The Hostage

XIX

[ONE] Estancia Shangri-La Tacuarembo Province Republica Oriental del Uruguay 0855 30 July 2005 Jean-Paul Bertrand, patron of Estancia Shangri-La, naked under his silk Sulka dressing gown, his bare feet in soft brown unborn calfskin loafers, carefully pushed open the French door from his bedroom to the interior courtyard of his home.

He was carrying a cup of tea in his left hand, and when it was raining-as it was now-the damned door stuck and the tea would spill. It didn't matter if he slopped tea on the tile floors, of course, but getting tea on the light blue dressing gown was really distressful.

He had managed-not without a good deal of effort-to teach the laundress how he liked his shirts- lightly starched-and his linen, and how she should carefully wash his silk socks in cold water. But dry cleaning was an entirely different matter. There was no dry-cleaning establishment worthy of the name in Tacuarembo, which meant that all his dry cleaning had to be taken to Punta del Este. The place there charged an arm and a leg to dry-clean something, but at least it was returned clean, in one piece, and usually of the same color.

There were several problems with that, too, however. For one thing, he did not think it wise to go to his condominium in Punta del Este. People might be looking for him to show up there. And even if he could go-in, say, six months-the stains he got on anything here would by then be permanent.

Therefore, he opened the door very carefully, and was pleased with his foresight and care. The damn door did stick, but he didn't spill any tea on his dressing gown.

He sighed. It was drizzling. And from the appearance of the sky, it was going to drizzle all day. That happened often in winter.

What it meant was that he would be a prisoner in the house at least for today and tomorrow, and probably longer than that. The paths in the interior courtyard garden were paved with tile, and if he wanted to, he could pace back and forth-like a prisoner being allowed to exercise-for as long as he wanted. But leaving the house was out of the question. Walking on the grass was like walking on a wet sponge. Jean-Paul had ruined more than one pair of shoes like that.

And where the grass ended, there was mud. The only way to move through the mud was to wear calf-high rubber boots. The rubber hurt his feet, ruined his silk socks, and made his feet smell. And too frequently the boots became stuck in the mud, which meant that when he tried to take a step, his foot came out of the boot and wound up in the mud past the ankle-if he didn't fall down on his face in the mud. Or worse, on his back.

Jean-Paul heard the helicopter a long time before he finally saw it. While helicopters were certainly not common, he seemed to see more and more of them, even way out here in the country. He had learned that some of them were owned by people who used them to commute between Montevideo-or even Buenos Aires-and their estancias. That was especially true in the winter, when the goddamn persistent drizzle turned the roads into impassable quagmires. And some were used to take hunters from Montevideo or Buenos Aires to the duck-shooting areas.

There was a lot of that, too. Well-to-do American and European hunters had discovered the wild fowl of Uruguay. He had even heard that the Vice President of the United States had shot Perdiz over dogs-whatever that meant-on an estancia owned by a Uruguayan lawyer not far from Shangri-La.

In the summer, there were frequent overflights of Shangri-La by helicopters taking people from Argentina and Brazil to Punta del Este. Jean-Paul had toyed with the idea of getting one for himself. Having one would solve the problem of getting back and forth to Punta del Este. It was a dreadfully long drive on narrow highways. And he now could easily afford one.

But a helicopter would draw attention to him, and it was a little too soon to be attracting attention. The helicopter, like a good many other things, would just have to wait until everyone forgot Jean-Paul Lorimer.

The sound of the helicopter grew louder and then- startling him-it suddenly appeared out of the drizzle, no more than several hundred feet in the air, and flashed overhead.

It was quickly gone, and then the sound of its engines and thrashing rotor blades grew dimmer and finally disappeared.

Jean-Paul Bertrand decided the pilot had somehow become lost and had flown close to the ground to find a road and reorient himself.

He tossed what was left of his tea onto a flower bed and went back into the house for a fresh cup. [TWO] Suite 735 Victoria Plaza Hotel 759 Plaza Independencia Montevideo, Uruguay 1125 30 July 2005 Suite 735 was classified by the Radisson Victoria Plaza as a "hospitality" suite, intended for the use of businessmen who wished to entertain potential clients in privacy. There was a bedroom with two king-sized beds, plus a large sitting room with a wet bar, a refrigerator, and a large table seating eight that was suitable for use as either a dining table or a conference table. An enormous Sony flat-screen television was mounted on one wall of the sitting room so that those sitting at the table could view sales presentations, HBO, or, for that matter, the XXX-RATED video dramas that were available for a nominal fee.

When Castillo walked into the hospitality suite with Munz and Yung, there were ten people in the room: Colonel Jacob Torine; Special Agents Jack Britton and Tony Santini of the Secret Service; Special Agent Ricardo Solez of the Drug Enforcement Administration; Mr. Alex Darby, the commercial attache of the U.S. embassy in Buenos Aires; Mr. Fernando Lopez; Sergeants First Class Robert Kensington and Seymour Kranz of Delta Force; Corporal Lester Bradley of the United States Marine Corps; and someone-a mild-looking man in his early thirties-Castillo had never seen before.

Castillo walked directly to Darby, took him by the arm, led him into the bathroom, closed the door, and somewhat indelicately demanded, "What the fuck is Bradley doing here? And who the fuck is the other guy?"

Darby made a time-out gesture with his hands, then went and opened the door.

"Bob, will you come in here a moment, please?"

The mild-looking man came into the bathroom and closed the door after him.

"Bob, this is Mr. Castillo," Darby said. "Charley, Bob-Robert-Howell."

"How do you do?" Bob Howell extended his hand.

Castillo did not reply; instead he looked questioningly at Darby.

"Bob is the cultural attache of the U.S. embassy here in Montevideo," Darby said.

"The head spook, you mean?" Castillo asked.

Darby nodded. "Tell Mr. Castillo what you told me when you called yesterday, Bob."

Howell nodded.

"I received a telephone call on a secure line from Ambassador Montvale…"

What? Castillo thought. Jesus Christ! Is that sonofabitch Montvale trying to micromanage me?

"He first informed me that what he was to tell me was classified Top Secret-Presidential," Howell said, "and that no one in the embassy here was authorized access, including the ambassador. Then he told me he had reason to believe you were in Buenos Aires. I was to make contact with you immediately-he suggested Mr. Darby would probably know how to do that-and place myself and my assets at your absolute disposal." He paused. "So I called Alex."

"What else did Montvale have to say?"

"That's it, sir."

"He didn't tell you to check back with him? Let him know how things were going?"

Howell shook his head. "Nothing like that."

"And how much did you tell Mr. Howell, Alex?" Castillo asked.

"Only that I would be here this morning, and we would need a secure, discreet place to meet with maybe a dozen people."

"So I arranged for this, Mr. Castillo," Howell said. "I've used it before. I came earlier and swept it."

"And I asked him to stay to see what you wanted to do," Darby said. "This is his country, Charley. He knows it."

Castillo nodded.

"And what about Corporal Bradley? Did Montvale call him, too?"

