The Hostage

III

[ONE] Aeropuerto Internacional Ministro Pistarini de Ezeiza Buenos Aires, Argentina 0615 22 July 2005 Aerolineas Argentinas proved to be much more accommodating about luggage than Delta had been. Just as soon as Castillo had stepped aboard through the main cabin door, a steward had offered to take his briefcase on wheels from him.

"I can store it with the coats, sir," the steward said. "Save you from having to hoist it into the overhead bin."

This courtesy was followed as soon as he took his seat in the first-class compartment of the Boeing 767; a stewardess appeared with a tray of champagne glasses.

He took one, even though he told himself he didn't need it after the three drinks he'd had in the Club of the Americas.

He hadn't needed the glass of merlot that came with the appetizers just as soon as they reached cruising altitude, either, but he took that, and a second glass with the entree-a nice little filet mignon, served with roasted potatoes. And the glass of brandy he had with the camembert and crackers dessert wasn't needed, either.

When the movie came on, he thought the odds were that in a couple of minutes he would doze off and sleep the sleep of the Half-Crocked and More or Less Innocent most of the way across the Southern Hemisphere.

Nothing wrong with that. Unless you're sitting in the left seat in the cockpit, that's the only way to fly: unconscious.

He didn't fall asleep. It was a Mel Gibson movie; Gibson was playing the role of a prosperous businessman whose kid was kidnapped.

Well, let's see how he handles this; maybe I'll learn something, Castillo thought as he pushed the overhead button to summon a stewardess to order another brandy. Castillo thought Gibson was a fine actor. He had played, very credibly, the role of light colonel Hal Moore in the movie version of the book We Were Soldiers Once… and Young, written by Moore and Joe Galloway.

Castillo had read the book, the story of what had happened to one of the first battalions of paratroopers who had been converted to air assault-helicopter inserted-troops at Fort Benning, and then followed them to Vietnam, where some nitwit in the First Cav had inserted them in the wrong place and almost gotten them wiped out.

It was nonfiction, and he'd bought the book because he'd heard that Galloway-who had been at Fort Benning and then gone to Vietnam with the battalion-had done a good job describing the early days of Army aviation, and he thought it might tell him something about what the late WOJG Jorge Alejandro Castillo, boy chopper jockey, had gone through before he bought the farm. And because he knew the light bird battalion commander Galloway had written about-Moore-had wound up with three stars; there had to be a lesson in that alone.

He'd really liked the book, and had taken a chance and gone to see the movie. He almost never went to war movies; most of them were awful. The ones that didn't make you laugh made you sick.

The Soldiers movie had been as good as the book. He thought it was just about as realistic as the movie version of Black Hawk Down, Mark Bowden's book on the disaster that hit the special operators in Mogadishu in 1993, and he had viewed that one with the expert eye of someone who'd been flying a Blackhawk in Somalia at the time.

And Castillo thought that Gibson's portrayal of the battalion commander was right on the money. Gibson's portrayal of the distressed father was very credible, too. Gibson was being forced to make the very tough call between not paying the ransom, or following the advice of the FBI and the cops-and his hysterical wife, the mother of the child-to pay it. When a stewardess gently woke him to offer orange juice, Castillo was more than a little annoyed-if not very surprised-to realize that he had fallen asleep before Gibson had made the tough call.

That last glass of brandy did you in. Now you'll never know what Gibson decided.

I wonder what he did decide?

What the hell would I do in his shoes?

Jesus, it's only a movie.

But you're about to get close to a real kidnapping.

Let this missing the end of the movie be a lesson to you, Charley me boy.

Now you're working. Lay off the booze.

Except maybe for a glass or two of wine. Breakfast was nice, too: grapefruit juice that tasted like freshly squeezed, a mushroom omelet, and hard-crusted rolls served with large pats of unsalted butter.

He remembered Don Fernando-Grandpa-saying, "The only thing the Argentines do well consistently is eat."

Five minutes after a stewardess served a second cup of coffee, Castillo sensed that the pilot had retarded the throttles a tad, and two minutes after that a steward announced-in Spanish, English, and German, which Herr Gossinger thought was a nice touch-that they were beginning their approach to Buenos Aires, where the local time was five-thirty and the temperature was three degrees Celsius.

I really am going to freeze my ass in this seersucker. As the 767 taxied up to the terminal, another 767 caught his eye. It was parked on the tarmac, not at one of the terminal's airways. The legend painted in Arabic and English on its glistening white fuselage read "Pan Arabic."

Good ol' Alex Pevsner told me one of the reasons he hadn't stolen that 727 was that he didn't need an old airplane. And then he had added, "I just bought a nearly new 767 from an airline that went belly up in Argentina."

I wonder if that's it.

Probably not. But you never know with Pevsner. Castillo was the third person to get off the 767-after a portly housewife towing a howling five-year-old-and when he rolled his bags into the terminal, he thought for a moment that he had inadvertently gone through a door that should have been locked.

He hadn't. He was in a duty-free store, and a young woman-Jesus, I like that; long legs, dark eyes, and a splendid bosom-handed him a flyer announcing both that day's bargains and that he could take three hundred U.S. dollars' worth of goods duty-free into Argentina in addition to what was already permitted.

The duty-free store people have solved their problem of getting travelers into their emporium by making it impossible to get to Immigration and Customs without passing through the store; they've built it on both sides of the corridor.

Clever.

But screw them. I don't need anything.

When he got to the Immigration window, a large bag containing a double-box of Famous Grouse scotch, a half-pound bag of M amp;M's, and two eight-ounce cans of cashews was hanging from the handle of the wheeled briefcase.

My intentions were noble. I thought I would see if they had any of Abuela's Reserva San Juan Extra Anejo, so that I would be sure to remember to bring her some. They didn't, but they did have a damned good price on the Famous Grouse. And the cashews and M amp;M's were certainly a hell of a lot cheaper than the ten-bucks-a-can cashews and five-dollar one-ounce packages of nuts Hyatt offers in their minibars.

You're rationalizing again, Charley. The truth is you have no strength of character. If the duty-free-store spending spree isn't enough proof of that, note the way you lusted after the senorita passing out the flyers. You promised yourself you would be faithful to your Secret Service trainee-is that what they're calling her? Maybe cadet?-Betty Schneider, even though she professes not to want to get to know you better than she does now, which is to say, hardly at all. And absolutely not at all in the biblical sense. "And are you in Argentina on business or pleasure, Senor Gossinger?"

"Business and pleasure."

"What's the nature of your business?"

"I'm a journalist, here on a story."

"You understand that as a journalist, you will have to register with the Ministry of Information?"

"I'm only going to be here for a few days. Just to do a story on the survivors of the Graf Spee."

"The law is the law, senor."

This guy never heard of the Graf Spee.

"I certainly understand, and I'll register just as soon as I can. Probably later today."

That was pretty stupid, Inspector Clouseau. You didn't have to tell him you were a journalist. You could have told him you were a used-car salesman on vacation.

How come James Bond never gets asked what he's doing when he goes through Immigration?

