to the traveler. There would be no immigration formalities when they actually got off the airplane in Uruguay.

Airport security had come next. It consisted primarily of walking past two police officers, who didn't show much interest in any of them. The carry-on baggage X-ray machine wasn't even turned on.

Even granting that Austral flight 311 really is a flying commuter bus, and that the possibility of Muslim terrorists taking over the aircraft and diving it into the, say, DaimlerChrysler building in downtown Buenos Aires is admittedly slim, Castillo thought, as a stewardess handed him a copy of La Nacion, the airport security check of boarding passengers was still a little lax.

The flight itself, from wheels-up to a somewhat hard landing, took about twenty-six minutes.

Once in the terminal building, there were signs in Spanish and English offering travelers their choice of NOTHING TO DECLARE and PAY CUSTOMS CHARGES lanes. Castillo did not see officials of any kind in either lane.

Special Agent David William Yung, Jr., of the FBI was waiting for them in the airport lobby.

I'm going to have to remember I don't like this sonofabitch.

"Hello again, Yung," Castillo greeted him. "It was good of you to meet us."

"Mr. Darby suggested it would be best," Yung said, ignoring Castillo's outstretched hand.

Well, fuck you, Yung!

"You remember Mr. Santini, I'm sure," Castillo said. "I'm not sure about Mr. Britton."

"I saw him when I was in Buenos Aires," Yung said.

"Pleased to meet you, too," Britton said cheerfully, with a broad smile. "It's always a pleasure to work with the FBI."

Castillo and Santini smiled. Yung didn't.

"Where would you like to go, Mr. Castillo?" Yung asked.

"Where are your files?"

"I have some in my office in the embassy and some in my apartment," Yung said. "I don't know what you're after."

"I'm looking for an American. He works for the UN. His name is Jean-Paul Lorimer."

Yung shook his head, indicating he'd never heard of him.

Or doesn't want to give me what he has.

"Which is closer? Your apartment or the embassy?"

"My apartment."

"Then why don't we go there? After we stop someplace for breakfast?"

"You didn't eat before you came over?"

"Yeah, sure I did. But it was so long a flight, I'm hungry again."

"My car's out here," Yung said, and walked out of the terminal.

He walked so quickly he was soon out of earshot.

"Charley," Britton asked, "why do I think that guy doesn't like you?"

"You're perceptive?" They found an open restaurant not far from the beach.

"Why is the Atlantic Ocean so dirty?" Britton asked.

"That's not the Atlantic Ocean, that's the Rio de la Plata," Castillo told him.

"That's a river?"

"The mouth of the 'River of Silver' is a hundred-plus miles wide. The Blue Danube isn't blue, and the River of Silver is muddy. The Atlantic starts about sixty miles north of here. There's a resort there called Punta del Este. Point of the East. Pretty classy. The water there is blue."

"Very handy to launder money," Santini said.

"Yeah," Castillo said, thoughtfully.

"How do they do that, launder money?" Britton asked.

"One way is through the casinos," Santini said. "There's a bunch of them there. Hell, there's one right here in Carrasco, a Marriott, and a couple more downtown. The biggest one in Punta del Este is the Conrad, named after, and I think owned by, Hilton. The way it works is that you slip the casino a bunch of cash. Then they let you win, say, ninety percent of it. You declare your gambling winnings, pay taxes on it, and your money is now laundered."

"You're telling me that Marriott and Hilton are laundering money?" Britton asked, incredulously.

"Marriott and Hilton, no," Santini said. "There's generally at least one legal attache-which is what they call FBI agents in the diplomatic world-on their premises. Marriott and Hilton are thus reminded of their patriotic duty not to launder money. The locally owned casinos are where it's done. Isn't that so, Yung?"

"If you say so," Special Agent Yung said. He turned to Castillo. "When do you want to see Ambassador McGrory?"

"I don't need to see him," Castillo said.

"He wants to see you."

"I don't need to see him, at least not today."

"He wants to see you."

"So you said."

"You are aware, aren't you, Mr. Castillo, that the ambassador is the man in charge of all U.S. government activities in the country to which he is accredited?"

"So I've heard," Castillo said. "We'll talk about this when we have some privacy."

Yung didn't reply. Yung had a spacious, top-floor apartment in a three-story building on the Rambla, the waterfront highway between Carrasco and Montevideo, to the south.

Yung waved them, not very graciously, into chairs in the living room.

"All right, Mr. Castillo, what can I do for you? I'm sure you'll understand that I am obliged to report to Ambassador McGrory what may be discussed."