"Can Howell hear this?"

Castillo thought that over for a moment, then offered Howell his hand.

"Welcome to Castillo's traveling circus, Mr. Howell," Castillo said. "This operation is authorized by a Presidential Finding. The classification is Top Secret- Presidential. What we're going to do is take a man, an American citizen named Jean-Paul Lorimer, who is here in Uruguay-more or less legally-as Jean-Paul Bertrand, on a Lebanese passport, from his estancia in Tacuarembo Province to the States. Whether or not he's enthusiastic about being repatriated, and without going through the usual immigration departure procedures. Getting the picture?"

Howell nodded. "Can I ask what this guy's done?"

"He has been a very naughty boy," Castillo said. "There are people who would like to see him dead. So we have to do this before they get to him."

"Okay," Howell said.

Castillo turned to Darby. "Okay, Alex. What about Bradley? What's he doing here?"

"Well, you wanted two hundred gallons of fuel for the helicopter," Darby said. "The question-this is before I got the call from Bob, you understand-was where to get it without having questions asked. That meant I'd have to get it in Argentina. Getting the fuel was no problem; getting it over here was. I knew you didn't want questions raised around the embassy, either. The embassy routinely trucks stuff over here, but I thought there might be questions asked if I tried to get on the Busquebus with four fifty-five-gallon barrels of jet fuel- plus the other stuff-in the back of a pickup truck.

"So that meant it would have to be driven over here. That's a long drive, all the way up to Gualeguaychu, across the bridge over the Rio Uruguay into Uruguay, and then all the way down here. But I didn't think there would be many questions asked at the border if there were CD plates on the truck.

"Better yet, on a Yukon being driven by a Marine guard. They often make freight runs over here by road, so I knew they had a Yukon. So I called the gunny and told him you needed a quiet favor. I needed to take four drums of fuel and some other stuff to you in Uruguay. Would it fit in his Yukon and would he loan it-and a driver-to you?

"For some reason-maybe your charming personality-the gunny likes you. So he said, 'Sure, and for a driver, guess who's standing right here in my office, just back from the States?'"

"Corporal Lester Bradley, my stalwart Marine bodyguard," Castillo said, shaking his head.

"Who had already heard more than he should," Darby said. "I figured it was better to use him than go through the hassle-"

"Yeah, and what the hell, I just might need a bodyguard," Castillo said. "Okay, let's go look at the home movies." Sergeant Seymour Kranz was sitting at one side of the table. A laptop computer was in front of him. There was a rat's nest of cables attaching the computer to a small video camera, to a small color inkjet printer, and to the control panel of the Sony television on the wall.

"Please don't tell me that the Minicam batteries were dead, or that Yung forgot to take the cover off the lens," Castillo said.

"No, sir," Sergeant Seymour Kranz replied. "It worked better than I would have thought."

"And we're set up, right, so I can push the right button-which you will show me-and can make stills as we watch it?"

"Yes, sir," Kranz said, handing Castillo the control as Castillo sat down beside him. "And it's already loaded into the computer, so you can send it to Washington or Bragg if you want to."

"Let's hold off on that," Castillo said, and then: "Okay, guys. Here's the tape we shot of the target this morning. I could only make one low-level pass over the house itself, so I'm sure I missed something important. Make a note of what else you would like to see. When I drop Kranz off up there this afternoon, I'll have another shot at it." He paused. "Are we going to have to turn the lights off to see this? Well, let's find out."

The huge television screen began to show the Uruguayan countryside, and then approached a city.

"That's the town of Tacuarembo. Not much of a town. The road to the estancia is at the top right of the picture. A quarter of a mile or so out of town, the paving stops. The roads, according to the maps, are 'improved,' which means anything from paved with stone to mud. We better count on mud; this is the rainy season."

"Now there's Estancia Shangri-La itself. Shot through the soup from about twenty-five hundred feet. I think- I hope-the stuff Yung shot when I made the low-level pass will give us a hell of a lot more detail. But you can see the house. Notice the interior courtyard, and the outbuildings."

"Now this is the road leading away from Shangri-La. In other words, farther away from Tacuarembo. What I was looking for was a place where we could set up Kranz's radio today. And tomorrow, where we could form up, and where I can leave the chopper while we're making the snatch. I went five miles or so in this direction and didn't find one. It all looked like swamp-maybe because of the rain-or it was full of rocks or trees, or both." "So I went over here. Much closer to where we're going. You can't tell it from the air, but the maps show that it's a hundred or so feet higher than the buildings at the estancia.I'm sure I can get in there without being seen, and I don't think anyone will be able to tell the difference between a chopper flying overhead and me landing. And… where the hell is it? There it is. A field without rocks or trees, and it looks as if it drains pretty well." "And here, a half mile, give or take, from the field is another 'improved' road. You have to go all the way back to Tacuarembo to get on it. But that's what, Bradley, you're going to have to take to get to it. You'll take Ricardo Solez with you. I don't know what the hell to do about the damned CD plates on the Yukon…"

He stopped the video and looked at Darby.

"The Yukon now has Argentine plates on it, Charley," Alex Darby said. "And Argentine documents in the glove compartment."

"How less suspicious will the Argentine plates make it-?" Castillo heard a whirring noise, and realized the printer was already printing the stills.

"Not as unsuspicious as Uruguayan plates," Darby admitted. "But I just couldn't put my hands on Uruguayan plates on such short notice. And anyway, Uruguayan plates have the province on them. You can't tell where an Argentine vehicle is from from the plates."

"Okay," Castillo said. "Bradley, keep your mouth shut if you get stopped or anything. Ricardo's Texican, speaks pretty good porteno Spanish, can probably pass for a Uruguayan, and probably can get away with explaining you as his anemic cousin."

"Yes, sir."

"The way we're going to do this is that you're going to drive the Yukon to Tacuarembo as soon as this meeting breaks up. It's about two hundred twenty miles, so figure five hours, six if the roads are bad, but it's a real highway as far as Tacuarembo-I flew up it this morning-so we may get lucky. If you leave here by twelve-thirty, that should put you in the city by six-thirty at the latest. There will still be some light until about half past five. The priority, obviously, is to get the fuel and weapons up there safely, even if that takes you until midnight. Having said that, the sooner you get there, the better. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Corporal Bradley said. "Highest road speed consistent with safety."

"And share the driving," Castillo ordered, and thought, At least Ricardo will be driving half the time. "Change over every hour."

"Yes, sir," Bradley almost barked.

You're being unfair. He may look like an escapee from the high school cheerleading squad, but he did get the Yukon here, didn't he? And the fuel and weapons past the border guards?

"In the best of all possible worlds," Castillo continued, "you would get to Tacuarembo at, say, quarter to five, even a little earlier. That would give you time to find the right road out of town, and then to find the field. You'll have a map. Getting from the road to the field is the problem. Reconnoiter it on foot, make sure, operative word sure, that you won't get the truck stuck in the mud. If we get really lucky and you can drive to the field, dump the fuel barrels and the pump. Not the weapons. Just the fuel and the pump. And then go find the Hotel Carlos Gardel in Tacuarembo. It shouldn't be hard; it's the only one. Decide for yourself if you want to take the chance of leaving the weapons in the Yukon or taking them and the other stuff into the hotel."

