The Hostage

IX

[ONE] Autopista Del Sol Accesso Norte San Isidro Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1850 24 July 2005 El Coronel Alfredo Munz leaned forward, tapped the driver of the Jeep Grand Cherokee on the shoulder, and told him to slow down, turn off the siren, and take the flashing blue light from the roof.

Castillo looked at him in surprise, then anger, then horror as it occurred to him the probable reason it was no longer necessary to speed.

Jesus Christ, did somebody call him to tell him she's dead, and I missed it?

Munz read his mind.

"If you and I wind up in hospital beds beside Fraulein Schneider because we ran into a gasoline truck, that won't do her any good, will it, Karl?"

Castillo didn't reply.

"What will happen at the hospital is that they will check her vital signs, type her blood-"

"Her blood type's on her credentials," Castillo interrupted.

"If they were in her purse, that's on the way to my laboratory. I don't think they'll find any prints of use on it, but I don't want to omit anything."

Munz waited until that had sunk in, then went on: "And even if the hospital had something alleging to give her blood type, they would make their own examination unless her condition was really critical. Giving transfusions of the wrong type of blood can be fatal."

"Not critical? Christ, Alfredo, there was blood all over the backseat!"

"Not all of it, I don't think, was hers," Munz said. "And you know how heavily any wound to the head bleeds."

Yeah, I do. I'm a soldier.

So start thinking like one, Charley, for Christ's sake!

This damn situation is my fault, no question about that, but it's done.

Evaluate the damage, and decide on a course of action!

Fighting to keep control of his voice, Castillo said, "You didn't tell me where she was hit."

Munz tapped his right cheek, just above his mouth.

"And in the body, the upper leg, and here in the side. That's all I saw." He pointed to both locations.

"Three wounds from… what was that Madsen firing?"

"I don't know; I saw some nine-millimeter casings."

"Well, maybe we got lucky and it wasn't one of the Madsen.45s."

"I don't think it was.45 ACP," Munz said, noting that Castillo knew of the Brazilian-made model. "And we may be even luckier."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't see an exit wound on her face. That makes me think maybe it was bounced bullets."

"What?"

"Bounced bullets."

"You mean ricochets?"

"Exactly. Those marvelous windshields on that armored BMW, designed to keep bullets out, in this case may unfortunately have kept them in as well."

"Jesus, I didn't think about that."

"We'll find out when we get to the hospital."

And there's something else I didn't think about, either!

He took out his cellular and punched an autodial button.

Alex Darby answered on the second buzz.

"Darby."

"Castillo. There's been an ambush. My car, at the Sante Fe Circle in San Isidro. They got Sergeant Markham, and Betty Schneider is in a chopper on the way to the German Hospital."

"Are you all right, Charley?"

"I don't know if 'all right' is the phrase, but I wasn't in the car. I was drinking wine in a bar."

"Where are you now?"

"In Colonel Munz's car, on the Accesso Norte, on the way to the hospital."

"So the Argentines know."

"They told me… me, the guy who's supposed to be on top of things."

"Charley, you can't blame yourself for not being in the car."

"Who do you think these bastards were trying to hit? Me, or a female Secret Service agent and a Marine driver?"

"I'll have people at the hospital in ten minutes. Don't move from there until they get there."

"If you have anybody to spare, send them to the Masterson house. Tell them not to let Mrs. Masterson hear what happened."

"Charley, it'll be all over the television and the radio."

"Then make sure she doesn't watch TV or listen to the radio. I want her to hear about this from the ambassador. As soon as I get off this with you, I'm going to call him."

"Okay, Charley. Anything else?"

"Find Tony Santini, tell him to get Jack Britton something heavier than his Glock, then get him a car and send him to the hospital."

"Done."

"I'll be in touch, Alex," Castillo said, pushed the END key and then the autodial key for Ambassador Silvio. Then he pushed the END key again and turned to Munz.

"Alfredo. Sergeant Markham's body. What's going to happen to it?"

"When my people have finished doing their work at the Sante Fe Circle, it will be taken to the German Hospital for an autopsy."

"Is an autopsy necessary? We know what killed him. 'At least one gunshot wound to the cranium, causing severe trauma to the brain.' "

"We will need the bullets in his body as evidence when we catch the villains and bring them to trial," Munz said, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, right," Castillo said, and put his finger back on the autodial key that would connect him with Ambassador Silvio. "Is that about it, Charley?" Silvio asked. "I'll go to San Isidro and ask Mrs. Masterson what she wants to do about the ceremony tomorrow and call you and let you know."

"One more thing, sir. I would-"

"Let me interrupt," Silvio said. "Forgive me. How do you want to handle telling Washington? Would you like to do that yourself? I'll have to call the State Department, obviously. Would you like to meet me at the embassy after I speak with Mrs. Masterson?"

"I'm going to call Washington as soon as I can, reporting what happened…"

"From the embassy?"

"On this phone."

"Not on a secure line?"

"If they want me on a secure line, I'll tell them I'll go to the embassy as soon as I can. Which will be after I learn Betty Schneider's condition."

"I understand how you feel," Silvio said. "But I really think they're going to want you on a secure line as soon as possible."

"And as soon as possible, I'll get on a secure line," Castillo said simply.

There was a perceptible hesitation before Silvio went on: "You said there was one more thing?"

"Two, now that I think about it. I would be personallygrateful if you could send one or more Marines right now to the Sante Fe Circle to be with, and stay with, Sergeant Markham's body. If it's gone when they get there, tell them to go to the German Hospital. The Marines take pride in never leaving anybody behind, and Roger was one hell of a Marine."

"I'll take care of that right away," Silvio said.