"Special Agent Yung," Castillo said icily, "I am now going to show you my credentials identifying me as a supervisory agent of the United States Secret Service."

He got out of his chair and held his credentials in front of Yung, who examined them and then nodded.

"Are you satisfied that I am Supervisory Special Agent Carlos G. Castillo of the United States Secret Service, Special Agent Yung?"

"I'm satisfied," Yung said.

"These gentlemen, Special Agents Anthony J. Santini and John M. Britton of the Secret Service, will now show you their credentials. When you are satisfied they are who I am telling you they are, please say so."

Santini and then Britton got out of their chairs, walked to Yung, showed him their credentials, waited until he nodded, and then went back to their chairs.

"Are you satisfied, Special Agent Yung, that we are all who I am telling you we are?"

"I'm satisfied. Are you going to tell me what-"

"Gentlemen," Castillo interrupted him. "I want you to make note that at zero-eight-one-zero hours, local time, 29 July 2005, in his residence in Carrasco, Uruguay, we identified ourselves to Special Agent Yung as members of the U.S. Secret Service by showing him our credentials, and he acknowledged their validity."

Santini and Britton nodded.

"Special Agent Yung, what I am about to tell you is classified as Top Secret-Presidential. The unauthorized disclosure of any of this information to any person not authorized by the President, or myself, to have access to this material, and that specifically includes Ambassador McGrory, is a felony under the United States Code. Do you understand all that I have said?"

"You're telling me I can't report this to Ambassador McGrory? Frankly, Castillo, I don't believe you have that authority."

"In the vernacular, Special Agent Yung, I don't give a flying fuck what you believe or don't believe. The question was whether or not you understood what I said to you."

"I understood it."

"Good. I now inform you that I am the chief of the Office of Organizational Analysis-"

"The what?"

"… which is a covert and clandestine organization set up in a Presidential Finding within the Department of Homeland Security and is charged with locating the assassins of J. Winslow Masterson and Sergeant Roger Markham, USMC, and rendering them harmless. Do you understand that?"

"That sounds as if you plan to… kill them."

"The question was, do you understand what I have just said?"

"There's nothing wrong with my hearing."

"To carry out this mission, it is necessary for us to find one Jean-Paul Lorimer, an American citizen employed by the UN, who I have reason to believe is somewhere in this area."

"I told you before, I never heard of him."

"Aware of my mission, the secretary of state, for whom you work, has relayed through either or both Ambassadors McGrory and Silvio her orders to you to place yourself and whatever information you may have at my disposal. You have received those orders, have you not?"

"Ambassador McGrory told me that you were going to come to me, and that I was to cooperate with you as much as possible," Yung said. "And that if you came to me directly, instead of through the embassy, I was to tell you he wanted to see you. Immediately."

"With the implication that you didn't have to cooperate with me unless he knew what this is about? And until he gave his permission?"

"For Christ's sake, Castillo, he's the ambassador."

"Tony, see if you can get Ambassador Silvio on your cellular," Castillo ordered.

"I work for Ambassador McGrory, not Silvio," Yung said.

"No, you don't. You work for the State Department's bureau of intelligence and research. Doing something so secret that the secretary of state didn't know about it until the day before yesterday," Castillo said.

Castillo could see a flicker of surprise on Yung's face.

"Did you tell McGrory what you're really doing down here?"

Yung didn't reply.

"Okay, that explains a lot. You didn't tell McGrory what you're really doing, so he thinks you're just one more legal attache working for him. Right?"

"I've got the ambassador, Charley," Santini said.

"That was quick," Castillo said as he reached for the telephone.

"The miracle of modern communications," Santini said.

"Good morning, Mr. Ambassador. I'm on a cellular, so we're going to have to be careful what we're saying. I'm in Montevideo-actually, Carrasco-with Special Agent Yung. What I hope you'll be willing to do is relay the message from our friend Natalie to Yung. When the other fellow did that, it got a little garbled, and he's annoyed that I'm walking on his grass without his permission."

Ambassador Silvio replied briefly.

"Thank you, sir. I hope to see you shortly," Castillo said, and handed Yung the telephone.

"Special Agent Yung, Mr. Ambassador," Yung said.

He had the cellular to his ear for thirty seconds, and then he said, "Yes, sir, that's perfectly clear. That's not exactly the way I received the message here."

Ambassador Silvio said something else.

"Yes, sir," Yung said. "I understand, sir. Thank you very much, sir. Do you want to speak with Mr. Castillo again, sir?"

The ambassador apparently did not wish to again speak with Castillo. Yung ended the call and handed the cellular to Santini.