Customs didn't give him any trouble. The customs officers pushed a button for each traveler, which randomly flashed a red and a green light. If it came up red, your bags went through the X-ray machine. If it came up green, they waved you through. Castillo won the push of the button.

He pushed through the doors to the arrival lobby.

There was a stocky man holding a crudely lettered sign with GOSSINGER on it.

"My name is Gossinger."

A balding, short, heavyset man in his forties standing next to the man with the sign put out his hand.

"Mr. Gossinger, my name is Santini. Mr. Isaacson asked me to meet you. Welcome to Argentina."

Castillo picked up on the "Mr. Isaacson." Not Joel. Not Agent. And responded accordingly.

"That was very kind of him. And kind of you. How do you do?"

"Some of the taxi drivers here at the airport tend to take advantage of unwary visitors."

"That happens at a lot of airports," Charley replied. "La Guardia comes immediately to mind."

Santini smiled, and then said: "We have a remise- you know what a remise is?"

Charley nodded.

"… with an honest driver," Santini finished, then gestured toward the doors. "Shall we go?"

When the man with the sign got two steps ahead of him, Santini quickly gestured-his index finger across his lips-for Castillo to say nothing important in the presence of the driver. Castillo quickly nodded his head.

They stood for a couple of minutes on the curb while the driver went for the car. Santini didn't say a word. Castillo, feeling colder by the second in his summer suit, silently hoped the driver hurried.

The car was a large, black Volkswagen with heavily tinted glass. As the driver bent to put Castillo's luggage in the trunk, Castillo saw that he had a pistol-it looked like a Beretta 9mm-in a belt holster.

Santini opened the rear door and motioned for Castillo to get in. When he had, Santini slid in beside him. When the driver got behind the wheel, Santini asked, "You don't speak Spanish, do you?"

Castillo asked with a raised eyebrow how he should reply. Santini, just perceptibly, shook his head.

"I'm afraid not," Castillo said.

"Pity," Santini said. "Mr. Isaacson didn't say where you would be staying."

"The Hyatt."

"It's now the Four Seasons, formerly Hyatt Park. They sold it."

"I guess nobody told my travel agent," Castillo said.

"You heard that, Antonio?" Santini asked. "The Four Seasons?"

"Si, senor."

The Volkswagen started off. It was a thirty-minute drive from the airport to the hotel. First down the crowded but nonetheless high-speed autopista toll road, and then onto Avenida 9 Julio, which Castillo remembered was supposed to be the widest avenue in the world.

As they came close to the Four Seasons, formerly Hyatt Park, Castillo saw that it was next to the French embassy, an enormous turn-of-the-century mansion. He'd forgotten that.

A top-hatted doorman welcomed him to the Four Seasons and blew a whistle, which caused a bellman to appear.

"Find somewhere to park," Santini ordered Antonio. "I'll see that Senor Gossinger gets settled." Room 1550 in the Four Seasons was a small suite, a comfortable sitting room and a large bedroom, both facing toward the Main Railroad Station-which Castillo remembered was called "El Retiro"-and the docks and the River Plate beyond. There was something faint on the far horizon.

Castillo wondered aloud if they were high enough so that he was looking at the shore of Uruguay.

"Clear day," Santini replied. "Could be. Why don't we go out on the balcony and have a good look?"

"Why not?"

When they were out on the small balcony, Santini took a small, flat metal box from his pocket and ran it over the walls, then over the tiny table and two chairs, and finally over the floor.

"Clean," he announced. "But it never hurts to check."

Castillo smiled at him.

"Joel tells me there's a warrant out for you in Costa Rica," Santini said with a smile. "Grand Theft, Airplane."

"Joel's mistaken. The name on the warrant is 'Party or Parties Unknown.'"

Santini chuckled, then asked, "What's going on with you here?"

"I was sent to find out about our diplomat's wife who got herself kidnapped."

"When did kidnapping start to interest Special Forces?"

"Joel told you about that, too, huh? To look at him, you wouldn't think he talks too much."

"Your shameful secret is safe with me, Herr Gossinger."

"I guess you know I'm on loan from the Army to Matt Hall?" Santini nodded. "The President told him to send me down here to, quote, find out what happened and how it happened before anybody down there has time to write a cover-his-ass report, end quote."

Santini nodded, then offered:

"Mrs. Elizabeth Masterson, nice lady, wife of J. Winslow Masterson, our chief of mission. Nice guy. She was apparently snatched from the parking lot of a restaurant called Kansas, nice place, in San Isidro, which is an upscale suburb. So far, no communication from the kidnappers. I'm thinking that they may have been very disappointed to find the lady has a diplomatic passport; I wouldn't be surprised if they turn her loose. On the other hand, they may decide that a dead woman can't identify anybody."

"You give it good odds that they'd kill her?"

"They kidnapped a kid not so long ago-not a kid. He was twenty-three. In San Isidro, where they grabbed Mrs. Masterson. He was the son of a rich businessman. They cut off his fingers, one at a time, and sent them to Poppa, together with rising demands for ransom. Poppa finally paid, three hundred thousand American. That's roughly nine hundred thousand pesos, a fortune in a poor country. And shortly thereafter, they found the kid's body, shot in the head."

"Why'd they kill him?"

"Dead men tell no tales," Santini said, mockingly. "Hadn't you heard?"

"Wouldn't that discourage other people from paying ransom?"

"When they've got junior or the missus, you pay and hope you get them back alive. The only thing that may keep Mrs. Masterson alive is if the bad guys are smart enough to realize that killing her would really turn the heat up. That would embarrass the government." He paused, and then, mimicking the sonorous tone of a condescending professor, added, "My experience with the criminal element, lamentably, suggests that very few of them are mentally qualified to be able to modify their antisocial behavior and become nuclear physicists."

Castillo chuckled. "I don't know why I'm laughing," he said, then asked, "What did you say about the Kansas?"

"It's a nice restaurant. She was snatched from the parking lot in back of it. If you want, I'll take you out there for lunch, and you can have a look-see for yourself."

"Thank you. I'd like that. I won't know what I'm looking at, but I have to start somewhere."

"Pardon my ignorance, but why can't you just walk into the embassy and tell the security guy, Ken Lowery, nice guy, what you're doing down here?"

"That would put me in the system. The whole idea is for me not to be in the system."

"Nobody knows you've been sent down here? Not even the agency?"

"Especially the agency. I'm on their bad-guy list. Theirs and the FBI's."

Santini thoughtfully considered that.

"But I'd like to know about them. Or is that putting you on the spot?"

"You're okay with Joel. That's good enough for me. Anyway, there's not much to tell. The CIA station chief-his cover, so called, is commercial attache-is a good guy by the name of Alex Darby. From what I've seen, he's okay. There's no FBI at the embassy, but they sent a couple agents over yesterday from Montevideo to see if they could be useful. I just barely know them. Typical FBI agents."

"You think-what did you say his name is? Darby?- you think Darby's in tight with SIDE and/or the local cops?"

"You know what SIDE is?"

"The Argentine versions of the CIA and the FBI combined in one, right?"

Santini nodded, then asked, "You've been here before?"

"Yeah."

"Nobody at the embassy knows you?"

"I don't think so. I've never actually been inside the place."