"And get a casket and a flag to the German Hospital. Roger will be on the Globemaster when it goes wheels-up tomorrow."

"I'll see that that's done."

"Thank you, sir."

"Let me know about Miss Schneider's condition as soon as you learn anything, will you, please?"

"Yes, sir. I will."

"We'll be talking, Charley."

"Yes, sir."

Castillo pressed the END key and then punched in a long series of numbers from memory. "Department of Homeland Security. How may I direct your call?"

"Five, please." "Secretary Hall's office. Mrs. Kensington."

"This is Charley, Mrs. K."

"Well, how are you?"

"Lousy. Is the boss there?"

"You just missed him, Charley."

"Good, I really didn't want to talk to him."

"Excuse me?"

"What about Dick Miller?"

"He's here. What's going on, Charley?"

"Get him on, please. Listen in. If you can, record it, so that you can play it back for the boss."

"Give me thirty seconds," Mrs. Kensington said.

Twenty-one seconds later Mrs. Kensington announced, "This telecon at five-ten P.M. Washington time July twenty-four, 2005, between C. G. Castillo, H. R. Miller, and Mary-Ellen Kensington, all of the Office of the Secretary of Homeland Security, is being recorded with the permission and knowledge of all parties thereto."

Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., came on the line. "What's going on, Charley?"

"You remember telling me not to do anything stupid with Betty Schneider?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Well, I exceeded your expectations. I'm in a SIDE car on the outskirts of Buenos Aires, on my way to the German Hospital, to which Betty was medevaced suffering from multiple gunshot wounds to the head and body."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Major Miller said.

"Oh, my God!" Mrs. Kensington exclaimed.

"What the hell happened?" Miller asked.

"To spare Special Agent Schneider any possible embarrassment that might ensue from the hotshot in overall charge of this operation picking her up at work himself- people might get the idea she was emotionally involved with her boss, and we couldn't have that-her boss had himself dropped off at a bar, and sent his car and driver to pick up said Special Agent Schneider.

"As Sergeant Roger Markham, USMC, was navigating the Sante Fe traffic circle in San Isidro en route to the bar, where the hotshot in overall charge of this operation was sipping wine, the car was bushwhacked by parties unknown. The bastards managed to get a Madsen through Roger's window, and damned near emptied the magazine.

"Roger took several hits in the head, which just about exploded it, and the projectiles from the Madsen ricocheted off the bulletproof glass inside the car. At least three of them wound up in Betty."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Miller said.

"You already said that, Dick," Castillo said. "Now, while Mrs. K. is reporting this to the boss-tell him, please, Mrs. K., that Ambassador Silvio is going to get on a secure line to report this just as soon as he tells Mrs. Masterson about this, and sees what she wants to do about the medal ceremony tomorrow, and that I will do the same as soon as I can, which means after I find out about Betty."

"Of course," Mrs. Kensington said. "Oh, Charley, I'm so sorry-"

"You, Dick," Castillo interrupted her, "get on the horn to the police commissioner in Philadelphia. What's his name?"

"Kellogg," Miller furnished.

"Better yet, what was the name of the counterterrorismguy, the one that had been in the Tenth Special Forces Group? Fritz something?"

"Chief Inspector F. W. 'Fritz' Kramer," Miller furnished, softly.

"That's the guy. Call him. Give him a heads-up. Tell him you don't know much more than she has been hurt- don't tell him she was shot, just hurt-and that we're going to send her to Philadelphia just as soon as possible. Ask him to make the call whether to tell her family or not. Tell him as soon as you know more, you'll pass it on."

"Got it."

"And then get with Joel Isaacson and ask him what to do about Roger Markham…"

"He's the Marine driver who bought the farm?" Miller interrupted.

"Yeah. The ambassador's going to call the State Department, but I don't know what they'll do about notifying the Marine Corps, or the next of kin, and I don't want that fucked up… sorry, Mrs. K."

"I'll handle that, Charley," Mrs. Mary-Ellen Kensington said. "What about you? Are you all right? Safe?"

"I'm sitting next to the guy who runs SIDE. In Argentina, it don't get no safer than that."

"You will call when you know something about Betty?" Mrs. Kensington asked.

"I will. Now I have to break off. We're nearly at the hospital."

"Watch your back, buddy," Major H. Richard Miller said.

Castillo pushed the END key, slipped the telephone in his pocket, and looked at Munz.

"May I suggest, Karl, that before we enter the hospital, it might be a good idea to take the round out of the chamber of your pistol?"

"Jesus Christ, I forgot about that! How did you know?"

"I saw the pistol at Sante Fe Circle," Munz said.

When I looked in the window of the BMW.

Castillo took the Beretta from the small of his back, removed the magazine, ejected the round from its chamber, put the round in the magazine, and then put the magazine back in the pistol. [TWO] The German Hospital Avenida Pueyrredon Buenos Aires, Argentina 1920 24 July 2005 Castillo got to the intensive care unit of the hospital just as Special Agent Schneider was being wheeled on a gurney out of one of the glass-walled treatment units. There were so many hospital personnel around the gurney that Castillo had trouble getting a good look.

One of the medical people was pushing what looked like a clothes tree on wheels. There were three plastic bags hanging from it, with clear plastic tubing leading from them to under the blue sheets. One of the bags contained human blood.

Charley could only guess what the other two bags held.

Betty was wrapped in pale blue sheets. They were fresh and crisp but bloodstained near the groin and in the side. Her head was swaddled in white bandage, also bloodstained. Her eyes were open, but there was no reaction when, as the gurney was rolled out of intensive care toward a bank of elevators, he pushed one of the nurses aside to look down at her.

"I don't see any reaction," Charley said.

"I don't speak English," a man in surgical greens answered in broken English.