Yung smiled wryly at Castillo.

"After the ambassador relayed Secretary Cohen's message," he added, "he said, 'For purposes of clarification, Mr. Castillo has permission from the highest possible authority not only to walk on anybody's grass he wants but to sow it with salt if that's what he chooses to do.'"

Castillo chuckled and smiled and said, "Okay. You satisfied?"

Yung nodded.

"So what are you actually doing here? I know it's not looking for money launderers."

"You don't know?"

"No, I don't. But you're going to tell me, right?"

Yung nodded. "Actually, it has something to do with money laundering. But not to develop a case against money launderers."

"I don't think I follow you."

"How much do you know about the UN oil-for-food business?"

"A hell of a lot more now than I did a week ago," Castillo said. "What about it?"

"An astonishing number of people all over Europe and the Middle East-for that matter, all over the world- made a lot of money from that operation. Primarily Frenchmen-some very highly placed Frenchmen-and Germans. And Russians. It's an incredible amount of money, and like the Nazis in World War Two, they decided that South America, primarily the Southern Cone, is the place to hide it.

"The director of the bureau of intelligence and research started to build dossiers on these people even before the Second Desert War. Using his own people, I mean. And it got out. There's a lot of one-worlders, UN lovers, in the State Department. They think that leaking things is their patriotic duty. So he, quote, called off, end quote, the investigation. And then he went to the director of the FBI-they were both FBI agents as young men-and explained the situation and asked for help. And here I am."

"I heard you were a hotshot," Castillo said.

"Who told you that?"

"The same guy who told me whatever you were doing here it wasn't looking for money launderers."

"Howard Kennedy," Yung said.

"Who?"

"I know you're pals," Yung said.

"I never heard that name in my entire life until just now," Castillo said. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Yeah, sure. Well, if you should ever happen to meet somebody with that name, give him my regards," Yung said. "When we were young, innocent, and naive, we really thought we could protect society from the barbarians. Had a lot of fun, for a while, doing it. And then Howard decided he'd rather be a barbarian. It paid better, and it wasn't nearly as frustrating. Sometimes I think I should have changed sides when he did."

"So tell me about these dossiers you're building," Castillo said.

"Well, there's fourteen FBI agents, including me, here looking at money laundering. As one of them, I have access to what's developed. They're looking for drug money, primarily-and there's a hell of a lot of that-which means they're looking for Colombians and Mexicans, mostly. And Americans, of course. When they come across some European moving a lot of money around here, they check with the DEA, the treasury department, whoever, to see if there's a drug connection or an American connection of some kind. If there isn't, they let it drop." He paused, then added, "And I pick it up."

"And do what with it?"

"What my boss wants is proof-photocopies-of bank records; who deposited how much and when; records of who bought an estancia or a car dealership or a million-dollar villa in Punta del Este. I don't really know what he thinks anybody will do with it. He still has stars in his eyes. Expose the bad guys and the world will be a better place. I can't see that happening."

"Yes, you can," Castillo said. "You've still got stars in your eyes, too. Otherwise, you'd have changed sides when your friend-what was his name?-did."

"And what about you, Castillo? No stars in your eyes? How did you get involved in something like this? I know what 'render them harmless' really means."

"I am simply carrying out the instructions of my government, as I understand them, as an officer and a gentleman of the United States Army."

"Oh, shit!" Yung chuckled. "Yeah, that's right. You are an Army officer, aren't you? A major. Back to my question, how did an Army officer get involved in something like this?"

"I just told you," Castillo said. "Where are your files?"

"Here. I can't leave them in the embassy. Another price I pay for being a secret hotshot, to use Kennedy's words, is that my fellow FBI agents think I'm either stupid or lazy or both. I don't turn in half the work they do."

"If you're working on something like this, I'm surprised you can turn in any work at all," Castillo said. "Can I see the files?"

"Reluctantly," Yung said. "I don't want it getting out what I've been doing here. Who else is going to know what's in my files? Even that I have them?"

"Would you believe me if I say no one?"

"Why should I?"

"I'll make a deal with you," Castillo said. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours. And that will be our little secret."

"What's in your files?"

"The names of people-Germans, French, and Russians-who are reliably reported to have made money on Oil for Food and probably are sending it over here. I promised my source I would not turn them over to the CIA or the FBI or anybody. And I won't. But maybe it would help if you took a look at them, maybe make a match with somebody you've got a dossier on. That might help us find this bastard Lorimer."

"What's your interest in Lorimer?"