"You don't want us to just stay in the field overnight?" Solez asked.

"If some gaucho rides up on the fuel, he might figure someone left it there to fuel a tractor or something. He would get curious to find two guys in a Yukon."

"Okay."

"If you can't get the Yukon in there, we'll just have to land the chopper on the road in the morning and refuel it there."

"Why do you have to refuel it at all?" Britton asked. "I mean, you went up there and back-"

"Because I'm going directly to Jorge Newbery from Shangri-La," Castillo explained. "To do that I'm going to need a full load of fuel. Torine and Fernando are going to stay here-the Lear is-until they get word that we have Lorimer in the bag. We should know whether that worked by, say, twenty-one hundred tomorrow night. When-if-they get the word, they immediately go wheels-up to Jorge Newbery.

"The next morning-I'm going to have to wait until it's light to take off-I'm going to fly nap of the earth, under, I devoutly hope, any radar. I don't want to try that in the dark with the equipment on the Ranger."

He looked at Munz.

"Tell Alex that whoever sold him the avionics on that chopper screwed him. And that, in the spirit of friendship, I'll send him a list of what he should have."

"Somebody cheated Alex?" Munz said. "That wasn't smart, was it?"

"Who's Alex?" Darby asked.

"You don't want to know," Castillo said.

"And if things don't go well, Charley?" Torine asked.

"We'll have to play that by ear," Castillo said. "Maybe stay one day and try it again. Or abort this operation and think of something else."

Torine nodded.

"If it works, and you go to Buenos Aires, check out of the Four Seasons."

"Check everybody out?" Torine asked.

"Britton, me, and you and Fernando," Castillo said. "Kranz and Kensington will have to stay here long enough to get the weapons, the gear, and the radios back to Buenos Aires. And then get with Darby and Santini and get it to the States through the embassy. So they'll need rooms for a day or two. Then they'll go back to Bragg commercial. Is getting them tickets going to be a problem, Alex?"

Darby shook his head.

"Good. Okay, Fernando and Torine will go to Jorge Newbery, check the weather, file a flight plan, etcetera, and be ready to go the minute I get there in the Ranger with Lorimer and Yung and Munz. That's where you come in, mi coronel-Alex said you'd be helpful-"

"Who the hell is Alex?" Darby asked again. Castillo ignored the question.

"If I'm able to reason with Lorimer," he went on, "that is, convince him the only way he's going to stay alive is by going with me, fine. He may even have his American and UN passports in his safe. If he gives me trouble, if I have to put him to sleep-Yung, a man of many unexpected talents, tells me he'll have no trouble getting into his safe-I think we can count on his Lebanese passport for sure. But if he is knocked out, how do we get him through immigration and into the Lear?"

"I can arrange that," Munz said. "No problem."

"And I just come back to Montevideo, right?" Yung asked.

"No. You're going to the States with us," Castillo said.

"What about my investigation, my files? I'd really like to stay here."

"This is not open for debate, Yung," Castillo said. "You're going with us. Your cover as just one more FBI agent will be blown with the ambassador the moment he hears what happened. So this afternoon, pack a bag with enough clothes for a couple of days and give it to Fernando. A small bag."

"What the hell happens to my files?"

"You are tenacious, aren't you?" Castillo said sharply. "But that is, in fact, a good question. Mr. Howell, this afternoon-when you go with him to his apartment-Mr. Yung is going to give you some files, which, as of this moment, are classified Top Secret-Presidential. You will find someplace to keep them until I decide how to get them to the States. Maybe in the hands of a diplomatic courier."

"And what happens to my files in the States?"

"Whatever the President decides to do with them."

"Which means they disappear down the black hole of diplomacy?"

"I just changed my mind," Castillo said. "Colonel Torine, will you go with Howell and Yung to Yung's apartment and take possession of Yung's files? That way, we can take them home with us."

Torine gave him a thumbs-up signal.

Castillo nodded. "The subject is closed, Yung. You understand?"

Yung exhaled in resigned disgust.

"Okay," Castillo said. "Now to the assault team. Those two"-he pointed to Kranz and Kensington- "have some very rudimentary skills in that area. So they'll be on it. But that means they won't be on the radios. You can set them up, can't you, so all someone has to do is turn them on and talk?"

"No problem, sir," Sergeant Kensington said.

"One goes with us. That leaves the question of where to set up the other one. Here? Can you just aim the antenna out the window, the way you did in the Four Seasons?"

"I think so, sir. I'll have to try it."

"Okay, but if Miller, or anyone else in the States, tries to talk to you, it fails, right? I don't want anybody trying to micromanage this operation."

"Got it, sir," Kensington said.

"How big is the antenna?" Howell asked.

"A little larger than a satellite TV antenna," Kensington answered. "Eighteen, twenty inches in diameter."

"There's a backyard at my house," Howell said. "Fenced in. Would that work?"

"Where's your house?" Castillo asked.

"In Carrasco, not far from Yung's apartment."

"Okay, you are now our base station radio operator. Kensington will go with you, set it up, and show you how it works."

Both men nodded.

"Jack Britton, who knows how to operate a Car 4, and I know is pretty good at running around in the dark, gets suited up. Tony, you want to go?"

"Absolutely."

"I would like to volunteer, sir," Corporal Lester Bradley said. "I have never fired the Car 4, but I shot Expert at Parris Island with the M-16, and with the Beretta, and in Iraq I was the designated marksman of my fire-team. I used a bolt-action 7.62? 51mm sniper's rifle for that, sir. Essentially a Remington Model 700 modified for Marine Corps use, sir."

"You were a sniper in Iraq?" Sergeant Kranz asked incredulously.

"We don't have snipers in the Corps, Sergeant. But the better shots are issued a sniper's rifle and are assigned as 'designated marksmen.'"

"We have a Remington, right?" Castillo asked.

"I do, sir," Kranz said.

"Well, Lester," Castillo said, "you're just the man I've been looking for. What you're going to do is take Sergeant Kranz's rifle, make yourself a suitably camouflaged firing/observation position… We have binoculars, too, right, Kranz?"

Kranz nodded. "And the night-vision goggles. The new ones, the really good ones."

"Make sure that Corporal Bradley knows how to use them," Castillo ordered. "He's going to guard the Ranger while we're at the house."

"Sir, since it's Sergeant Kranz's rifle," Bradley said, "maybe he'd prefer to guard the helicopter, and I could go on the assault team."

"In special operations, Bradley," Castillo said, very seriously, "we operate on the principle of the round peg in the round hole, not personal desire. Sergeant Kranz is not the best man to guard the chopper. You are."

"Aye, aye, sir," Bradley responded with not much enthusiasm.

"Ricardo, you want to go with us?" Castillo asked. "I realize you haven't had much training in things like this."

