The Hostage

IV

[ONE] Restaurant Kansas Avenida Libertador San Isidro Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1315 22 July 2005 "How much of that sixty million did he actually get, do you think?" Castillo asked Darby.

They were sitting at a table in the crowded bar of the Kansas, smoking cigars with their coffee.

They had been sitting for several minutes without speaking, lost in their own thoughts, and the question came out of the blue. It took Darby a moment to come back from wherever he had been.

"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Charley, that that's not curiosity."

"I was wondering if there is a ransom demand, and he says, 'Fuck the rules, I want my wife back, I'll pay,' where would he get the money, how would he get it down here?"

"What is that line, 'Great minds run on parallel paths'?"

"Something like that."

"The answer to the first part of the question is that the IRS took their bite-at his level, right at half, countingLouisiana state income tax-out of the lost-wages part of the settlement. In other words, he got something like eight and a half million, and taxes ate half of that. The rest of the settlement was compensation for pain and suffering, et cetera. That's tax free."

"You're talking more than forty million dollars. Where is it?"

"It's more than that now. There's a guy-he and Jack went to some private high school together-in the Hibernia National Bank and Trust in New Orleans who's been managing it for him. Managing it very well."

"He's from New Orleans?"

Darby shook his head. "Just across the border in Mississippi, a place called Pass Christian, on the gulf. Betsy's from New Orleans; her father, who's a retired ambassador, lives there."

"You checked Masterson out, I guess?"

"No. He told me. I met Jack when we were both in Paris, years ago. We're close. I'm the successor executor-after his father-of his will. So he figured I should know what I was letting myself in for."

Castillo nodded and they fell silent for a moment.

"That's another problem the poor bastard has, telling Betsy's family," Darby said.

"You think he's told his?"

"I don't think he'd want to tell his father without telling Betsy's, and Betsy's father's likely to have a heart attack. Literally. He's got a really bad heart condition."

"Somebody said something about a brother-in-law?"

"Works for the UN. Jack doesn't like him."

"Why not?"

Darby shrugged. "He never told me. But it was pretty evident."

Then Darby changed the subject: "To answer your first question: What I would do if I were Jack Masterson-what I'm half afraid he's already done-is get on the phone to his money guy at Hibernia: 'Get me a million dollars, get on the next plane down here with it, and don't tell anyone.'"

"It might not be that easy," Castillo said. "Rich people don't keep much cash around, either cash-cash, or in a checking account. Even a banker would have trouble coming up with a million in cash without somebody asking some hard questions."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," Darby said.

Castillo ignored him.

"And a million dollars in hundreds takes up a lot of space. A hundred thousand right from the Federal Reserve makes a bundle about this big."

He demonstrated with his hands.

"You really live in an apartment in the Mayflower, Charley?" Darby asked.

Castillo decided to ignore that, too, but then changed his mind.

"Where'd you hear that?"

"From the same guy who told me about you and the DCI. I won't tell you who he is, but you know him. He was in Afghanistan when we were. Not to worry; he likes you."

"What else did my friend with the big mouth tell you about me?"

"That you're Texas oil money."

"I'm from Texas and I can afford to live in the Mayflower. Can we leave it at that?"

"Okay."

"There's also some sort of a law," Castillo said, "that when you take ten thousand, or more, in cash from a bank, the bank has to tell somebody. I don't know who, maybe the IRS, but somebody. And I don't know what I'm talking about here, but I think there's another law that says you have to declare it if you're taking ten thousand-maybe five thousand-in cash out of the country."

"I'll ask Tony. He'd know. Or one of those FBI guys from Montevideo. They would know…"

There was the buzzing of a cellular phone. Both men took theirs out.

"Hey, Charley," Howard Kennedy's voice came somewhat metallically over Castillo's cellular. "How's things going?"

Darby put his cellular away and looked with interest at Castillo.

"What's new, Howard?" Castillo asked.

"A mutual friend would like to see you."

"Really?"

"He's quite anxious you meet."

Why do I find that menacing?

"That's very flattering. Why?"

"I have no idea. What are you doing now? Where are you?"

"I'm drinking a cup of coffee in a restaurant in San Isidro."

"It would just take a couple of hours, Charley. Can I pick you up? What restaurant?"

"Hold one, Howard," Castillo said, and took the cellular from his ear.

Painful experience had taught him that cellular microphones were very sensitive. He hit a series of keys with his thumb to select the MUTE function, then, for insurance, raised his right buttock, shoved the cellular under, and sat on it. His buttocks was the only object he knew for sure would effectively cover the cellular's mic.

Darby had apparently come to the same conclusion, because he smiled understandingly. Castillo smiled back.

"This is a guy I really should see," Castillo explained.

"I was hoping it was Tony saying they'd heard something."

"Me, too," Castillo said. "Is there some reason you think I should go back to the embassy?"

Darby shook his head. "But I have to get back. I told Jack I'd go with him to pick up his kids at school. You'll be all right to get to your hotel?"

"I'll be fine."

Castillo lifted his rump, reclaimed the phone, and keyed UNMUTE.

"You still there, Howard?"

"What the hell was that all about?"

"I'm in the Kansas restaurant, on Libertador."

"I know where it is. I'll be there in ten, fifteen minutes. Same car. Can I get you to wait on the street?"

"Why don't you go into the parking lot? That will make it easier for the FBI."

"That's not funny, goddammit!"

"Just pulling your chain, Howard."

"Ten minutes, out in front," Kennedy said, and the connection went dead.

Darby looked at him curiously.

"Private joke," Castillo explained. "Somebody else the FBI doesn't like."

Darby nodded. "There's a lot of people like that. Why don't we put our numbers in each other's cellular?"

"If you're going to tell Lowery-or Masterson or the ambassador-what I'm doing down here, that would be a waste of time."

"Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But I'm not going to say anything tonight, and then not until I give you warning. And who knows what's liable to happen tonight?"

"Thanks," Castillo said, and handed him his cellular for Darby to punch in his number. [TWO] The black Mercedes-Benz S500 appeared in the flow of westbound traffic on Avenida Libertador, and Castillo stepped off the curb so they would see him. The car pulled to the curb and the rear door was opened from the inside. He saw Kennedy inside.

"Get in, Charley," Kennedy said.

The car started the moment Castillo had pulled the door closed.

"Gruss Gott," Castillo said, speaking the Viennese greeting in as thick an accent as he could muster.

"Gruss Gott, Herr Gossinger," Frederic replied from behind the wheel.

That's not a Viennese accent. Not even Czech. Good ol' Frederic's probably a Hungarian.

Why did I do that? Why do I care?

The Mercedes made the next left turn. They were moving through a residential area, looking much, Castillo thought, like one of the better neighborhoods of San Antonio, except that all the houses here were behind walls-some of them topped with razor wire-and almost all of them had bars on the windows.

Kennedy touched his arm and handed him something. It looked like a black velvet bag.

"What's this?"

"It's a velvet bag," Kennedy said. "It goes over your head."

Now I know why I felt menaced. They call it "intuition."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Not at all. You know my boss. He pays a good deal of consideration to his privacy."

"Fuck you, Howard, and fuck your boss!" Castillo said evenly. Then he raised his voice for the benefit of Frederic. "Stop the car!"

"Jesus Christ, Charley, there's nothing personal in this!"

"Stop the car before I have to hurt you, Howard."

"Take us back to the restaurant," Kennedy ordered in German, and then added, to Castillo, "You know he's not going to like this."

"Make sure you tell him I said, 'Go fuck yourself, Alex.' Now stop the goddamn car."

Kennedy hesitated a moment, then ordered Frederic to pull to the curb.

Castillo got out, slammed the door, and started to walk toward Avenida Libertador. He heard the Mercedes drive off.

It was a three-block-long walk to Libertador, and he was half a block away when he saw the Mercedes. It was stopped at the curb, facing him, and Kennedy was standing on the sidewalk beside it. He was holding something in his left hand.

I don't think he's stupid enough to pull a gun and force me into the car, but there's no telling.

When Castillo got closer, he saw that what Kennedy had in his hand was a cell phone.

"You have a call, Herr Gossinger," Kennedy said jokingly. He was wearing an uncomfortable smile.

"If Frederic looks like he's even thinking of getting out of the car, you're going to either the hospital or the morgue," Castillo said.

Kennedy handed Castillo the telephone, and then took three steps backward and raised his open hands to show he had no intention of doing anything.

Castillo, maintaining eye contact, said into the phone, "Hello?"

"If Howard offended you in any way, my friend," Alex Pevsner said in Russian, "you have my apology."

"Howard was doing what you told him to do. And don't call me your friend," Castillo replied in Russian. "Where I come from, friends trust friends; friends don't ask friends to put bags over their heads."

"When you get here, my friend, you will understand why I was trying to be a little more cautious than I usuallyam. And you will understand that I really consider you a trustworthy friend."

"Why should I go anywhere?"

"Because I am asking you as a friend."

"I don't want to have to hurt Howard."

"There will be no need to even consider something like that. Please give me just a few hours of your time."

Whatever this is about, it's important to him. He doesn't ask people to do things; he tells them, and, it is credibly alleged, has them killed if they don't do what he says.

"Okay," Castillo said, after a just perceptible hesitation.

"Thank you, Charley," Pevsner said, and there was a click as the connection was broken.

Castillo looked at Kennedy and then tossed the phone to him.

"Get in the car, Howard, and put the bag over your head," Castillo said.

He took pity on Kennedy when he saw the look on his face.

"Just pulling your chain, Howard." [THREE] Their route took them through the residential district of San Isidro, and then past a long line of interesting-looking restaurants facing the San Isidro Jockey Club. He thought he more or less knew where he was. His grandfather had taken him and Charley's cousin Fernando here a half dozen or more times when they were in high school.

Then quickly they were on a wide superhighway-six lanes in each direction-and although this was new to him, Castillo was pretty sure that it was the old Pan Americana Highway. The Argentines had been expanding it for years, and they had apparently finally finished what they called an autopista.

After six or seven kilometers at what Castillo decided was at least twenty klicks above the posted 130-kilometers-per-hour speed limit-meaning they were going ninety-plus miles per hour-the road split, and Frederic took the left fork. Signs said that the right fork was the highway to Uruguay and that they were now headed for Pilar.

They went through a tollbooth without stopping, just slowing enough for a machine to read a device that opened the barrier, and then Frederic quickly accelerated back to their way-above-the-speed-limit velocity.

On the left was a large factory, a long rectangular building three stories high and three hundred meters long, connected to four enormous round concrete silos with a rat's nest of conveyors.

LUCCETTI, LA PASTA DE MAMA was lettered in thirty-foot-tall letters across the silos.

Castillo chuckled. Kennedy looked at him.

"Mama's family obviously eats a lot of pasta," Charley said.

Kennedy smiled and said, "There are more Italians here than Spanish."

The autopista here was narrower-three lanes in each direction-but the speed limit was still 130 kph, and Frederic was still driving much faster than that.

Outside the autopista fence there were now large, attractive restaurants and what looked like recently constructed showrooms for Audi, BMW, and other European and Japanese automobiles. Charley saw only a Ford showroom to represent American manufacturers, and wondered idly where Mercedes-Benz had their showroom.

He had been out this way as a kid, too, but then there had been only a two-lane highway leading from Buenos Aires to the estancias in the country.

The area around Pilar was obviously now an upscale residential area-somebody had to be buying the Audis and BMWs-but there were no houses visible from the highway, just businesses catering to people with money.

Frederic took an exit ramp off the highway, and there was the missing Mercedes showroom, a typically elegant affair across the road from a large shopping center anchored by a Jumbo supermarket.

And then they were in the country again.

Three klicks or so down a two-lane highway-which slowed Frederic down to no more than, say, sixty-five or seventy mph-the car braked suddenly and turned off the road and slowed as they approached a two-story red-tiled-roof gatehouse.

A sign carved from wood read BUENA VISTA COUNTRY CLUB.

There were four uniformed guards at the gatehouse, two of whom looked into the Mercedes carefully before a heavy, red-and-white steel barrier pole was raised. All the guards were armed, and inside the gatehouse Charley saw a rack holding a half-dozen riot guns. They looked like American Ithaca pump shotguns.

Now this, Castillo thought, is what you call a "gated community."

Once inside the property, there were signs announcing a thirty-kph speed limit, and these were reinforced with speed bumps on the macadam road every two hundred meters or so. Frederic now obeyed the speed limit.

And then, far enough into the property so they would not be visible from the road outside, the first houses came into view.

The Mercedes rolled slowly down a curving road past long rows of upscale houses set on well-manicured hectare lots. There were no barred windows, as there had been on the upscale houses in San Isidro. They passed a polo field-lined with the same quality houses-and then another, and then came to several greens and then the clubhouse of a well-maintained golf course. There were thirty or so cars in the parking lot.