Charley repeated the question in Spanish.

"She has been sedated," the man answered.

They reached the elevator bank. A button was pushed and eventually a door whooshed open.

"We are taking the patient to the operation theater," the man in surgical greens said. "You are forbidden."

Charley was about to say, "Fuck you and your forbidden!" when he felt Munz's hand firmly on his shoulder.

"The chief of surgical staff will explain what's going to happen to her, Karl," Munz said gently. "You just can't go into the operation theater with her." The chief of surgical staff looked like Santa Claus with a shave. His more than ample belly strained the buttons of his white nylon jacket. His name tag read JOSE P. ROMMINE, M.D.

There was an X-ray viewing device on one wall of his office, holding so many large X-ray films that in places three and four were pinned by the same stainless-steel clip.

"I regret my English is not good," Dr. Rommine said, as he shook Castillo's hand.

"Herr Castillo speaks German," Munz said in German.

"That would be easier," Rommine replied in German. "I took my university in Germany. First at Philipps, in Marburg an der Lahn, then at Heidelberg."

"I know the schools," Castillo said.

German doctors-and I'm sure she had the best- couldn't keep my mother alive. I hope you can do better for Betty, Herr Doktor Santa Claus.

Please, God, let him do better!

"We're interested in your diagnosis, Herr Doktor," Munz said.

"Of course," the doctor said, turning to the X-rays and picking up a pointer. "As you can see from this, the wound to the leg, while it has of course done some muscle damage-and there will be more as the projectile is removed-could have been much worse."

Yeah, sure, those bastards could have used a 20mm and blown it off.

Jesus, if they wanted to whack me, and they obviously have access to weapons, why didn't they use a hand grenade? Once they got Roger to lower the window, all they would have had to do was drop it inside the car. Heroic stories to the contrary, when a grenade lands close, very few people have ever been able to toss it back.

Castillo had an unpleasant image of Roger Markham desperately searching for a grenade on the floorboard, and then finding it just before it went off. Grenade shards would have gone through the upholstery and thin sheet metal of the seats without trouble. And of course probably bounced off that wonderful bullet-resistant glass.

Dr. Rommine's learned lecture concerning Betty's leg wound, illustrated with half a dozen X-rays, took at least three minutes.

So did Part II, the wound in the groin area, which was also serious but not as serious as it could have been. The X-rays revealed no damage to the reproductive organs, except for the sympathetic trauma-

Whatever the hell that means.

– and the surgery to remove that projectile would of course clear up the questions unanswered by the X-rays.

"I think the wound to the face is going to cause the greatest difficulty," Dr. Rommine said, turning to the X-rays of the patient's cranium with emphasis on the mandible area.

"As you can see, the projectile is rather deeply embedded in the bone here." He used the pointer, and then turned to first one, and then a second, and then a third X-ray, covering the mandible area from all angles. "There is a fracture and some to-be-expected splintering. Removing the projectile will be somewhat difficult. We don't do much oral surgery here, and I attempted to locate a good man I know, but he's skiing in Bariloche and he won't be available for several days."

I hope the bastard breaks both his legs.

Castillo asked, "Are you saying you're going to leave the bullet in her jaw until you can get this guy back from Bariloche?"

"Dr. Koos is his name. Oh, no. The projectile will be removed now. But the restorative surgery-her jaw will of course have to be wired closed-is quite important, and should be placed in the hands of the best man available."

Jesus, that's Betty's skull I'm looking at.

Castillo suddenly felt light-headed, then dizzy.

What am I going to do, pass out? Throw up on Santa Claus's shiny floor?

No, goddammit, I will not lose control of myself!

He steadied himself with a hand on the X-ray display rack.

"Doctor, how soon can she be moved?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How soon could I fly her to the United States?"

"Oh, I see what you're thinking." He thought the question over and then continued: "That would depend in large measure on what sort of support you could provide, in terms of oxygen, blood-in case of unexpected bleeding-et cetera, on the aircraft. And there would have to be provision to feed her. Liquids, of course. Her jaw, as I say, will be immobilized for at least two weeks. She would have to be accompanied by a physician and a nurse. I'm speaking of moving her soon-say, tomorrow or the day after. If you were willing to wait, say, seventy-two or ninety-six hours-three or four days-while she would be in some discomfort, she could travel far more easily. With medical personnel in attendance, of course."

"How long is she going to be in the operating room now?"

"Oh, I would say…" Dr. Rommine began, then thought that over for a good twenty seconds before finishing: "Two hours, perhaps a little longer. And I'd better get scrubbed. They almost certainly have the patient prepared by now."

"You're going to operate?"

"Of course. El Coronel Munz has explained the situation to me. It will be my privilege."

Dr. Rommine then walked out of his office without saying another word. He left so quickly that Castillo doubted Dr. Santa Claus had heard his somewhat belatedly expressed thanks.

"You all right, Karl?" Munz asked.

Castillo nodded.

"You looked a little pale there for a while."

"I'm all right. Thank you for everything."

"Let's see if we can find a cup of coffee," Munz said. "And we'd better start thinking about getting a little something to eat."

"Alfredo, I'm not hungry."

"If people don't eat, their blood sugar drops, especially after they have been subjected to stress, and they pass out," Munz said.

Castillo looked at him a moment, realized reluctantly that he was right, and nodded his thanks.

"Okay," Castillo said, starting for the door, "let's go."

"Sit down, Karl," Munz said. "I'll have something sent up."

"Alfredo, do you really think these bastards would try to whack me in a hospital cafeteria?"

"That seems to be the problem, doesn't it? If you don't have any idea who the villains are, then it's rather difficult to assess their plans or their capabilities."