Santini nodded, accepting that, and then answered the question:

"I would say Darby's tight with SIDE and Lowery's tight with the cops." He paused, and then asked, "What's going to happen if-when-they find out you're down here? Nosing around down here? I'm not going to say anything, but…"

"I really hope they don't. It would put Natalie Cohen on the spot with the ambassador for not telling him. She knows I'm down here, and why."

"You call the secretary of state by her first name?"

"No. I call her 'ma'am,'" Castillo said, but then added, smiling: "But she calls me Charley."

"Speaking of names, Joel said Gossinger's a beard."

"My name is really Castillo. Charley Castillo."

He put out his hand. Santini took it.

"Tony," he said, and then in Italian, "You don't look Italian."

Charley shook his head and replied, in Italian, "Half German and half Texan, heavy on the Hispanic heritage."

"You speak good Italian."

"Languages come pretty easy to me."

Santini nodded his acceptance of this, then asked, "How good a cover? If SIDE develops an interest in you, they'll check. They're pretty good at that."

"It'll hold up. Gossinger, who works for a German newspaper, the Tages Zeitung, is here to do a human-interest story on the survivors of the Graf Spee. If my editor at the Tages Zeitung hasn't already told the German embassy I'm here and said I would appreciate all courtesies, he will soon."

Santini looked at him a moment.

"Okay, so you speak Spanish, you've been here, you've got what sounds like a pretty good cover. But I still don't know how you can do what you're supposed to do without going to the embassy."

"I didn't say I wasn't going to go to the embassy. Charley Castillo's not going to the embassy."

"You're pretty good at this undercover business? Playingmake-believe? You could get away with playing Gossinger at the embassy?"

"Why not?"

"Can I make a suggestion?"

"I'm wide open."

"Even if they swallow you whole at the embassy as Herr Gossinger, they're not going to tell you anything. For one thing, it hasn't been in the papers or on the tube. The Argentines are embarrassed, and they put a lid on the story. We're not talking about it to the Americans-not the newspaper, not the New York Times, nobody. The Argentines are hoping that when the bad guys find out they've got a dip's wife they'll turn her loose, and the whole thing can be forgotten. Personally, I think they're pissing in the wind, but that's where it is right now. So if Herr Gossinger goes to the embassy and starts answering questions, Lowery and everybody else are going to wonder how the hell Herr Gossinger heard about it."

"I hope Joel told you I wasn't sent here because I was the best-qualified man all around to conduct an undercover kidnapping investigation."

"Joel said you had two skills: you were one hell of a swordsman and pretty good about stealing stolen air-liners back from the bad guys."

"He didn't mention my poker playing?"

"No," Santini said, smiling. "But figure that out. If he told me that, he would be admitting you took him."

"Joel has one flaw in his character," Charley said. "He actually thinks he can play poker."

"He also thinks he can actually play gin," Santini said. "When we were on the presidential detail, waiting, we got to play a hell of a lot of gin. I took a lot of his money."

They smiled at each other.

"But we digress, Herr Gossinger," Santini said. "We were talking about my little suggestion."

"Let's hear it."

"If, say," Santini began, "a fellow Secret Service agent just happened to be passing through Buenos Aires, and checked in with me at the embassy, and he and I just happened to bump into Ken Lowery, and I told Lowery, 'I was just telling Agent Whatsisname here about Mrs. Masterson,' Lowery would understand that-he's always making reference to 'we federal agents' as if he were one-and would probably stumble over his tongue to tell you how he's dealing with the problem."

"Am I detecting you don't think too much of this guy's ability as an investigator?"

"He's a good guy, like I said, but how many times do you think he's had a chance to investigate anything more serious than some dip diddling another dip's wife? Such conduct being detrimental to the foreign service of the United States."

Castillo chuckled, then asked, "What would happen to you if they found out you'd set this up? And they probably would, sooner or later."

"Maybe they would send me home in disgrace," Santini said. "And I could go back to being a real Secret Service agent. Coming down here wasn't my idea. Or maybe you could have told me, as the Presidential Agent, what you were doing and ordered me to keep my mouth shut."

"Consider yourself so ordered," Castillo said. "But I have to tell you the last time I did that-to a guy who had some information I needed-the DCI wasn't impressed and relieved him for cause. He finally wound up with a letter of commendation from the President, but he had a very uncomfortable couple of days before that happened."

"What'll happen will happen," Santini said.

"How come they sent you down here?"

"I hurt myself, and was placed on limited duty, so they sent me down here to look for funny money."

"How'd you hurt yourself?"

"Joel didn't tell you?"

Castillo shook his head.

"If you laugh, I'll break both your arms," Santini said, conversationally. "I fell off the Vice President's limo bumper, and the trailing Yukon ran over my foot."

"I won't laugh, but can I smile broadly?"

"Fuck you, Herr Gossinger," Santini said, smiling.

"What would another Secret Service agent be doing, passing through Argentina?"

"Any one of fifty things, it happens all the time, at least once a month. Usually, it's a supervisory special agent bitching about my expenses; crap like that. The only problem I can see would be if somebody asked you to prove who you were."

"Wait one," Charley said.

Less than two minutes later, he handed his Secret Service credentials to Santini.

"Hall got you these?" he asked when he'd examined them.

Castillo shook his head.

"Joel went to Hall and got them for me."

"These would work, I think. Your call."

"It looks to me like a winner," Castillo said. "Thanks, Tony."

Santini made a deprecating gesture.

"The dips don't go to work until nine," he said. "So why don't you get yourself settled, and then about nine, take a taxi to the embassy?"

"Okay."

"Facing the embassy, to the right is the gate for employees. Use that one. The guards are Argentines. Flash the tin at one of them, and they'll escort you into the building, to Post One, where there's a Marine guard. Flash the tin at him, tell him you want to see me. I will appear and profess surprise at seeing Supervisory Special Agent Castillo, and get you a visitor's badge. Then we will arrange to bump into Lowery."

"Sounds good. A taxi? Not a remise?"

"A taxi to the embassy. There's no sense in letting SIDE know you went right from your hotel to the embassy."

Castillo asked for an explanation with a raised eyebrow.

"For a little background," Santini said, "the drivers of Palermo Remise are off-duty cops. That means they can carry guns. That's useful; there's a lot of bad guys here. The problem is I suspect the off-duty cops they send me are SIDE agents. If my cynicism is on the money, I've worked out an unspoken agreement with SIDE. I use their remises, the drivers report to SIDE where I go, and who I talk to. That way they don't have to put a tail on me. I just don't talk business in a remise."

"Understood," Castillo said.

"But generally-unless you don't want SIDE to know where you're going-Palermo Remise is a good idea," Santini said, and handed him a business card. "It never takes them much longer than ten minutes to pick you up, no matter where you are. They use cellulars."

Castillo nodded.

"Thanks, Tony."

Santini handed him a Motorola cellular telephone and a charger. Again, Castillo asked about it with a raised eyebrow.

"My personal cell number is Auto Four," Santini said. "My personal-unlisted-number is Five, and my office is Six. I've got a good Argentine administrative assistant, Daniel. As far as I know, he's not working for SIDE."