And then more houses on the winding road. The houses and the lots in this area were larger. Some- perhaps most-of them were ringed with shrubbery, tall enough so that only the upper floors of the houses were visible. Castillo saw that the shrubbery also concealed fences.

Frederic turned off the road and stopped before a ten-foot-high gate. After a moment, the gate rolled open to the right. Charley saw a workman at what was probably the gate control. He had a pistol under his loose denim jacket. Once they were inside, Charley saw a man in a golf cart rolling along the perimeter of the property. There was a golf bag mounted on the cart that did not completely conceal the butt stock of a shotgun.

This is obviously a double-gated community, a gated community within a gated community, as opposed to a double-gaited community, which is one whose inhabitants are a little vague about their sexual preferences.

He saw first a Bell Ranger helicopter sitting on what looked like a putting green, and then the house, an English-looking near mansion of red brick with casement windows. As they approached, the main door of the house opened and a tall man who appeared to be in his late thirties walked out and down a shallow flight of steps to the cobblestone driveway.

Aleksandr Pevsner-also known as Vasily Respin and Alex Dondiemo and a half dozen other names, an international dealer in arms and, it was often and credibly alleged, head of at least a dozen other enterprises of very questionable legality, and for whom arrest warrants had been issued at one time or another by at least thirteen governments-was wearing gray flannel slacks, a white button-down shirt (in the open neck of which, in the Argentine manner, was a silk scarf held in place by a sterling silver ring), a powder blue pullover sweater, and highly polished brown shoes with thick rubber cushion soles.

He folded his arms over his chest, smiled, and waited for the Mercedes to stop and for Frederic to quickly run around the front of the car to open the rear door.

"Ah, Charley," Pevsner called in Russian as Castillo got out. "Thank you for coming. It's a delight to see you."

"Frankly, I didn't think much of the first invitation, Alex," Castillo replied, also in Russian, offering Pevsner his hand.

"For which I have already apologized, and will apologize again now, if you wish."

"Once is enough, Alex," Castillo said, adding, "Nice house."

Pevsner broke the handshake and put his hands firmly on Castillo's upper arms and looked into his eyes. Pevsner's eyes were large and blue and extraordinarily bright. The first time Charley had met him, he had unkindly wondered if Pevsner had been inhaling controlled substances through his nose.

"I must ask you two questions, my friend," Pevsner said. "In a moment, you will understand why."

"Ask."

"What are you doing in Argentina? Why are you here?"

This is one of those times when telling the truth and only the truth is the smart thing to do. Charley immediately answered, "The wife of the chief of mission at our embassy here has disappeared under circumstances which look like kidnapping. The President sent me down here to see what's going on."

Castillo saw that his answer surprised Pevsner, but he didn't pursue it directly.

"Your being here has nothing to do with me?"

Castillo shook his head.

"Not a thing. I had no idea you-or Howard-were anywhere near Argentina."

Pevsner looked into Castillo's eyes for a long moment.

Alex, I don't care how long you look for signs of me lying. You won't find any. And if I have any luck at all, you won't see signs indicating that I'm more than a little afraid of you.

Pevsner finally squeezed Castillo's arms in a friendly gesture and let him go.

"Thank you for your honesty, my friend," he said. "Now, why don't we go in the house, have a glass of wine, and let me introduce you to my family?"

"Your family?" Castillo blurted.

"Yes. My family. My wife and children."

I'll be goddamned! Well, that explains all the concern. But what the hell are they doing here? Castillo, after meeting Aleksandr Pevsner for the first time in Vienna, had reported to Secretary of Homeland Security Matt Hall that Pevsner had told him the missing 727 had been stolen by Somalian terrorists who intended to crash it into the Liberty Bell. Pevsner had said he would do whatever he could to help locate it because he was against Muslim terrorists for many reasons, the primary one being he was a family man who adored his wife and three children. He didn't want them hurt by Muslim fanatics. Pevsner had then produced a photograph of him with what he said was his family: a very attractive blond wife and three blond children who looked straight from a Clairol advertisement. Castillo knew it sounded incredible, and that Hall was going to have a hard time believing any of it.

He was not prepared, however, for the look of unabashed incredulity on Hall's face-and on Joel Isaacson's and Tom McGuire's. Clearly, they not only believed zero, zilch, nada of what he was telling them, but were also-worse-now questioning his reputation as a hard-ass special operator for wasting his and their time relating it.

"Charley, I've seen his dossier," Isaacson said. "It's this thick." He held his hands eighteen inches apart. "There's a lot in there about murder, extortion, bribery, smuggling, arms-dealing, you name it, but not one line about his being a devoted husband and loving daddy."

"I believed him," Castillo had replied.

"About what part?" Hall asked.

"Most of it," Charley said. "The family photograph looked too cozy not to have been staged."

"You actually think the airplane was stolen by Somalians? Who plan to crash it into the Liberty Bell? Because of what this international thug told you?" Hall asked, more sadly than angrily.

"Sir, you told me that one of the major problems in intelligence is with people at my level telling their superiors what they think the superiors want to hear, instead of what they believe. What I told you just now is what I believe."

"That wasn't me who told you that," Hall said after a long pause. "That was the President."

"Charley, do you know how close you came to having this guy take you out?" Joel Isaacson asked.

"Yeah, I do, Joel. He said he was glad he didn't have to give me an 'Indian beauty spot'-a small-caliber bullet in the forehead-and I believed that, too." [FOUR] Pevsner led Castillo into the house, through a two-story entrance foyer to a sitting room. With the exception of what was probably an antique samovar sitting on a table, the furnishings of the sitting room gave it a British feeling. Two walls were lined with books and oil paintings, and there was a red-leather couch with matching armchairs.

The windows offered a view of a large swimming pool under a curved plastic roof, something like a Quonset hut. Vapor rose from the pool.

Well, they don't have many heated swimming pools in Merry Old England, but this place still feels English.

A middle-aged woman in a maid's uniform came into the sitting room from a side door as the three men entered.

"Would you please ask Madam Pevsner if it is convenient for her and the children to join us?" Pevsner ordered in Russian.

The woman, unsmiling, nodded but didn't say anything. She left the sitting room by the door Pevsner, Kennedy, and Castillo had come in.

"Howard, see if you can find someone in the kitchen who can bring wine, and so forth," Pevsner ordered in English.

"Red, right, Charley?" Kennedy asked. "A cabernet?"

"Please," Castillo said, as he walked to the samovar for a closer look. He had just decided that it was a bona fide antique Russian kettle when Pevsner said in Russian, "Ah, Anna, come and welcome Charley to our home!"

Castillo turned and saw the wife and kiddies from the Clairol commercial walking into the room. They were all almost startlingly blond and fair-skinned. The mother looked to be in her late twenties, but Charley decided she had to be older than that to be the mother of the girl, who was thirteen or fourteen. There were two boys, one who Charley guessed was ten or so, and another about six. Everyone was wearing a thick white terry cloth robe.

Madam Pevsner smiled and put out her hand to Castillo and said in Russian, "I'm happy to meet you. My husband has told me so much about you."

The maid was now in the room.

"Olga, would you bring some wine?" Madam Pevsner ordered, and the maid walked to what was apparently the kitchen door.

"Howard's getting the wine," Pevsner said in Russian, and then switched to English. "Greet our guest in English," he said to the children. "Charley, this is Elena. Darling, this is Mr. Castillo."

Elena, shyly, almost blushing, curtsied and said, "How do you do, Mr. Castillo?" in a pronounced British accent.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Elena."

The ten-year-old was even more shy. The six-year-old was not. He walked past his brother, put out his hand, and announced, "I am Sergei and I am happy to make your acquaintance, sir."

"And I'm pleased to meet you."

"Aleksandr!" Pevsner said, propelling the ten-year-old into action.

The ten-year-old, squirming, finally offered his hand and mumbled something unintelligible.

Pevsner beamed proudly.

"You'll have to excuse the robes, Mr. Castillo," Anna Pevsner said. "But my husband said he wasn't sure if you could come, and the children like to have a swim when they come from school."

"Well, I certainly don't want to interfere with that," Castillo said.

The six-year-old, Sergei, beamed at Castillo.

"I really hate to leave them alone in the pool," Anna said.

"Howard can watch them for a few minutes, darling," Pevsner said.

Kennedy came into the room.

"Howard, would you mind watching the children in the pool for a few minutes?"

"Not at all."

Howard is being banished from the conversation I'm about to have with Pevsner and his wife. What's going on?

The older two children, trailed by Kennedy, went out of the sitting room. Sergei marched up to Castillo, shook his hand, and ran after them.

"Nice kids, Alex," Castillo said.

"Thank you, Charley," Pevsner said, and then, as a younger maid-this one looked Argentine-came in with a tray holding glasses, a bottle of wine, and a large chrome corkscrew, said, "Ah, finally, the wine!"

"Why don't we sit down?" Anna asked, gesturing at the red-leather couch and armchairs.

Castillo sat in one of the armchairs. Anna sat on the couch, and Pevsner, after gesturing for the maid to put the tray on the coffee table, sat beside her and reached for the wine and corkscrew.

"Local wine," Pevsner said, "from a bodega near Mendoza, in the foothills of the Andes. Ever been to Mendoza, Charley?"

"Uh-huh. We have some friends there."

Pevsner poured the wine into enormous crystal glasses, handed one first to his wife, then one to Charley. Then he tapped his glass against Charley's.

"Welcome to our home, Charley," he said.

"Thank you."

Charley took a sip, and expressed his appreciation with a smile.

"Why do I think, Charley, that your curiosity is about to bubble over? 'What in hell is Alex doing here?'"

"Maybe you're reading my mind again," Castillo said.

"What we're doing, Charley, is hiding in the open," Pevsner said. "Aleksandr Pevsner, a Hungarian whose estates were seized by the communists, got everything back when freedom came, and then, having enough of both Hungarian winters and oppressive governments, sold everything and came to the New World to start life again. He invested his money in land and vineyards. Including this one, as a matter of fact." He tapped the wine bottle.

"Very clever," Castillo said.

"There's a tradition of that, you know, of people running from what's going on in Europe to find peace in Argentina. There's a bona fide grand duke of the Austro-Hungarian empire-actually, his grandson, but he has taken the title and is pleased when I call him 'Your Grace'-in a little town called Maschwitz near here. He teases me that I have the same name as an infamous Russian scoundrel."

"Very clever," Castillo repeated.

"Think about it, Charley. Where could we live? In Russia? Russia is now not far from where it was before the 1917 revolution. Crime and corruption are rampant, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if communism-under another name, of course-came back. Anywhere in a Muslim country? I do business there, of course, but can you imagine Anna in an environment like that, not even allowed to drive a car? Living in constant fear that some Muslim fanatic will machine-gun her car because she's obviously an infidel? And while this may surprise you, there are people in Prague and Vienna and Budapest and Bucharest who don't like me."

"I'm shocked," Castillo said.

"There is corruption here, of course. And crime. The newspapers are full of stories of robbery and kidnapping. The result of that has been the development of what I call the country club culture. The upper classes live in places like this, and when they go to Buenos Aires, they frequently are accompanied by bodyguards-called 'security'-which raises no eyebrows whatever."

"I saw the guy in the golf cart with the shotgun," Castillo said.

"I have a few of my own people, of course, but most of my security is Argentine. There is golf here… Do you play, Charley?"

Castillo shook his head.

"And polo. I don't play, but Aleksandr and Sergei are taking lessons, and Anna and Elena are taking courses in horse riding… what's that called?"

"Equestrianism," Anna furnished.

"… equestrianism at the stables here. And, of course, the schools are good. The better ones, like Saint Agnes in the Hills, are a British legacy."

"Your kids go to a school called 'Saint Agnes in the Hills'?" Castillo asked, smiling.

Pevsner smiled back. "Which has an Anglican priest for a headmaster. There being no Russian Orthodox church to speak of in Argentina, and since the Anglicans and the Russian Orthodox recognize each other's priesthood and liturgy, Elena was last year confirmed into the Anglican church."

"Well, you seem to have everything under control, Alex," Castillo said. "Good for you."

"I thought so, Charley, until Howard came here this morning and asked me, 'Guess who got onto my elevator in the Four Seasons just now?'"

"At the risk of repeating myself, I had no idea until today that either you or Howard had ever been near Argentina. And if you're worried that I'm going to tell anyone we bumped into each other, don't."

"You said something about a kidnapping?"

"The wife of the chief of mission at the American embassy is missing under circumstances that suggest kidnapping," Castillo said.

"Kidnapping is common here," Pevsner said. "Didn't she have security?"

"Why would anyone kidnap a diplomat's wife?" Anna asked. "Does he have money?"

"A lot of money," Charley said.

"I didn't see anything in the paper," Pevsner said, as he leaned forward to pour wine into Charley's glass.

