The Hostage

X

[ONE] The German Hospital Avenida Pueyrredon Buenos Aires, Argentina 2135 24 July 2005 There were two men Castillo suspected were SIDE agents in the lobby of the hospital when he and Corporal Bradley walked in. Confirmation came when one of them walked up to them and told Castillo "your agent" was in room 677.

It was the room where Mrs. Masterson had been placed. Castillo wondered whether it was coincidence or whether the ever-resourceful Colonel Munz had an arrangement with the hospital for really secure rooms for patients in whom SIDE had an interest.

When he got to the sixth floor, Castillo found Jack Britton sitting in a folding metal chair outside the room, holding a Madsen on his lap.

"Betty's still in the operating room, Charley," Britton said. "Solez talked somebody into letting him wait outside the operating room. Apparently, they're going to bring her here instead of to a recovery room. They've been taking all sorts of equipment in there. And there's a couple of guys with Uzis down the hall."

Castillo looked, and then said, "I just made arrangements for Betty to be flown-on the Gulfstream that brought you down here-to Philadelphia when she's up to traveling. I want you to go with her."

Britton nodded.

"I had Dick Miller call Chief Inspector Kramer to give him a heads-up. When we know something, I'll call him and bring him up to speed. Unless I'm gone before that happens, then you'll have to do it."

Britton nodded again.

Castillo looked into the room and saw that it was prepared to treat someone just out of an operating room.

"I hope there's a john in there," Castillo said. "I really need to take a leak."

He saw on Corporal Lester Bradley's face that a visit to a toilet was high on his agenda, as well. Clearly uncomfortably, perhaps even painfully high.

"Corporal, there are two things that a warrior must always remember," Castillo said sternly. "The first is to void one's bladder at every opportunity, because one never knows when there will be another opportunity to do so."

"Yes, sir."

"The second is RHIP."

"Rank Has Its Privileges, yes, sir."

"Which in this case means I get to go in there before you do."

"Yes, sir."

"Just kidding. Go on, Bradley," Castillo said. "I can wait."

"You go ahead, sir."

"You have your orders, Corporal! This is your opportunity,maybe your only opportunity. Take it!"

"Yes, sir."

Britton chuckled. "Nice kid," he said, when Bradley had gone into the room.

"Yeah. And so was Sergeant Roger Markham," Castillo said, and then went on, bitterly, " 'The secretary of the Navy regrets to inform you that your son, Staff Sergeant Roger Markham, was killed in the line of duty. What he was doing was chauffeuring a Secret Service agent to a bar, where she was to meet her boyfriend.' "

"First I'll tell you about Markham," Britton said.

"Tell me about Markham?"

"The gunnery sergeant came looking for you-the guy in charge of the Marine guards?"

"I know who he is."

"He brought a casket for Markham's body, and a flag. They've got him in a cooler in the morgue here in the hospital, and they're going to take him out to Ezeiza first thing in the morning. He said that if he didn't get a chance to see you, to tell you thanks for making sure Markham had a Marine escort-there's two Marines in the morgue with the body-and for sending him home in a military aircraft, instead of like one more piece of luggage on Delta or American."

"Well, you know me, Jack. 'Charley Castillo, always looking out for his men. He's not very good at it, and some of them get blown away, but what the hell, Castillo means well.' "

"Oh, bullshit, Charley. That's the second thing I'm going to tell you: What happened to Markham and Betty is not your fault."

"I should have been in that car, Jack, and you know it."

"No. That's bullshit. If you had been in that car, one of two things would have happened. You'd either be in the cooler with Markham, or you'd be in a hospital bed like Betty."

"Maybe I could have gotten one of the bastards."

"More bullshit and you should know it. Face the facts, Charley."

"What are the facts?"

"I don't know how it is with the Secret Service, but I suspect it's just like on the cops."

"I don't follow you, Jack."

"On the cops, when something like this happens- your partner gets shot, or whacked-they won't let you near the investigation. You're too emotionally involved. I'm afraid if you keep up this 'it's all my fault' bullshit somebody important's going to hear you and they'll keep you off the investigation. And I wouldn't like that."

"Why not?"

"Because the only way a brand-new Secret Service agent like me is going to be allowed to try to find the bastards who whacked Masterson, Markham, and almost whacked Betty is if you can fix it. And I really want those bastards, Charley."

For a moment, Castillo couldn't find his voice. Then he said, "For however long I'm on this, Jack, if I have anything to say about it, you will be, too."

"You'll be on it a lot longer if you get your act together. Starting with nobody has to know about you and Betty. Can you get that Air Force colonel to keep his mouth shut?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. It was just the four of us in the hotel room, and Markham's dead, you say the Air Force guy will keep his mouth shut, and if you and I play it cool, no one has to know about you and Betty."