Castillo nodded his understanding.

"You can call the States with that, but it's about nine dollars a second, so don't spend hours chatting up your girlfriend."

"Who pays the bills for this? The Secret Service or the embassy?"

"The Secret Service. Which means me. Which means, I guess, Supervisory Agent Castillo, you can talk to your girlfriend as long as you want to."

Hi there, Betty. Charley Castillo. I was just sitting here in my hotel room in Buenos Aires wondering how things are going up there in Georgia, and thought I'd give you a call.

Yeah, I know they must be keeping you pretty busy there in agent school, or whatever the hell they call it.

Sorry to bother you.

"Thanks, Tony."

Santini touched his arm.

"See you a little after nine," he said, and walked from the balcony, through the room, and out the door.

Charley took a shower. The only word to describe the bathroom was sumptuous. Except for the ceiling, everything was marble. There was both a Jacuzzi and a large shower stall, and a heated chrome rack on one wall held enough thick towels to dry an elephant.

He put on what he thought of as his "bureaucrat's uniform," a dark gray single-breasted suit with a white button-down shirt and a striped necktie.

He looked at his watch and saw that it was five minutes past eight, which meant it was five minutes past seven in Washington. Calling Joel Isaacson to thank him for Santini would have to wait. And it didn't make sense to send an e-mail. For one thing, he didn't have much to say, except what Santini had told him. Maybe after he talked to the security guy at the embassy he would know more. And if by twelve-eleven in D.C.-he didn't know more, then he would send an e-mail saying just that: Nothing yet. Working on it. Best wishes. Sherlock Holmes.

He reached for the telephone to call room service and then changed his mind. He would have coffee in the lobby. If there was nothing else to attract his attention- and he thought there was a good chance there would be; the only other place he knew where there were so many good-looking women was Budapest-he'd have a look at the Buenos Aires Herald.

He thought for a moment about what to do with Gossinger's passport and credit cards, and then put them in the padding of the laptop case. It was always awkward to be found with two sets of identification.

He walked down the corridor to the bank of elevators and pushed the down-arrow button. The door opened almost immediately, and he found himself looking at a slim man in his early forties, with shortly cropped, thinning hair. He wore a light brown single-breasted suit and a subdued necktie. He would not stand out in a crowd.

"Either you're a much better actor than I've previously given you credit for being, or that startled look is genuine," the man said.

So it was Pevsner's 767 at Ezeiza. I wonder what the hell they're doing in Buenos Aires?

"Good morning, Howard," Castillo said.

"I would say, 'How are you?'" Howard Kennedy said. "But I think the more important question is 'Who are you to day?'"

"Today my name is Castillo," Charley said. "How about you?"

"Charley Castillo, intrepid Green Beret? Or Charley Castillo of the Secret Service?"

It was a high-speed elevator. The door opened onto the lobby as Castillo's mouth opened. There were people-a family, husband, wife, and two teenaged boys-waiting to get on the elevator.

"The latter, Howard," Castillo said as he got off the elevator.

Kennedy waited until no one was within hearing.

"So what brings you to Gaucho Land, Charley?" he asked.

"I'll tell you what I'm doing here if you tell me what you are."

"Over a cup of coffee? I'll buy. I know from painful experience how little the government pays its law enforcement agents, even the very good ones."

"Flattery, and the offer of a free cup of coffee, will get you everywhere."

Kennedy smiled and touched Castillo's arm.

"This is probably very foolish of me, but I'm really glad to see you."

Castillo smiled at him.

"I'm not sure if I'm glad to see you, or just overwhelmed with curiosity."

Kennedy chuckled and led the way to the nice restaurant set for breakfast and lunch, an open area furnished with low tables and leather-and-chrome armchairs.

A waitress-a stunning young woman with long legs and large dark eyes-appeared almost immediately. They ordered coffee.

"And bring some pastry, please," Kennedy added. When she had gone, he said, "Very nice. I envy you your bachelor status."

"I saw the Pan Arabic 767 at Ezeiza," Charley said. "I wondered if it was yours."

"My, you are observant, aren't you? It got in at an obscene hour, and I came here to take a shower and a nap. And then, surprise, surprise!"

"You were going to tell me what you're doing here."

"We brought a load of tapestries and other decorations from Riyadh for the King Faisal Islamic Center, and we're going to take back two dozen polo ponies, and cases of boots and saddles and other accoutrements, for the game of kings."

"So you're now a horse trader?"

"Your turn, Charley."

"There's a personnel problem at the embassy. They sent me down to see what it really is."

"Instead of what the ambassador is saying it is?"

Castillo nodded. "Something like that."

The waitress appeared with coffee and pastry.

"That was quick," Kennedy said.

He reached for a petit four.

Castillo said, "My grandfather used to say the only things the Argentines do consistently well is eat."

Kennedy chuckled. "You going to tell me the nature of the personnel problem at the embassy?"

"Just as soon as you tell me what you're really doing here."

Kennedy smiled at him. "Now that I think about it, I really don't give much of a damn about personnel problems in the embassy."

"On the other hand, I'd really like to know what you're really doing here."

"I'm sure you would. But you're going to have to be satisfied with that it is neither illegal nor inimical to the interests of the United States."

"I could ask for no more," Castillo said, and then asked, "You ever see that Mel Gibson movie where they kidnap his kid?"

"No. I can't say that I have. I'd love to know why you're asking."

"It was the in-flight movie. I fell asleep in the middle, and I've been wondering how it turned out."

"I think you're serious."

"They kidnapped his kid, and he had to decide to pay the ransom, which his wife and the FBI wanted him to do, or not pay."

Kennedy shook his head.

"In a previous employment," Kennedy said, "I worked a half dozen big-dollar kidnappings. Big-dollar kidnappings are usually either inside jobs, in which case a couple of good interrogators can usually find out who done it in a matter of hours. Or they're professional jobs, in which case the victim is kept alive only long enough for them to collect the ransom. Phrased somewhat indelicately, if you pay the ransom, you lose the victim and the money. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Charley? What did Gibson do?"

"I told you I fell asleep before that happened."

"And now you'll lie awake nights wondering about it," Kennedy said sarcastically, and then asked, "How long are you going to be here, Charley?"

Castillo raised both hands in a Who the hell knows? gesture.

"Maybe we can have dinner," Kennedy said, "or drinks."

"I'd like that."

"How do I get in touch with you?"

"Here, I suppose."

"You don't have a cellular? Or you're not going to give me the number? Which?"

"You show me yours and I'll show you mine."

"Deal."

They exchanged cellular phones.

I know how come I have a cellular, even though I just got here.

So where did you get yours, Howard? Maybe you didn't just arrive in the obscene hours of the morning?

"Rushed right from the plane to the cellular store, did you, Charley?"

"Howard, it's not nice-didn't your mommy tell you?-to read other people's minds. But, to satisfy your curiosity, I got mine from the Secret Service guy here. The Secret Service takes care of its own. Where did you get yours?"

"I borrowed it from a friend."

"Sure."

Kennedy looked at him and smiled, but didn't respond directly. He handed Charley's cellular back to him.