"They're trying to keep it quiet. They hope that maybe when the kidnappers find out she's a diplomat's wife, they'll turn her loose."

"That's not what they're liable to do," Pevsner said. "I can make a couple of calls for you, if you'd like."

"All contributions gratefully received," Castillo said. "So far there's been no contact. I really feel sorry for the husband. They have three kids, and they want to know when Mother's coming home."

"Oh, God!" Anna said. "How awful!"

"Yeah," Castillo said.

"Where did they take her?" Anna asked. "Not from their home?"

"From the parking lot of the Kansas restaurant in San Isidro."

"Alex and I eat there often," Anna said, then, a touch of horror in her voice: "Not right in front of her children?"

Castillo shook his head. "She was waiting for her husband to pick her up after work. The kids were at home."

"And the President sent you down here to do what?" Pevsner asked.

"Find out what happened and report to him."

"Speaking of the President, and before I make those calls, did you ever have a chance to mention to him that I was helpful in getting that airplane back for you?"

"Yes, I did." The President's diary for that weekend read, in part: Friday 17 June 2005 7:55 PM: Arrival at President's Residence. Saturday 18 June 2005 through Sunday 19 June 2005 8:25 PM: No official events or guests or visitors. Sunday 19 June 2005 8:25 PM: Departure for The White House.

That was not exactly the truth. The President believed both that what he did in the privacy of his home was nobody's business but his own, and furthermore, that he had the right to decree what was an official event and what was not.

The diaries of the secretary of Homeland Security, the director of Central Intelligence, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the commander in chief of U.S. Central Command for the same period, however, all reported they had spent periods of from two to five hours on Saturday 18 June at a location variously described as the "Carolina White House"; the "Presidential Residence"; or "Hilton Head."

All but Secretary Hall of Homeland Security were sitting in upholstered white wicker armchairs drinking beer with the President when the first of the helicopters, a glistening blue twin-engine Air Force Huey, made its approach to the lawn between the house and the Atlantic Ocean and fluttered down.

John Powell, the DCI, and Mark Schmidt, the director of the FBI, were in business suits, and General Allan Naylor, C-in-C Central Command, was in uniform. The Presidentwas wearing a white shirt with the cuffs turned up, a necktie pulled down, khaki trousers, and loafers.

An Air Force colonel in a summer-weight uniform got out of the helicopter, reached back inside to pick up a small soft-sided suitcase, and then followed one of the Secret Service Presidential Detail agents to the awning-shaded verandah of the house.

The President shook the hand of Colonel Jacob D. Torine, USAF, then handed him a bottle of beer. Then they watched as another Huey-this one a single-engine Army helicopter painted a dull olive drab-made its approach over the sea and landed.

A large man in a business suit and an Army officer, a major in a summer-weight uniform, got out and followed another Secret Service agent to the verandah.

"Better late than never, right, Tom?" the President greeted Secretary Hall.

"Mr. President, we're ten minutes early," Hall said.

"How are you, Charley?" the President said to Major (Promotable) C. G. Castillo, Special Forces, USA, offering him his hand.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President," Castillo said.

"Well, let's get this over with," the President said. "Then you two can get out of those uniforms."

He turned to look at a door of the house. Three men were already coming onto the verandah. One held two blue leather-covered boxes about eight inches by three. The second held a Nikon digital camera, and the third a suit jacket.

The President folded down his cuffs, buttoned them, buttoned his collar, pulled the necktie into place, and then put his arms into the suit jacket.

"Do not get the khaki pants in the picture," the President said to the photographer, then asked, "Where do you want us?"

"Against the wall would be fine, Mr. President."

"You're about to be decorated," the President said. "You've heard I've had a problem with this?"

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

"Well, let me tell the story again, for the benefit of Director Schmidt and Director Powell. There is no question in my mind that what these two officers did merits a higher decoration than the Distinguished Flying Cross. When they found that 727 that no one else seemed to be able to find, and then stole it back, they saved the lives of God only knows how many people, and prevented chaos and panic in Philadelphia and across the nation. Not quite as important, but nearly so, they sent a message to like-minded lunatics that the United States possesses military force and intelligence resources that can stop what we have to admit was a pretty clever plan.

"Unfortunately, to award them a medal for valor-my initial thought was the Distinguished Service Cross-there has to be a citation to accompany the decoration. Since their activities were of a covert nature, acting on a Presidential Finding that certain actions were necessary, a citation describing what they have done would make that Presidential Finding public. That's not in the best interests of the nation. General Naylor pointed out to me, too, that a citation saying nothing more specific than 'actions of a classified and covert nature' would come to the attention of one or more Congressional oversight committees who would demand to know just what the hell was going on. The result would be the same. The story would be all over the Washington Post and the New York Times.

"So they don't get the decoration they deserve and I would really like to see them have. General Naylor also suggested that what they did could honestly be described as 'participating with the highest degree of professionalism in aerial flight under exceedingly hazardous conditions.' So that's what the citations on the DFCs say."

He looked at the directors of the FBI and the CIA.

"These pictures will not be released to the press, but when Charley and Colonel Torine look at them in years to come, I'd like them to be able to recall the award was made with you two-and you, too, Tom, of course-looking on.

"Come on, up against the wall. General, will you read the orders, please?"

The FBI director and the DCI with absolutely no enthusiasm got out of their white wicker armchairs.

General Naylor waited until the photographer had lined everybody up, and then began to read: "Attention to orders. Headquarters, Department of the Air Force, Washington, D.C. 18 June 2005. Subject: Award of the Distinguished Flying Cross. The Distinguished Flying Cross, thirteenth award, is awarded to Colonel Jacob…" "Much better, Charley," the President said, in reference to what Castillo was now wearing, a polo shirt, khaki trousers, and boat shoes. "Now sit down, have a beer, and tell me what I can do for you."

The President saw the look on Castillo's face.

"Why do I think I'm going to regret that offer?" the President asked.

Castillo didn't reply.

"Come on, Charley, what's on your mind?" the President pursued.

General Naylor's face was frozen.

"There's two things, Mr. President," Castillo said. "We would never have located that airplane without Mr. Pevsner."

"That's the Russian gangster?"

"Yes, sir."

"What do you want me to do, Charley?" the President asked, more than a little sarcastically. "Pardon him? I don't think I can do that. I think we're the only country in the Western world who doesn't have a warrant out for him."

"Sir, he has intelligence sources we, self-evidently, don't have. I'd really like to… to suggest that the government should maintain a relationship with him."

"For God's sake, Castillo," FBI Director Mark Schmidt exploded, "that Russian bastard's got a record that makes John Gotti look like a Boy Scout."

"And he has intelligence sources we just don't have," Castillo repeated evenly. "And which he has proved willing to make available to us."

"He's got a point, Mark," the President said. "How would we do what you suggest, Charley? What does this guy want?"

"He wants the CIA off his back, sir. Right or wrong, he suspects that since they have stopped using him, they-"

"Hold it right there," the President interrupted. "'Stopped using him'? The CIA's been using him?" He looked at the DCI. "Tell me about that, John."

The DCI looked uncomfortable.

"On several occasions, Mr. President," he said, "Operations has covertly dealt with Pevsner, chartered his aircraft to deliver certain things where they were needed-"

"How about 'frequently dealt' with him?" Castillo interrupted, earning an immediate glower from the DCI.

"To deliver the weapons and other goodies they bought from him?" Castillo went on.

The President looked at Castillo, and then at the DCI and waited for him to go on.

"There were some transactions of that nature, Mr. President," the DCI admitted. "But that's in the past. I've ordered that all connections with this character be severed."

"And now he believes, rightly or wrongly," Castillo said, "that since the agency has stopped using him, they've been trying to arrange his arrest-or worse-by the governments the agency hired him to work against."

"You don't know that, Castillo!" the DCI snapped.

"I said that's what he believes," Castillo said.

"Why?" the President asked, softly.

"Because if he's in some jail in a remote area of the Congo-or dead-there's no trail back to the agency, sir."

The President sat back in his chair and looked out across the Atlantic. He took a long and thoughtful pull at the neck of his beer bottle.

After a moment, he turned to Charley and said carefully, "I want you to tell Mr. Pevsner that while I find it difficult to believe that anything like that could be happening-it sounds more than a little paranoiac-I have, as a token of my gratitude for his valuable assistance vis-a-vis locating that 727, directed the DCI to look into the matter, and if anything like that is going on, to stop it immediately."

"Thank you, sir," Castillo said.

"You have any questions about that, John?" the President asked.

"No, sir," the DCI said.

"And that I have told the director of the FBI that I want to be informed of the details of any investigation of Mr. Pevsner now under way in the United States, or which may be begun in the States. Make sure he understands that if he violates any of our laws, he will be prosecuted."

"Yes, sir."

"You understand what I've just said, Mark?"

"Yes, sir," the director of the FBI said.

Castillo happened to look at General Naylor, who was shaking his head as if in disbelief.

"Okay, Charley," the President asked, jocularly. "What else can I do for you?"

"I don't suppose you would let me go back to being a simple soldier, would you, Mr. President?"

General Naylor's eyebrows rose.

"From what I have seen, Charley," the President said, "I doubt if you were ever a simple soldier. But to answer your question, no, I would not. That's out of the question." "And what was the President's reaction?" Alex Pevsner asked.

"He said that if he finds out you're breaking any laws in the United States, he will cheerfully throw you in jail. But he told the director of Central Intelligence that if he's running any sort of operation to tip you to anybody to stop it."

"And you believe he really said that to the CIA?"

"I was there when he said it. He appreciates what you did helping us find that airplane."

Pevsner looked with his brilliant blue eyes into Castillo's face for a long moment. "I was about to say that I will show my appreciation for the President's appreciation by seeing what I can find out about the diplomat's wife…"

"Thank you," Castillo said.

"Let me finish, please," Pevsner said sharply. "But, obviously, if you reported to him that I had told you thus and so, that would locate me here, and I don't want that. So I will make inquiries with the understanding that if I am able to learn anything, you will tell no one the source of your information. Okay?"

"Understood. Thank you, Alex."

"Anna, why don't you get a pair of my swimming trunks for Charley? Then you can have a swim while I'm on the phone."

"I should be getting back to Buenos Aires," Castillo said.

"I think your time would be more profitably spent waiting for me to find out what I can," Pevsner said, somewhat sharply, and then added, far more charmingly: "And Anna and I would really like you to stay for dinner."

"Thank you," Castillo said.

"If there were developments, someone from the embassy would call you, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Then have a swim, and later we'll have some more wine and I will personally prepare an Argentine pizza for you."

You will personally prepare an Argentine pizza?

"Sounds fine, Alex. Thank you." [FIVE] The pizza oven, a wood-fired, six-foot-wide, clay-covered brick dome, was about twenty feet from the swimming pool in front of a thatch-roofed quincho, which was a building devoted to the broiling of food over a wood-fired parrilla, and then eating it picnic-style.

There were fires-tended by a young Argentine man-blazing in both the parrilla and the oven when Castillo followed Anna and the children through a flap in the heavy plastic swimming pool enclosure to walk to the quincho, where more enormous crystal glasses and a half dozen bottles of wine awaited them.

There was also a wooden table, near the oven, covered with a tablecloth, at which two young Argentine maids, under the stern supervision of the middle-aged Russian-speaking maid, were kneading pizza dough and chopping tomatoes and other pizza toppings.

Castillo felt a tug at his sleeve and looked down to see that Sergei was smilingly offering him a plate of empanadas, a deep-fried meat-filled dumpling.

"Muchas gracias," Castillo said, taking one.

"De nada," Sergei said.

"It would appear Sergei is taken with you," Pevsner said. Castillo hadn't seen him come into the quincho.

"At least one member of your family is a good judge of character."

"Unfair, Charley," Pevsner said. "I'm an excellent judge of character, and Anna is even better."

Castillo smiled but didn't reply.

Pevsner handed him a glass of wine.

"Come with me and watch as I personally prepare your pizza," Pevsner said.

"I wouldn't miss that for the world."

"The secret is the oven temperature," Pevsner said as he walked up to the domed oven. "And this is the way you test that."

He walked to the table, behind which the three maids and the young man were lined up, and picked from it a page from a newspaper. He crumpled it in his hands and walked back to the oven.

The young man trotted over and raised its iron door with a wrought-iron rod. Pevsner tossed the balled-up paper into the oven and signaled to the young man that he should lower the door.

"One, two, three, four, five, six," Pevsner counted aloud, then gestured for the door to be raised.

The newspaper was blazing merrily.

"If it doesn't ignite in six seconds, it's not hot enough," Pevsner announced very seriously, gesturing for the door to be closed again.

"Fascinating," Castillo said.

Pevsner gestured for him to go with him to the table.

The Russian-speaking maid came around with a two-foot-wide pizza dough on a large wooden paddle. She held it between Pevsner and the maids, who stood waiting behind the table with large serving spoons. With his index finger, Pevsner directed one maid to spoon tomato sauce onto the dough, and kept pointing the finger until he decided there was a sufficiency.