"That'll be tough for me to fake, Jack."

"You're supposed to be a hard-ass. Fake it."

Corporal Bradley returned to the corridor.

Castillo touched Britton's shoulder and went into room 677.

When he came out of the toilet, there was a large, well-dressed man with a full, neatly trimmed mustache standing with his hands folded in front of him, by the door, which was closed.

Castillo was startled, but quickly recovered.

If this guy wasn't supposed to be in here, Britton wouldn't have let him in. Maybe he's a doctor, or something.

No, he's not, unless the doctors around here wear shoulder holsters.

Conclusion: One more guy from SIDE. A senior guy from SIDE.

"Senor?" Castillo asked.

"Senor Castillo?"

"Si."

"I am el Coronel Alejandro Gellini of SIDE, Senor Castillo."

Castillo crossed the room to him and put out his hand.

"Mucho gusto, mi coronel," Castillo said.

"I have just seen Ambassador Silvio, senor. I conveyed to him, on behalf of the President of the Nation, our profound regret for what has happened to the female Secret Service agent and the Corps of Marines sergeant."

"That was very good of you, of the President, mi coronel," Castillo said.

"Ambassador Silvio told me that you are in charge of security for Senora Masterson and her children, in fact of everybody."

"That's true," Castillo said.

"And I have come to personally assure you that all the resources of SIDE will be used for the protection of Senora Masterson and her children and of course the female agent and yourself while you are in Argentina. I give you my personal guarantee that nothing like this will happen again."

"Mi coronel, that's very kind, but I have to say that el Coronel Munz is already doing everything possible."

"I have replaced el Coronel Munz as director of SIDE, senor."

"Excuse me?"

"El Coronel Munz has been relieved of his duties, senor. A board will be convened to look into allegations of his dereliction of his duties."

Oh, shit!

And Munz knew this was coming.

That's why I got the little pep talk and the "Goodbye, Charley" when he left.

These bastards needed a scapegoat-this had to be someone's fault; anybody's but some bureaucrat's-and they're hanging Alfredo out to flap around in the wind.

Sonofabitch, that's rotten!

"Mi coronel, if there will be witnesses before the board you speak of, I would like to appear, to testify for the defense."

"Senor Castillo, forgive me, but this is an internal Argentine matter."

I better shut up right now. Whatever I say next will be the wrong thing.

Fuck it!

"Forgive me, mi coronel, but any dereliction of el Coronel Munz would obviously have to do with what has happened to Americans, and I, as the American officer charged with the security of those Americans, am probably better qualified than anyone else to judge how well el Coronel Munz discharged his responsibilities."

"I repeat, Senor Castillo, that this is an internal Argentine matter."

"It stinks, mi coronel, and you may quote me."

"I regret you feel that way, senor," Colonel Gellini said. "If you have some question, my men know how to contact me. Good evening, senor."

He put out his hand. Castillo looked at for a long moment, and then turned his back.

That wasn't too smart, Charley.

Fuck it!

He heard the door close and took out his cellular and pushed an autodial button. Ambassador Silvio answered on the second buzz.

"Silvio."

"Castillo, sir. Colonel Munz's replacement just came to see me."

"He came to see me. I wondered if sending him to see you was the wise thing to do."

"Probably not. That's a rotten thing to do to Munz."

"Jack Masterson used to say that it took him a long time to figure out the Argentines, but he finally had: Anything that goes wrong is always somebody else's fault. In this case, somebody is Colonel Munz."

"Is there anything we can do for Munz?"

"I've been thinking of writing a letter expressing our appreciation of Colonel Munz's services, and sending it to the newspapers. But it probably wouldn't do much good."

"Why not? Munz is out there hanging in the breeze. And God knows, he's done everything possible."

"They probably wouldn't print the letter, and if they did it would be regarded as an unwelcome meddling by the norteamericanos in Argentina's affairs. And following that, it would start being bandied about that the whole affair was really our fault; we shouldn't have sent Jack down here, knowing that a very wealthy man like Jack would almost certainly be a target for kidnappers."

"I don't think what's happened has anything to do with kidnapping," Castillo said.

"The trouble is we don't know what this is all about," the ambassador said. "How undiplomatic were you, Charley?"

"Not as undiplomatic as I would have liked to have been," Castillo replied. "I told him I would like to be a witness in Munz's defense, and then, after he told me twice that it was an internal matter, I told him it stinks, and he knows it, and that he can quote me."

"Oh, how I sometimes yearn to be free of diplomatic restraints," Silvio said. "You may not quote me, of course, but I couldn't have said it any better myself."

Charley chuckled. "Thank you, sir."

