The Hostage

VII

[ONE] The Four Seasons Hotel Cerrito 1433 Buenos Aires, Argentina 2105 23 July 2005 The Marine guard-who Castillo had learned was Staff Sergeant Roger Markham, twenty years old, of Des Moines, Iowa, who had been a seventeen-year-old fresh from Parris Island when he had been on the Marine March to Baghdad before being assigned to the Marine Embassy Guard battalion-pulled the embassy BMW 545i to a smooth stop in front of the Four Seasons and started to open his door.

Castillo caught his arm.

"If you try to rush around and open my door, Roger, I swear to God you'll regret it."

Markham looked at him sheepishly.

"It's now a little after nine," Castillo said. "The plane's due at eleven-thirty, give or take, which means we should leave here around eleven. What are your plans for those two hours?"

"Wait."

"Here?"

"Right here."

"Can you leave the car here?"

"Dip plates. I can leave it anywhere."

"What you are going to do, Roger, is park it. The driveway is right there." Castillo pointed to the entrance of the hotel's basement garage. "And then you're going to come to my room, where we will try to get a little shut-eye."

"Whatever you say, s-"

"There you go again," Castillo said. "What do they do to you at Parris Island, give you fifty push-ups every time you to forget to say 'sir'?"

"Fifty, sometimes a hundred. Sorry."

"Not really a problem, but try, huh?"

Markham nodded.

"Go park the car," Castillo said, and got out.

As he walked through the lobby Castillo remembered that he had not gotten rooms for Betty Schneider and Jack Britton.

That proved to be more of a problem than he anticipated.

The house was nearly full, the assistant manager on duty told him. After ten minutes of consulting the computer, it was decided that Herr Gossinger would move from his suite-1550-into 1500. Fifteen hundred was far grander than Castillo needed, and consequently far more expensive.

He toyed with the idea of putting Betty into 1500, but decided against it.

She would almost certainly decide that I was plying her with luxurious accommodation as part of my wicked and devious plan to get into her pants.

If I thought that would work, I'd rent the whole goddamn floor.

Vacating 1550 made it available to someone else, and somehow that freed up 1510 and 1518, both very nice single rooms with views of Avenida 9 Julio and the port. Both were equipped with two queen-sized beds. Castillo asked the assistant manager which was farthest from 1500 and was told 1518.

"Put Senorita Schneider in fifteen-eighteen, please."

"Would you like to have a bottle of champagne and some flowers-roses, perhaps?-waiting for the young lady, Senor Gossinger?"

"I don't think that would be a very good idea, thank you."

As far as the young lady is concerned, our relationship is-and will remain-professional and platonic. There wasn't much that had to be moved from 1550 to 1500, and there were two bellmen and Sergeant Markham to help him, but it was after nine-thirty before the process was completed.

"I am now going to drink one of these," Castillo said, holding up two bottles of Quilmes beer from the in-room bar, "and then make a valiant attempt to catch a few winks." He extended a bottle to Markham, and added, "I suggest you do the same."

"I'm not sure I should be drinking," Markham said.

"Trust me, Roger, you should drink that beer." With Sergeant Markham stretched out on the couch in the sitting room of suite 1500, Castillo lay down on the super-king-sized bed in the bedroom. The first thing that came to mind were mental images, not all of which could honestly be deemed lewd and obscene, of Special Agent Schneider.

He finally chased them away with images of Jack the Stack Masterson in the taxicab.

Jesus, was that only this morning? When his cellular telephone buzzed, he was dreaming. In his dream, Sergeant Schneider was being much, much more affectionate than she had ever been in his waking hours.

He looked at his watch. He had been asleep for fifteen minutes.

"Castillo."

"I really hope I either woke you up or interrupted something really indecent," Major H. Richard Miller's very familiar voice announced.

You have no idea, you sonofabitch!

How did he get this number?

"How's the knee?"

"How do you think it is? After every sonofabitch and his brother has been digging around in it for a month with the very latest in shiny sharp instruments of torture?"

"What's up, Dick?"

"We can't find this Lorimer guy in Paris, and God knows I've tried. You are going to have one hell of a phone bill, old pal."

"You sound as if you're not calling from your Walter Reed bed of pain."

"Actually, having accepted your kind invitation to share your pad," Miller said, "I'm lying on your couch in the Mayflower as we speak. In the morning they will roll me into your office at the Nebraska complex, where I will lie on your couch there."

"What about Lorimer?"

"Well, we finally got an address for him, seven Rue Monsieur, and a phone number. No answer on the phone. Isaacson called some Secret Service guy he knows in Paris. The guy went there. The concierge said she had no idea where Lorimer was, but that he was often gone for a week or two. His car is in the garage. Isaacson said that he's going to ask Secretary Hall to ask Secretary Cohen to lean on the UN to find out where he is. And Isaacson said for me to call you and bring you up to speed."

"Thanks, Dick. Are you sure you're all right to work?"

"I'm fine. I presume the love of your life has not yet arrived?"