He repeated the process with red and green peppers, then with several kinds of salami and pieces of bacon and chicken, finally concluding the process by supervising the spread of what looked like Parmesan cheese over the whole thing.

Then he marched back to the oven with the maid holding the pizza on a paddle trailing him, gestured to the young man to raise the door, and then gestured for the maid to slide the pizza into the oven, and finally for the young man to close the door.

Charley had a hard time keeping a smile off his face.

So far, he hasn't touched the pizza he's personally preparing for me with so much as his pinkie!

"I will now prepare another," Pevsner announced and marched back to the table, where he repeated the process twice more. This time, however, the prepared but unbaked pizzas on paddles were laid on the table.

"I can usually trust them," Pevsner said, "once I've made sure the temperature is right, to put them into the oven and take them out, but I like to prepare them myself."

"If you want something done right, do it yourself," Charley heard himself saying solemnly.

"Exactly," Pevsner said.

It's not fair of me to make fun of him. What's the matter with me? He's being nice, this whole thing is nice, the little kid, Sergei, handing me an empanada is nice. The whole family thing is nice. It reminds me of Grandpa dodging Abuela to slip Fernando and me a couple of slugs of wine at the ranch in Midland while he was roasting a pig over an open fire for the family. Except, of course, that Grandpa did everything but butcher the pig and crank the spit.

This is family. This is nice.

I think Betty Schneider would like this. Not the guy with the shotgun in his golf cart, but Anna and the three kids, and proud Papa preparing a pizza for everybody with his own unsullied hands.

I wonder what the Masterson kids are going to have for supper tonight?

I wonder what that poor bastard has told them, is telling them?

Is he pretending everything is going to be all right?

Preparing them for the worst?

Jesus, when you hear somebody's been snatched, you never think of the kids! What a rotten fucking way to make an easy buck, grabbing a kid's mother!

And here I am making nice watching Alex looking into his pizza oven.

There's nothing I could do in Buenos Aires, so why am I feeling guilty?

"Lost in thought, Charley?"

Castillo turned to see Howard Kennedy holding a glass of wine.

He had disappeared from the swimming pool when Castillo and Anna Pevsner had gone out to it, and he hadn't been around since.

"I was wondering what the Masterson kids are having for supper tonight," Castillo said.

"The kids of the wom…?"

Castillo nodded.

"Alex is working on it," Kennedy said. "There should be something soon."

"Jesus, I hope so. What's the penalty for kidnapping here? Do you know?"

"Not for sure, but I do know there's no death penalty period, and the average sentence for murder is fifteen years, which means they're on the street in seven-to-ten."

The Russian-speaking maid marched into the quincho with the now-baked pizza, and Alex Pevsner supervised her slicing of it with an enormous butcher knife. Pevsner was called to the telephone three times as they ate their supper-the pizza was followed by steaks and foil-wrapped potatoes from the parrilla; Castillo was stuffed-each time taking the call in a small closet with a small window through which Castillo could see him talking.

It reminded Charley of the "phone booth" off General Naylor's conference room at CentCom headquarters in Tampa, where the secure telephone was located.

Pevsner returned to the table without saying anything the first two times, but when he came out of the closet the third time, he signaled for Charley to come with him.

They walked thirty feet or so away from the quincho.

"I don't have anything for you, Charley, I'm sorry. This last call was from someone who knows the important people at SIDE… you know SIDE?"

Charley nodded.

"And if anybody knew anything, SIDE would. And they're looking hard. The pressure is on them."

"Well, thanks for the effort," Charley said.

"I'll keep trying," Pevsner said, then, "All of my sources believe this is not an ordinary kidnapping. My source with connections to the Policia Federal and the Gendarmeria said that they've hauled in for questioning everybody even suspected of being involved in kidnappings, and they came up with nothing." He paused and then asked, "Did this fellow actually get fifty million dollars after a truck ran over him?"

"Sixty million," Charley said.

"The kidnappers may not be Argentine. They might even be American."

"Yeah," Charley agreed, thoughtfully.

I'll put that thought in my e-mail to Hall. It's the only wild idea about this that didn't come up in that brainstorming session at the embassy.

Why e-mail? I'll be up all night if I start swapping e-mails with Hall. And Darby made it clear that he's going to blow my cover to the ambassador tomorrow anyway. It'd be better to get on the horn.

He took his cellular out and pressed an autodial number. He had the phone to his ear before he considered the genuine possibility that there might not be cellular service out here in the country.

"Darby."

"Charley Castillo. I want to get on a secure line to Washington. Can you do that for me?"

"I can, but there's the problem of you being just a Secret Service agent, and there would be questions."

"Go ahead and tell the ambassador. Why not?"

"Okay. I think that's probably the best thing to do. I'll set up things at the embassy. Where are you?"

Castillo was aware that Pevsner was trying to make sense of his call.

"Ever hear of a little town called Maschwitz?"

"Yeah. I won't ask what the hell you're doing way out there."

"Don't. There's one more thing, Alex. It was suggested to me that the kidnappers might not be Argentine, that they might even be American."

"That was very delicately suggested to the FBI by the Policia Federal. If you notice a lot of activity in the commo center, it's the transmission of the names of every American who's come to Argentina in the past thirty days to the NCIC-the National Crime Information Center-to see if they come up with a hit."

"Well, somebody's done this, Alex."

"Some sonsofbitches."

"One more thing, Alex. Lowery took my Secret Service credentials to get me a visitor's badge, and we left the embassy before I got them back."

"I'll take care of it," Darby said. "We'll be in touch."

The connection was broken.

"Thank you," Pevsner said.

"For what?"

"For Maschwitz."

"If I think anyone is unusually curious about where I've been, or with whom, I'll drop your Austro-Hungarian grand duke into the conversation," Castillo said. "That'll lead them on an interesting expedition."

Pevsner smiled.

"Alex, I have to get back to Buenos Aires."

"I understand. You want me to send Howard with you?"

"That's not necessary. I just need a ride to the embassy." Charley's cellular buzzed as they approached Buenos Aires.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Castillo?"

Castillo recognized Darby's voice.

"Alexander Darby here, Mr. Castillo."

"What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Castillo, Ambassador Silvio wonders if you would be free to come to his office at nine-thirty tomorrow morning."

"I'll be there."

"Thank you. I'll see you then."

The connection was broken.

It didn't take you long to tell the ambassador about me, did it, Alex?

And why do I suspect you made that call in his presence?

And that you told him simply that I had identified myself to you, and not that we knew each other in Afghanistan? An American who did not identify himself in any way- making Castillo reasonably confident that he was a CIA agent who worked for Darby-was waiting just outside the fence at the employee entrance to the embassy grounds with Castillo's visitor's pass and Secret Service credentials.

"If you'll come with me, please, Mr. Castillo?" [SIX] The Communications Center The United States Embassy Avenida Colombia 4300 Buenos Aires, Argentina 2230 22 July 2005 There was a "phone booth" in the embassy communications room, too. As the man Castillo now thought of as "Darby's guy" led him to it, most of the eight or ten people in the room looked at him with frank curiosity. One of them was the Oriental FBI agent, Yung.

The guy who looked at me in the brainstorming center with what I thought was a little too much interest. He's either fascinated with my good looks and manly charm, or the Secret Service, or he knows something about me. Or suspects something.

Oh, Jesus! Has there been an FBI back-channel, no copies, burn before reading, "Let us know if a guy named Castillo shows up anywhere and what he's doing. He has embarrassed the director and we would really like to burn his ass"?

Castillo closed the door of the phone booth and sat down before a tiny desk, more of a shelf built into the wall, on which sat the secure telephone. It looked- except for the much thicker than usual cords to the wall, and from the base to the handset-like an ordinary phone. There was also a lined notepad, which had a sheet of aluminum under the top page to keep whatever was written from making an impression on the pages beneath, two sharpened pencils in a water glass, and a red-striped Burn Bag hanging from the wall.

Castillo picked up the telephone.

"Operator," a male voice said.

He sounds young. Probably a soldier.

"My name is Castillo. I need a verified secure line."

"Yes, sir. You have been cleared. The number, please?"

It's a little after ten-thirty here; half past nine in Washington. Hall may or may not be in the office. I'll let the switchboard find him.

Castillo gave the White House switchboard number to the operator.

"Sir, that's the White House," the operator said.

"Yeah, I know."

"Sir, you're not cleared to call the White House."

"Who has to clear me?" Castillo asked, and at the last split second added, "Sergeant."

"Either the ambassador or Mr. Masterson, sir."

Well, he took the Sergeant without any reaction. That may be helpful.

"Well, I don't want to bother Mr. Masterson, Sergeant, so I suppose you'd better get the ambassador on the horn. I need to put this call through."

"Sir, Mr. Darby has the authority to clear calls to the White House. Would he know if you're authorized?"

"Yes, he would. Give him a yell, Sergeant."

Thirty seconds later, "Commercial Attache" Darby gave the operator permission to put Mr. Castillo's call through to the White House switchboard. "White House."

"This is the U.S. Embassy, Buenos Aires," the operator said. "Would you verify the line is secure, please?"

That took about fifteen seconds.

"The line is secure," the White House operator announced.

"This is C. G. Castillo. I need to speak with Secretary Hall. I have no idea where he is."

"Oh, I think we can find him for you. Hold one." "Hall."

"I have a secure call for you, Mr. Secretary, from Mr. Castillo in Buenos Aires."

"Put Mr. Castillo through, please," Hall said. In the presidential apartment in the White House, the President looked across the table in the breakfast room at his wife, and Matt Hall's wife, and made a decision.

"Put that on the speakerphone, Matt," he ordered, "but don't tell him." "You there, Charley?"

"Yes, sir."

"We've been expecting to hear from you before this."

"Sir, there's not much to report that you probably haven't heard already."

"Well, take it from the top, Charley. You never know."

"Yes, sir. Joel's pal Tony Santini met me at the airport. Really good guy, sharp as a tack. Tony took me to the hotel, the Hyatt-which is now the Four Seasons, by the way. He told me what he knew, essentially that Mrs. Masterson was grabbed in the parking lot of a restaurant called Kansas in an upscale neighborhood called San Isidro. She was waiting for her husband, and when he didn't show went to her car and was grabbed.

"He said there had been no word from the kidnappers-this was at maybe seven this morning, and there still has been no word, as of now. Tony said the Argentines were keeping it out of the papers, so if I went there as Gossinger, they would (a) wonder how I heard about it, and (b) tell me zilch.

"So I went there as a Secret Service agent who just happened to be in town. Apparently that happens all the time. Tony introduced me to the embassy security guy, Lowery, nice guy, but a lightweight-"

"Why do you say that, Charley?" Hall interrupted.

"The way Tony Santini put it, most of his investigations have been of some diplomat fooling around with some other diplomat's wife. Nothing like this."

"Okay," Hall said.

"While I was in his office, Masterson came in. A really nice guy, and really upset. You know the story of his getting run over and-"

"Getting a fifty-million-dollar settlement? Yeah, I know it."

"The figure I heard was sixty million. Anyway, I was introduced to him as a Secret Service agent, and he asked me to go to a brainstorming session with all the players. The CIA station chief-more about him in a moment- the DEA people, and two FBI guys from Montevideo who are supposed to have some experience with kidnappings. One of them looked at me strangely. Then, and just now when I came in the commo room."

"What do you mean by that?"

"If I were paranoid, and I am, I would suspect that there's been a deniable bulletin from the J. Edgar Hoover Building telling everybody to keep an eye open for that sonofabitch Castillo."

"You really think that, Charley?"

"I can't prove it, but I got the same look from the CIA station chief, a guy named Darby-he's as sharp as a tack, too-and I know he knew who I was. Am."

"How do you know that?"

"After the brainstorming session-which came up with nothing-he offered to show me the restaurant, and when we got in his car, he told me the last time he'd seen me was in Zaranj, Afghanistan-he was station chief there-and that he'd put two and two together and concluded I was the guy involved in getting the 727 back."

"So is he going to tell the ambassador? Or anyone else?"

"For auld lang syne he said he would wait until tomorrow morning, but that he would have to tell him. About two hours ago, I told him to go ahead and tell him. I wanted to get on a secure line, rather than screw around with e-mails. So he knows. As I was coming into town, Darby relayed a very polite request from the ambassador that I come to his office at half past nine in the morning."

"What about the ambassador?"

"Both Santini and Darby think he's first class. Anyway, after having a very nice lunch in the Kansas which really made me feel guilty, I went nosing around by myself, and came up with zilch, except the possibility that the kidnappers are American. When I passed this on to Darby, he said the Argentine cops had already- 'delicately,' he said-offered this possibility. Outside this phone booth, the FBI-including Yung, the FBI guy I think has made me-is sending the names of all Americans who've come down here in the past thirty days to the NCIC."