"I expect you're still waiting for the young lady to come out of the operating room?"

"Yes, sir."

"Please let me know as soon as you know something," Silvio said. "I just sent a car to pick up Dr. Mellener to take him to Jorge Newbery to meet the pilot and see what medical equipment is on the Gulfstream."

"Thank you." [TWO] After talking to the ambassador, Castillo had just enough time to see that the battery on his cellular was running low and to slip it in his pocket when the door to room 677 swung inward and two somewhat burly nurses in operating-room-blue uniforms pushed in a gurney.

A good deal less gently than Charley would have preferred, they transferred the body on the gurney to the hospital bed, and connected it to an array of wires and clear plastic tubing. It was only after the heavier of the two nurses had settled in a chair by the side of the bed- it looked as if she planned to be there for a while-that Charley could get close enough to the bed to get a look at Betty.

All of Betty's body but her face and one arm was wrapped in pale blue sheets, and most of her face was hidden under bandages. What he could see of it was grayish and looked distorted.

He felt woozy again.

The door swung open and Dr. Santa Claus waddled into the room. His surgical mask was hanging from his neck and his surgical blues were blood-spotted.

He smiled at Charley and held up both hands, balled into fists with the thumbs extended.

Then he saw Charley's face.

"Get out of that chair," he ordered the nurse, as he quickly and firmly led Charley to her chair and sat him down in it. "Put your head between your knees," he ordered, as he firmly shoved Charley's head into that position.

Charley had no idea how long he was in that position, for the next thing he became aware of was a vial of aromatic spirits of ammonia under his nose.

He pushed it away and sat up.

"Usually," Dr. Santa Claus observed dryly, his German accent subtle yet clearly evident, "I have to do that to husbands who insist on seeing the miracle of birth themselves. Are you all right?"

Charley felt Dr. Santa Claus's hands on his face, and then became aware that the surgeon was holding his eyes open, apparently to examine them. Then he answered his own question. "You're all right."

"Thank you," Castillo said, then: "How did the operation go?"

"Procedures, plural," the surgeon said. "The trauma to the wound in the patient's leg was far less severe than it could have been. There was some musculature damage, and she will find walking painful for some time.

"Vis-a-vis the wound in the groin area: I saw no damage of any consequence to the reproductive organs…"

What the fuck does that mean? "No damage of any consequence"?

"… and while the area will likely be quite painful for some time-contributing to the discomfort when the patient moves-I can see no indication that the patient will not fully recover."

Well, thank you, God, for that!

"The trauma to the patient's jaw is problematical. The initial trauma, plus the trauma caused by the removal of the projectile, which was rather deeply embedded, caused both fracturing and splintering. I have immobilized her jaw, which means she will not be able to take solid food for some time. Just as soon as Dr. Koos is available-"

"He's the fellow who's skiing?"

"Right. I'd like him to look at the patient."

"Doctor, I've arranged for an airplane to fly her to the United States as soon as she is able to travel. Can you tell me when that will be?"

The surgeon did not reply directly.

"There's a very good orthognathic surgeon at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital," he said. "Chap by the name of Rieger. William Rieger."

"What kind of a surgeon?"

"Orthognathic," the surgeon repeated. "Actually, something like this requires three specialists, an orthognathicist,a plastic reconstructive surgeon, and an orthodontist."

"May I have that doctor's name again? And would you spell 'orthognathic' for me?"

The surgeon corrected Castillo's botched pronunciation of the term, and then spelled it and the name of the physician at the University of Pennsylvania. Castillo wrote it down.

"She should be able to travel, presuming she will be accompanied by a physician and a nurse, sometime tomorrow. I will prepare a package-her X-rays, a report of the procedures she has undergone, a record of her pharmacology, et cetera-and have it available for you."

"Thank you."

"I presume you intend to stay with her until she wakes up?"

"Yes, I do."

"It will be some time before she wakes up at all, and when she does, the drugs I have prescribed for the pain will be having their effect. I don't suppose you'd listen to my suggestion that you go home and get a good night's rest yourself, and come back in the morning? I doubt if she'll even recognize you tonight."

"I'll stay."

"I'll check in on her later," Dr. Santa Claus said, and walked out of the room.

Castillo followed him out.

Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, had acquired a second folding chair somewhere and was sitting beside Jack Britton.

"Betty's going to live," Castillo told them, "but the sooner we get her to Philadelphia, the better. Dr. Whatsisname…"

He gestured at the surgeon, who had just reached the elevator bank.

"… gave me the name of a good doctor in Philadelphia, at the University Hospital. Rieger. Ever hear of him?"

Britton shook his head.