Munz punched an autodial key on his cellular and told someone to go to the cafeteria and bring up some sandwiches-lomo sandwiches, if they had them, otherwise ham and cheese-coffee, and some very sweet pastry.

Castillo sat in Dr. Santa Claus's chair and looked at the bullet lodged in Betty's jaw. Jack Britton showed up at the same time as the sandwiches. He had a Madsen submachine gun under his arm, hanging from a web strap around his shoulder.

"She's in the operating room," Castillo told him without waiting to be asked. He pointed to the X-ray films and then the weapon. "Three wounds from one of those."

"From one of these?" Britton asked, incredulously.

"Yeah, from one of those. Where'd you get that?"

"Darby," Britton said. "He asked me if I could handle it, and I lied. I never saw one before. They hit Betty with one of these?"

"Yeah, a nine-millimeter model. And blew Sergeant Markham away."

"I heard that," Britton said. "What the fuck is going on, Charley?"

"I have no goddamn idea," Castillo confessed, and extended his hands for the Madsen. "Let me have that. I'll show you how it works."

Britton handed Castillo the submachine gun. He removed the magazine and checked to see that there was no cartridge left in the mechanism.

"Pay attention, Jack. You may have to use this," Castillo said.

"I'm all ears," Britton said.

"This is a Madsen M53," Castillo began, "caliber nine-millimeter Parabellum. This has a curved thirty-roundmagazine; the earlier models have a stick. It fires from an open chamber; in other words, to fire it, you pull the operating lever on the top to the rear…"

He demonstrated by pulling the operating lever back. It caught in place with a firm click.

"The first thing you do is take the safety off. In other words, move this thing to 'F'…"

He demonstrated the functioning of the safety control.

"Then you select auto or single-shot mode. This is the selector lever for that; 'A' stands for automatic…"

He demonstrated the function of the selector switch.

"Then you pull the trigger."

He pulled the trigger. The bolt slammed into the battery position.

"If there had been a loaded magazine in there, the bolt would have stripped off the top cartridge, shoved it in the action, and it would have gone bang. Then the bolt would return to the rear position. If you were in single-shot mode, to fire again, you would have to release your finger on the trigger and then pull it again. If you were in auto mode-your finger still holding the trigger to the rear-it would go bang-bang-bang at a rate of six hundred and fifty rounds per minute until you ran out of ammo. We try to teach people to try to get off three-shot bursts-it takes some practice-because otherwise, as when firing any other submachine gun, the muscles of the shooter tend to involuntarily contract, raising the muzzle, and you miss what you wanted to shoot."

He looked at Britton. "I hope you took notes. There will be a quiz."

"When you said 'we try to teach people,' you meant Special Forces, didn't you?"

Castillo nodded. "You've fired submachine guns, right?"

"Yeah. But not this one."

"A lot of people like the Madsen," Castillo said.

He handed the weapon back to Britton.

"The bolt is forward," he said. "Put the safety lever on 'S' and the rate of fire selector on 'A,' " he said, and when Britton looked at him, added, "Yeah, now, please, Jack."

Britton did as he was told.

"Okay. It is now safe to load the magazine." He handed it to him, watched as Britton inserted it, and then went on. "Okay, all you have to do now is pull the action lever back, take off the safety, and pull the trigger."

"Got it," Britton said.

"Good," Castillo said. "Now, carefully lay it down on that shelf. I don't think you're going to need it in here right now, and I want to eat my sandwich. Are you hungry, Jack?"

"No. Thanks."

"You sure? These look good," Castillo said and reached for one. Castillo was finishing a generous slice of incredibly good apfelstrudel-why I am surprised? This is the German Hospital-when there was a knock on the office door. A large man in civilian clothing came in and offered Colonel Munz a small, resealable plastic bag.

"And, mi coronel, there are Americans here for Senor Castillo."

Munz didn't reply directly. He held up the bag. Castillo saw that it held two fired cartridge cases.

"There are others, right? We won't need these in court?"

"There are twenty-four in all, mi coronel. We are still looking. It is possible that some spectators took some others as souvenirs."

Munz opened the bag and took out a brass cartridge case, examined it carefully, and then handed it to Castillo.

"Israeli," he said. "Same year stamp as the ones we found on Avenida Tomas Edison in the taxicab."

Castillo took the case and handed it to Britton.

"We now have conclusive proof that in 1999 Israel made nine-millimeter ammunition," he said.

Munz smiled at him.

"Don't smile," Castillo said. "I can't think of anything else we have conclusive proof of." He looked at Britton. "Just to satisfy my curiosity, what's in the embassy Madsen?"

Britton took a curved magazine from his pocket, thumbed a cartridge loose, and examined its base.

"Israeli, 1992," he said.

"And conclusive proof that the bad guys have fresher ammo than the good guys," Castillo said. "Not that it matters, as I'm beginning to wonder if we'll ever get a chance to shoot back."

"You want these?" Munz nodded.

"Yes, thank you," Castillo said, and took the plastic bag, put the cartridge Britton held out to him in it, zipped it shut, and dropped it in his pocket.

"Americans for me?" he asked Munz's man.

"Si, senor."

Castillo gestured for them to be brought in.

A civilian-Castillo recognized his face from the brainstorming session but couldn't come up with a name-and a Marine. The man, in his middle twenties, was olive-skinned, and Castillo decided he was probably one of the Drug Enforcement Administration agents. He was carrying an M-16 rifle.

The Marine, who was in greens and had a Beretta in a field holster hanging from a web belt, was a corporal.

"I'm Castillo. You're looking for me?"

"Solez, Mr. Castillo. DEA. I was told to report to you and do whatever you told me to do."