Please say no. If anything goes wrong, you'll be the first one to take a hit. And I really don't want to have to tell Abuela about that. That would be even worse than having to tell your father.

"Nothing like this, I suppose," the young DEA agent said. "But I have had training."

"The DEA school… is there such a thing?"

"Yeah, and that's tough. But what I meant was that when I was at A and M, in the Corps, I went through the Ranger Course at Benning and Hurlburt Field one summer. Don Fernando can tell you that's rough. Yeah. I really want to go. Don't worry about me."

"Okay. You're on."

He glanced at Fernando and saw that Fernando's eyes were on him. Castillo shrugged slightly. Fernando tipped his head slightly.

He's thinking exactly what I'm thinking.

It's one of those things. It has to be.

"That makes seven on your assault team, right?" Darby asked. "Plus Bradley at the helicopter. That's eight. You have enough black suits, weapons, night goggles, etcetera?"

"Where do you get eight?"

Darby ticked them off on his fingers: "Kranz, Kensington, Yung, Britton, Santini, Solez, Munz, and you." He held his hands up, with five fingers on his left hand and three on his right extended. "That's eight. When I took those bags from Fort Bragg out to the house, I counted equipment for six-shooters."

"That's the trouble with you agency people," Castillo said, with a smile. "You assemble a few facts and immediately draw the wrong conclusion. Or usually, conclusions, plural."

Darby rearranged his extended hands and gave him the finger. Twice.

"What Colonel Munz and you and I are going to do, Alex, is drive sedately up to the door of Shangri-La in a car."

"You're just going to drive up in a car? Where, question one, is the car coming from?"

"Howell will rent it for us this afternoon from Hertz at the airport. He will use his credit card, thus keeping your name off the books."

"I have a car that you can use, Mr. Castillo," Howell said. "A five-year-old, powder blue Peugeot."

"Better yet," Castillo said, "things are going so well, I'm waiting for that famous other shoe to drop. Would your car be the sort of car used by Uruguayan bureaucrats on official business, Mr. Howell?"

Howell nodded. "That's why I bought what I did, actually."

"Alex, you will drive Mr. Howell's five-year-old, powder blue Peugeot to Tacuarembo early tomorrow afternoon; there's no sense you being there any sooner than, say, half past five or six…"

"And when I get there, then what?"

"Go to the Hotel Carlos Gardel. If it doesn't have a bar, it has to have a place you can have a cup of coffee. Munz and I will meet you there, say, at eight or eight-thirty. We will be wearing suits and trying to look as much as possible like Uruguayan bureaucrats. Don't recognize us. Finish your coffee and leave. Go to the car. We'll find it. It's powder blue, right? That should make it easy to find."

"And then?"

"We drive out to Shangri-La, quickly flash our badges to whoever answers the door. Eventually, we will get to Mr. Bertrand, who will be informed that there seems to be some irregularity with his passport, and might we have a look at it?

"If this goes as I hope it will, Lorimer will open his safe-saving Yung the difficulty of blowing it open-to get either his Lebanese passport or money to bribe us with, probably both. Once the safe is open, Munz will put handcuffs on him, and I will begin to explain to him what happens next, and the wisdom of his cooperating. Once we get that far, you, who will have been waiting patiently outside, will drive the powder blue car back to Montevideo.

"Anybody around, seeing the car leaving, will presume we're in it," Castillo went on. "As soon as they see you leave, while Britton, Yung, and Solez are cutting the telephone line and/or any cables leading to any transmitter antennas, Kranz and Kensington will come into the house, put plastic cuffs on anybody in the house, and make sure there's nobody lurking around who can cause trouble. They will then go outside to make sure there are no visitors, or that we're warned if there are. Ricardo, Britton, and Yung, who should be in the house by then, will herd everyone we've cuffed into a bedroom, where they will be attached to the furniture with more plastic cuffs.

"When that's been done, leaving Ricardo to watch those cuffed, Britton and Yung will start to search the house for anything interesting that Lorimer didn't choose to put in the safe.

"That's in Munz's area of expertise, too, so he'll help with that. I'll sit on Lorimer.

"Just before dawn, we take Lorimer out of the house and head for the helicopter. By the time we get there, there will be enough light to take off. The way I figure it, we'll have anywhere from a half hour to an hour before those cuffed manage to get loose, or someone comes in to make breakfast, or whatever, and discover Jean-Paul has been kidnapped by-this is important- Spanish-speaking people, two of whom look like cops/businessmen/bureaucrats and the rest like those people one sees in thriller movies. Those balaclava masks really scare people."

Darby thought the scenario over carefully.

"You don't need permission to speak, you know, Alex," Castillo said after a very long thirty seconds.

"Jesus, Charley," Darby said, smiling, "this might just work."

"And nobody gets hurt," Castillo said. "I want everybody to keep that in mind. This is not an assault. The only man at Lorimer's estancia who deserves to die is Lorimer, and unfortunately I need the sonofabitch alive. The primary purpose of the black suits and the balaclava masks and all the weapons is to scare everybody into behaving while we're there. And the masks will make everybody hard to describe to the local gendarmes when they finally show up and start asking questions."

"At what time do you want me to chauffeur you and Munz out there?" Darby asked.

"Probably about nine o'clock. At that time, there probably won't be more than two or three servants in the house. Plus, maybe, his tootsie. Anyway, Kranz and Kensington will have kept an eye on the place for at least an hour before we get there, and if it doesn't look right, one or the other of them will wave us off at the driveway.

"If that happens, we may wait until later. Midnight, for example, and forget the bureaucratic business, just drive up in the Yukon, bust in, grab Lorimer, bust open the safe, and get the hell out of there. We can hide in the field where the chopper is. Or maybe just get in the chopper and go."

"I think the first scenario will work," Darby said.

"Jesus, I hope so," Castillo said. "Okay, we'll get to the rest of the tape. Make notes of what we're missing, and I'll try to get what I missed this afternoon."

He pushed a button on the control and the videotape began to play. "This is where we followed the road Bradley's going to use into Tacuarembo. I didn't see anything extraordinary about it, but take a real good look, Bradley." "Okay. Here we are over the field again. I didn't see one, but there has to be a road, a path, into it. Look for it, Bradley. Don't just drive over the field. We can't afford to have the Yukon stuck in the middle of the field when the sun comes up. I'm glad I thought of that. If Bradley gets the Yukon stuck, he will be shot, and his carcass left in the Yukon, which will be then torched by Ricardo. Ricardo, make sure that Kranz gives you a couple of thermite grenades and shows you how to use them before you drive up there. One for the engine compartment, the other on one of the barrels of fuel."

"I've seen a thermite grenade before," Solez said. "Okay, here we are. I'm about to make the low-level pass over the main house at Shangri-La." "Jesus, there's somebody in the interior courtyard."

He stopped the tape.

"Gentlemen, there is Mr. Jean-Paul Bertrand, aka Lorimer. Apparently having a wake-me-up cup of coffee in his garden." [THREE] Estancia Shangri-La Tacuarembo Province Republica Oriental del Uruguay 2110 31 July 2005 Jean-Paul Bertrand was not only dining alone, but he had prepared the meal himself.