"Screw you. And if you're referring to Betty Schneider, the ETA is twenty-three-thirty local."

"An hour difference between here and there, huh?"

"It's almost ten here."

"As a friendly word of advice I'm almost positive you will ignore, try to think with your upper brain for a change, before you do something stupid with that woman."

"Jesus Christ!" Castillo heard himself flare. "She's no longer a cop that I can make a pass at. She's now in the Secret Service and she works for me. I still like to think of myself as an officer and a gentleman. So fuck you, Dick!"

There was a moment's silence, and then Miller said, "Charley, ol' buddy, you have no idea how happy that outburst made me. I'll be in touch."

The line went dead.

Castillo sat up in the bed and turned the light on.

I don't know where that outburst came from, either, but it was right on the money. I can't make a pass at Special Agent Schneider. I shouldn't even be fantasizing about her.

Moot point. She has made it as clear as humanly possible that she has no interest in me at all.

But I'm glad Dick brought it up.

I am entirely capable of doing the wrong thing, and probably would have.

What the hell is the matter with me?

In one movement, he laid the cellular on the bedside table and fell back on the bed.

Then, a moment later, he sat up again, picked up the phone, and punched the autodial button for Howard Kennedy.

Kennedy answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Did I wake you up, Howard?"

"As a matter of fact, no."

"Are you in the hotel?"

"Why?"

"I thought we might have a drink. There's a jazz quartet in the bar."

"Very kind of you, but what I'm doing is standing in the rain at Ezeiza watching ground handlers in whom I have no confidence whatsoever loading very expensive- and very nervous-horses onto an airplane. I'll take a rain check, though."

"Are you going with the horses wherever they're going?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"But you'll be coming back soon?"

Kennedy's silence indicated he wasn't going to answer the question.

"Pity," Castillo went on, "some old friends of yours are coming to town."

There was another silence long enough to make Castillo think Kennedy was not going to respond when he did:

"The major crime investigation team from Quantico?"

"I don't know where they're from, but they're coming from Washington."

"Have you got their names?"

This time Castillo hesitated before replying.

Why the hell not get him the names? What harm can it do?

"I can get them as soon as they get off the Gulfstream."

"When will that be?"

"Eleven-thirty, give or take. I told another of your former associates to meet the plane and find them someplace to sleep."

"What's his name?"

"Yung. He's stationed in Montevideo-"

"Chinese? Feisty little bastard? Round face, five-eight, one-fifty?"

"Yeah. You know him?"

"Very well. What did he tell you he's doing in Montevideo?"

"He didn't tell me he's doing anything. I have the impression he's just one more of your former associates looking into money laundering. The ambassador asked the ambassador in Montevideo if any of them had kidnapping experience, and he sent Yung and another guy here."

"His name?"

"I don't have it handy. But I can get it."

"Where are they landing? Here?"

"Jorge Newbery. There's a transport on the way that should land at Ezeiza at about the same time."

"I just saw an Air Force colonel in full uniform surrounded by Argentine Air Force brass; I wondered what he was up to."

"I'm going to get the family-and the body-out of here just as soon as I can."

"What were you planning to chat about, Charley, while we were listening to the jazz quartet?"

"I thought I might idly inquire if you had ever heard of a fellow named Jean-Paul Lorimer."

Kennedy replied by spelling Lorimer in the phonetic alphabet.

"Correct."

"Never heard of him, but if you get me those names, I'll be happy to ask around."

"Deal. How do I get them to you?"

"On the phone. How else?"

"I thought you were about to leave."

"I'll leave after I have those names."

"Done."

"Here's a freebie, Charley. Whatever David William Yung, Jr., is doing in Montevideo, it almost certainly has very little to do with examining bank statements."

"You mean he's looking for you?"

"That, too, of course. But that's not what I meant. He's a real hotshot; they don't waste people like David looking for dirty money."

"You sound as if you know him well."

"I told you I did. We used to work together."

"Can you give me a hint?"

"I just did. I'll be waiting for your call, Charley."

The line went dead. [TWO] Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Newbery Buenos Aires, Argentina 2305 23 July 2005 Sergeant Roger Markham had just turned the embassy BMW 545i onto Avenida 9 Julio near the Four Seasons hotel when the radio went off.

"Yung for Castillo."

Castillo was looking around for a microphone when Markham put one in his hand. Castillo took it and pushed the PRESS TO TALK button.

"Go."

"Sir, the aircraft will be parked on the private aviation side of the field."

"Got it. Thank you."

"Sir, ETA is forty-five minutes."

"Got it. Thank you. We're on the way."

"Out."

Well, he not only told me where the airplane will be parked, which he didn't have to do, but he called me "sir." Maybe he's resigned to me being in charge and decided he might as well go along; but on the other hand, it's equally likely, considering that everybody in the FBI got the Castillo-knows-Kennedy memo, he thinks that if we can become pals, I just might let something slip that would put him onto Howard Kennedy.

What the hell did Kennedy mean when he said, "Whatever Yung's doing he's not looking for dirty money"?