"What about the local authorities?"

"From everything I've been able to pick up, they're really doing their best, and with the same result, zilch. So what everybody is doing is waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"And that's about it?"

"Yes, sir. I feel about as useless as teats on a boar hog. Jesus, I wish the President hadn't come up with the nutty idea that I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'd really like to help, and I'm in way over my head."

"Hold one, Charley."

"Sherlock, this is the President."

"Jesus Christ!" Castillo blurted.

"No. Just the President," the President chuckled. "And I'm glad I did, Sherlock. I could not have asked for a more succinct and comprehensive report, and I know that any report that came close to being as good as the one you just gave Secretary Hall would have taken a lot more time to reach me."

"Sir, I'm sorry-"

"No need to be, Charley. I have just one question."

"Sir?"

"What about Mr. Masterson? Is he-and their children-being protected?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Darby-he and Mr. Masterson are close-told me that he's having some of his people sit on Mr. Masterson, hopefully without his being aware that this is going on. And there's Argentine cops and SIDE people all over, too."

"Their FBI?"

"Yes, sir. Much like it. Both Mr. Santini and Mr. Darby tell me they're good at what they do."

"When you see Ambassador Silvio in the morning, you might tell him of my concern."

"Yes, sir, I will."

"Well, I guess that's it," the President said. "You're doing what I sent you down there to do, Charley, and doing it well."

"Thank you, sir."

"Mrs. Hall wants me to pass on her regards, and I'm sure my wife would like to add hers."

"Yes, sir."

"Goodnight, Charley," the President said. "Interesting guy," the President observed.

"And a very nice one," Mrs. Janice Hall said. "You could hear his concern for that poor woman and the family in his voice."

"Until she actually met him, Janice could not stand men to whom women are drawn like moths to a candle."

"You can go to hell, Matt," Mrs. Hall said.

"I think sending him down there was one of my better ideas," the President said, and then added, "As was leaving him with Matt."

"Excuse me?" the first lady asked.

"When he got that airplane back, my first thought was to bring him into the White House. Then I realized that wouldn't be smart. Can you imagine what pressure would be on him if he worked here? Everybody in this building would be trying to (a) control him, and (b) keep him off my phone and out of the Oval Office. Having him working for Matt fixes all of that." [SEVEN] Room 1550 The Four Seasons Hotel Cerrito 1433 Buenos Aires, Argentina 0625 23 July 2005 Castillo had left a call for seven-which would give him two hours to get dressed, have breakfast, and get to the embassy by half past nine-and when he glanced at his watch as he reached for the ringing telephone and saw what time it was, he felt a chill. It was too much to hope this call was going to be good news.

"?Hola?"

"Castillo?" It was Darby's voice, not at all charming.

"Yes."

"You didn't answer your cellular," Darby accused.

"What's up?"

"There will be a car waiting for you by the time you can get downstairs."

"What's up?"

"Well, I'll tell you it's not good news," Darby said, and hung up.

V

[ONE] Avenida Tomas Edison Buenos Aires, Argentina 0640 23 July 2005 There had been a small gray Alfa Romeo-as far as Castillo could tell, they were identical to Fiats, except for the nameplates-with Argentine civilian license plates waiting on the drive outside the Four Seasons hotel when Castillo pushed through the revolving door.

As Castillo looked at it, wondering if it was meant for him, the driver pushed open the passenger door. "Senor Castillo?"

Castillo walked quickly to the car and got in. The car took off with a squeal of its tires before Castillo had time to fasten the seat belt.

"You speak Spanish, Mr. Castillo?" the driver asked in American English.

Castillo took a good look at him. He was an olive-skinned, dark-haired man in his thirties in a business suit who could, Castillo decided, easily pass for a porteno, a native of Buenos Aires.

"Si," Castillo said.

"Say hello to Colonel Alfredo Munz of SIDE," the driver said, in fluent porteno Spanish.

The windows of the Alfa Romeo were heavily darkened; Castillo had not seen anyone in the backseat. He turned on his seat and saw a stocky blond man in his forties. Castillo put out his hand.

"Mucho gusto, mi coronel."

Munz's grip was firm.

"Mucho gusto," he replied, adding, "Senor Darby has told me about you, senor."

I wonder what he told you?

The car was now passing the French embassy, its horn blowing steadily in short beeps. The driver ran the red light and nearly got clipped by a Fiat delivery truck going up Avenida 9 Julio. The Alfa Romeo made a squealing left turn onto 9 Julio, and then raced down the autopista in the extreme right lane, reserved for emergency vehicles.

"What's happened?" Castillo asked. "Where are we going?"

"The cocksuckers shot Masterson," the driver said.

What did he say? They shot her? Oh, Jesus H. Christ!

But that sounded as if he meant him.

"Mrs. Masterson, you mean?"

"No. Masterson."

What the hell?

"I thought Darby had somebody sitting on him."

"Yeah, he did. Me. I fucked up big time."

They came to a row of tollbooths. Without slowing, still blowing the horn, the driver went through the right lane, despite the furious arm-waving of a policeman who saw him coming. The policeman jumped out of the way at the last minute and reached for his pistol.

"SIDE! SIDE! SIDE!" Colonel Munz shouted out his open window.

Christ, I hope that cop believes him!

There was no shot.

At least none that I can hear.

They came to a T in the road. Running another red light, the driver turned left, dodging between two enormous over-the-road tractor-trailers and then rapidly accelerating.

Castillo saw they were now on Avenida Presidente Castillo.

This is not a very elegant street to be named after a Castillo, El Presidente, or even one from San Antonio.

It was apparently the main route to the docks, and the roadway showed the effects of heavy-most probably grossly overloaded-trucks. The Alfa bottomed out every thirty seconds or so.

It was too noisy in the car to ask questions, and it would not have been wise to distract the driver's attention from the traffic.

Avenida Presidente Castillo took a bend to the left, then came to a stop sign, which the driver ignored, which almost saw them hit head-on by an enormous Scania tractor pulling a trailer with two containers on it.

Then another left, and another, and Castillo saw they were now on Avenida Tomas Edison. This was even rougher looking than Avenida Presidente Castillo. It was a two-lane road where the macadam had been mostly worn away from the cobblestones it had at one time covered. On their left were deserted warehouses, and on their right a decrepit port area, lined with rusting, derelict, and half-sunk riverboats.

And then there was a sea of flashing red-and-blue lights.

Four Policia Federal stood in the middle of the street, all of them with their hands up to stop them. Castillo saw a half dozen other cops taking barriers from the back of a truck.

The driver slammed on the brakes, slowing but not stopping.

Colonel Munz was now halfway out the rear window, waving his credentials and shouting, "SIDE! SIDE! SIDE!"

The policemen got out of the way; two of them saluted.

Fifty meters farther down the street an enormous- and enormously confident-Policia Federal sergeant held up his hand in casual arrogance to stop them.

The arrogance disappeared immediately when he recognized Munz.

"In there, mi coronel," he said, pointing to the shell of a deserted warehouse, the entire front of which was open, another thirty meters distant.

There were three police cars: one Policia Federal; a second from the Naval Prefecture, which has police power in the port; and a third from the Gendarmeria National. There were several unmarked cars, with flashing blue lights on their dashboards, and two ambulances, one from the German Hospital, the second from the Naval Prefecture.

Fifty yards past them, a huge tractor-trailer with a single,enormous container on it was stopped in the middle of the road, its stop and parking lights flashing.

When the driver slammed the brakes on and the Alfa Romeo screeched to a stop before the deserted warehouse, Castillo could see a taxicab parked nose-in against the rear wall of the building. There was a knot of seven or eight men, most of them in uniforms carrying the symbols of senior police officers, between the taxi and the front of the building.

Munz erupted from the backseat of the Alfa and marched purposefully toward them. Castillo and the driver got out and followed. The knot of police all turned to face him. Several of the senior police officers saluted.

"I sent word that nothing was to be touched until I got here," Munz announced. "I presume nothing has?"

"Mi coronel," a man in a navy uniform with the sleeve stripes of a commander said, "one of my men was first on the scene. Aside from reaching into the victim's pockets looking for identification, he touched nothing else."

"Looking into his pockets to see if he had any money is more like it," the driver of the Alfa Romeo said softly, behind his hand, to Castillo.

One of the senior police officers said something to Munz that Castillo couldn't hear.

Colonel Munz's eyebrows went up in surprise.

"Where is he?" Munz demanded.

The Navy officer indicated a man in a khaki uniform standing uncomfortably near the street.

"Get him over here," Munz ordered. He pointed to a spot on the ground.

The command to have the Naval Prefecture policemancome over worked its way down the hierarchy of police officers, and finally one of them walked quickly toward the policeman.

Munz walked toward the taxi. Castillo started after him, and then the driver, and that started the police officers moving. Munz sensed this. He turned and held out his hand to stop them, then pointed at Castillo and the driver, signaling them they should-or were permitted to-go with him.

The right rear door of the taxi was open.

Munz stuck his head inside, looked around for a moment, and then pulled it out. He signaled that it was permitted for the driver and Castillo to have a look.

Castillo was closest and went first.

There was the smell of blood and the buzzing of flies.

J. Winslow Masterson was leaning against the far door, half sitting up. His eyes and mouth were open. There was one entrance wound in his temple, and to judge from the now dried blood on his neck, another entrance wound under the hair behind his ear.

The taxi driver was slumped over the wheel. The silver gray hair at the back of his skull was heavily matted with blood, and the back of his jacket was black with dried blood.

Castillo pulled his head out of the cab, met the Alfa driver's eyes, and said, "Sonofabitch!"

He heard another squeal of tires near the opening of the building, and when he looked saw Alex Darby open the door of an embassy BMW and get out.

Several policemen tried to stop him.

"Pass him!" Colonel Munz shouted in a voice that would have done credit to a drill sergeant. Then he started walking toward him.

Castillo heard Darby ask, "It's him?"

"I'm afraid it is," Munz said.

"And he's dead?"

Munz nodded. "Shot twice in the head."

"Where's Mrs. Masterson?" Darby asked.

Christ, I didn't even think of her!

Munz gestured toward the German Hospital ambulance.

Darby started toward the ambulance. Munz caught up with him.

"Alex, I think she's drugged," Munz said.

"Dammit! Who authorized that?" Darby demanded furiously.

"According to the first policeman on the scene, she was drugged when he got here."

"Presumably, there's a doctor with her?" Darby said.

"I think there's three doctors," Munz said. "I called the German Hospital myself."

Darby went to the ambulance, a large Mercedes van, pulled the door open, and climbed inside.

Castillo became aware the driver was now standing beside him.

"Darby's in the ambulance with Mrs. Masterson," Castillo said. "I heard Munz tell him she's drugged, was drugged when the Navy cop got here."

"Shit!" the driver said. "I make it two shots to the heads."

"I saw only one entrance wound in the cabdriver's head," Castillo said.

"I think there's two," the driver said, not argumentatively.

Darby came out of the ambulance and walked with Munz toward the taxi.

"Alex," the driver said, "I'm sorry."

"We're all sorry, Paul," Darby said.

Darby walked to the taxicab, looked inside for a long moment, and then walked back to where Munz, the driver, and Castillo were standing.

"Alex," Munz said, "I think she should be taken to the hospital. They can't determine what they gave her here."

"They told me," Darby said. "But I think the ambassador would want to see her here. He's on the way."

"Of course," Munz said.

Darby looked at the driver.

"Paul?"

"It looks to me like an assassination," the driver said.

"You agree with that, Charley?" Darby asked.

"Could be. I don't know."

Another embassy BMW pulled up, and then a second. A tall, lithe, well-tailored man got out of the backseat, and another man got out of the front passenger seat.

That has to be the ambassador, Castillo decided. And the other guy his bodyguard.

"Well, here comes the ambassador," the driver confirmed.

Ken Lowery, the embassy security officer, and three other men got out of the second BMW. One of the men was a burly Scandinavian type with a nearly shaven head. Castillo decided he was one of the embassy's Marine guards.

Ambassador Silvio and Lowery walked past the outer line of Argentine police. No one tried to stop them.

They must recognize them.

All the others stopped at the line of policemen.

Silvio walked up to them.

"Good morning," he said. "Bring me up to speed."

"Jack is in the taxi, Mr. Ambassador," Darby said. "He has been shot twice in the head."

Silvio looked at Castillo but didn't say anything to him. "Excellency," Munz said, "permit me to be the first to express my most profound regrets."

"Thank you, Colonel," Silvio said in Spanish. "Does anyone know what's happened?"

Before anyone could form a reply, Silvio went on, "Mrs. Masterson?"

"She's in the German Hospital ambulance, Your Excellency," Munz said. "She has apparently been drugged. By the villains."