There were several reasons. For one, he was bored. For another, his cook's idea of a gourmet meal was to throw something-usually beef, sometimes pork, and less often chicken-on the wood-fired parrilla grill, char it, and then serve it with either mashed potatoes or what they called here papas fritas, and a sliced tomato salad. Wrapping a potato in aluminum foil and baking it apparently overtaxed her culinary skills.

There were some marvelous chefs in Uruguay, but not in Tacuarembo. And, of course, he had to stay in Tacuarembo for the time being. Jean-Paul had come to believe that the northern Italian kitchen-which is what the good restaurants in Montevideo and Punta del Este served-was, in fact, as hard as this was to accept, actually a bit superior to that of the French.

Tonight, with Anna-Maria, the cook, watching-and, he dared hope, perhaps learning-he had prepared Chateaubriand. First, after putting on a chef's apron, he had gotten a knife really sharp and then trimmed all the fat and sinew from a lomo. A lomo was the entire tenderloin of beef. A tenderloin that would cost forty-or more-euros in Paris was available here as a lomo for the equivalent of nine or ten. And it was magnificent beef. Then he first cut a ten-inch section from it and set it aside.

The remainder of the tenderloin he carefully cut into bite-sized pieces. Tomorrow, or the day after, he would make boeuf bourguignonne with the remaining meat.

He rubbed the ten-inch length of tenderloin with a garlic clove, salt, and pepper, and set it aside while he prepared the vegetables. The green beans were marvelous as is, but the carrots were the size of his wrist and he had to slice them into finger-sized pieces before he could use them. He put the steamer on so that he could steam the beans, the potatoes, a half dozen stalks of celery, and a dozen large white mushrooms.

He told Anna-Maria to open a bottle of the cabernet sauvignon. Just open it. Not decant it. And leave it here in the kitchen for the time being.

Then he sliced another dozen and a half white mushrooms very thin, vertically, and then sauteed them in a pan until they were about half cooked. Then he added a tablespoon of flour and stirred it into the mushrooms until it was no longer visible. Next came a cup of the very good local merlot. With the gas as low as it would go, he stirred patiently until the sauce formed. Only then did he add a touch of garlic and basil and salt and pepper.

He went to the parrilla outside the kitchen and carefully arranged the coals under the grill, testing to see if he had the proper heat with his hand. When he was satisfied, he laid the tenderloin on the hot steel grid.

When he went back in the kitchen, the cabernet sauvignon was on the table, with a glass. He poured and took an appreciative sip.

Maria came into the kitchen from the outside. Jean-Paul could tell from the young face of his current companion in the bed that she was afraid he was angry with her. He had told her he wanted to read while dining, and she should find something to eat by herself. The truth was, not only did her manners leave a good deal to be desired, but setting a fine meal before her made him think of the phrase, "Casting pearls before swine." If it wasn't charred black on the outside and raw inside, Maria eyed it with great suspicion and only ate whatever it was to please him.

Maria and Anna-Maria watched as he examined the mushroom mixture, and then added a half cup more of the merlot, and loaded the vegetables into the steamer. He had then gone back to the parrilla and turned the tenderloin.

Then he went back into the kitchen, had another sip of the cabernet, and told Anna-Maria to set the table for one, with the candles in the candelabra lit. Then he told Maria to go to his bedroom and to bring his reading glasses and the book with the red jacket that was on the bedside table, and put both on the dining room table.

Then he went back to the parrilla again, turned the tenderloin again-it was browning nicely-and went back into the kitchen. The sauce was now almost of the right consistency-the merlot had been reduced just enough-so he turned off the gas under it.

Then he tested the vegetables in the steamer with a fork, and with the same result. Another five minutes and everything would be done at just about the same time. He looked at his watch, then sipped the cabernet until the five minutes had passed.

Then he took a meat thermometer from a drawer and went to the parrilla. He turned the tenderloin again, then inserted the meat thermometer into it. The dial showed 140 degrees Fahrenheit.

He then removed the tenderloin from the grill to a plate and took it back in the kitchen. There he rolled it onto a large oblong platter, and then placed the first plate over it.

He tested the mushroom sauce one last time, added a touch of salt, and then closed the lid again.

Then he went to the steamer and carefully removed half of the vegetables, arranging them neatly to one side of the platter.

He ran the knife against the steel again until it felt right, then took the tenderloin and put it on a cutting board. He sliced the entire piece into pinkie-finger-thick slices, and then skillfully lifted them all at once and laid them in the center of the platter.

He used the knife blade to carefully push the vegetables already on the platter against the tenderloin. Then he arranged the vegetables remaining in the steamer against the other side of the tenderloin. When that was done, he placed the knife blade on the tenderloin and pushed, so that the slices were displaced and lying on one another.

Then he went to the mushroom sauce pan, picked it up, and dribbled an inch-wide path of sauce on top of the slices.

"Anna-Maria," he announced. "This is called a Chateaubriand."

"Si, senor."

"Put this sauce in a sauce bowl," he said. "And then serve the Chateaubriand. I will take the wine and glass with me."

"Si, senor."

"Do you want me to come sit with you?" Maria asked.

"No, dear. Thank you just the same. Why don't you have a bath? I'll be in shortly."

He picked up the bottle of cabernet sauvignon and his glass and went into the dining room and sat down at the table.

Anna-Maria came in with the platter.

"I will need some bread, please. The hard-crusted rolls. And butter. And, of course, salt and pepper. And don't forget the sauce."

When Anna-Maria had delivered everything, he checked to see that everything he needed was present.

"Thank you, Anna-Maria," he said. "You may go. I do not wish to be disturbed."

"Si, senor," Anna-Maria said, and left the dining room.

Three minutes later, she was back.

Jean-Paul was annoyed. He had told her he did not wish to be disturbed, and he had had just barely time enough to move a couple of slices of the beef-and it looked and smelled marvelous-to his plate, and here she was, back.

"I told you, Anna-Maria, that I didn't wish to be disturbed."

"Excuse me, senor. But there are two men here… officials."

"Officials? What kind of officials?"

"Officials, senor. From the government. They have badges."

What the hell?

"And they wish to see you, senor."

Jean-Paul rose angrily from the table, threw his napkin on it, and marched to the front door.

Two men were standing there.

"May I help you, gentlemen?"

"Are you Senor Jean-Paul Bertrand?"

"Yes, I am. And who are you?"

"I am Assistant Chief Inspector Muller of the Immigration Service," the larger of the two said. "And this is Inspector O'Fallon."

He held out his credentials.

"We are very sorry to trouble you, senor," Chief Inspector Muller said. "And at this hour of the night. And we do apologize, sir."

"What is it?"

"Do you have your passport, Senor Bertrand?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"You're sure, senor?"

"Yes, of course I'm sure. Why do you ask?"

"Senor Bertrand, as you may know, our immigration records are now computerized."