"You might as well slow down, Roger. They're forty-five minutes out."

"Am I driving too fast, sir?"

"I wish there was someplace we could get a cup of coffee," Castillo said. "Back to the hotel?"

"There's all kinds of restaurants on the river near the airport."

"Pick one."

"Yes, s- I'll do that."

"Don't let this go to your head, Roger, but maybe there's some hope for you after all." It was raining hard when they got to the civilian side of Jorge Newbery airfield, so hard that Castillo wondered if the Gulfstream was going to be able to land.

There was only one runway, paralleling the bank of the Rio de la Plata, and it didn't look like a fun place to try to land in a driving rain with gusting winds.

On the tarmac in front of a Southern Winds hangar, he saw a BMW with diplomat plates, two small white Mercedes-Benz buses, called Traffiks, each of which had a cardboard sign with CD lettered on it taped to the windshield, and a Peugeot sedan with Argentine plates.

When Sergeant Markham pulled in beside the buses, Castillo saw that the interior lights of one of the buses were on and saw Special Agent Yung, holding a newspaper, looking out at them. There was an Air Force major on the bus.

If I sit here, eventually Yung will come here, establishing me as King of the Hill. But he will get drenched and make the seats here wet. And I can get a much better look at him in the bus than I can here. I want to see his eyes.

Castillo turned to Markham.

"I suppose it's too much to expect you to have an umbrella?" The sergeant produced one instantly, seemingly out of thin air. Castillo chuckled appreciatively. "Thank you, Roger, for the umbrella."

As Castillo reached the bus, and the door swung open inwardly with a whoosh, two men got out of the Peugeot and, holding newspapers over their heads, half ran toward it.

"Well, what do you think, Yung? Are they going to be able to get in?"

"Senor Castillo?" one of the Argentine men said, and when Castillo turned, he was handed a small, handheld transceiver. He saw that it was lit up and tuned to what he presumed was the Jorge Newbery tower frequency.

He put it to his ear. There was the to-be-expected hissing, which suddenly cleared.

"Jorge Newbery, this is United States Air Force Zero-Four-Seven-Seven. I have your runway in sight," a cheerful, confident American voice announced.

Castillo handed the Argentine the radio.

"Thank you," he said, and then to Yung: "Talk about timing!"

He sat down so that he could see out the windshield.

For a moment he could see nothing, and then, a second after he spotted first a Grimes light, and then the navigation lights, a very bright landing light suddenly blazed.

The glistening white Gulfstream-a U.S. Air Force C-37A-came in low and touched down immediately after the threshold. The words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA were lettered boldly down the side of the fuselage. They were illuminated so the legend couldn't be missed, telling Castillo the airplane belonged to the 89th Presidential Airlift Group at Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland. Only their airplanes had the classy paint jobs.

Castillo felt a lump in his throat. It was like seeing the colors flying somewhere very foreign. Which indeed was the case now.

"Jesus, that's a pretty bird!" the Air Force major said, softly.

"My sentiments exactly, Major," Castillo said, smiled, and offered the major his hand. "My name is Castillo."

"Yes, sir, I know. My name is Jossman, sir."

"You're going to take care of the crew?"

"The embassy administrative officer put everyone in the Las Pampas Aparthotel, Mr. Castillo," Yung answered for him. "I presumed he had checked with you. Is that all right?"

You are a clever sonofabitch, aren't you, Yung?

"He obviously did so with the ambassador's blessing," Castillo said. "Are you satisfied with them?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yung, I'm going to need a list of the FBI people," Castillo said. "Put your name and the other FBI agent from Montevideo on it. Just the names, and what they do if they're not special agents. And while you're at it, you might as well list the FBI personnel in Uruguay."

"I'll get it to you first thing in the morning."

"Is there some reason I can't have it right now? I'm going to give one copy to these gentlemen for Colonel Munz." He paused, and then asked, in Spanish, "You do work with El Coronel Munz?"

The man nodded.

"Thank you, Senor Castillo," he said. "I was about to ask. If I have the names, there will be no problem with Immigration."

"There you go, Yung," Castillo said, with a smile he really hoped would burn Yung. "Have at it."

"Yes, sir."

He is not used to being ordered around. Like Howard Kennedy, another, if former, FBI hotshot. What the hell is he doing in Uruguay?

"Here it comes," Air Force Major Jossman said, gesturing out the window.

Castillo looked and saw the Gulfstream coming down the taxiway.

"Do I have the only umbrella?" he asked.

"I've got some," Major Jossman said.

As the Gulfstream rolled onto the tarmac before the Southern Winds hangar, floodlights in the hangar came on, and a stream of Gendarmeria National men, most of them carrying submachine guns, came out of the hangar, formed a line, and came to attention, ignoring the rain. The officer in charge saluted.

Major Jossman took two umbrellas, opened one inside the bus, and then tried and failed to get it through the door. He gave up, collapsed it, stepped into the rain, and then opened it.