"I'd love to push the autodial buttons on that, and see who answers."

"Who do you think might answer?"

"They call the FBI guys in embassies 'legal attaches,' I guess you know."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Castillo responded, "none of the autodial buttons will call the FBI. I don't even know anybody in the FBI here. As a matter of fact, I just learned they don't even have an FBI detachment, or whatever, at the embassy. What about your buttons?"

Kennedy didn't reply directly to that, either. Instead, he said, "So what's on your agenda right now? Can I drop you someplace?"

"I'm going to the embassy."

"It's right on my way. I'll drop you."

"On your way to where?"

"The King Faisal Islamic Center. It's just a couple of blocks from the embassy."

"I have a hard time picturing you touching your forehead to the floor in prayer."

"It's business, Charley. Just business."

"Isn't that the line the Mafia uses, just before they shoot people?"

"Would that the Arabs were as easy to deal with as the Mafia," Kennedy said, and stood up. He took a wad of money from his pocket and dropped several bills on the table. "You want a ride or not?"

A black Mercedes-Benz S500 with heavily darkened windows was waiting for Kennedy when he came through the revolving door. A large man who looked vaguely familiar got quickly out of the front passenger seat and opened the rear door.

"You remember Herr Gossinger, don't you, Frederic?" Kennedy said.

"Guten morgen, Herr Gossinger," the man said without expression.

The last time I saw you was in Vienna. I pegged you as either Hungarian or Czech, but what the hell. It all used to be Austria.

"Gruss Gott!" Charley said, trying to sound as Viennese as possible.

Kennedy got quickly in the backseat, and Charley slid in after him. [TWO] The United States Embassy Avenida Colombia 4300 Buenos Aires, Argentina 0905 22 July 2005 As Kennedy's Mercedes turned off Avenida Libertador, Castillo could see both the American embassy and the ambassador's residence, a large, vaguely European-looking mansion fronting on Libertador. A large, armored, blue Policia Federal van was parked on the street across from it, but Charley couldn't see any police.

The embassy sat a block away, overlooking a park, behind both a steel picket fence and a half circle of highway-divider concrete barricades. It was unquestionably American, he thought somewhat unpatriotically.

Another building-the embassies in London and Montevideo come to mind-built to the pattern that should have won the architect the opposite of the Pritzker Prize: one for designing the Ugliest Office Buildings of the Century.

The only thing that keeps people from confusing that drab concrete oblong with a misplaced airport warehouse is that the gray walls are perforated with neat rows of square inset windows.

There are probably a thousand roadside Marriott or Hilton motels that are better-looking and look American. Why the hell couldn't they have used brick, and thrown in a couple of columns? Made it look a little like Monticello, or even the White House?

The intensity of his reaction surprised him.

Why am I pissed?

Fatigue? Hangover?

Being sent down here to do something I have no idea how to do?

Maybe that. Okay, certainly that. But really, it's Howard Kennedy.

What the hell is he doing here? It's no coincidence. Or is it?

I don't know-have no way of knowing-and that disturbs me.

And why is he absolutely unable to believe that I have no intention of flipping him to the FBI? Goddammit, by now he should know he can trust me. Which of course makes me unable to trust him…

"The entrance is way down on the left," Kennedy said. "And it looks like there's a line of people ahead of you."

"Probably people applying for visas," Castillo replied. "There's supposed to be an employee entrance on the right. Just drop me anywhere along here."

A moment later the Mercedes pulled to the curb. Charley saw the man in the front jump out to open the door for him. He turned to Kennedy and offered his hand.

"Thanks, Howard," he said.

"I have every confidence you're not going to tell the legal attache how you got here."

"Oh, goddammit, Howard! I told you, there's no FBI here."

"So you said."

"Fuck you, Howard."

"Hey, Charley, I'm just pulling your chain."

"No, you're not."

"Let's try to have a drink and/or dinner," Kennedy said.

"Yeah. Give me a call."

He got out of the Mercedes and walked quickly across the street. There was a gap wide enough to walk through between the wedges of the concrete barrier. Once through that, he could see a gate, with a guard shack and a revolving barrier, in the steel picket fence.

There were three men in the guard shack, wearing police-style uniforms with embroidered patches of some security service on the sleeves. What looked like Smith amp; Wesson.357 Magnum revolvers hung in open holsters from Sam Browne belts.

He extended the leather folder holding his Secret Service credentials to one of the guards.

"I'm here to see Mr. Santini," he said in English.

"This gate is for embassy personnel only," the security guard said, more than a little arrogantly, and pointed to the far side of the embassy.

You sonofabitch, you didn't even look at my credentials!

An Argentine rent-a-cop is denying a Secret Service agent access to an American embassy? No fucking way!

"You get on that goddamn telephone and tell the Marine guard that a United States Secret Service officer is here at the gate," Castillo snapped, in Spanish.

Looking a little surprised at the fluent Spanish, as well as the tone, the guard gestured for Castillo to show him his credentials again. Another security guard picked up the telephone.

Castillo turned his back on them.

That little display of anger was uncalled for. What the hell is the matter with me?

But on the other hand, I think that would have been the reaction of a bona fide Secret Service agent. Maybe not Joel, but Tom McGuire certainly would not put up with any crap from a rent-a-cop.

He saw the Mercedes had not moved.

Trying to see if I'm really going in, are you, Howard?

No. What you're trying to do is see whether I am immediately passed in, which would mean I'm known here, or whether I'm being subjected to this rent-a-cop bullshit because they don't know me.

He smiled and waved cheerfully, and the Mercedes started to move.

"If you will come with me, please, senor?" the rent-a-cop who had been on the telephone said in English.

Castillo turned and saw that the revolving barrier was moving. He went through it, and the security cop was waiting for him.

"Do you have a cellular telephone or other electronic device, sir?"

"I have a cellular," Castillo said in Spanish.

"You'll have to leave it with me, sir. It will be returned when you leave."

"We will talk to the Marine guard about that," Castillo snapped in Spanish, and started walking to the embassy building.

After a moment's hesitation, the security guard walked after him.

There were maybe fifteen people standing outside the glass entrance walls. They were all smoking.

I doubt the you-can't-smoke-in-a-U.S.-government-building zealots have ever wondered how much time is lost by all these people taking a smoke break. What's that cost the taxpayer?

Okay, Charley. Tantrum time is over. Be nice.

Inside the lobby there was a row of chrome-and-leather benches-like the seats in an airport-against the wall, portraits of the President, the Vice President, and the secretary of state on the walls, and, behind a glass-walled counter, a Marine guard-a sergeant-wearing a khaki shirt, dress blue trousers, and a white Sam Browne belt.

"May I help you, sir?" the Marine guard asked.

Charley handed him the credentials folder, which the sergeant examined carefully.

"I'm here to see Mr. Santini."

"He has a cellular," the security guard accused.

The sergeant picked up a telephone and punched a button.

"Sergeant Volkmann at Post One," he said. "There's a Mr. Castillo to see you, sir." There was a pause, and then the sergeant said, "Yes, sir," and looked at Castillo.

"Mr. Santini will be right down, sir," the Marine sergeant said. "Please have a seat."