"I need to get on the phone, but my battery's about dead," Castillo said. He looked at Corporal Bradley. "Bradley, go get me a battery charger. This is a Motorola, I think." He checked, then extended the telephone to Bradley. "Take a look. Make sure you get a charger that'll fit."

"With respect, sir. I don't like leaving you."

"I'll be all right for a few minutes," Castillo said, as he reached into his pocket for money. "Not only are SIDE agents controlling who can come onto this floor, but Special Agent Britton is here."

Corporal Bradley looked doubtful, and then on the edge of saying something.

Jesus Christ, he's working up the courage to ask me why Britton can't go buy a charger!

"Bradley, all you have is your pistol. Special Agent Britton has the Madsen and"-to keep you from letting me know you shot Expert with the Madsen-"is generally acknowledged to be the best Madsen marksman in the Secret Service."

"Aye, aye, sir," Corporal Bradley said reluctantly, as he examined the cell phone.

He handed it back to Castillo.

"I'll be as quick as I can, sir," Bradley said, and trotted off toward the elevators.

"Best Madsen marksman in the Secret Service, my ass," Britton chuckled.

"To the best of my knowledge you're the only Madsen marksman in the Secret Service, making you ipso facto its best." Castillo smiled at him and went back into room 677.

The plump nurse had made herself comfortable in a metal folding chair by the window. She had her feet resting on an overturned wastebasket, and was reading a magazine with a picture of the king of Spain on the cover. What looked like a kitchen timer was clicking away on the windowsill.

I guess when that goes off, she goes and checks on Betty.

Castillo went to the bed and looked down at Betty. After a couple of moments, he gently rested the balls of his fingers on Betty's wrist, just above the needle that had been inserted in the back of her hand and was dripping something into her vein. Charley was still there when Corporal Bradley came quietly into the room and offered whispered apologies for having taken so long.

Then Bradley searched the room for a socket into which the cellular charger could be plugged. He found one behind the bedside table, plugged in the charger, and connected it to Castillo's cellular, which chirped encouragingly.

"There you are, sir," he said.

"Good man," Castillo said, and reached for the cellular.

When connected to the cellular, the cord was not long enough for Castillo to use it standing up, or, he immediately learned, even when he was sitting in a folding metal chair.

He sat on the floor next to the bedside table and punched in a long string of numbers from memory.

There was not an immediate answer, and he had just decided it was seven o'clock-supper time-in San Antonio and the kids were making so much noise the phone couldn't be heard, or that the El Patron of the Casa Lopez was watching O'Reilly on Fox and didn't want to be disturbed, when a voice impatiently snarled, "What?"

"Don Fernando?"

"Si."

"This is Don Carlos."

Castillo heard Fernando Lopez, his cousin, exhale in exasperation. Then Fernando said, "I wondered when you were going to check in, Gringo. You're all over television."

"Excuse me?"

" 'Live from our Fox man in Buenos Aires. Long lines of Argentines wait patiently outside the National Cathedral to pay their last respects to J. Winslow Masterson…' "

"Jesus!"

"And since you're el jefe of what's going on down there, we've all been sitting here hoping to catch a glimpse of Uncle Gringo on the tube."

Castillo heard, faintly but clearly, two female voices.

One said, "Don't call him that in front of the children, for God's sake." Castillo recognized the voice as that of Maria, Fernando's wife.

The second said, "Fernando!" in a tone suggesting both annoyance and sadness. Castillo recognized that voice, too. It was that of his-and Fernando's- grandmother, Dona Alicia Castillo.

"As you walk out of the room, Fernando, so Abuela can't hear this conversation, answer this question carefully: Was my name or picture or the phrase 'President's agent' or anything like that on the tube?"

Castillo heard Fernando say, "I can't hear him. I'll go in the library."

A moment later, Fernando said, "Okay."

"Answer the goddamn question."

"No."

"Then how the hell did you know about me being el jefe?"

Fernando hesitated, long enough for Castillo to find the answer to his own question.

"I'm going to burn that bigmouthed sonofabitch a new anal orifice."

"Calm down, Gringo," Fernando said.

"Fuck you, too."

"When you're through with your tantrum, let me know."

"Jesus Christ, he's a federal agent! He should know better than to run off at the mouth!"

"Let's start with why he's in the DEA."

"I don't give a goddamn!"

"Ricardo originally wanted to be an Army aviator. Like the family heroes, Jorge Castillo and his son, Carlos. When he couldn't pass that physical, he was willing to become an ordinary Armor officer, like me. And when he couldn't pass that physical, either, and filled with a noble desire to serve his country, he settled for the DEA. All they wanted was somebody with a college degree who could speak Spanish."

"You seem to know a lot about the sonofabitch."