"Major," Castillo ordered. "Everybody in here. They can deal with the luggage later."

The major nodded and walked to the now-stopped Gulfstream, its engines winding down.

The door opened, and a stocky man in a business suit appeared in the doorway. The major handed him the second umbrella. The major pointed to the bus, and the man nodded, opened the umbrella, and started toward the bus.

Special Agent Elizabeth Schneider appeared next in the doorway.

Major Castillo's heart jumped.

Special Agent Schneider looked around, saw the bus, saw Major Castillo in it, smiled, and gave a little wave.

Major Castillo's heart jumped again. Harder.

Jossman held the umbrella for Special Agent Schneider and walked with her to the bus. They got there as the stocky man came through the door.

"My name is…" he started to say, but then noticed Agent Yung. "Well, hello, Dave."

Yung looked up from his lined yellow pad.

"Hey, Paul," he said, then, "Mr. Castillo, this is Special Agent Paul Holtzman."

"I'm supposed to report to you, sir," Holtzman said. "I'm the senior agent."

He didn't offer his hand.

"Hand your umbrella to the major, please," Castillo said. "And take a seat. I'll save what I have until everyone's on board."

It had been Major Castillo's firm intention to greet Special Agent Schneider formally.

She blew this plan out of the water by smiling at him again, then sitting down next to him, innocently resting her hand on his shoulder in the process, and saying, "Hello, Charley," so close to him that he could smell her breath.

Peppermint. They had apparently issued chewing gum to counter the pressure differential that occurs when an aircraft makes a rapid descent from cruising to approach altitude.

So the plan to greet Special Agent Schneider with "Good to see you again, Schneider," or words to that effect, was replaced with, "Jesus, I'm glad to see you."

As he also became aware of Special Agent Schneider's perfume, he became simultaneously aware that Special Agent Yung hadn't missed a thing.

It took several minutes for the umbrella shuttle to get everybody off the Gulfstream into the bus, including the crew. Special Agent Jack Britton was about the fifth man to climb onto the bus, and for a moment Castillo didn't recognize him. The last time Castillo had seen him, Britton had been wearing a somewhat straggly beard and the Philadelphia conception of Arabic robes, and his hair had been both cornrowed and embedded with beadery.

Now his hair was neatly cut. He wore a well-fitted suit. He looked, Castillo thought, like Colin Powell.

Britton's grip was firm.

"I don't know the protocol-am I supposed to call you 'sir'?-but it's good to see you."

"Charley's fine, Jack. It's good to see you, too. Ready to go to work?"

"I would like to visit a gentleman's rest facility first; the one on the airplane went on the fritz somewhere over Brazil. And if possible, I'd like to get something to eat."

"There's probably a men's room in the hangar. You want to take a chance? What's going to happen here won't take long. And then it's about ten minutes to the hotel."

Britton looked at the driving rain and said, "I think I'll wait."

While this was going on, Castillo was more than a little aware that Special Agent Schneider's upper leg was pressed against his, no doubt only because the seats in the Mercedes Traffik seemed to have been designed for midgets.

Finally, everyone was aboard.

Castillo stood up and faced the rear of the bus.

"May I have your attention, please?" he began, and when he had it, went on: "My name is Castillo. As I understand you have been informed, I have been placed in charge of the American investigation into Mr. Masterson's murder, and the abduction of Mrs. Masterson. Additionally, I have been given responsibility for the safety of the Masterson family while they are in Argentina.

"The investigation itself is being conducted by Argentine authorities, under the overall control of SIDE, and I think you all know what SIDE is."

There was a tug on his jacket, and he looked down and saw first that Agent Schneider's eyes were even deeper and more lovely than he had remembered, and also that she was shaking her head just enough to indicate she didn't know what SIDE was.

"I'll brief you and Agent Britton separately later, Agent Schneider," he said, and then went on. "It has been decided that this investigation, and any prosecution resulting from it, will be done by the Argentine authorities."

"Who the hell decided that?" Special Agent Holtzman demanded.

"I did, and Ambassador Silvio concurred," Castillo replied. "And let me bring you up to speed on what else the ambassador and I have decided. There will be no communication of any sort by any means with any federal agency in Washington or elsewhere without the prior approval of Ambassador Silvio or myself. I want that clearly understood. Are there any questions about it?"

An agent in the back said, "You mean I can't call my wife and tell her I got down here all right?"

"You can call anyone you wish, as long as there is no reference to the situation here. Clear?"

There were murmurs.

"Nothing is going to happen tonight. Special Agent Yung will take you to your hotel and get you fed, et cetera. In the morning, I will inform him, or you, Agent Holtzman, your call, where you can meet with the Argentine authorities. They have agreed to make you privy to what they have learned so far, but I want it kept in mind this is their investigation, and things will be done their way. We're here to help, that's all.

"So far as interviewing Mrs. Masterson is concerned, for a number of reasons, including that she was drugged by her abductors and is still in the hospital, unless there is some overriding reason for the FBI to question her, all interviews of her will be conducted by Special Agent Santini of the Secret Service, and Special Agent Schneider. If she is interviewed by the FBI, it will be in the presence of one of them, or of Mr. Alex Darby."