He pointed to the benches.

"He has a cellular," the security guard said again.

"Excuse me, sir," the Marine sergeant said.

Castillo looked at him.

"Are you armed, sir?" the Marine sergeant asked, pointing to a metal-detector arch in front of the door leading inside.

Castillo shook his head.

"Thank you, sir."

Castillo sat down on one of the benches.

The secretary of state, unsmiling, looked down at him from the wall.

Natalie, I really wish you had been able to talk the President out of sending me down here.

The security guard flashed Castillo a dirty look as he walked out of the lobby.

Santini came through the metal detector arch a minute later.

"Good morning, sir," he said, putting out his hand. "I just learned that you were coming."

"How are you, Santini?" Castillo said as he shook the hand.

Santini turned to the Marine guard.

"Can I get Supervisory Special Agent Castillo a frequent visitor badge, or am I going to have to run that through Lowery?"

"Sorry, sir," the Marine said. "Mr. Lowery runs a tight ship."

"Well, then, give him a regular visitor badge."

"Yes, sir. I'll have to have his passport, Mr. Santini."

"Jesus Christ!" Castillo said, and then smiled at the sergeant as he handed him his passport. "Sergeant, that 'Jesus Christ' was directed at whoever made a dumb rule, not you."

"No problem, sir," the Marine said, with a hint of a smile.

He handed Castillo a plastic yellow visitor's pass on what looked like a dog tag chain, and pushed a clipboard to him.

"If you'll sign that, please, sir."

"And if you'll follow me, sir," Santini said, "we'll see if we can't straighten this out with Mr. Lowery."

"He the security guy?" Castillo asked.

"Yes, sir, he is."

Castillo hung the visitor's badge around his neck and followed Santini through the metal detector.

Inside, behind the Marine guard post enclosure, was a foyer. In the center of it were two elevator doors, one of them open. Santini waved Castillo through it and pushed a floor button.

"I would say that we are about to corner the security lion in his lair," Santini said, when the door had closed and they were alone, "except that he's more of a pussy-cat." The door from the third-floor corridor to the embassy security officer's office was open. Kenneth W. Lowery- he looks a hell of a lot like Howard Kennedy-was sitting at his desk, talking on the telephone.

When he saw Santini, he smiled and waved him in.

"I'll get back to you," Lowery said, and hung up the telephone.

"Good morning, Tony," he said.

"Say hello to Supervisory Secret Service Agent Castillo," Santini said. "He's in town to complain about my expense sheet."

"Having seen your lifestyle, I can see where that would be entirely possible," Lowery said, getting up and extending his hand across his desk. "Nice to meet you."

"How are you?" Castillo said.

"What are the chances of getting Mr. Castillo a frequent visitor badge? He's going to be in and out."

"How long are you going to be here, Mr. Castillo?"

"Call me 'Charley,' please," Castillo said. "As long as it takes to get Santini to admit he's been robbing the service blind. That shouldn't take more than a week or so."

"Could I see your credentials, please? And your travel orders?"

"Credentials, yes," Castillo said. "Travel orders, no."

"You don't have travel orders?" Lowery asked.

"Blanket," Castillo said.

Lowery examined the credentials carefully.

"I don't think I've ever met a supervisory special agent before," he said, making it a question.

How the hell do I respond to that?

"I wasn't notified that you were coming," Lowery said.

Another question, not a statement.

"That's why they call it the Secret Service," Santini said. "What we do is secret; we don't tell anyone."

Lowery did not find that amusing.

"Except for having a couple of chats with Santini, I have no business with the embassy," Castillo said. "If there's a problem with this frequent visitor badge he thinks I should have, forget it." He paused and added: "There's a number you can call to verify my bona fides on the back side of the photo ID."

"Oh, no. No problem at all," Lowery said quickly. "Can I borrow these for a moment? I'll have my secretary make up the badge."

"Sure," Castillo said.

Lowery went through a side door and came back a moment later.

"Take just a couple of minutes. She'll type it out and then plasticize it. I told her to make it out for two weeks. That be long enough?"

"More than long enough," Castillo said. "Thank you."

"Can I offer you a cup of coffee while we're waiting?"

"Yes, thank you."

Lowery went through the door again, and returned shortly with three china mugs.

"I know Tony takes his black," Lowery said. "But there's…"

"He takes it black? Then what's that thirty-eight-dollar item for cream and sugar, Santini?"

Lowery looked at him, then laughed.

"Tony's been telling me about your problem," Castillo said.

"What problem is that?" Lowery asked warily.

"The missing wife," Castillo said.

Lowery flashed Santini a dirty look.

Santini rose to it.

"Come on, Ken, it's not as if Mr. Castillo works for the New York Times."

Lowery considered that for a moment.

"Actually, just before you came in, I was wondering how long it will be before the Times guy hears about it." He paused, then added: "What did Tony tell you?"

"Just that the wife of the chief of mission is missing under mysterious circumstances."

"The husband's climbing the walls, understandably," Lowery said. "She was waiting for him in a restaurant in San Isidro. When he got there, her purse and car were there, and she wasn't."

"And you think she was kidnapped?"

Lowery hesitated before replying, then asked, "Have you got much experience with this sort of thing, Mr. Castillo?"

"A little."

Once, for example, I helped snatch two Iraqi generals, one Russian general, one Russian colonel, and half a dozen other non-Iraqis from a Scud site in the Iraqi desert. I don't think that's what you have in mind, but let's see where this goes.

"Frankly, I don't," Lowery said. "Let me tell you what I've got, and you tell me what you think."

"Sure."

"I don't think these people were just hanging around the Kansas parking lot to grab the first woman they thought looked as if someone would pay to get her back. Too many well-heeled folks pass through that parking lot on any given night, and never a nab. They were looking for Mrs. Masterson."

"That suggests they think the government would pay to get her back. Don't they know that we don't pay ransom to turn people loose?"

"Jack Masterson has money," Lowery said. "Lots of money. You don't know who he is?"

Castillo shook his head.

"'Jack the Stack'?" Lowery asked.

Castillo shook his head again.

"The basketball player?"

That didn't ring a bell, but there was a very slight tinkle. "Oh."

"In the fourth month of his professional basketball career," Lowery explained, "for which, over a five-year period, Jack the Stack was to be paid ten million dollars…"

Castillo's eyebrows went up. Christ, now I know! "But he was run over by a beer truck when leaving the stadium," Castillo said.

"Driven by a guy who had been sampling his product," Lowery finished. "He had twice as much alcohol in his blood than necessary to be considered legally under the influence."

"And there was a settlement," Castillo said.

"One hell of a settlement. Without even going to court. Jack wasn't badly injured, but enough so that he would never be able to play professional ball again. The brewery didn't want to go to court because not only were they going to lose-they were responsible and knew it; the truck driver was their agent-but there would be all sorts of the wrong kind of publicity. They paid not only the ten million he would have earned under his contract, but also what he could reasonably have expected to earn in the rest of his professional career. It came to sixty million, not counting the money he could have made with endorsements."

"I always wondered what happened to him after he left the game," Castillo said.