"Of course I do."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"You don't know, do you?" Fernando asked, incredulously.

"Know what, for Christ's sake?"

"If you had more than a passing interest in the family, Carlos, maybe you would."

Fernando only calls me "Carlos" when he's really pissed at me.

"Get to the goddamn point!"

"Abuela is Ricardo's godmother."

"I didn't know that."

"I figured you didn't. And when Ricardo's mother died-he was thirteen at the time. How old were you when your mother died?"

"Twelve."

"Three guesses, Gringo, which really nice old lady who took her godmother vows seriously just about raised Ricardo Solez?"

"I didn't know that," Castillo admitted, softly. "And he didn't say anything."

"So what happened is Abuela called Ricardo-they have this thing, Gringo, called the telephone, which some people use just to say 'Hello, how are you?' and not only when they're in trouble and want something- and he said, 'Hey, Dona Alicia, guess who's el jefe in charge of finding out who killed Jack the Stack and protecting his family?' Or words to that effect. And our Abuela, who really is always running off at the mouth, called me, and said, 'Hey, Fernando, guess who's el jefe…' "

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Which had the whole family sitting in front of the tube hoping to see-what is it Otto calls you?-'the prodigal son' in action."

Castillo didn't reply.

"So what kind of trouble are you in now, Gringo? And how can the family help?"

"You're right," Castillo said.

"Does that mean you agree that you're a sonofabitch or that you're in trouble?"

"Both."

"What kind of trouble, Gringo?" Fernando said. There was now concern in his voice.

"I'm sitting on the floor of a room in the German Hospital. In the bed next to me is Betty Schneider-"

"What? What the hell is she doing in Argentina?"

"Right now, she just came out of the operating room, where they took three nine-millimeter bullets from a Madsen out of her…"

"?Madre de Dios!"

"… one from the leg, one from the jaw, and one from what the doctor euphemistically refers to as 'the groin area.' "

"Is she going to be all right?"

"She's going to live."

"Thank God!"

"Yeah, I did that. At the time Special Agent Schneider suffered her wounds, she was being transported in my car from her place of duty-the Masterson house-to a bar called the Kansas, where her boyfriend was waiting for her. The most likely scenario is that the bastards who whacked Masterson attacked said car in the belief that I was in it. I wasn't, but what the hell, since they were there, they stuck a Madsen through the driver's window, emptied the magazine, and succeeded in blowing away the driver, a really nice, twenty-year-old Marine named Staff Sergeant Roger Markham, by putting two, maybe three, rounds in his head, and getting Betty three times."

"They didn't get the boyfriend?" Fernando asked. "And who the hell is he?"

Castillo didn't reply. After a moment Fernando understood.

"No shit? When did that happen?"

"Last night. Right after she got here."

"Wow!" Fernando said. "You have been busy." He paused, and then went on: "So what do you need? Before you answer that: What about you? Who's covering your back?"

"I've got a Marine bodyguard," Castillo said. "And Ricardo and Jack Britton-remember him?"

"The black undercover cop from Philadelphia?"

"Yeah. Ricardo and Jack are sitting on Betty. Tomorrow-or no later than the day after tomorrow- she'll be on a plane to Philadelphia. She's going to need more surgery for her face and jaw. I've got the name of a good doctor at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital."

"Gringo, you don't want to send her commercial. If I leave at first light tomorrow in the Lear-"

"I thought about the Lear. You'd have to refuel at least twice."

"So what?"

"I've got an Air Force Gulfstream that can make it to Philadelphia with only one stop for fuel. It also has a hospital configuration. What I want you to do is send the Lear to Keesler Air Force Base in Mississippi."

"Why there?"

"Because that's where I'm taking Masterson's body and his wife and kids. And I think I will probably need some fast transportation."

"Okay."

"We're going to be wheels-up here no later than noon tomorrow, Buenos Aires time. In a Globemaster, it's about ten hours. There's a two-hour time difference, so we'll probably be on the ground there at eight, eight-thirty tomorrow night."

"I'll be there." "I said, 'Send the Lear.'"

"And I said, 'I'll be there.' Anything else, Gringo?"

"Yeah, don't call me that when your kids are listening."

Fernando chuckled. "I'll say a prayer for your girlfriend, Gringo."

"Have Abuela say one. She's probably got more influence than you do."

"Watch your back." Castillo got off the floor, stood by the bed, looked down at Special Agent Schneider for a long minute. Then he put his back to the wall, slid down, and punched another long series of numbers into the cellular.

Supervisory Special Agent Thomas McGuire of the United States Secret Service answered on the second ring: "Four-Zero-Seven-Seven."

"Tom?"

"Is that you, Charley?"

"Yeah."