"Who's he?" Holtzman asked.

"He's the commercial attache of the embassy. He has the complete confidence of the ambassador, Mrs. Masterson, and myself."

"What the hell are we doing down here, then? If we can't even-"

"You're here, Agent Holtzman," Castillo interrupted, "for the same reason I am. The President has ordered it."

"May I ask a question, sir?" a man in an Air Force flight suit with the insignia of command pilot and the silver leaf of a lieutenant colonel asked.

I wonder how long it will be before Yung confides in the lieutenant colonel that the hotshot in charge is really a lowly Army major?

"Yes, sir, of course."

"How long are you going to need the C-37?"

"I'll be able to answer that better in the morning, Colonel. After I get my orders. That's the best I can give you right now."

"Fine. How's the security here?"

"That platoon of men in the brown uniforms-the ones with the submachine guns-will guard the Gulfstream, Colonel. They're Gendarmeria National."

"You think that's enough?"

Castillo felt the eyes of the SIDE agents on him.

"I have no problem with them at all, Colonel."

"Good enough. Thank you, sir."

"That's all I have. I'll give Agent Yung my cellular number in case anything comes up, but please don't call it unless it's really necessary. I've been up since half past six, and I want to go to bed."

"I'll bet," Special Agent Yung said softly, with a knowing smile.

You sonofabitch!

"You have that list of names for me, Agent Yung?" Castillo asked, smiling at him warmly. [THREE] The rain, if anything, was heavier, and Castillo thought that if the Gulfstream had come in ten minutes later there would have been a real problem.

Where, other than Ezeiza, was the alternate field? And how much fuel was remaining? It was a long flight nonstop from Andrews.

Sergeant Roger Markham got himself soaking wet first getting into the bus from the BMW, and then, now armed with a description of it, getting Betty and Jack's luggage from the other bus into the BMW.

Betty's umbrella was blown inside out as she ran for the BMW-Castillo wondered how she had managed to hang on to it at all-and she was soaked, too, when Castillo and Britton made their dash from the bus to the BMW. Britton got in the front seat.

I didn't elbow Jack out of the way. This time the fickle finger of fate got me the backseat next to her.

Hey, stop! An officer and a gentleman does not make passes at his subordinates.

For Christ's sake, remember that!

Major Castillo smiled at Special Agent Schneider. She appeared to be shivering.

"Cold, Schneider?" he asked.

"Freezing," she admitted. "What is it, winter down here?"

"Yes, it is. They should have told you. Here, let me give you my jacket."

The first duty of an officer is to take care of his men.

And that's what she is, one of your men. Remember that!

"Thanks," she said.

It was a ten-minute drive from the airport to the Four Seasons. Halfway there the rain seemed to slacken. By the time they rolled up to the Four Seasons it had stopped completely.

Bellmen appeared and took care of the luggage. "Roger, are you hungry?" Castillo asked.

"No, s- No. I'm not."

"Go home, get a hot shower, and be here at half past seven."

Sergeant Markham nodded and got back in the car.

"Very nice," Jack Britton said about the hotel.

"I didn't want him to catch pneumonia," Castillo said, gesturing at the departing BMW.

"Who's he?" Special Agent Schneider asked.

"One of the Marine guards."

"I noticed the haircut," she said.

"So we don't have wheels to go out to a restaurant-"

"Can we go inside, please?" Special Agent Schneider said. "It's cold out here."

"Sorry," he said, and motioned her ahead of him through the door. He saw that water was dripping from the hem of her skirt onto the polished marble floor.

She found her way to the reception desk by herself, and they handed her her key.

"So, about dinner," Castillo said.

"It's midnight. Is anything open?" Jack Britton interrupted.

"This is Argentina. They go to dinner starting at ten," Castillo said. "There's the hotel restaurant."

"I don't want to get dressed up enough to go to a restaurant," Britton said. "You, Betty?"

"I want to get out of these clothes," Special Agent Schneider said, triggering mental images in Major Castillo's mind, "and into a hot shower," she concluded, triggering additional mental images. "But I'm starved."

"What about room service?" Britton asked.

"Sure. Is that what you want to do?"

"Are the rooms big enough for all three of us to have dinner?" Special Agent Schneider asked. "I don't like to eat sitting on a bed."

"Mine is," Castillo said.

"Why don't we do that?" Britton asked. "Could you order dinner for us while we shower? Neither of us speaks Spanish that well."

"What do you want?"

"Anything, as long as it's warm and comes with a double Jack Daniel's," he said.

Special Agent Schneider laughed and got onto the elevator.

"Make that two," she said, and handed Castillo his jacket.

Major Castillo happened to notice that with the jacket no longer covering her, Special Agent Schneider's rain-soaked dress now clung to her body like a coat of varnish. He averted his eyes.

"I'm in fifteen-hundred," he announced as they got off the elevator. "At the far end of the corridor. I'll order us something to eat."