Silvio's eyebrows rose, but he didn't speak. He started for the ambulance. Munz, Darby, and Lowery walked after him. After a moment-what the hell, I'm supposed to find out what's going on-Castillo walked after them.

As they reached the ambulance, Silvio turned to Castillo.

"You're Mr. Castillo?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

Silvio knocked at the rear door of the ambulance, and then pulled it open and climbed in. There in the van were two men and a woman, all wearing thin blue hospital coats, all of which carried nameplates with their names, followed by "M.D."

Mrs. Elizabeth Masterson was sitting on a chair against the far interior wall of the roomy ambulance. There was a plastic oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, and a blood pressure device wrapped around one arm. The female doctor was taking her pulse.

Silvio went to Mrs. Masterson, dropped to his knees, and took her hand.

"Elizabeth," he said softly in English, "I am so very sorry."

She looked at him, visibly confused, and then looked away.

"She has apparently been drugged," the female doctor said.

"What are you doing about it?" Silvio asked.

"There's not much we can do until we know what drug was used. We suspect a couple, but can't be sure until we get a blood sample to the laboratory."

"Why hasn't she been taken to the hospital?" Silvio asked, and then, without waiting for a response, said, "Please take her there now."

He turned and looked at Lowery.

"Go with her, please, Mr. Lowery. Make sure she is all right."

"Yes, sir," Lowery said.

"Take as many people as you think will be necessary."

"Yes, sir."

As Silvio started to leave the ambulance, Munz shouted, in a parade-ground bellow, "Captain Jiminez!"

One of the men in civilian clothing in the knot of police officers came running over.

"Eight men, two cars," Munz ordered. "One car to precede the ambulance, one to trail. There will be Americans. Make sure of Senora Masterson's safety. Report when she is safely in the hospital. And do not allow the press anywhere near her or the medicos."

"Si, mi coronel." Captain Jiminez turned and ran off, shouting orders as he ran. Lowery ran after him.

"Thank you, Colonel," Silvio said to Munz. "Now, what do we know about what happened?"

"We were about to find out, Excellency, just before you arrived," Munz said. "If you will come with me, Excellency?"

Munz led them to the policeman from the Naval Prefecture.

"You were the first officer on the scene?" Munz asked.

"Si, mi coronel."

That cop's about to piss his pants. He's terrified of Munz.

Ambassador Silvio saw this, too. He smiled at the policeman and put out his hand.

"Good morning," he said, in what Castillo now recognized as a good porteno Spanish accent. "My name is Silvio. I'm the United States ambassador, and we're trying to find out what happened here."

"Si, senor."

"Well?" Munz demanded.

"Mi coronel, I was patrolling in Puerto Madero when I got the call to come here."

"What did the call say?"

"Investigate a possible robbery murder," the policeman said, and added, reluctantly, "and a crazy woman."

"Do we know where that call came from?" Munz asked, looking over Castillo's shoulder. Castillo turned and saw that the Navy commander who had spoken to Munz earlier had come up.

"The truck driver, mi coronel," the commander said.

"Where is he? Get him over here."

When two Naval Prefecture policemen started to hustle the truck driver, a burly, visibly nervous man in his late forties, over toward them, Munz signaled them to stop and walked over to them. The ambassador, Castillo, Darby, and the driver followed. The Navy officer started to, but was ordered with a wave of Munz's hand to stay where he was. Then Munz dismissed the policemen with an impatient wave of his fingers.

"Would you please tell us what you know of this, senor?" Munz asked.

The man nodded, and then turned and gestured toward the street.

"I was coming down Edison," the truck driver began, "toward Jorge Newbery, when I saw the woman. She was staggering in the street. I thought she was drunk."

He stopped, having considered that he might have said something he should not have said.

I don't think he knows who Munz is, beyond being someone of importance to the other police, but he's afraid of him.

"And?" Munz prodded.

"I felt sorry for her and stopped," the driver said, not too convincingly, and then added, "She was in the middle of the street, and I didn't want to run over her."

He waited for a response.

"And?" Munz prodded again.

"So I got out of my truck and she sort of dragged me in here," the driver said. "And I saw the taxi, what was in it-they were both dead-and I got on my phone and called-"

There seemed to be more flashing red-and-blue lights, and now sirens. Castillo saw that a little convoy had been formed and was apparently waiting for the ambulance. Then the flashing lights on the ambulance began to blaze, and its siren started screaming. It backed up, and then left the building. A policeman directed it into the column of lined-up vehicles. Castillo saw that the embassy car had been placed into the convoy behind the ambulance.

Then the whole convoy took off.

When the sound of the sirens had diminished to the point where he could be heard, Munz again said, "And?"

"Yes, sir," the truck driver said. "The lady fell down."

"What?"

"She fell down," the truck driver said. "She didn't pass out, but she couldn't stand up and she didn't understand what I was saying to her."

"What were you saying to her?"

"That the police were coming, and it would be better if she got out of the middle of the street. I tried to pick her up, but she screamed, so I just waited."

"And what happened between then and when the policeman came?"

"Nothing," the truck driver said, and then corrected himself: "What happened was she crawled out of the street-maybe she wanted to go back to the taxicab-"

"Maybe?"

"She was only as far as the curb when the policeman came," the truck driver said. "He said to leave her where she was, and he went and looked into the cab, and came out with the man's wallet-"

"How much money, would you say, was in the wallet?" Munz interrupted.

"I didn't see any money," the truck driver said. "And then he called for an ambulance and an officer, and picked her up and put her in the front seat of the police car. And he told me that the man in the back was a norteamericano diplomat, and to leave my truck where it was, and we waited for the others."

"Who came first?" Munz asked.

"I don't remember," the truck driver said.

Munz looked at him for a moment, then at the ambassador, and then at Darby, Castillo, and the driver, as if asking them if they had any questions. No one did.

"Thank you, senor," Munz said. "What's going to happen now is that as soon as the technicians get here, they will take some photographs of your truck, and otherwise examine it, and then we'll move it out of the middle of the road. Then you will be taken to the Naval Prefecture, where other officers will take a statement from you, and probably your photograph and fingerprints. I will issue orders that your truck will be guarded while you are gone, and that you be allowed to telephone your employer and your wife, if you want. You will tell them that you witnessed an accident, and that the police are taking your statement, nothing more. Nothing about the taxicab. You understand me?"

"Si, senor."

"Thank you," Munz said, and offered the man his hand. And then Ambassador Silvio offered his and said, "Thank you." Darby and then the driver and finally Castillo shook hands with the driver.

Then everybody followed Munz back to where the Navy commander stood with the policeman.

Another embassy car drove up. The two FBI agents from Montevideo got out.

Special Agent Yung looks more than a little surprised to see me.

"Colonel," Ambassador Silvio said, "those are two FBI agents I borrowed from Montevideo. If at all possible, I would like them to be able to witness your investiga-"

"Pass them!" Munz bellowed.

The two FBI agents trotted over.

Munz turned to the Navy commander. "I want the truck driver taken to the prefecture. Get a statement, take his photograph and his fingerprints. Let him call his employer and his wife, but make sure that he says nothing more than that he witnessed an accident and is giving a statement. Treat him well-my first reaction is that he's a good Samaritan-but keep him there until you hear from me."

"Si, senor."

"All right," Munz said to the Naval Prefecture policeman. "Tell me what happened from the moment you arrived on the scene." His story neatly dovetailed with what the truck driver had told them.

Munz looked at the two FBI agents.

"I will issue orders that you are to have access to all facets of this investigation."

"Thank you," Ambassador Silvio said.

"Is there anything else, Your Excellency?" Munz asked.

Silvio responded, but to Darby.

"The children," he said.

"My wife is at the Masterson house," Darby replied.

"I will send my wife over there as soon as I can get on the phone," Silvio said. And then he asked, "Presumably, you've taken steps to guard it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your Excellency, Senora Masterson and the children will not be out of sight of my best men," Munz said. "I realize that's not much you can put confidence in."

"Why do you say that, Colonel?" Silvio asked, courteously.

"Senor Sieno and I were sitting in his car outside the Masterson home from eleven P.M. onward, and Senor Masterson got away from us."

So that's his name. Sieno. Paul Sieno.

"Is that how you think of it, 'He got away from you'?"

"From Senor Sieno and me, and from Senor Sieno's men and mine. There were eight people watching his house, Your Excellency."

"Why would he want to 'get away from you,' do you think?"

"I think he was contacted by the villains, who told him where to meet them, and threatened his wife's well-being if he didn't come alone. So he went alone. How, I don't know, but he was desperate, and he got away from us, and made it to somewhere where he could find a taxi-the San Isidro railroad station, probably-and took it to wherever he was told to meet them. Did Your Excellency notice the taxi is not a Buenos Aires city taxi?"

"Yes, I did, as a matter of fact," Ambassador Silvio said.

"And I was thinking that's what probably happened."

"I am both deeply sorry and grossly embarrassed, Your Excellency, that I have failed my duty," Munz said.

"If you and Sieno were sitting up all night in Paul's car, Colonel," Silvio said, "I don't think anyone can fairly accuse you of being derelict in your duties."

"I fucked up big time, Mr. Ambassador, that's the bottom line," Paul Sieno said.

"I don't feel that you did, Paul," Silvio said kindly, then turned to Alex Darby. "Alex, will you stay here to learn what you can? And at the hospital?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Castillo, can I see you for a moment?"

"Yes, sir, of course."

Silvio took Castillo's arm and led him out of earshot.

"We're going to have to talk, Mr. Castillo," the ambassadorsaid. "Is there some reason we can't do that now? Would you ride to the embassy with me?"

"Yes, sir, of course." "Do you have any idea what's going on here, Mr. Castillo?" Ambassador Silvio asked when they were in the ambassador's big BMW. "Is there something I should know?"

"Sir, I have no idea what's going on," Castillo said, and then blurted, "except that it's a fucking outrage."

"I'm a diplomat, I'm not supposed to use language like that, but I quite agree."

"Sorry, sir. That slipped out. He was such a nice guy!"

"Yes, he was," Silvio agreed. Then he said, "Excuse me," and took out his cellular telephone and pushed an autodial number.

"Jack has been murdered, my love," he said in Spanish. "At the moment, that's all I know. Betsy, who has been drugged, has been taken to the German Hospital-

"No. Drugged. Not sedated-

"I was going to suggest that you go to the hospital, but until they bring her out of it, I can't see what good that would do. Alex Darby's wife is with the Masterson children-

"Thank you. Make sure you have at least one of Lowery's people with you, and that the Policia Federal are following you-

"None of us would have believed what just happened, my love. Do what I tell you. I'll call you shortly." [TWO] The Office of the Ambassador The United States Embassy Avenida Colombia 4300 Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina 0635 23 July 2005 "I expect that you will want to make a report to your superiors, Mr. Castillo," Ambassador Silvio said as he led Castillo into his office.

"Yes, sir."

"You might as well do that from here," Silvio said.

"That's very kind of you, sir, but I don't mind-"

"We really haven't finished our conversation, have we?" Silvio interrupted him. "Just as soon as I speak with the secretary of state, I'll have them put you through."

Is he doing that to be a nice guy-which he certainly seems to be-or so that he can hear my report?

"Thank you very much, sir."

"Having said what I just said, I realize that I have no idea how to get through to the secretary at this hour of the morning-it's what, half past five in Washington? And I think she would want to hear this directly from me."

"Sir, I know how to do that," Castillo said.

The ambassador indicated the secure telephone on his desk.

Castillo put the receiver to his ear and heard, "Operator."

"My name is Castillo. I need a secure line to the White House. The ambassador's here to clear it, if you need that."

Silvio took the phone from Castillo.

"This is Ambassador Silvio. Mr. Castillo is cleared to call the White House now and at any time in the future."

"Thank you," Castillo said as he took the handset back.

"White House."

"This is the United States Embassy, Buenos Aires. Please verify this line is secure."

Ten seconds later the White House operator said, "This line is secure."

"This is C. G. Castillo. I need the secretary of state on a secure line, please."

This took a little longer. It was thirty-five seconds before a male voice said, "This is the secretary of state's secure line."

"C. G. Castillo for the secretary of state."

"The secretary is asleep, Mr. Castillo."

"I thought she might be. Put me through, please."

Another forty-five seconds passed.

"Put him through, please," Natalie Cohen said.

"Castillo, Madam Secretary."

"Charley, do you realize what time it is here in Washington?"

"Yes, ma'am. Hold one for Ambassador Silvio."

He heard the secretary of state mutter, "Oh, God!" as he handed the ambassador the telephone.

Then he started for the door. The ambassador waved his hand to signal him to stay.

"Ambassador Silvio, Madam Secretary," Silvio said. "I have the sad duty to inform you that the body of Chief of Mission J. Winslow Masterson was found an hour and a half ago. He had been shot twice in the head…" "The secretary wishes to speak to you, Mr. Castillo," Silvio said, and handed him the telephone.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"How come you placed the call, Charley?"