"How's Schneider?"

"She's out of surgery. She's going to be all right. But she was pretty badly hurt. As soon as she can travel- tomorrow or the next day-I'm going to send her to Philadelphia. On that Air Force Gulfstream. That's one of the reasons I'm calling."

"Before we get into that-how are you?"

"I'm all right."

"What do you need?"

"Can you arrange for somebody to meet the airplane? The surgeon who treated her-"

"Hey, Charley. She's Secret Service. We take care of our own." He paused, and then asked, incredulously, "You're not sending her alone?"

"Jack Britton will be with her. And a doctor and a nurse. The surgeon who treated her here has a packet of records-X-rays, her pharmacology, et cetera. Jack will have that. I want to make sure he's able to get it to-"

"There will be people at the airport. They'll do whatever has to be done. Have the pilot send an in-flight advisory as soon as he enters American airspace. Okay?"

"I've got the name of a doctor at the University of Pennsylvania who's supposed to be very good."

"Give me his name. I'll check him out."

"William Rieger, M.D."

"What does Schneider need?"

"She took a nine-millimeter bullet in the jaw. Plus two others in the body. But the problem is the jaw. The medical specialty is-you better write this down."

"Ballpoint in hand."

"I don't even know how to say this. She needs an orthognathicist. I'll spell that." He did.

"Got it. Anything else?"

"A plastic reconstructive surgeon and an orthodontist," Castillo finished.

"She'll have them."

"Thanks."

"What happened, Charley? All we got is that she was shot and her driver got killed."

"They ambushed my car…" In the back of his mind, he heard Jack Britton's warning: "If you keep up this 'it's all my fault' bullshit somebody important's going to hear you and they'll keep you off the investigation." Castillo stopped himself.

"And?" McGuire pursued.

Castillo stuck to the basics. "It was stopped at a traffic circle near Masterson's house. Somebody got the driver to lower his window, stuck a Madsen in it, and emptied the magazine. The driver, a Marine sergeant named Markham, took at least two hits in the head as he was trying to back off. The doctor thinks what hit Schneider were ricochets off the bulletproof glass."

Did that sound professionally dispassionate enough? Or is McGuire going to see right through it?

"It's 'projectile resistant,' not 'bulletproof,'" McGuire corrected him absently. "You said it was your car. You think they were trying to get you?"

"I don't know, Tom."

"Just an ordinary 'let's whack an American, any American' assassination? I don't think so. These people are obviously professionals. Why would they risk something like this going sour for them just to take out a Secret Service agent? Unless maybe (a) they expected you to be in the car, and (b) they know that you're not just a Secret Service agent but the President's agent. That would put you in the same category as Masterson, somebody important enough to whack-for whatever reason."

"That brings us back to: Why did they kill Masterson? And not Mrs. Masterson when they had the chance?"

McGuire didn't reply for a moment, then he said, mockingly solemn, "If you would be interested in the opinion of a lowly but old, balding, and wise Secret Service agent, there is something rotten in the state of Denmark. I just wish to hell I knew what it is."

"Me, too, Tom."

"What else can I do for you?"

"Two things. Ask Dick Miller to take my Officer's Model.45-which is cleverly concealed behind the books on the bookshelf behind my bed-and put it and enough summer clothes for a couple of days in Mississippi into one of the carry-on bags in the closet and somehow get it down to me in Mississippi."

"I'll get it for you, Charley. Joel and I are going down there on Air Force One with the boss."

"Thanks."

"Anything else?"

"I asked my cousin Fernando to bring his airplane to Keesler. I'm not sure they'll let him land there. Can you fix it?"

"I don't think it'll be a problem. If there is, I'll call him and tell him where to take it."

"Thanks again."

"Charley, would you take some straight advice from the old Irishman?"

"I'm all ears for anything you have to say."

"One scenario that came to my mind is that we're dealing with a lunatic or lunatics-not necessarily rag-heads; maybe even American-who get off by whacking important people. Masterson qualified as a diplomat and as Jack the Stack. That may explain both why they kidnapped the wife and why they didn't kill her. They just used her to get to him."

Castillo grunted.

"And it may explain why they tried to whack you. The President's agent is in the same league as a diplomat. Maybe even more important. How much of a secret is that down there?"

"Somebody tipped the New York Times that there is a Presidential Agent. And some other members of the press. I don't think my name came out."

"Well, that might explain the ambush. Do you know who had the big mouth?"

"I've got my suspicions."

"Have you got a name?"

"I'm not sure about this, Tom."

"When people are trying to whack you, Charley, an overdose of decency can be lethal."

"There's an FBI agent down here who I think made me."

"Made you how?"