The elevator triggered a memory of Howard Kennedy.

Shit, I didn't call him with the names.

He felt in his jacket for the sheet of lined paper Yung had given him. It was soaked, but it was legible.

He carefully laid the soggy sheet of paper on the glass-topped coffee table in the sitting room, then went into his bedroom and stripped off his clothing.

Four years of practicing West Point Class 202- Personal Hygiene, or How to Take a Shower in No Time at All-paid off. Five minutes after entering his bedroom he came out of it, showered and dressed in slacks and a shirt.

First he called room service and ordered dinner, plus a bottle of Jack Daniel's and, after a moment's thought, a bottle of Famous Grouse and two bottles of Senetin cabernet sauvignon. He had shared a bottle of that with Ambassador Silvio at lunch, and, as the ambassador had said, it was really first class.

Then he called the valet and told him he had a soaking wet suit that he absolutely had to have dried and pressed and back by six-thirty in the morning. That posed no problem for the valet, which made Castillo suspect the drying and pressing service of the Four Seasons was probably going to cost as much as the suit had when he'd bought it at the annual Brooks Brothers sale at thirty-five percent off the tag price.

Finally, he sat down on the couch and punched Kennedy's autodial button on his cellular.

They could barely hear each other, which was explained when Kennedy said he'd never seen so much goddamn rain in his life. The rainstorm had apparently moved the fifteen miles or so between Jorge Newbery and Aeropuerto Internacional Ministro Pistarini de Ezeiza and was interfering with the cellular signals.

He was down to the last name on the list of FBI agents-he'd had to spell each one phonetically, sometimes twice-when the doorbell chimes bonged.

When he opened it, Special Agent Schneider, a lady who was probably from the valet service, and a man in a bartender's white jacket pushing a rolling table with the whiskey, wine, and the accoutrements were standing there.

Special Agent Schneider was wearing blue jeans and a sweater. Her hair looked damp.

He motioned them all into the room.

"Fix yourself a drink," he said. "Food's on the way."

He signed the bill for the drinks, then motioned the lady from the valet service into the bedroom and pointed out the waterlogged suit to her.

All of this while simultaneously spelling Daniel T. Westerly's name phonetically to Howard Kennedy for the third or fourth time, and being very much aware that Special Agent Schneider filled out both her sweater and her blue jeans in an incredibly delightful way. She wasn't wearing makeup, not even lipstick, and Castillo thought she looked fine without it.

Kennedy finally could hear Westerly's name spelled out phonetically.

"Westerly. Okay. He's a fingerprint guy. Damned good at it, too. He once lifted two eight-point digits from a used condom."

"That's it, Howard, that's the last of the names."

"All of them are on the major crimes team."

"Should any of them be of special interest to me?"

"No. Yung's the one who interests me. Watch yourself with him, Charley."

"I will. And you will inquire about Mr. Lorimer for me, right? Just as soon as you get where you're going?"

"The way it's raining, Charley, I may never get out of here."

That's two-no, four-sentences that came through intact.

"Howard, I like you. I'm going to make the rain stop."

"What?"

"Trust me, Howard, in ten minutes, fifteen tops, it will stop raining. I have issued the order. Have a nice flight, and remember to call."

He pushed the END button and laid down the cellular. "What was that all about?" Special Agent Schneider asked.

"Not that I'm not delighted to see you, but I thought women took longer to shower and dress than men."

"That means you're not going to tell me, right?" Betty replied. "To answer the second question, Jack's calling his wife."

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

She raised her glass of bourbon.

"You're not drinking?"

"I'm going to have the wine."

"On your good behavior, are you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"This quote room unquote looks like a set for a movie," she said. "And mine's not exactly a slum, either. The whole bathroom is marble. Which raises the question, how do we pay for all this?"

"Wait until you see the view," he said and went to the windows and found the switch for the opening mechanism.

"That's beautiful!" she said and walked and stood beside him. "But it doesn't answer the question about the bill."

"When we get back to Washington, Agnes-Mrs. Forbison, who runs things in the Nebraska complex- will show you how to fill out the forms for travel expenses outside the country. When you get the check, sign it over to me."

"What I think that means is that you intend to pick up the difference between what the Secret Service will pay and what you will."

"I wanted to keep you and Jack separate from the FBI," Castillo said. "This is the only answer I could come up with on short notice."

The chimes bonged again.

This time it was Jack Britton and two waiters pushing two room-service carts loaded with food covered by stainless-steel domes. Britton was wearing a sports jacket, slacks, and a shirt and tie.

"I thought you didn't want to get dressed up for dinner," Castillo said.

"I changed my mind when I saw my room. Do you always live this good?"

"Whenever I can. Fix yourself a drink, Jack. And as soon as they've set up the food, I'll tell you what's going on."

"Just out of idle curiosity, what does this place cost by the night?"

"I really have no idea," Castillo said.

"Why am I not surprised?" Betty said, and there was an unpleasant sarcastic tone in her voice.