"Do you speak Spanish, Mr. Solez?" Castillo said in Spanish.

"I spoke it before I learned to speak English," Solez replied in Spanish.

Castillo picked up on the accent.

"And where are you from in Texas?" Castillo asked, still in Spanish.

"San Antone, senor."

"Me, too."

"Yes, sir, I know."

"How do you know?"

"My father is Antonio Solez, sir. I think you know him."

Antonio Solez had been one of Castillo's grandfather's cronies, a familiar face around both the offices and the ranches, and a pallbearer at the funeral of Don Juan Fernando Castillo. A mental image of him, a large swarthy man, standing across the open grave with his chest heaving and tears running unashamedly down his cheeks, leaped into Castillo's mind.

"Indeed I do. How is he?"

"Still taking care of Don Fernando," Solez said, with a smile. It took a moment for Charley to take his meaning. He smiled back.

"When did my fat and ugly cousin start calling himself 'Don Fernando'?"

"People started calling him that after Don Fernando passed. I think he likes it. Dona Alicia does, I know."

"You're Ricardo, right? The last I heard you were at College Station."

"Si, senor. I graduated in 2001, and went right into the DEA."

"You don't have to call me 'sir.' And please don't."

Solez nodded.

"Why didn't you say something when we were at that brainstorming thing?" Castillo asked.

Solez shrugged. "I wasn't sure you would remember me."

"I should have recognized you. I'm sorry."

Solez shrugged again. "No problem. You had other things on your mind. We're both a long way from San Antonio."

"I'm really happy to see you, Ricardo," Castillo said. "You heard what happened?"

Solez nodded.

"She's in the operating room now," Castillo said. "She'll be in there for probably another two hours. From the moment she gets off the elevator until I get out of here, I want you or Special Agent Britton-you know each other?"

"We met."

"Since you're talking about me, I wish you'd do it in English, Charley," Britton said.

"Sorry," Charley said, now in English. "It seems that Special Agent Solez is not only a fellow Texican, but his family and mine have been friends for generations."

"My dad is chief engineer for Castillo Properties," Solez said with pride. "Everything but the petroleum side."

Britton looked at him and nodded.

"Okay," Castillo went on, "from the time Special Agent Schneider gets out of the operating room until I can get her the hell out of here, I want one or the other, preferably both, sitting on her."

"You got it," Britton said. Solez nodded.

"There will be SIDE people with you, of course," Munz said.

Both Britton and Solez nodded.

Castillo turned to the Marine corporal and looked closely at him for the first time. He was no more than five feet four or five and weighed no more than one-forty. He looked to be about seventeen years old.

I thought Marines on embassy duty had to be five-eleven and one-eighty or better. Where did this little guy come from?

Oh, yeah. Rule of War Thirteen B: "Every military organization with an authorized strength of two or more men will have a designated paper pusher."

This little guy is the Marine guard detachment clerk, pressed into duty as a driver.

"You're the driver, right, Corporal?"

The corporal came to attention.

"No, sir. The driver is with the car, sir. The gunny instructed me to tell you, sir, that an armored car was not immediately available, and to suggest you take appropriate precautions until one can be found for you."

"Okay."

"My name is Corporal Lester Bradley, sir. I am your bodyguard, sir."

For a moment there was silence, and then Jack Britton was suddenly overwhelmed with a coughing fit. Colonel Munz, his face turned red, and DEA Special Agent Solez became suddenly fascinated with the X-rays on display.

Major C. G. Castillo-after covering his mouth with his hand so it would not be obvious he was biting his lip as hard as he could; one chuckle, the hint of a giggle, from him, or anyone else, would trigger something close to hysterics in everybody-finally decided he could trust his voice.

"Well, I'm glad to have you, Corporal," he said. "I know how reliable the Marines are."

"Semper fi, sir," Corporal Lester Bradley said sincerely.

Colonel Munz turned from his examination of the X-rays, and probably not trusting himself to speak, signaled with a nod of his head toward the door that he wanted a private word with Castillo.

"Excuse me a minute, guys. I'll be right back," Castillo said, and followed Munz into the corridor.

Munz put his hand on Castillo's arm.

"Now that you're under the protection of the U.S. Corps of Marines, Karl, would you mind if I left you?"

"Don't underestimate the Marines, Alfredo. They're nice people to have in your corner."

"Are they all like that boy?"

"They are not often troubled with self-doubt," Charley said.

"And neither should you be, Karl," Munz said seriously. "I've been practicing our trade for a while, and I have met very few people with your natural talent for it."

"I take that as a great compliment, Alfredo."

"It was meant as one. Listen to me, Karl. Don't let what happened in there bother you…"

He means my almost taking a dive.

"… There would be something wrong with a man who, looking at a bullet in the skull of the woman he loves-a bullet which, but for God's mercy, would have taken her life-was not affected as you were."

Castillo met his eyes but said nothing.

Munz squeezed his arm.

"And pay attention to what your bodyguard said about your not having an armored car," Munz said with a smile. "I presume you'll be going to your embassy?"

Why not? Dr. Santa Claus said Betty'll be in there two hours. And I'm going to have to talk to Washington on a secure line.

Castillo nodded. "I took that to heart."

"There will be a SIDE car with you," Munz said, and then offered Castillo his hand. "Goodbye, Karl."

Goodbye? What does he mean by that?

"Thanks for everything, Alfredo."

"I will pray for your lady, Karl," Munz said, touched Castillo's shoulder, then walked quickly down the corridor to the elevator.

Charley went back in the office, told Britton and Solez he was going to the embassy and to call him if there was any word at all, and then-under the careful watch of Corporal Bradley, his bodyguard-went to the basement and got in the unarmored embassy car.