"Do you think-despite the President personally ordering the director to lay off Pevsner-that they still have a 'locate but do not detain' out on me?"

"It would be stupid of them, but it wouldn't surprise me. They really want Kennedy."

"This guy's name is Yung. He's attached to the embassy in Montevideo, supposedly working on money laundering."

"Supposedly?"

"I ran into Howard Kennedy-"

"He's down there?" McGuire interrupted. His surprise was evident in his voice.

"He was."

"Doing what?"

"He said he had brought an airplane load of objets d'art to the King Faisal Islamic Center and was going to take a load of polo ponies back to Arabia."

"Oddly enough, that sounds legitimate."

"I think that's what he was doing. Anyway, he's gone, and I don't think he or Pevsner has anything to do with this. Pevsner wants to be invisible, what Kennedy wants is what Pevsner wants, and whacking an American diplomat does not seem to be a good way to be invisible."

"With Pevsner, you never know."

"Anyway, Kennedy said he knows this guy Yung, says that he's a hotshot, and whatever Yung's doing in Montevideo has nothing to do with money laundering."

"That's interesting. Let me see what I can find out about this guy."

"Thanks again, Tom."

"I was about to offer you some serious advice."

"Shoot."

"Tell me it's okay for me to call Tony Santini and tell him to sit on you until you get out of there."

"Tony's with the Mastersons. I think he should stay there. And I have a Marine bodyguard who won't let me out of his sight."

"Your call, Charley. But the more I think about it, I think these people are trying to whack you, so be careful."

"I will."

"I just had another thought," McGuire said. "Off the wall."

"Let's hear it."

"The whackers-of Schneider, if they weren't specifically after you-are sending a message."

"What kind of a message?"

"I haven't figured that out yet. But part of it could be, 'We can get to you if we want to, Secret Service protection or not.'"

"I don't know, Tom."

"I said it was off the wall," McGuire said. "That doesn't mean it's not possible."

"It brings up something else, Tom. What about protection for the Mastersons in Mississippi?"

"Charley, the President's going to be in Mississippi. The Secret Service will be all over Keesler. And the head of the protection detail has to know how pissed off he is about Masterson getting whacked."

"The President's not going to stay in Mississippi."

"Good point. I'll talk to Joel and see what he says. Anything else?"

"Can't think of anything."

"Okay, I'll see you down there." Castillo called Ambassador Silvio and told him that Betty was out of the operating room but still unconscious, and that her doctor had said she could travel either the next day or the day following.

Then he got off the floor and looked down at Betty again. She was still out.

Castillo turned to the heavyset nurse.

"How long will she be like this?" he asked.

"Probably for at least an hour, senor."

"If she wakes before I get back, tell her I'll be back," Castillo ordered.

"I will."

Castillo unplugged the cellular from the charger, saw that he now had enough battery remaining to get to the Four Seasons, then unplugged the charger from the wall and put both devices in his pocket. Then he walked out of the room.

Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, who was sitting beside Jack Britton, got quickly to his feet when he saw Castillo.

Castillo met Britton's eyes.

"She's still out. The nurse says she'll be out for an hour or more. So Corporal Bradley and I are going to go pack. I'll have them move your stuff and hers into my room and settle those bills. After we're gone tomorrow, there will be people to relieve you and Solez and-"

"Got it," Britton said.

"While I'm dealing with the hotel, Bradley will go where his billet is and pack enough clothing-including his dress blues-for a week. Then he will go back to the hotel, pick me up, and we'll come back here."

"Sir?" Bradley said.

"What?"

"My orders are that I'm not to leave you. And… why do I need my dress blues?"

"Because you have the sad duty, Corporal, of taking Sergeant Markham home and burying him."

"The gunny didn't say anything about that, sir."

"The gunny doesn't know about it yet."

"Sir, I can't go without orders."

"You just got your orders," Castillo said. "If it makes you feel better, call your gunny and tell him what I have ordered."

"Yes, sir," Corporal Bradley said, doubtfully. One of the SIDE agents in the corridor followed Castillo and Bradley onto the elevator, and when the elevator door opened in the basement, two more men, obviously SIDE agents also, were waiting for them.

Castillo wondered how they had been notified; he hadn't seen the SIDE man use a cellular.

Obviously, stupid, one of the other SIDE agents called and said we were getting on the elevator.

And since it took you some time to figure that out, it means you're tired and not thinking clearly.

"Sir, I am the Major Querrina of the SIDE, with the honor of having your security-"

"I speak Spanish, Major," Charley interrupted him.

Major Querrina's relief was visible.

"You're going someplace, sir?"

"First to the Four Seasons. And while I am in there, my bodyguard here is going to the Marine barracks, or whatever it's called, to quickly pack a suitcase."