"I really don't know how this works in the Secret Service," Castillo said. "But I don't think the presidential protection detail people stay in the economy motel ten blocks from where the President is staying to save the government money. I intend to find out. I don't want to spend my money to buy things I've bought to carry out what I've been ordered to do. The government is not on my list of favorite charities."

Britton nodded.

"I wanted to keep you two away from the FBI," Castillo said.

"They don't like you much, either," Britton said. "I picked that up on the airplane."

Castillo found an excuse not to get into that when he saw one of the waiters opening a bottle of the cabernet.

"I'll do that, thank you," he said in Spanish. "And we'll serve ourselves." By the time Castillo had finished relating what had happened, and why he had asked that they be sent to Argentina, and what he expected of them, they had finished what had turned out to be an enormous meal.

And as they talked, Castillo had the feeling that his moral dilemma had solved itself. Special Agent Schneider was in fact a cop, and a smart one, and this was business, not romantic fantasy. And there was no question in his mind that if he made the first preliminary pass at Schneider, she would turn it down. Gently and kindly, probably, because Schneider was a good guy, but turn it down.

And it was after two A.M.

"Let's knock it off," he said. "I want to get started early in the morning. You want to eat here-we may think of something we missed-or do you want to meet in the restaurant downstairs at, say, quarter to seven?"

"If you don't mind, here," Special Agent Schneider said. "For personal reasons: I want to look out your windows in the daylight."

"Okay, here at quarter to seven," Britton said. "My ass is dragging."

He got up from the table and walked to the door. Special Agent Schneider followed. Both waved a good-night, but neither said anything.

Three minutes after they had gone, Castillo was in bed. And then-he had no idea how much later-the door chimes bonged.

Oh, shit! The floor waiter wants to get the goddamn dishes!

Not quite knowing why he did so, he picked up the Beretta from the bedside table and held it behind his back as he stormed out of the bedroom and across the sitting room to the door and jerked it open.

Special Agent Schneider was standing in the corridor.

"I seem to have dropped my handkerchief," she said.

He didn't reply.

"May I come in?"

He stepped out of the way.

"I thought it was the floor waiter," he said.

"Were you going to shoot him?" Special Agent Schneider asked.

He held up both hands-one of them holding the Beretta-helplessly.

She walked to the table and poured wine into a glass.

"I'm not sure this is a very good idea," he said.

She walked to him and handed him the glass and smiled.

"There stands the legendary Charley Castillo, in his underwear with a gun in one hand and a glass of wine in the other," she said, and shook her head, and then went back to the table and poured another glass of wine.

With her back to him, she said, "I thought of you all the way down here on the airplane. I thought of you at other times, of course, but I thought of you all the goddamned time I was on the airplane."

Castillo saw her take a healthy swallow of the cabernet.

"One of the things I thought about," she went on, speaking softly, "was how I was going to handle the pass the man whose Secret Service code name is Don Juan was certainly going to make at me."

"I wouldn't dare make a pass at you," Castillo said, jocularly. "Not only would your brother break both my legs-"

"Let me finish, please, Charley," she interrupted firmly.

"Sorry."

"I had to be very careful, so as not to hurt your feelings-which I didn't want to do-or to piss you off, because you might get your masculine ego in an uproar and do something crappy and screw me up with the Secret Service. From what I've seen so far, I like the Secret Service, and when I took the appointment, I burned my bridges with the department in Philadelphia."

"Christ, I wouldn't-"

"Goddamn you, Charley, let me finish."

She turned to glare at him. He nodded, and she turned her back to him again.

She took another swallow of the cabernet, shook her head, and went on: "So then what happened was that you didn't make a pass at me, and my initial reaction to that was, 'Thank God!' and then I realized that you were being responsible, you were being the upstanding guy who would never make a pass at somebody who worked for him.

"And my reaction to that was, what the hell is the difference? He's not going to make a pass at you, so that's it. Relax.

"And then when I left here and I saw you sitting at the table, I thought that's the loneliest guy in the world. And then I got in bed and faced the facts. The truth."

"Which is?" he asked softly.

"That what I really wanted to do was come back," she said, and turned her head to look at him, and then quickly looked away.

He didn't move or say anything.

"Which, obviously, was a pretty dumb thing," she said. "Sorry."

She turned and walked quickly toward the door.

He caught her arm and she tried to break loose, but he held on.

"What?" she asked.

"I don't think you've been out of my mind for more than thirty consecutive minutes since the last time I saw you in Philadelphia."

She turned to face him and looked up into his eyes.

"Oh, Jesus, Charley!" "Oh, Jesus!" Presidential Agent Castillo said to Special Agent Schneider.

He had just rolled onto his back, breathing heavily, and put his arm over his eyes.

"Yeah," Betty said. After a moment, she shifted around on the bed so that she could rest her head on his chest.

He put his arm around her and ran the balls of his fingers gently up and down her spine.

"What happens now?" Charley asked. "Your brother comes in and breaks both my legs?"