My thoughts were unkind. I wondered how long it would take him-like the winners of a lottery or heavyweight champions-to piss away all that money and wind up broke, reduced to greeting people in the lobby of some casino in Las Vegas.

And he wound up a diplomat?

Oh, you are a fine judge of character, Charley Castillo!

"Jack could have, of course, bought an island in the Bahamas and spent the rest of his life fishing, but he's not that kind of guy. He wanted to do something with his life, and he had an education."

"The foreign service seems a long way from a basketball court," Castillo said.

"Not if your wife is the daughter of an ambassador- and, for that matter, your brother-in-law a pretty highly placed guy in the United Nations. Jack had a degree- cum laude-in political science, so when he took the foreign service examination and passed it with flying colors, no one was really surprised."

"You don't think of pro athletes having cum laude degrees in anything," Castillo said.

Do I believe that?

No. I know better. There have been exceptions.

But the accusation has been made, justifiably, that C. G. Castillo has a tendency toward political incorrectness.

"Once Jack was in the foreign service, he started working his way up. Quickly working his way up. He's good at what he does. After this tour, they'll probably make him an ambassador."

"And you think the people who grabbed his wife knew this story?"

"Hell, this is the age of satellite television. The average Argentine twenty-year-old knows more about American professional basketball than I do."

Certainly more than I do. I have never understood why people stay glued to a television screen watching outsized mature adults in baggy shorts try to throw a basketball through a hoop.

"There aren't very many African Americans in Argentina," Lowery said. "Even fewer who stand six-feet-eight and get their pictures on the TV and in La Nacion and Clarin when they're standing in for the ambassador, or explaining a change in visa policy. 'Who is that huge black guy? Looks like a basketball player. Why, that's Jack the Stack, that's who he is, the guy who got all those millions when the cerveza truck ran over him.'"

"That makes sense."

"'Let's snatch his wife'" Lowery concluded.

"Yeah," Castillo agreed.

"So far, not a word from the kidnappers," Lowery said.

"Is that unusual?"

"The Policia Federal tell me they usually call within hours just to tell the family not to contact the police, and make their first demands either then, or within twenty-fourhours. It's been-my God, it will be forty-eight hours at seven tonight."

"How good are the police?"

"The ones that aren't kidnappers themselves are very good."

"Really?"

"They fired the whole San Isidro police commissariat-like a precinct-a while back on suspicion of being involved in kidnappings there."

"Were they?"

"Probably," Lowery said.

He looked thoughtfully at Castillo for a moment.

"Have I made it clear that I like Jack Masterson? Personally and professionally?"

Castillo nodded.

"I'm worried about him, both personally and professionally," Lowery said.

"How so?"

"The policy of never dealing with terrorists or kidnappers makes a lot of sense intellectually," Lowery said. "But emotionally? My wife hasn't been kidnapped, and I don't have the money to pay any ransom."

"You think if they contact him, he'll pay?"

"I don't know. If he did, he might get his wife back, and he might not. These people have… Just a couple of months ago, after a rich Argentine businessman paid an enormous ransom… after the kidnappers sent him his son's amputated fingers…"

"Santini told me that story," Castillo interrupted.

"… they found the boy's body. They'd shot him in the head."

"Nice people," Castillo said.

"Who are entirely capable of doing the same thing to Betsy Masterson," Lowery went on. "Worst-case scenario, Jack doesn't get Betsy back, and it comes out that he paid a ransom. In violation of strict policy with which he is familiar. That'd mean he would have lost both his wife and his career in the State Department. Or he does get her back, and they find out he's paid the ransom, and that would end his career."

A price any reasonable man would be happy to pay, I think. Wives are more important than money or careers.

I wonder if Mel Gibson came to that conclusion?

"You do have somebody sitting on him?" Castillo asked.

"Excuse me?"

It's cop talk. The first time I heard it was in the Counterintelligence Bureau of the Philadelphia Police Department. Captain O'Brien ordered Sergeant Schneider to sit on Dick Miller and me until further orders. I was more than a little disappointed to realize he only meant that she was to be helpful, while not letting us out of her sight, and ensuring that we didn't do anything we should not be doing.

"Keeping him company," Castillo said.

"Interesting term," Lowery said. "No. I mean, I try to stay in contact with him. But I couldn't assign a guard to him, or anything like that. He has a driver, of course, one of those Argentine security people in civilian clothes. And armed. But he does what Jack tells him, not the other way around. But for one thing, Jack wouldn't permit being followed around by one of my guys, and for another, I don't have much of a staff."

Castillo grunted, then asked, "Is he coming into work?"

"Yes and no. He comes in, but then he leaves. I know that yesterday he took their kids to school and picked them up. And he called in this morning to say he was taking them to school again."

"There's adequate security at the school? He's not worried about something happening to the kids?"

"It's the Lincoln School," Lowery said. "It's an accredited K-through-twelve American school. Many non-American diplomats send their kids there, and a lot of Argentines. Not only does the school have its own security people-the same company we use at the embassy, as a matter of fact-but a lot of the parents station their own security people outside when school is in session. It's one of the safest places in town."

I don't know what I'm talking about, of course, but if my wife was kidnapped, and I knew their school was safe, I'd send them-or take them. Make their life, at least, as normal as possible. Take their minds off Mommy.

A very tall African American in a very well-tailored suit walked into Lowery's office without knocking, followed by a small, plump man with a pencil-line mustache in a rumpled suit.

That has to be Masterson. I wonder who the bureaucrat with him is?

Chief of Mission J. Winslow Masterson smiled absently at Castillo and Santini, and then looked at Kenneth Lowery.

"Anything, Ken?" he asked.

"Not a word, Jack," Lowery said.

"I just dropped the kids at school," Masterson said. "It looked to me like there were more Policia Federal there than usual."

"Could be, Jack," Lowery said.

Masterson looked at Santini.

"Good morning, Tony."

"Good morning, sir. Mr. Masterson, this is Supervisory Special Agent Castillo."

Masterson smiled and put out his hand.

"FBI? From Montevideo? I was just about to go looking for you."

"I'm with the Secret Service, Mr. Masterson," Castillo said. "Just passing through. I just now heard what's happened."

Masterson shook his head but said nothing for a moment. Then he said, "It's the not knowing that's getting to me. What do these bastards want? Why haven't we heard anything from them?"

You poor bastard.

"I was going to suggest, Jack-even before Mr. Castillo showed up-that Tony get together with those FBI people," Lowery said. "If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Castillo. Maybe you and Tony-"

"I think that's a very good idea," Masterson said. "What's that phrase they use in the advertising business? 'Brainstorm'? Where are they?"

"They're using the DEA office," Lowery said.

"We could use my office," Masterson said. "But it would probably be better if we went there."

Lowery stood up. He looked at Castillo. "I'll have my secretary bring your frequent visitor badge up there."

Castillo smiled at him and nodded.

"Excuse me," Masterson said. "Mr. Castillo… or do I call you 'Agent Castillo'?"

"Mister's fine, sir. Charley's better."

Masterson smiled at him.

"Okay, Charley. This is Alex Darby, our commercial attache. More important, my friend."