"So I've heard."

"This afternoon, Senor Bertrand, according to the computer, you attempted to enter Uruguay on a Varig flight from Rio de Janeiro."

"That's absurd!"

"The computer also says that you entered Uruguay some time ago, and have never left."

"That's true."

"What we suspect, Senor Bertrand, is that the other Senor Bertrand, who is being held in custody, is not really who he says he is. That his passport is either a forgery, or that he has somehow come into possession of your passport."

Assistant Chief Inspector Muller gave Jean-Paul Bertrand time to think this over, and then went on. "One or the other is true, Senor Bertrand. And the question can be simply answered. If you have your passport, then the other is a forgery. And the other Senor Bertrand will be dealt with accordingly. On the other hand, if your passport has somehow been… misplaced… It happens, senor. If it has been misplaced into the hands of the other Senor Bertrand, then he will be dealt with accordingly. I cannot believe that a gentleman of your reputation and standing would loan his passport-"

"I certainly would not!" Jean-Paul proclaimed righteously. "My passport is-or should be-in my safe. I'll get it for you."

"Thank you very much, senor."

"May I offer you a cup of coffee, something to drink, while I get it?"

"No, thank you, senor," Inspector O'Fallon said. "We're on duty."

"I'll be right with you," Jean-Paul Bertrand said. "My safe is in my office, in the rear of the house."

"Thank you, senor," Assistant Chief Inspector Muller said.

"The sitting room is in here," Jean Paul said. "If you'll wait there? Are you sure I cannot offer you anything?"

"Thank you just the same, senor," Muller said. The safe was bolted both to an interior wall and to the floor. Jean-Paul had learned that when he was looking for something in it, it was much easier just to sit on the floor than to bend over and try to look inside. He had done so now.

He had a hell of a time finding the damned passport, but finally did.

A forged passport, I understand. But one with my name on it? What's that all about?

Oh, of course. In case someone checks, there is a valid passport in the name of Jean-Paul Bertrand.

Oh, God, is this incident going to be in the newspapers?

He heard a sound, and looked over his shoulder.

The younger one, Inspector O'Fallon, was standing behind him.

What the hell is he doing in here?

"Inspector O'Fallon, isn't it?" Jean-Paul asked.

"No, not really," Castillo said, in English.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know how it is, Lorimer. Sometimes people use other names. Will you hand me the passport and stand up, please?"

"What's going on here?"

Castillo snatched the passport from Lorimer's hand as he stepped over him and pushed the safe door open more widely.

Jean-Paul scurried backward on the floor and ran into a set of legs.

Then he felt himself being hauled to his feet.

"Put your hands behind you, please," the man who had said he was Assistant Chief Inspector Muller ordered.

Jean-Paul did as he was told.

He looked around his office.

Muller was doing something with his wrists.

Jean-Paul took a closer look at the face of the man who had said he was Inspector O'Fallon but had just now called him Lorimer, in American English.

But then something else caught his eye.

There was a face at the window, and it looked as if whoever stood there was trying to break the window with something.

The last thing Jean-Paul Lorimer, Ph.D., saw in this world, before two 9mm bullets struck him in the mouth and forehead, was the breaking glass of the window and an orange flash. Castillo reacted to the sound of the breaking glass and the burst of submachine fire instinctively. He dropped to the ground, scurried behind the desk, and reached for the Beretta he was carrying in the small of his back.

What the fuck?

This desk is going to be about as much protection against a 9mm as a Kleenex.

There was the sound of more firing outside. He recognized the characteristic chatter of a Car 4. More than one Car 4. And then the sharper crack of a 7.62.

Didn't I hear a 7.62 just before the goddamn submachine gun went off?

He saw a cord running across the floor to the desk.

If they can't see you, they can't shoot you.

Unless they spray the room with a submachine gun.

What the hell!

He jerked on the cord and a lamp on Lorimer's desk crashed to the floor. But didn't go out.

Sonofabitch!

There was the sound of another 7.62mm round going off, and of voices shouting something unintelligible, and then several more bursts from Car 4s.

Castillo reeled in the lamp, finally found the switch, and turned it off. The room was now dark.

Castillo got to his knees, then took a running dive from behind the desk toward the corner. No one shot at him. He found the wall with his hands and pushed himself into the corner. He waited for a moment to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. To turn the lamp off, he had had to find the switch, which was a push device in the bulb socket, which meant that he'd had the light from a clear-glass sixty-watt bulb right in his eyes.

Finally, he could make out the outline of the windows, and raised the Beretta in both hands to aim at it.

"Alfredo?" he called.

"I'm hit," Munz called back. "I don't know how bad. I have Lorimer's brains all over me."

There was another burst of Car 4 fire, this one farther away.

And then Sergeant Kensington's voice. "Anybody alive in there?"

"Only the good guys," Castillo called back.

There was the sound of a door being kicked open. And then a hand holding a flashlight appeared in the door and the light swept the room.

Then Kensington came into the room with Corporal Lester Bradley on his heels, sniper rifle at the ready.

"Get that goddamn light out of my eyes," Castillo ordered. "There's a lamp on the floor behind the desk."

Kensington found the light and turned it on, and then walked to where Castillo was getting to his feet. He waited until Castillo was fully up, then said, "These cocksuckers, whoever the fuck they were, got past Kranz. Can you believe that?"

"Is he all right?"

"They garroted him, Major," Kensington said.

"Oh, shit!"

Castillo walked to the desk again, looked at the exploded head of Jean-Paul Lorimer, and then at the blood oozing from the chest of El Coronel Alfredo Munz, and said, "Oh, shit!" again. [FOUR] Estancia Shangri-La Tacuarembo Province Republica Oriental del Uruguay 2225 31 July 2005 "You're going to be all right, Colonel," Sergeant Robert Kensington said to Munz, who rested just about where he had fallen behind Lorimer's desk. "There's some muscle damage that's going to take some time to heal, and you're going to hurt like hell for a long time every time you move-for that matter, breathe. I can take the bullet out now, if you'd like."

"I think I'll wait until I get to a hospital," Munz said.

"Your call, Alfredo," Castillo said. "But how are you going to explain the wound? And if Kensington says he can get it out, he can."

"No offense, but that looks to me like a job for a surgeon."

"Kensington has removed more bullets and other projectiles than most surgeons," Castillo said. "Before he decided he'd rather shoot people than treat them for social disease, he was an A-Team medic. Which meant… what's that line, Kensington?"

"That I was 'qualified to perform any medical procedure other than opening the cranial cavity,'" Kensington quoted. "I can numb that, give you a happy pill, and clean it up and get the bullet out. It would be better for you than waiting-the sooner you clean up a wound like that, the better-and that'd keep you from answering questions at a hospital. But what are you going to tell your wife?"

"Lie, Alfredo," Castillo said. "Tell her you were shot by a jealous husband."

"What she's going to think is that I was cleaning my pistol and it went off, and I'm embarrassed," Munz said. "But I'd rather deal with that than answer official questions. How long will I be out?"