On the way, his cellular went off, and he answered it with his heart in his throat. It was Ambassador Silvio, who told him that Mrs. Masterson wished to go ahead with the ceremony at the Catedral Metropolitana.

"I'm on the way to the embassy, sir. To get on the horn to Washington. Would you like me to wait until you get there?"

"Please, Charley. I'll be there in thirty minutes." [THREE] The United States Embassy Avenida Colombia 4300 Buenos Aires, Argentina 2040 24 July 2005 "White House."

"This is C. G. Castillo. I need to speak on a secure-"

"We've been waiting for your call, sir. Hold one, please." "Secretary Hall's office. Mrs. Kensington speaking."

"We have Mr. Castillo for Secretary Hall, Mrs. Kensington. This line is secure."

Mrs. Kensington pushed her intercom button, said, "Pick up, boss. It's Charley on a secure line," then dialed another number on the secure phone.

Charley listened as she said, "We have Secretary Hall and Mr. Castillo on a secure line for a conference call with Director Montvale."

Oh shit!

Charles W. Montvale, former deputy secretary of state, former secretary of the treasury, and former ambassador to the European Union, was the recently appointed United States director of national intelligence. The press had immediately dubbed him the "intel czar."

"Charles Montvale."

Oh, shit, again! He sounds like he's got his teeth clenched.

"Are you okay, Charley?" Secretary Hall asked as he came on the line.

"I'm well, thank you, Matt. And yourself?" Director Montvale said, a touch of condescending amusement in his voice.

"Castillo, are you on?" Hall asked. There was a touch of impatience in his voice.

"Yes, sir."

"Are you all right, Charley?"

"Yes, sir. I'm fine."

"And the girl?"

"She's in surgery now at the German Hospital. She took three hits-"

"Am I correct in assuming the third party to this call is Major Castillo?" Director Montvale interrupted. He still sounded amused.

"Yes, sir," Castillo said.

"I am Charles Montvale, Major. Do you know who I am?" Now his voice was serious.

"Yes, sir."

"The President has asked me to take your call, Major. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"This call is being recorded. You may proceed."

"Hold off, Charley," Matt Hall said icily. "Mr. Montvale, let's get some things clear between us before anyone says another word."

"Is there a problem?"

"Several, I'm afraid. For one thing, I don't like being informed that my call is being recorded. You said nothing about that when you told my executive assistant you wanted to listen to this call."

"Actually, it was my executive assistant who spoke with your executive assistant," Montvale said. "And recording my calls-especially calls of this nature-is standard procedure."

"It's not my standard procedure. I would like your assurance that the recording device has been turned off, that what has been recorded so far will be erased, and that there is no one privy to this call but the three of us."

"I intend to have the tape of this conversation available should the President ask for it when I report this telecom to him."

"Do I understand I don't have your assurance the recorder is being turned off?"

"I frankly don't understand your attitude, Secretary Hall."

"Is that a yes or a no, Mr. Montvale?"

"Jo-Anne, turn off the recorder," Montvale said after a moment.

"And erase anything that's been recorded," Hall insisted.

"Erase what has been recorded so far, please, Jo-Anne."

"Thank you."

"You said there were several problems, Secretary Hall?"

"Major Castillo works for me. I will tell him when to proceed or when not to. Is that clear?"

"May I point out, Mr. Secretary, that we all work for the President? And that it is at the President's order that I am taking the call?"

"Major Castillo," Hall said. "You understand that you take your orders from either the President or me? And only the President and me?"

"Yes, sir."

"I will, of course, seek clarification of this from the President," Montvale said.

"We both will, Mr. Montvale," Hall said, and then, when there was no response from Montvale, went on: "Okay, Charley, go on."

"Sir, Ambassador Silvio is with me. We're in his office in the embassy. The call is on the speakerphone."

"Good evening, Mr. Ambassador," Hall said. "You've heard what's been said so far?"

"Yes, I have, Mr. Secretary," Silvio said.

"Do you know the director of national intelligence, Mr. Montvale?"

"Yes, sir. I know the ambassador. Good evening, sir."

"How are you, Silvio?"

"Very well, sir. Thank you."

"I attempted to call you, Silvio, earlier, when the President brought me in on this. You were not available."

"When was that, sir?"

"Forty-five minutes ago, an hour. I'm curious why you weren't available."

"I was with Mrs. Masterson at that time, sir."

"And they didn't tell you I was calling?"

"I left instructions that I was not to be disturbed when I was with her, Mr. Montvale."

"Even for a call from me?"

"From anyone, sir. It was my intention, sir, to return your call when Mr. Castillo had completed his call to Secretary Hall."

"I must say that's an odd priority. But why don't you tell me about Mrs. Masterson? The President is deeply concerned."

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Montvale," Hall said. "May I respectfully suggest that you telephone Ambassador Silvio when Major Castillo has finished his report to me?"

"You don't seem to understand, do you, Hall, that I am acting at the orders of the President?"

"From the tone of your voice, Charles, and if I didn't know better, I might think that two of my most senior staff are having a little tiff over turf," the President of the United States said. "You fellows don't mind if I join the conversation, do you?"

"Of course not, Mr. President," Montvale said.

"Good evening, sir," Hall said.

"You on here, Charley?" the President asked.

"Yes, sir," Castillo replied. "And so is Ambassador Silvio, sir."

"How much did I miss? I hate to make you go over it all again, but I just couldn't get the goddamn… get my distinguished visitor to leave."

"I was just about to start, Mr. President."

"Start with the condition of the female agent," the President said.