"Well, he'd have no trouble finding us," Betty said. "We left a trail of my clothes from the living room into here."

He chuckled.

"What are you thinking now, Charley? 'I knew all along she'd be easy'?"

"Worse than that. I think-ignore that-I know I'm in love with you."

"You're under no obligation to say something like that."

"'Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free,'" Castillo quoted. "I think John Lennon said that."

She tweaked his nipple.

"That's from the Bible," she said, chuckling.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"No response? In other words, are my feelings for you reciprocated? Partially reciprocated? Or reciprocated not at all?"

She raised her head and looked down at him.

"My God, couldn't you tell?" she asked, then: "You want me to say it, don't you?"

He nodded.

"Okay. I love you. I guess I knew that when I walked into Counterterrorism and saw the guy who'd thought I was a hooker in the Warwick bar and my heart jumped."

"Oh, boy!" [FOUR] The Buenos Aires Herald Azopardo 455 Buenos Aires, Argentina 0327 24 July 2005 At almost exactly this time-although neither of them cared a whit what hour it was, or even what day, as Charley reached down to pull Betty onto him-a small white Fiat van pulled away from the loading dock at the Buenos Aires Herald building in downtown Buenos Aires.

It drove to the Austral Air Cargo building at Jorge Newbery airfield, where the driver handed over approximately six hundred copies of the Herald, so fresh from the press that the ink had not had time to completely dry.

The newspapers were tied together in sixteen packages, each with a simple address. Most were in fifty-copy packages, but some of the packages contained far fewer-in three instances, only five.

The Austral people put all of them into three large blue plastic shipping containers, and then put the containers on a baggage cart. After all other cargo and passenger luggage had been loaded aboard Austral Flight 622, the containers would be loaded aboard-last on, first off.

Flight 622 would depart Jorge Newbery at 0705 and land in Montevideo twenty-five minutes later. The blue plastic containers would be off-loaded first, and turned over to a representative of the Herald, who would arrange for their further distribution.

He would load two hundred copies in his car. They were destined for downtown Montevideo (150) and for Carrasco, a suburb through which he would pass on his way downtown.

The others he took to the airport's bus terminal, where they were stacked according to their destination. The Route 9 stack would be placed aboard the first morning bus to San Carlos, Maldonado, and Punta del Este, the posh seaside resort on the Atlantic Ocean. The Route 8 stack would see stacks of the newspaper dropped off at Treinta y Tres, Melo, and Jaguarao. The Route 5 bus would drop off newspapers at Canelones, Florida, and then continue across the dam holding back the Lago Artificial de Rincon Del Bonete to Tacuarembo, where it would drop off the last stack. There were just three copies of the Herald in the last stack.

The manager of the Tacuarembo Bus Terminal-he was paid to do so-would then telephone the manager of a remote estancia to tell him the Herald had arrived. Sometimes it didn't-things happened-and telephoning the estancia manager to tell him that the newspapers had, or had not, arrived saved the manager an hour-long ride down an unpaved highway.

All of this took time, of course, and it was almost three in the afternoon before the Herald was delivered to Estancia Shangri-La and another half hour before it was in the hands of El Patron, who was taking an afternoon siesta with Juanita, a sixteen-year-old maid.

Jean-Paul Lorimer, sitting up in bed, read the front-page banner headline with dismay, and muttered, "?Merde!"

The banner headline read: AMERICAN DIPLOMAT MURDERED IN PORT AREA and showed a photograph of the late J. Winslow Masterson.

Lorimer was of course disturbed and at first frightened. Jack was, after all, his brother-in-law, and this had to be very difficult on poor Betsy.

But there was no reason, to judge from the Herald's rather extensive coverage of the matter, for Jean-Paul Lorimer to think it had anything to do with him.

Jack and his family had been ripe for something like this to happen for years, ever since he had been given that obscenely generous payment for being run over by the beer truck.

And Argentina certainly was the place for it to have happened. Kidnapping there had replaced schools that taught English as the national cottage industry.

He would not-could not-allow what had happened to Jack to force him to change his plans. All this really meant was that it would soon be discovered that Jean-Paul Lorimer was missing in Paris-and that might have already happened.

If he called Betsy to express his condolences, even if he didn't tell her where he was calling from, that would mean that although he had been missing since the thirteenth of July-in other words, for ten days-he'd been alive on the twenty-third.

That didn't even get into the matter of traceable telephone records, which would locate him.

And his expression of condolences would, after all, be hypocritical.

I never liked the arrogant sonofabitch, and am not at all sorry that he got knocked off his high horse with two bullets in the brain.

There was even an upside to this.

The attention by the press would be to the murder of Jack the Stack Masterson, who despite his Phi Beta Kappa key didn't have enough brains to get out of the way of a beer truck, and no one would pay much, if any, attention to the disappearance of his brother-in-law in France.

He dropped the Herald onto the floor beside the bed and turned to Maria del Juanita.

"Darling, put some clothes on, and tell Senora Sanchez I will have my coffee in the library."