"You won't be out long, but you'll be in la-la land for a couple of hours."

"Okay, do it," Munz said.

"Well, let's get you to your feet and onto something flat where there's some light," Kensington said. He looked at Castillo, and between them they got Munz to his feet.

"There's a big table in the dining room that ought to work," Kensington said. "It looks like everybody got here just in time for dinner. There's a plate of good-looking roast beef on it. And a bottle of wine."

"Okay on the beef," Castillo said. "Nix on the wine. We have to figure out what to do next and get out of here."

"Major, who the fuck are these bad guys?" Kensington asked.

"I really don't know. Yung is searching the bodies to see what he can find out. I don't even know what happened."

"Well, they're pros, whoever they are. Maybe Russians? Krantz was no amateur, and they got him. With a fucking garrote. That means they had to (a) spot him, and (b) sneak up on him. A lot of people have tried that on Seymour and never got away with it."

"Spetsnaz?" Castillo said. "If this were anywhere in Europe, I'd say maybe, even probably. But here? I just don't know. We'll take the garrote and whatever else Yung comes up with and see if we can learn something."

When they got to the dining room, Kensington held Munz up while Castillo moved the Chateaubriand, the sauce pitcher, the bread tray, and the wine to a sideboard. Then he sat him down on the table.

"Tell me, physician," Munz said. "What would the effect of wine be on this happy pill you're about to give me?"

Kensington went to the sideboard and picked it up. "Cabernet sauvignon," he said. "There is a strong body of medical opinion which suggests this is indicated in a procedure of this nature. You want a glass?"

"Yes, please," Munz said.

Kensington poured wine in the glass and handed it to Munz.

"Take these with it," he said, putting two white gel capsules on the table. "And when you start to feel a little woozy-it usually takes about a minute-just lie down. I'm a little surprised you're not in pain."

"What makes you think I'm not?" Munz asked as he tossed the capsules into his mouth and then picked up the wineglass.

"You won't be out for long," Kensington said.

"What happened out there, physician?" Munz asked.

"The first thing I knew that anything was wrong was when I heard the Remington go off. And God forgive me, what I thought then was that the goddamn kid was playing with the rifle and it went off. So I ran around the side of the building to chew him a new asshole. And that's when I saw the two guys. One of them was on the ground and the other was pointing a Madsen at me-"

"A Madsen?" Castillo asked.

"Yeah. That mean something?"

"It might," Castillo said.

"And I had just decided, Oh, shit, he's got me, when another 7.62 round went off. Down he went. Two shots from the kid. Both in the head. The little sonofabitch can shoot. He saved my ass. And yours, too. The first one he popped was the guy who stuck his Madsen into the office window. Bradley told me he waited until he was sure what he was up to before he popped him."

"He was supposed to be guarding the goddamn chopper!" Castillo said.

"And aren't you glad, Major, that he didn't understand that order?" Kensington said. "And then things got a little exciting. There were six of them in all. Five at the house, and the one who garroted Kranz. Kranz managed to get his boot knife into him. When we found Kranz, that one died trying to escape."

"That wasn't smart, Kensington."

"Yeah, I know. But Seymour and I went way back, and I didn't think."

"I am starting to feel a little strange," Munz said.

"Let me help you lie down," Kensington said. Kensington gently lifted Munz's eyelid and shined a small flashlight into it.

"Okay, he's out. He'll probably be out for thirty minutes. But he's a big sonofabitch, and I have no idea what his threshold of pain is, so he may start to wake up when I'm working on him. I want you to be prepared to hold him down-lie on top of him, whatever's necessary-if he starts to move. Okay?"

"Got it," Castillo said.

"And now, before I lay out my surgical instruments, you may help me scrub."

"How do I do that?"

Kensington handed him an aerosol can.

"Spray this crap all over my hands. It's advertised as better than a good scrub with surgical soap. It fucks up your hands, but what the hell?"

Castillo sprayed a foaming, pale orange substance over Kensington's hands from the aerosol can, and then watched as Kensington pulled on rubber gloves.

Then Kensington came up with a thin black plastic envelope. He tore it open. Inside was a small set of surgeon's tools.

"No offense, Major," Kensington said, "but if you feel yourself getting a little woozy when I start to cut, for Christ's sake, sit down on the floor and put your head between your knees. The last thing we need is you cracking your head open on the table. You have to get us the fuck out of here." "No identification whatever," Special Agent David William Yung of the FBI reported to Castillo forty minutes later. "No labels in the clothing, and I'm almost sure they're manufactured locally, or at least available here, so there's nothing there. I fingerprinted the bodies, and took enough blood to do a good DNA. But a DNA is good only when you have something to compare it to. Sorry. They came in cars from Enterprise Rent-A-Car, the airport office. We can run those credit cards, but if these people are as professional as it looks, that'll be a dead end, too. Sorry."

"That's what Kensington said. They're pros. So what did we expect?"

"Four Caucasian, two black. I took pictures, of course, but…"

"Okay. Thanks."

"That's the bad news. The good news is an address book from the safe, and these." He wagged a dozen sheets of what looked like stock certificates.

"What are those?"

"These are the certificates of loan. Fifteen point seven million U.S. dollars' worth. Of course, since Lorimer didn't sign them, they can't be cashed, but it proves he has all the money in the banks. Maybe some bank officers can be talked into telling us what they know about Lorimer's activities."

"On the other hand, once they learn he's dead, they'll deny their existence, and they're fifteen point seven million ahead."

"Yeah," Yung agreed.

Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, came into the kitchen.

"Sergeant Kensington said he's ready to mount up anytime you give the word, sir. The colonel is on his feet."

"Bradley, I owe you. You saved my tail and Colonel Munz's."

"Just doing my job, sir."

"Tell Sergeant Kensington to get the show on the road, Bradley."

"Yes, sir." [FIVE] The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW Washington, D.C. 1825 1 August 2005 The President of the United States was behind his desk. Across the room, Ambassador Charles W. Montvale was sitting next to Secretary of State Natalie Cohen on one of two facing couches. Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall was on the other couch.

Major C. G. Castillo, who was in civilian clothing, was nonetheless standing before the President's desk at a position close to "At Ease."

Or, Secretary Hall thought, like a kid standing in front of the headmaster's desk, waiting for the ax to fall.

For the past ten minutes, Castillo had been delivering his report of what had happened since he had last seen the President in Biloxi, when the President had issued his Presidential Finding aboard Air Force One.

"And so we landed at MacDill, Mr. President," Castillo concluded, "where we turned over Sergeant Kranz's remains to Central Command, and then we came here, arriving at oh-nine-thirty. I took everyone involved to my apartment and told them nothing was to be said to anyone about anything until I had made my report, and that they were to remain there until I got back to them."

"Colonel Torine, too?" the President of the United States asked. "And your cousin, too? How did they respond to your placing them in what amounts to house arrest?"

"Colonel Torine knows how things are done, sir. I didn't order him… And Fernando, my cousin, understands the situation, sir."