"Yes, sir. Special Agent Schneider is in surgery. She suffered three gunshot wounds from a nine-millimeter Madsen submachine gun…" It took Castillo perhaps five minutes to report what had happened, and what was planned. The President had interrupted him three times, once to ask where the Argentine police were when the embassy car had been attacked, a second time to ask what Castillo thought about the quality of the medical treatment Special Agent Schneider was getting, and a third time to ask what had been done about notifying Schneider's family, and that of Sergeant Roger Markham.

"That's about it, sir," Castillo concluded.

There was a ten-second silence, and then the President said: "You haven't had much to say, Mr. Ambassador.Can I take that to mean you and Charley are on the same page?"

"Yes, sir," Silvio said, simply. "We pretty much see things the same way."

"And would you tell me if you didn't?"

"Yes, sir, I would," Silvio said.

There was another long pause, and then the President said, "You ever hear that story about the people who went to President Lincoln to tell him General Grant was a drunk? Lincoln was pretty fed up with people around him bickering, and history tells us he had one hell of a temper. But this time he kept it in check. What President Lincoln said was, 'Well, find out what General Grant is drinking and I'll see that my other generals get some of it.' "

The President paused. "Now, Mr. Ambassador, changing the subject, I wonder if you would be good enough to send me, via Major Castillo, a bottle of whatever you two have been drinking? I'll share it with Secretary Hall and Director Montvale."

"It would be my pleasure, Mr. President," Silvio said, a smile in his voice.

"Just idle curiosity," the President asked, "what will it be?"

"Major Castillo, sir, shares my appreciation of a local wine, a cabernet sauvignon from the Sentenir bodega in Mendoza."

"I'll look forward to it," the President said. "Maybe two bottles would be better than one. Better yet, make it a case."

"Yes, sir."

"One more thing," the President said. "Charley, are you watching your back?"

"Yes, sir."

"I guess what I really meant to ask is who's helping you watch your back?"

"Sir, as we speak, my Marine bodyguard is standing outside the ambassador's door."

"Well, do what he says, Charley. Too many people are getting shot down there."

"Yes, sir, I will."

"Unless someone has something else, that would seem to be it."

No one said anything.

"Okay. I'll see you sometime late tomorrow, Charley. And, Charles, I think it would be a good idea if you went down to Mississippi with us, too."

"Of course, Mr. President," Director of National Intelligence Montvale said. [FOUR] As Castillo came out of Ambassador Silvio's office, Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, popped to attention and said, "There are two Air Force officers to see you, sir. I asked them to wait in the outer office."

"Thank you, Corporal," Castillo said and went into the outer office, where he found Colonel Jake Torine and the light bird pilot of the Gulfstream-if he had ever heard his name, Castillo couldn't remember it now- sitting in the row of chairs against the wall. Both were in civilian clothing: sports jackets and slacks.

"I was just about to call you," Castillo said, shaking Torine's hand.

"We heard what happened," Torine said. "How's that female Secret Service agent doing? Betty?"

"Betty took three hits. She's in surgery now."

"Nice girl," Torine said. "Is she going to be all right?"

"Jesus Christ, I hope so," Castillo said. "I'm going to the German Hospital from here."

"Any change in the plan for tomorrow?"

"No. Mrs. Masterson has decided she's going ahead with the whole dog-and-pony show. Jake, just now I remembered, or think I did, something about an ambulance configuration for the Gulfstream."

Torine shrugged, indicating he didn't know either, and then asked, "Walter?"

"Yes, there is an emergency ambulance configuration for the C-37," the lieutenant colonel confirmed.

"Installed on the one you're flying, Colonel?" Charley asked.

"Yes, there is."

"Tell me about it, please."

"May I ask why you're asking?"

"What, is it classified or something, Walter?" Torine asked, sarcastically.

"Yes, sir, as a matter of fact it is. The configuration of all Eighty-ninth Presidential Airlift Group aircraft is classified-"

"Jesus Christ!" Torine exploded. "And you're worried Castillo doesn't have the proper clearance-or maybe it's me?"

For a moment, Charley thought the light bird was goingto say just that. But then, as Castillo studied him, he thought, This chicken-shit light bird has only now decided that a full bird colonel sent on Presidential Orders as pilot in command of a Globemaster more than likely has the proper security clearances, and since he was senior, if he said it was all right to describe the configuration of the Gulfstream, any breach of security would fall on his shoulders.

"Three of the seats on the left side of the cabin can be placed in a horizontal position," the light bird began. "There is a mattress and sheets-rubber and the ordinary kind-stored behind the galley. Behind the paneling by the sheets is some other medical equipment. A blood pressure device, things like that. And an oxygen feed, connected to the aircraft's main oxygen supply."

"What's on your mind, Charley?" Torine asked.

Castillo didn't reply directly.

"Colonel, you came direct from Washington," Castillo said. "Can I extrapolate that to mean you can go direct Jorge Newbery-Philadelphia?"

"Are you a pilot, Major Castillo?"

Aha! Somebody's tipped him-and I think I know who-that he's dealing with a lowly major. That's why he doesn't want me to know the secrets of the Gulfstream.

"Yes, I am," Castillo said.

"With some experience in long-distance, jet-long-distance, flight?"

"I know for a fact that he flew the right seat of a 727 from Costa Rica to MacDill, and worked the radios and everything," Torine said, smiling at Charley. "What's with all the questions, Walter?"

"Sir, it would be easier if the major were conversant with the problems involved in a flight of that distance."

"Can your fancy little bird make it from here to Philadelphia nonstop, or not, Walter? Jesus Christ!" Torine exploded.

"Theoretically, yes. But it would be prudent to think of somewhere to refuel if fuel consumption turned out to be greater for one reason or another than planned for."

"Worst fuel-consumption scenario, Colonel. Can you make it from here to Miami?"

"Very probably. There are never any guarantees."