"I knew how to get through to you without going through layers of bureaucrats."

"Do you know anything the ambassador doesn't?"

"No, ma'am. Nobody has any idea what's going on."

"Presumably you've told Matt Hall?"

"No, ma'am. That's next."

"You want me to give him a heads-up?"

"Thank you, but I don't think that'll be necessary."

"I'm going to have to wake the President up with this. He finally told me, last night, that he'd sent you down there. And of what you found out, Sherlock."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm sure we'll be talking, Charley."

"Yes, ma'am."

There was a series of clicks on the line, then:

"White House. Are you through?"

"Castillo again. Now I need Secretary Hall on a secure line."

"Hold, please."

"Secretary Hall's secure line," said a new voice.

"Tom?"

"This is Special Agent Dinsler. Who is this, please?"

"Is either Tom McGuire or Joel Isaacson around there?"

"No."

"My name is Castillo. Will you put me through to Secretary Hall, please."

"The secretary is asleep, sir."

He called me "sir," which means he doesn't know Castillo from Adam's off ox.

"Wake him, please."

"May I ask what this concerns, sir?"

"Get him on the goddamn phone, now!"

There was no reply, but fifteen seconds later Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall came on the line.

"All you had to do was tell Dinsler who you are, Charley. You didn't have to swear at him," Hall said, his voice annoyed.

"Yes, sir. Sir, Mr. Masterson, Mr. Masterson, the chief of mission, has been murdered."

"Jesus Christ!" Hall said. "And his wife?"

"She's in the German Hospital, surrounded by eight SIDE agents, and four of ours. The bastards drugged her. She woke up-more accurately, came half out of it- in the backseat of a taxicab and found her husband slumped beside her with two bullets in his brain."

"My God, Charley!"

"Yeah, and he was a really nice guy, too."

"When did this happen?"

"Sometime after midnight. He got away from the people sitting on him at his house-a CIA guy and a big shot, a colonel from SIDE, plus half a dozen others- and apparently took a taxicab to meet somebody. Probably to pay ransom, or to arrange to pay it."

"Give me all the details, and slowly. I'm going to have to tell the President and Natalie."

"Natalie already knows. Ambassador Silvio just talked to her, and she said she would tell the President."

"Okay. Now you tell me what you know."

"Yes, sir. There's not much beyond what I already have told you. A truck driver found Mrs. Masterson wandering dazed on a street in the port. She had been drugged. He called the cops, the cops found Masterson's body, searched it enough to find his diplomat's carnet, and called SIDE. The colonel from SIDE, a heavy hitter, was sitting outside Masterson's house with one of Darby's guys.

"Darby's guy called Darby, Darby called the ambassador, and then called me and said he was sending a car for me. The SIDE colonel, his name is Munz, was in Darby's guy's car. When we got there, Mrs. Masterson was already in an ambulance, with an oxygen mask, and there were cops all over the place.

"Darby, the ambassador, and the embassy security guy, Lowery, and some of his guys showed up moments later. Once the ambassador had seen Mrs. Masterson, they took her to the hospital. The SIDE colonel sent two cars and eight of his men with the ambulance, and Lowery and some of our people went with them."

"How is Mrs. Masterson?"

"She's still pretty much out of it, but once they get her to the hospital-"

"What the hell is going on, Charley? Who the hell is doing this? Why?"

"Nobody has a clue, and every time I think maybe this, or maybe that, it doesn't wash."

"For example?"

"A bungled kidnapping. Why did they kill Masterson if he paid the ransom? Why didn't they kill her, too? They killed the cabdriver, maybe-probably-because he saw them. So why let her live? She certainly saw something. I just wish the President had sent somebody who knows what he's doing down here."

"He didn't. He sent you," Hall said, and then asked, "You think Masterson was trying to pay the ransom? Where would he get the money? I thought you said there had been no contact with the kidnappers?"

"Somebody contacted Masterson last night. Maybe before. Otherwise, why would he have gotten away from the agency guys-and SIDE-watching his house?"

"Okay."

"And as far as getting money to pay the ransom, all that would take is a telephone call, telling somebody- his financial guy, probably; they're old friends-to get five hundred thousand, or a million, in cash and get it down here as quickly as possible. A courier could have been on the same plane I was on, for that matter, and there's a direct American Airlines flight from Dallas. Or he could have hired a Citation or something like it. He has-had-the money, and he was desperate."

"Yeah," Hall agreed thoughtfully, and then asked, "Where are you?"

"I'm with Ambassador Silvio. In his office."

"He knows you were sent down there by the President?"

"Yes, sir."

"What's your next step? You know he's going to ask."

"I'm going to go to the hospital. Maybe, when she comes out of it…"

"How am I going to be able to get in touch with you?"

"Santini, Joel's buddy, loaned me a cellular. I don't know if you can call it, but I know I can call the States with it."

"Give me the number."

Ninety seconds later, as Castillo held it in his hand, the cellular rang.

"Castillo."

"It works, apparently," Hall said. "I'm going back to the secure line."

Two seconds later, Hall said, "I could have said this on the cellular. Keep in touch, Charley. Let me know anything you find out."

"Yes, sir."

Hall broke the connection without saying anything else.

"White House. Are you through?"

"Shut it down, please," Castillo said, and replaced the handset in its cradle. He sensed Silvio's eyes on him.

"You think Jack Masterson was trying to pay ransom?" Silvio asked.

"Sir, that's one-"

A female voice came over an intercom loudspeaker.

"Mr. Ambassador, the foreign secretary is on two."

Silvio reached for the telephone.

"Good morning, Osvaldo.

"Osvaldo, I'm always happy to receive you at your convenience.

"That will be fine. I will be expecting you.

"I appreciate that, Osvaldo. And I agree, this is a genuine tragedy. I will be waiting for you."

Silvio broke the connection with his finger, but kept the handset in his hand.

"The foreign minister officially requests an immediate audience," Silvio said. "And personally, he said he's heartbroken. I think he means that; he got along very well with Jack."

Castillo nodded, but didn't say anything.

Silvio took his finger off the switch, then pressed a button on his telephone.

"Oh, Sylvia. I'm glad you're in. Could you come in right away, please? Thank you."

He hung up the telephone and looked at Castillo again.

"The foreign minister, sometime during our audience, is going to ask me how I intend to deal with the press. To avoid hurting his feelings by having some doubts about his suggestions along that line, I'm going to show him what I have already released to the press."

A moment later, a slightly chubby woman in her late forties put her head into Silvio's office. She had heavily rimmed spectacles sticking out of her salt-and-pepper- and somewhat unkempt-hair. Silvio waved her in.

"Good morning, Sylvia," Silvio said.

"With all due respect, Mr. Ambassador, what's good about it? Jack was one of the good guys. And those poor kids!"

"Sylvia, this is Mr. Castillo. Mr. Castillo, this is Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt, our public affairs officer."

Ms. Grunblatt's offered handshake suggested that while she considered it a strange custom and a complete waste of her time, she resigned herself to the act.

"How much have you heard, Sylvia?"

She looked at Castillo as if wondering what she could say before a man she didn't know.

"Ken Lowery gave me a heads-up earlier," she said finally. "And then he called and told me he was at the German Hospital, and I went there on my way here. He pretty much filled me in."

"The foreign minister is on his way here. When he gets here I want to be able to tell him what we have released to the press."

"Which is?"

"In the opening lines, I'd like something to the effect that we are grateful to the Argentine government-on whom we have been relying to get to the bottom of this tragic event since it developed-for their great efforts, in which we have complete confidence."

Ms. Grunblatt considered that for about fifteen seconds.

"Okay. And what else?"

"Sylvia, I learned from you that when all else fails, tell the truth."

"And the truth is?"

"All we know is that Mrs. Masterson disappeared undercircumstances that suggested she had been kidnapped, and that Mr. Masterson was murdered, probably by the abductors, as she was left in the taxicab with him."

"Okay," she said. "I'll get right on it."

"It will take him, say, fifteen minutes to get here."

"You'll have it, Mr. Ambassador."

"I'd like a look at what Miss Grunblatt comes up with, please," Castillo said.

That earned him a frosty glance. She said, "It's Mizz Grunblatt, Mr. Costello."

"It's Castillo, Mizz Grunblatt."

"You think you might wish to add something, Mr. Castillo?" Silvio asked.

"Oh, no, sir. I'd just like to know what we're saying."

"Am I allowed to ask who Mr. Castillo is?" she asked.

"He works for the President, Sylvia, which means we tell him anything he wants to know."

"Is that for dissemination?" she asked.

"Absolutely not," Castillo said.

She held up both hands, palms out, to indicate that that information could not be torn from her under any conditions.

He smiled at her.

"Do you kill people who look over your shoulder while you work?" Castillo asked.

"Only if they're looking down my dress," Ms. Grunblatt said. "You that hot to see what I come up with?"

"I'd like to see it before I go to the German Hospital," he said.

"Sure, why not?" she said.

"I'll see that you have a car and driver, Mr. Castillo," the ambassador said.

"I can take a taxi, sir."

"Indulge me," the ambassador said.

"Thank you, sir." [THREE] "So what do you think?" Ms. Grunblatt asked.

"I think it's just what the ambassador wants," Castillo replied. "Who gets this?"

"Once the boss approves it, I'll e-mail it first to the Herald-that's the English-language paper here-and then AP, then the New York Times. Then I'll call them to let them know I sent it. After that, everybody else-the local media."

"Fax one to a man named Karl Gossinger at the Four Seasons."

"Who is he?"

"He works for a German newspaper called the Tages Zeitung."

And he will shamelessly paraphrase your very well-written yarn and send it off as his own.

She looked at him curiously but said only, "Consider it done."

The door to her office opened and a large and muscular young man in civilian clothing came in. His tweed jacket didn't do much to conceal the large revolver on his belt. Castillo was sure he was one of the Marine guards.

"Mr. Castillo?"

"Right."

"Sir, I've got your car anytime you're ready to go."

"I'm ready," Castillo said. He looked at Ms. Grunblatt. "Thanks."

"If you find out anything over there, you'll keep it to yourself, right?"

"You will be the second to know." The Marine led him to an embassy BMW in the embassy basement and held the rear door open for him.

"Would it be all right with you if I rode up front?" Castillo asked.

"Yes, sir. Whatever you want, sir."

Castillo walked around the front of the car and pulled the passenger door open. There was a leather toilet kit on the seat.

"There's a toilet kit on the seat," Castillo announced. "Yours?"

"No, sir. That's for you, sir."

"The ambassador thought I needed a shave?"

"It's a weapon, sir. A pistol."

"Really?"

Castillo unzipped the bag. It held a GI 9mm Beretta semiautomatic pistol.

That was a damned nice thing for Silvio to do for me.

Castillo took the pistol from the bag and pressed the magazine release button. The magazine did not slip out. He looked. There was no magazine.

"Sir, that's a Beretta Model 92 semiautomatic pistol, caliber nine millimeter."

"I'll be damned."

"Yes, sir. It will fire fifteen rounds just as fast as you can pull the trigger."

"This one won't."

"Sir?"

"There's no whatchacallems? 'Bullets'?"

"Sir, the cartridges are held in a magazine."

He held up a full magazine for Castillo's edification, and only then began to understand his chain was being pulled.

"What is it, 'Sergeant'?" Castillo asked, reaching for the magazine.

"Staff Sergeant, sir."

He more than reluctantly let go of the magazine. Castillo took it, checked to see there was no round chambered in the pistol, and then slid the magazine into its place in the handle.

"I don't want this to get any further than it has to, Sergeant, which means that was the last time you call me 'sir,' but the cold and unvarnished truth is that I'm a soldier."

"Sir, the ambassador didn't say anything-"

"What part of don't-call-me-'sir' didn't you understand?"

"Sorry, s-"

"I don't think the ambassador knows I'm a soldier. Actually-the reason I can give you orders-I'm a major."

"Yes, s-" the sergeant said, and then, "Major, it comes automatically. I say 'sir' to civilians all the time."

"Well, try not to say it to me, okay?"

"Yes, sir. Oh, shit."

"I'm sorry I brought the subject up," Castillo said, chuckling. "Let's go, Sergeant." [FOUR] Room 677 The German Hospital Avenida Pueyrredon Buenos Aires, Argentina 0940 23 July 2005 There were half a dozen uniformed Policia Federal in the lobby of the hospital, and when Castillo asked for Mrs. Masterson, one of them, a sergeant, walked up to him somewhat menacingly.

"Senor," he began.

A tall, well-dressed man walked up.

"Senor Castillo?"

Charley nodded.

"Come with me, please, senor."

"Get yourself a cup of coffee," Castillo said to the Marine.

"The ambassador said I'm not to let you out of my sight."