"And that's about it, Castillo?" the President asked.

"Yes, sir. Except to say, Mr. President, how deeply I regret the loss of Sergeant Kranz, and how deeply I regret having failed in the mission you assigned."

The President did not immediately respond. He looked into Castillo's eyes a moment as he considered that statement, then said, "How do you figure that you have failed, Castillo?"

"Well, sir, the bottom line is that I am no closer to finding the people who murdered Mr. Masterson and Sergeant Markham than I was before I went looking for Mr. Lorimer. Mr. Lorimer is now dead, and we'll never know what he might have told us if I hadn't botched his…"

"Repatriation?" the President offered.

"Yes, sir. And Sergeant Kranz is dead. I failed you, sir."

"Charles," the President said, "what about the long-term damage resulting from Major Castillo's failure? Just off the top of your head?"

"Mr. President, I don't see it as a failure," Secretary Hall spoke up.

"The director of national intelligence has the floor, Mr. Secretary. Pray let him continue," the President said, coldly.

"Actually, Mr. President, neither do I," Montvale said. "Actually, when I have a moment to think about it, quite the opposite."

"You heard him," the President pursued. "This man Lorimer is dead. We have no proof that Natalie can take to the UN that he was involved in the oil-for-food scandal or anything else. And Castillo himself admits that he's no closer to finding out who killed Masterson and the sergeant than he ever was. Isn't that failure?"

"Mr. President, if I may," Montvale said cautiously. "Let me point out what I think the major-and that small, valiant band of men he had with him-has accomplished."

"What would that be?"

"If we accept the premise that Mr. Lorimer was involved in something sordid, and the proof of that, I submit, is that he sequestered some sixteen million dollars…"

Montvale looked to Castillo for help.

"Fifteen point seven, sir," Castillo offered.

"… Close enough for Washington. Some sixteen million U.S. dollars in Uruguay, and that parties unknown tracked him down to Uruguay and murdered him to keep him from talking. After they abducted Mrs. Masterson and later murdered her husband."

"So what, Charles?" the President demanded.

"I don't seem to be expressing myself very well, Mr. President," Montvale said. "Let me put it this way. These people, whoever they are, now know we're onto them. They have no idea what the major may have learned before he went to South America; they have no idea how much Lorimer may have told him before they were able to murder him. If they hoped to obtain the contents of Lorimer's safe, they failed. And they don't know what it did or did not contain, so they will presume the worst, and that it is now in our possession. Or, possibly worse, in the possession of parties unknown. They sent their assassins in to murder Lorimer, and what we, what the major and his band, gave them was six dead assassins and an empty safe. And now that we know we're onto them, God only knows how soon it will be before someone comes to us…"

"And rats on the rats, you mean?" the President asked.

"Yes, sir, that's precisely what I mean. And I'm not talking only about identifying the Masterson murderers- I think it very likely that the major has already 'rendered them harmless'-but the people who ordered the murders. The masterminds of the oil-for-food scandal, those who have profited from it. Sir, in my judgment, the major has not failed. He has rendered the country a great service, and is to be commended."

"You ever hear, Charles, that great minds run on similar paths? I had just about come to the same conclusion. But one question, Charles: What should we do with the sixteen million dollars? Tell the UN it's there and let them worry about getting it back?"

"Actually, sir, I had an off-the-top-of-my-head thought about that money. According to the major, all it takes is Lorimer's signature on those documents, whateverthey're called, that the major brought back from the hideaway to have that money transferred anywhere."

"But Lorimer's dead," the President said.

"They have some very talented people over in Langley, if the President takes my meaning."

"You mean, forge a dead man's signature and steal the money? For what purpose?"

"Mr. President, I admit that when I first learned what you were asking the major to do, I was something less than enthusiastic. But I was wrong, and I admit it. A small unit like the major's can obviously be very valuable in this new world war. And if sixteen million dollars were available to it, sixteen million untraceable dollars…"

"I take your point, Charles," the President said. "But I'm going to ask you to stop thinking off the top of your head."

"Sir?"

"The next thing you're likely to suggest is that Charley-and that's his name, Charles, not 'the major'- move the Office of Organizational Analysis into the office of the director of national intelligence. And that's not going to happen. Charley works for me, period, not open for comment."

Secretary Hall had a sudden coughing spasm. His face grew red.

Ambassador Montvale did not seem to suspect that Secretary Hall might be concealing a hearty laugh.

"Natalie, do you have anything to say before I send Charley out of here to take, with my profound thanks, a couple of weeks off? After he lets everybody in his apartment go, of course."

"I was thinking about Ambassador Lorimer, sir. He's ill, and it will devastate him to learn what his son has been up to."

"Jesus, I hadn't thought about that," the President said. "Charley, what about it?"

"Sir, Mr. Lorimer is missing in Paris," Charley said. "The man who died in Shangri-La was Jean-Paul Bertrand, a Lebanese. I don't think anyone will be anxious to reveal who Bertrand really was. And I don't think we have to, or should."

"What about his sister?" Natalie Cohen asked. "Should she be told?"

"I think so, yes," Charley said. "I haven't thought this through, but I have been thinking that the one thing I could tell Mrs. Masterson that would put her mind at rest about the threats to her children would be that I knew her brother was dead, and with his death, these bastards… excuse me… had no more interest in her or her children."

"And if she asks how you know, under what circumstances?" the President asked.

"That's what I haven't thought through, sir."

"You don't want to tell her what a despicable sonofabitch he was, is that it?"

"I suspect she knows, sir. But it's classified Top Secret-Presidential."

"Would anyone have objections to my authorizing Charley to deal with the Masterson family in any way he deems best, including the divulgence of classified material?"

"Splendid idea, Mr. President," Ambassador Montvale said.

"Do it soon, Charley. Please," Natalie Cohen said.

"Yes, ma'am."

The President stood up and came around the desk and offered Castillo his hand.

"Thank you, Charley. Good job. Go home and get some rest. And then think where you can discreetly hide sixteen million dollars until you need it." [SIX] Room 527 Fifth Floor, Silverstein Pavilion Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania 3400 Spruce Street Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 2135 1 August 2005 "Hey, baby! I'm home."

"Oh, Charley!"

"How are you doing?"

"Look at me. My face looks like somebody attacked me with a baseball bat."

"You look beautiful. Can I kiss you?"

"You're sure you want to?"

"I'm sure I want to." Five minutes later, they stopped.

She smiled at him.

"What I was afraid you were going to do was come back from Europe, and walk in here and start that stupid Wiener schnitzel nonsense again. I like it better when you just say you love me."

"Oh, shit. I forgot."

"Forgot what?"

He went into his briefcase and came out with an aluminum foil-wrapped package.

"What's that?"

"Wiener schnitzel, the real thing. Except that this comes from Budapest, not Vienna. You get the best Hungarian gulyas in Vienna, but the best Wiener schnitzel comes from Budapest. Understand?"

She didn't reply. She simply took his hand and held it against her cheek. He saw that she was crying, but he knew it wasn't because she was unhappy.