Darby offered Castillo his hand. There was curiosity in his eyes.

Is the friend-the-commercial-attache curious about the Secret Service being here? Or the CIA station chief?

"Hello, Mr. Castillo," Darby said.

"How do you do?" Charley replied.

Now there was the hint of a smile on Darby's thin lips.

What the hell does that mean? The Drug Enforcement Administration office-a large room with a dozen desks, and a large conference table, plus three smaller glass-walled offices-was on the third floor of the embassy.

The seven men seated around the conference table stood up when they saw Masterson come in.

Three of them are wearing shoulder holsters. Probably the DEA agents.

"Keep your seats," Masterson said with a wave and a smile.

There was a chorus of "Good morning, sir."

"I thought maybe if we all put our heads together," Masterson said, "and brainstorm the situation, we might be able to make some sense out of it. Is that all right with everybody?"

Another chorus, this time of "Yes, sir."

The man at the head of the table, one of those wearing a shoulder holster, stood up, clearly offering Masterson his seat. Masterson took it.

"This gentleman is Supervisory Special Agent Castillo, of the Secret Service," Masterson said, gesturing at Castillo and then offering his hand to one of the other men. "I'm presuming you're one of the FBI agents from Montevideo?"

"Yes, sir," the man said. "Special Agent Dorman, sir. And this is Special Agent Yung."

Special Agent Yung was Oriental.

Not Korean, Castillo judged. Or Japanese. Most likely Chinese.

Yung looked at Castillo with far greater interest than Dorman did.

"I'm presuming you know Mr. Santini, our resident Secret Service agent?" Masterson asked. Both FBI agents nodded.

"Well, I suppose the best place to start is at the beginning," Masterson went on. "And two things, gentlemen: One is that you're the experts. I have no experience with this sort of thing. And second, this will only work if you say almost anything that comes to mind. Okay, let's start with what I sort of suspect may be the beginning. Does anyone think there's anything but unfortunate coincidencein the three automobile accidents-the third on my way to meet my wife-I've been involved in in the past month or five weeks?"

He looked at Yung. "Why don't we start with you, Mr. Yung?" Two hours and some minutes later, Masterson himself finally called off the brainstorming session. Everyone had really run out of ideas-wild and reasonable-thirty minutes before, but no one seemed to be willing to suggest they stop. Masterson was no better off than when they had started, and everyone felt sorry for him and a little guilty that they and he knew now exactly what they had known when they started: nothing.

As Masterson, Lowery, Santini, Darby, and Castillo were standing waiting for the elevator, and Castillo was wondering why they didn't just walk down the stairs, Darby broke the silence.

"I just had a thought," he announced, and looked at his wristwatch. "It's a couple of minutes to twelve. I thought maybe Mr. Castillo would be able to see something at the Kansas that the rest of us have missed. Would you be all right, Jack, if I took him out there for lunch? Maybe you could have lunch with Tony and Ken?"

Castillo saw that Masterson was as obviously surprised at the suggestion as he was. Masterson looked like he was going to object to at least parts of it, but finally- clutching at straws?- said, "Good idea, Alex."

"We can walk over to the Rio Alba," Tony Santini said. "And Ken can buy."

"I'll come back for you, Jack, in time to pick up the kids after school," Darby said. When the elevator stopped at the second floor, Darby touched Castillo's arm, as a signal they weren't getting off. The others did.

When they got off in the basement, Darby picked up a telephone, punched a button, and delivered a cryptic message/order: "I'm taking your car; don't take mine. I'll be back a little after two."

When they walked down the row of cars, and Darby pointed to a Volkswagen Golf and got behind the wheel, Castillo thought he understood. Darby didn't want an embassy car with a driver. The Golf had ordinary Argentine license plates. For some reason, Darby didn't want to be seen at the restaurant in an embassy car.

It wasn't until the security guard at the gate asked for Castillo's identification that Castillo realized Lowery's secretary still had them.

"Don't give me any trouble about this," Darby said, not pleasantly, in fluent Spanish. "All you have to know is that this gentleman is with me."

Reluctantly, the security guard passed them out of the embassy grounds.

"About half of them are really nice guys," Darby said. "The other half are like that. They love to show their authority."

"I had a little trouble getting into the embassy myself," Castillo said.

"So, from what you've seen so far, Castillo, how do you like Buenos Aires?"

Castillo was about to reply when he belatedly realized Darby had switched from English to Pashtu, one of the two major languages of Afghanistan, the other being Afghan Persian.

Darby saw the surprise on Castillo's face and laughed. "You really don't remember me, do you?" he asked, still in Pashtu.

Castillo shook his head.

"The last time I saw you was in Zaranj," Darby said. "There were several high-ranking Army officers who couldn't seem to make up their minds whether to court-martial you and send you home in chains, or give you a medal. Something about a stolen Blackhawk, I seem to recall."

"Well, so much for my cover," Castillo said, in Pashtu. "What were you doing in Zaranj?"

Zaranj was a city on the border of Iran and Afghanistan.

"I ran the agency there. Whatever happened to that black guy whose knee was really all fucked up?"

"If you mean, did he make it, yeah, he made it."

"Thanks to you. I was there when you brought the chopper back. He wouldn't have made it-probably none of them would-if you hadn't gone after them."

"He would have done the same thing for me," Castillo said. "As to what happened to him, truth being stranger than fiction, he was-at least for a while- station chief in Luanda, Angola."

"I thought it probably was you two," Darby said.

"Thought what was?"

"I hate to think how many man-hours and how much money I pissed away here looking for that stolen 727," Darby said. "Langley was hysterical when they couldn't find it. And then the search was called off without explanation. I was curious, so when I was in Langley a month ago, I asked. Strictly out of school, an old pal told me that some hotshot named Castillo had put his nose into agency affairs, and found it, and stole it back, said action seriously pissing off the DCI. I figured that had to be you, particularly after he also told me the DCI had tried to crucify the Luanda station chief, who just happened to be an ex-Special Forces officer with a bad knee from Afghanistan, for giving intel to said Castillo."

"I'm not too popular with the FBI, either," Castillo said.

"So now what I'm wondering is what the hell you're doing here, waving a Secret Service badge around."

"The badge is legitimate."

"I figured that. Santini would spot a phony right away. Or would have been told to ask no questions."

"I don't think I could talk you into asking no questions?"

"Not a chance."

"The President sent me down here to find out what's going on with Masterson's wife."

"The way you said that, it sounds as if the President himself said, 'Castillo, go to Buenos Aires'; that it didn't come down through channels."

"What the President said was, 'I want to know how and why that happened, and I don't want to wait until whoever's in charge down there has time to write a cover-his-ass report.'"

"He said that to you?"

Castillo nodded.

"Is that what you think I'm going to do, write a cover-my-ass report?"

"No. I think what you want to do is whatever it takes to get that poor bastard's wife back to him alive."

"Thank you," Darby said.

There was a long silence, and then Darby said, "What we're going to do now is have a nice lunch, during which I will make up my mind what I'm going to tell who about you and when."

"You'll tell me what you decide?"

"Yeah, I'll tell you."

"Thank you," Castillo said.