"What about MacDill?" Castillo asked. "As a refueling stop?"

"Very probably," the lieutenant colonel said, after considering it for a moment.

"Thank you," Castillo said.

"But speaking hypothetically, MacDill requires advance notice-twelve hours, I believe, I'd have to check-to refuel transient aircraft."

"I'm not being hypothetical, Colonel," Castillo said. "What's going to happen is this: Ambassador Silvio at this moment is arranging for an American physician…"

He paused and looked at Torine.

"… who fortunately (a) is a fellow Miami Cuban, and (b) is in town conducting a seminar at the University of Belgrano, and a nurse or maybe two."

Torine nodded his understanding, and Castillo looked back at the lieutenant colonel.

"You are going to fly Special Agent Schneider, the doctor, and the nurses from here to Philadelphia just as soon-maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after tomorrow-as they say she's up to the trip."

"On whose authority, Major?"

"On mine," Castillo said softly.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Major. My orders were to fly the FBI team down here, and then to return them to Washington."

"Listen to me very carefully, Colonel Newley," Colonel Torine said, icily. "I am telling you that Major Castillo has all the authority he needs to tell you to do anything. Now you can accept that, and cheerfully and willingly comply with any orders he may give you, or I will get on the horn to General McFadden at CentCom and inform him that after relieving you for obstructing a presidential mission, I am placing your copilot in command of the Gulfstream, assigning one of my backup crew as copilot, and returning you to Andrews by commercial air."

General Albert McFadden, U.S. Air Force, was the CentCom deputy commander.

Lieutenant Colonel Walter Newley's face paled. He swallowed, then said, "Yes, sir," very softly.

"Does that mean you understand you're under Major Castillo's orders?"

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Colonel Newley said softly.

"What? I didn't hear that. You're supposed to sound like an Air Force officer, not some faggot wearing the wings of an Air Chad cabin attendant."

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Colonel Newley said, much louder.

"Wait in the corridor for me, please, Colonel," Torine said, in a normal voice.

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Colonel Newley said, somewhat loudly.

Torine waited until the door closed, then turned to Castillo.

"Charley," he began, and then saw that Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, had heard the exchange.

"Son," Torine asked, "I don't think you heard much of that little conversation, did you?"

"What conversation is that, sir?" Corporal Bradley asked.

"The only thing I like better than a Marine is a selectively deaf Marine," Torine said.

"Permission to speak, sir?"

"Granted."

"During our training at Quantico, sir, we are told we will hear things we will immediately forget we heard."

"Thank you," Torine said. "Now, son, please go into the corridor for a moment so that it won't be necessary for you to forget what Major Castillo and I are going to discuss."

"Yes, sir," Corporal Bradley said, and went into the corridor.

When the door had closed, Torine said, "I have no idea what that nonsense with Newley was all about, but I have the feeling there's something more to it than him being a by-the-book asshole."

"He knew I'm a major. I never said I was. So somebody told him. I think I know who."

Torine made a give-it-to-me gesture with his hands. "There's an FBI agent, assigned to the embassy in Montevideo. Name of Yung. I think he's made me."

"I don't think I understand."

"Howard Kennedy told me he's one of their hotshots-"

"Kennedy is here?" Torine asked, visibly surprised.

"He was. Kennedy said he used to work with this guy, and that whatever he's doing in Montevideo-he's supposed to be working on money laundering-isn't what he's really doing."

"I'll try to figure this out as you continue, Charley."

"I suspect there's still an FBI interest in Charley Castillo. What the cops would call a 'locate but do not detain.' Kennedy is still very worried about what he calls his 'former associates,' and he's not a fool. The FBI thinks I can lead them to Pevsner and/or Kennedy."

"Charley, I was there, with you, when the President told the DCI and director of the FBI to lay off Pevsner. I interpreted that to mean lay off Pevsner and the people who work for him."

"That's the primary reason I'm telling you this now, Jake. Somebody told the New York Times guy here-and some others-that the President's agent is down here, and somebody told Colonel Newley that I'm a major. And probably a troublemaker. 'Watch out for that sonofabitch, he can get you in trouble.' Am I being paranoid, or is it possible the FBI is ignoring what you and I would call a direct order from the President?"

Colonel Torine considered that for a moment, then said, "Well, you know what they say, Charley."

"No, what do they say?"

"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that little green men aren't trying to castrate you with machetes."

"Shit," Castillo chuckled.

"What are you going to do about it?" Torine asked.

"I have a gut feeling I should do nothing about it now. Maybe because I'm a little afraid of the clout they've given me, and I don't want to burn the bastard until I'm sure he is a bastard. And I also want to find out what Howard Kennedy meant when he said whatever Yung is doing in Montevideo, it's not reading bank statements."

"What else could he be doing?"

"I have no idea, but I do know that the minute the FBI finds out I've fingered him, he'll stop doing it, and then I'll never know."

Torine shrugged. "It's your call, Charley. I can't fault it. What do you want me to do with Newley?"

"See that he gets the airplane ready. Have him hang around here until we can get this doctor to look at the airplane and see what else he will need."

"Done," Torine said. "Charley, I've got a guy at Ezeiza who can fly that Gulfstream. Redundancy was one of the reasons I brought him along. Say the word and I'll have him fly it."

"No, I don't want to do that. If you relieve Newley, there goes his career. He was doing what he thought was the right thing to do, and I think you made a Christian out of him."

"Your call. What are you going to do now?"

"I'm going back to the hospital and wait for Betty to come out of the operating room."

"Want some company? After I make sure I've made a true Christian out of Newley? One who won't go back to his wicked ways the minute we get off the ground?"

"Thanks but no thanks, Jake."