"He was the head bagman for Oil for Food. He knows who got how much, and when, and what for. And if I find him, I think I can convince him to point me in the direction of whoever whacked Masterson and Markham. Lorimer is who I'm really after."

"Never heard of him," Yung said. "Sorry."

"And I have to find him before the bad guys do. They want to make sure he doesn't talk. They already whacked one of his guys in Vienna. Deal?"

"Why not?" Yung said. "Where's your list?"

"In my briefcase," Castillo said, and picked it up from the floor and placed it on a coffee table. Yung pushed himself out of his chair and walked to the table as Castillo opened the briefcase.

"Well, I can save you time about him," Yung said.

"Excuse me?"

"Bertrand," Yung said. "The guy in the picture."

"This picture?" Castillo asked and held it up. "You know this guy?"

"His name is Bertrand," Yung said. "He's a Lebanese antiquities dealer."

"A Lebanese antiques dealer?"

"Antiques are old furniture, things like that," Yung clarified. "Antiquities are things boosted from King Tut's tomb, things like that. Really old stuff. And Bertrand's very good at it, makes a lot of money. I learned a lot from him."

"About antiquities?"

"About how to have money in a bank and not worry about getting it back out. You do know, don't you, why people don't use Argentina much to launder and/or hide money?"

"No. But I wondered why there were so many FBI agents in Montevideo and zero in Argentina."

"Because this is where the money is laundered and hidden," Yung said. "Argentina used to be the place, but a couple years ago, just before Argentina defaulted on its government bonds, the government decided to help themselves to the dollars in everybody's bank accounts. The peso on one Sunday was worth one U.S. dollar. On Monday morning, the government announced the 'pesification of the dollar.' All dollar deposits in Argentine banks were converted to pesos at a rate of one-point-three pesos per dollar. In other words, if you had a hundred dollars on Sunday, on Monday you had a hundred thirty pesos. Now, if you wanted dollars, you had to buy them, and the rate was five to the dollar. In other words, your hundred-dollar deposit was now worth twenty-six. A lot of people-including a lot of honest ones-took a hell of a bath. The Argentines blamed it on the IMF, who had loaned them the money they couldn't, didn't want to, repay."

"Fascinating!"

"Their argument was pure Argentine. It was like some guy on a thousand-a-month salary buying a Cadillac with no money down. Then, when it comes time to make the monthly payment, he says, 'Not only am I not gonna make the payment, but I'm gonna keep the Caddy, too, because you should have known I couldn't afford to pay for it.'"

"You're serious, aren't you?" Castillo asked.

"Absolutely. The banking system took a hell of a beating. The Scotia Bank-one of Canada's biggest; they'd been doing business in Argentina for more than a century-just took their losses and pulled out. For a while it looked like CitiBank and Bank of Boston were going to take their losses and leave, too, but they finally decided to stay."

"How did this affect the antiquities dealer? Bertrand?"

"Well, first of all, he was smart enough to have his money here-a lot of money; the last time I looked it was a little over sixteen million, U.S.-and not across the river. And then he's got an interesting deal with the banks."

"What kind of a deal?"

"This is pretty complicated…"

"Make it simple for me," Castillo said.

"Okay. He doesn't deposit his money in his banks. He loans it to them, just like he was another bank. Banks are always borrowing money from each other, so nobody notices one more loan. They don't pay Bertrand what they have to pay other banks, so they're happy. And he's happy because he has their note, callable on demand. Or he can endorse the bank's promissory note over to somebody-anybody-else, an individual or another bank. You see how it works? Like a super cashier's check."

"I'm not sure," Castillo admitted. "How is he sure the banks will come up with the money when he says, 'Pay me'?"

"Because he's taken out insurance that they will," Yung said, just a little smugly. "He gets it either from the bank or the insurance company. It costs him a little money, sure, but his money is safe."

"What if somebody steals the promissory notes?"

"Unless he signs them, they're just pieces of paper."

"You know a lot about this guy, don't you, Yung?"

"I've been keeping my eye on him ever since I came down here."

"You know something about his personal habits? Where he lives?"

"He's got an estancia-he calls it 'Shangri-La'-in Tacuarembo Province, and a fancy condominium in Punta del Este. He doesn't use the condo much because, getting to his personal habits, he likes the young girls- very young girls-he has at Shangri-La."

"There's one thing you don't know about this guy, Yung," Castillo said.

"And what's that?"

"His real name is Jean-Paul Lorimer."

Yung looked at Castillo incredulously, and then smiled.

"You're kidding!"

Castillo shook his head. "Uh-uh. Can you show me where Shangri-La is on a map?"