"Good, no 'sir,'" Charley said. "Tell the ambassador I was difficult. Not to worry."

Almost biting his lip not to say "sir," the Marine said, "I'll be right here."

The tall man waved Castillo onto an elevator, nodding at another well-dressed man already on it as they entered. The man pushed the button for the sixth floor.

There was a sign saying Seimens had built the elevator.

And the lobby was spotless, waxed, and shiny. And that RAUCHEN VERBOTEN! sign in black and red!

When they say "German Hospital," they mean German hospital.

When the door opened, Castillo saw more uniformed police and several other well-dressed men who he decided were almost certainly SIDE agents.

The tall man led him down a corridor to a door, opened it, and waved Castillo in.

Colonel Munz was in the room, which was some sort of monitoring center. There was a row of television sets-all of German manufacture-on the wall.

"I thought it would be best if Senor Darby and Senor Lowery spoke with Mrs. Masterson," Munz greeted him, "as I don't think she feels kindly about anything Argentine right now."

He dismissed the tall man with a wave of his hand, and then pointed to the television monitors. On two of them Castillo could see Mrs. Masterson. She was in a hospital gown, sitting up in a bed. Lowery was on one side of her and Darby on the other. Something from a limp plastic bottle was dripping into her arm. He could hear Darby talking to her, but he couldn't make out what he was saying.

"How long has she been out of it?" Castillo asked.

"About ten minutes," Munz replied. "They found a drug in her blood. They're giving her something to neutralize it. It's obviously working."

"I can't hear what they're saying."

Munz walked to one of the monitors and increased the volume.

Darby was assuring her that the children were all right, that they were under the protection of both Argentine police and security people from the embassy.

Castillo got the feeling that Darby was repeating his assurances, meaning she had not yet completely come out from under the effects of the narcotic.

He heard Munz's cellular buzz.

Munz said, "?Hola?" but then switched to German.

It soon became obvious that he was speaking with someone who was not overly impressed with Colonel Munz of SIDE, or more likely not impressed at all. His explanations that something had happened that had kept him from coming home as promised, and from at least calling, apparently were not falling on appreciative ears. The odds were that El Coronel Munz was speaking with Senora Munz.

He turned his attention back to Darby's gentle interrogation of Mrs. Masterson.

She didn't have much to tell him. From the time she was grabbed and felt what was the prick of a hypodermic needle in her buttocks, she remembered practically nothing until she had woken up in the taxicab sitting beside her dead husband.

She did not get a good look at her abductors; she didn't even know how many of them there had been. She had no idea where she had been taken. She could not describe the room in which she had been held.

Castillo had just had an uncomfortable thought, one that shamed him-Jesus, she's still probably full of that drug-when Munz spoke to him, in German.

"Why do I suspect you speak German, Herr Castillo?"

Castillo turned to look at him.

"While I was talking to my wife, in a thick Hessian accent, I saw your reflection on one of the monitors. You were smiling."

Why the hell is she lying? And to Darby, who is an old and close friend?

"Guilty," Castillo said, speaking German. "My mother was German. A Hessian, as a matter of fact."

And I've got to get an e-mail off to the Tages Zeitung, which I don't think I'll mention to Munz.

And I want to call Pevsner.

I should have gotten his phone number; all I have is Kennedy's cellular number.

Well, he can either give me the number or have Pevsner call me.

Maybe she's just scared. She has every right to be.

She must know that Darby's the resident spook, and that she is now safely in his hands.

"Really?" Munz said. "Where in Hesse was your mother from?"

Jesus, is he onto something? Has he connected me with Gossinger at the Four Seasons? Both Santini and Darby said SIDE is good.

"A little town called Bad Hersfeld."

"I know it. My father's family was from Giessen, and my wife's family from Kassel."

"How'd you wind up here?"

"I was born here. One day, maybe, I'll tell you how my mother and father got here. And my wife's parents."

"Okay."

She's not drugged. She's making decisions. She's lying.

Munz changed his mind.

"You ever hear of the Gehlen Organization?"

Castillo nodded. Immediately after World War II, a German general staff officer, Reinhardt Gehlen, who had been in charge of "Eastern Intelligence," had gone to the Americans and offered to turn over not only his files, but his entire intelligence network-which included, among other things of great intelligence value, in-place spies in the Soviet Army and in Moscow.

His price was that none of his officers be tried as Nazis, and that the Americans arrange to get their families out of Germany to somewhere safe-like South America, Argentina being preferred-with their husbands to join them later.

The deal was struck.

When Castillo had first heard the story, as a West Point cadet, he had been fascinated. He had wondered then who had made the decision to deal with Gehlen; it had to have been someone really senior. If the story had gotten out, there would have been a political eruption.

He had been trying ever since-and for years he had held security clearances that gave him access to a great deal of heavily classified files-to find out more. He hadn't learned much. The conclusion he had drawn, without any proof whatsoever, was that the decision to deal with Gehlen had been made by President Harry S Truman himself, probably at the recommendation of General Eisenhower, who at the time was commander in chief in Europe. Almost as soon as Roosevelt had died, and Truman had started dealing with the Soviet Union, he had recognized the Soviet threat. "My mother came here in 1946, and my father in 1950," Munz went on. "He became one of the few civilian instructors at the military academy. When he died several years ago, he was buried here quite close to a man named Hans von Langsdorff. That name ring a bell?"

"The Graf Spee captain," Castillo said.

Why is he telling me this?

To let me know he's one of the good guys?

Maybe Darby has him in his pocket, and he wants me to know?

Or maybe he wants me to think that he's muy simpatico, and I will thereafter regard him as a pal and tell him things I shouldn't.

Well, I don't have time to stay here and play games with him.

"When Mr. Darby comes out of there, would you ask him to give me a call? I don't see any point in hanging around here."

"Certainly," Munz said. [FIVE] Room 1550 The Four Seasons Hotel Cerrito 1433 Buenos Aires, Argentina 1035 23 July 2005 "Why don't we go in the bar and get you a cup of coffee while you're waiting for me?" Castillo said to the sergeant as they entered the hotel lobby.

"We're back to the ambassador saying I'm not supposed to let you out of my sight."

"I need thirty minutes out of your sight," Castillo said. "If you think you have to, Sergeant, call the ambassador and tell him I said that. Otherwise, your waiting in the bar will be our little secret."

"I would say, 'Yes, sir,' but you told me not to. Just don't take off on me, please? That would put my ass in a crack."

"I'll be down in thirty minutes, maybe a little less," Castillo said.

He walked the sergeant into the bar, got a bar tab, signed it-making sure the sergeant didn't see the Gossinger signature-and then rode the elevator to his room.

There was no fax press release from the embassy for Herr Gossinger waiting in his room; nor, when he called, was it waiting downstairs to be delivered. He wondered if Ms. Sylvia Grunblatt had overlooked sending it, or had intentionally not done so. Castillo knew that that didn't matter right now. He got out his laptop computer, and, working from his memory of the press release, wrote the story of the murdered diplomat, and then e-mailed it to Otto Goerner at the Tages Zeitung. He thought about calling him immediately, but decided that he might not read it right away, and that he would call him after he talked to Pevsner.

Alex Pevsner answered Kennedy's cellular on the second buzz.

"?Hola?"

"That you, Alex?"

"I heard what happened about thirty minutes ago. I thought you would call, and I knew you didn't have the number here, so I asked Howard for his cellular. I should have given the number to you. How is Mrs. Masterson?"

"You heard about that, too?" Castillo replied, and then went on without waiting for an answer. "They doped her-bupivacaine, I'm told-and she doesn't seem to remember much of what happened."

"But she'll be all right?"

"I think so. Yes."

"Anna was concerned."

"I don't suppose you've heard anything?"

"My source-and he's close to a man named Munz, who is the power at SIDE-tells me he doesn't think this is a kidnapping for ransom."

"He say what he thinks it is?"

"He doesn't have any idea, and neither, apparently, does Colonel Munz. If I hear anything, I'll let you know. Is it all right if I call your cellular number?"

"Of course."

"Let me give you the numbers here," Pevsner said, and did so. "Goerner."

"Did you get my Masterson story?"

"I'm fine, Karl. And how are you? I've been a little concerned."

"About what?"

"I got your story. Very interesting. So far, there's nothing on the wires or CNN."

"There will be shortly."

"I'm impressed with your-what do they say in the States? Your 'scoop.'"

"Well, I try to earn my keep."

"I hope you haven't had time to work on the oil-for-food scandal I mentioned."

"I haven't. Why do you ask?"

"I got a story from our guy in Vienna yesterday. I would have called to tell you about it, but, as usual, I didn't know where to find you. If you check your e-mail, you'll find a rather anxious message from me. There's also a rather pointed message on your voice mail at the Mayflower in Washington."

"What sort of a story?"

"The Vienna police were called to an apartment on the Cobenzlgasse to investigate a terrible odor. It came from the decomposing corpse-he'd apparently been dead for ten days or so-of a Lebanese man named Henri Douchon."

A mental image of the Cobenzlgasse, the cobblestone street in Grinzing leading up the hill to the Vienna Woods, popped into Castillo's mind. He had met Alex Pevsner for the first time at the top of the hill.

"Who's he?"

"From what I've been told, he was a middleman, a very important middleman, in the oil-for-food arrangement; the illegal part."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"According to my man, before they cut Herr Douchon's throat-almost decapitating him-they pulled several of his fingernails out, and several of his teeth. He was strapped into a chair."

"Jesus!"

"I don't want anyone pulling your teeth out with a pair of pliers, Karlchen, much less cutting your throat. I want you to forget everything I told you about there possibly being an Argentine connection."

"That cow is out of the barn, Otto."

"If I had known how to reach you yesterday, I was going to tell you not to make inquiries, discreet or otherwise, about Oil for Food, moving money to Argentina, or anything remotely connected with either."

"Not to worry, I won't have time now. I'm on the kidnapping story."

"Yes, I'm sure you are," Goerner said.

That was a not-very-well-veiled reference to what he knows I do for a living.

"One of the reasons I called was to ask what-off the top of your head-you think might entice someone to kidnap a diplomat's wife?"

"When I gave your story to the foreign news editor- it will run in all the papers, with your byline and photograph-he asked me, 'Isn't Masterson that football player who got seventy-five million dollars after he was run over by a coal truck?'"

"Basketball, sixty million, and a beer truck," Castillo said.

"That wasn't in your story, Karlchen," Goerner said. "We're going to see if the AP or CNN or BBC mentions it. Then we'll either quote them in our wrap-up, or run it as a sidebar."

Why the hell didn't I mention it? I was writing a news story, not an embassy press release.

Because you are not a bona fide journalist, that's why.

"It should have been in the story," Castillo said.

"What did you say, sixty million? That would inspire a kidnapper, I'm sure."

"One of my sources, a good one"-you know who he is, Otto. Alex Pevsner-"just told me there is some doubt in the minds of the senior cops here-they're called SIDE, sort of a combined CIA and FBI-that the abduction and the murder had anything to do with collecting a ransom."

"Even more reason that you not ask penetrating questions when you are far from home. There are some very unpleasant people in the world, Karlchen. People who are willing to attract all the attention that kidnapping an American diplomat's wife, and then killing the diplomat, would bring to them would not hesitate before killing a journalist from a not very important German newspaper if they thought he was asking impertinent questions."

"Hey, I'm a big boy, Otto."

"Who has always been too big for his pants," Goerner said. "There was something else I found missing in your story, Karl. What happens now?"

"I don't know what you mean."

" 'Ambassador Joe Blow said the remains of Masterson will be flown to the United States for burial in Arlington National Cemetery.' Something like that."

"I don't know, Otto. But I'll find out and send it to you."

"Your editor would like you, if possible, to accompany the remains to the United States, and provide the full story of the funeral."

"I'm not sure that will be possible."

"I'm not sure you would go if it was possible. But I am a foolish old man who worries about the godfather of his children, and thought I should ask."

"Otto…"

"Hold it a minute," Goerner said, and a moment later, "It just came in on Agence France Press," he said. "They say seventy million and baseball player."

"Trust me, it's sixty million and basketball."

Castillo's cellular buzzed.

"My cellular just went off. I have to go, Otto. I'll keep you up to speed."

"After you give me that cellular number and where you're staying," Goerner said.

"Hold one," Castillo said to the cellular, then gave Otto the cellular number and his room number in the Four Seasons.

"Please, Karlchen, be very careful," Otto said.

"I will. Thanks, Otto."

"Auf wiedersehen, Karlchen."

"Sorry," Castillo said into the cellular. "I was on the other line."

"How long will it take you to get to a secure line, Charley?" the secretary of Homeland Security asked.

"Ten, fifteen minutes."

"The sooner the better," Hall said. "I'll be waiting. He's gone ballistic."

The line went dead.

Castillo had no doubt that he who had gone ballistic was the President of the United States.