Major Querrina looked dubiously at Corporal Bradley but didn't say anything.

"When he's done that," Castillo went on, "he's going to go back to the Four Seasons and pick me up, and we're coming back here." He turned to Bradley. "Where is this place, Corporal?"

"Just off Libertador-" Bradley started.

"I know where it is," Querrina interrupted. "It's a twenty- to thirty-minute drive from the Four Seasons. Is time important?"

"I want to get back here as quickly as I can."

"May I suggest, sir, that we send the corporal to the Marine House in one of my cars? That will save time, and so far as security for yourself is concerned, there will be two SIDE cars with you."

Or I could ride with SIDE, and send Bradley in the embassy car.

But if I do that, and these bastards want to-what did Tom McGuire say?-"send a message" by taking me out, then I might have two dead Marines on my conscience. And, God, I don't want that.

"Major Querrina has kindly offered one of his cars to take you to the Marine House." He saw Bradley's face drop. "Corporal, you will go in one of their cars, which will bring you back here to the hospital. That's not open for discussion."

"Aye, aye, sir," Bradley said, with a visible lack of enthusiasm. [THREE] El Presidente de la Rua Suite The Four Seasons Hotel Cerrito 1433 Buenos Aires, Argentina 2240 24 July 2005 "Why don't you fix yourself a drink, Major?" Castillo said to Querrina as they came into the sitting room of the suite. "I won't be long."

"Very kind of you, sir. But no thank you. I have the duty."

"I have it, too," Castillo said. "But there are exceptions to every rule, and I have just decided this is one of those times."

He walked to the bar and poured an inch and a half of Famous Grouse into a glass. He took a sip, and then held the glass up in a second invitation.

"As you say, sir, there are always exceptions," Querrina said.

"Help yourself, I won't be long," Castillo said, and carried his glass into the bedroom and closed the door.

He found a socket for the cellular charger behind the bedside table and plugged it in. When he connected his cellular to it, he found that he wasn't going to have to sit on the floor. He laid the charging cellular on the bed, and then started to pack.

It didn't take him long, and he was just about to zip the bag closed when he remembered the bill he'd gotten at the desk. There was no sense carrying that around in his pocket for God knows how long, and he couldn't just toss it, because the Teutonically efficient financial department of the Tages Zeitung demanded a copy of his bills to compare with what American Express said he had spent.

He patted his pockets, found the bill, and started to put it in his laptop briefcase when a warning light lit up in the back of his brain.

What the hell is wrong?

He looked at the bill carefully.

Well, the Four Seasons doesn't give its accommodations away. But there's nothing on here out of the ordinary-

Except that it's made out to Karl Gossinger.

There's nothing wrong with that, either, except that Gossinger entered the country, which means Castillo didn't, and Castillo's going to leave tomorrow. All sorts of questions would be asked about the German national getting on the USAF Globemaster with the Widow Masterson and her husband's body.

Shit!

You fucked up again, Inspector Clouseau!

As a practical matter, however, when Argentine Immigration shows up at Ezeiza, I don't think they are going to peer suspiciously at C. G. Castillo's passport to see if he entered the country legally, especially since C. G. Castillo will be surrounded by SIDE agents.

So what I'll do is hand them my American passport, hope they don't look closely, and worry about Gossinger's immigration problems later.

He put the Four Seasons bill in the briefcase and checked to make sure Gossinger's passport was concealed in the lid with his other alter ego identification.

Then he sat on the bed and pushed an autodial number.

A deep-voiced male answered, "?Hola?"

"My name is Castillo," he said in Spanish. "May I speak with Senor Pevsner, please?"

"One moment, senor."

Castillo glanced around the room and saw something he hadn't seen before. On the bedside table on the other side of the bed was some sort of package. Whatever it was, it was wrapped in tissue, and a rose lay across it.

What the hell is that?

"Charley? I was hoping you would call," Aleksandr Pevsner said in Russian.

"Were you? Why?"

"To learn that you're all right. I heard what happened to your driver and agent."

"Well, if you heard that from somebody close to Colonel Munz, Alex, you better get a new source. They fired Munz."

"I heard that, too. I'm sorry about your people, Charley."

"Alex, I want the bastards who did that."

"I understand."

"This is personal, Alex."

There was a moment's hesitation before Pevsner replied.

"I would expect nothing less of you as an officer. Or do you really mean personal?"

"I mean really personal, Alex."

"Oh, then I really am sorry, my friend."

"I spoke with Howard just before he left."

"He didn't mention that."

"I asked him to find out what he could about a man named Jean-Paul Lorimer, a UN diplomat in Paris. The next time you speak with him, would you tell him that I now really want to know about this man?"

"I'll have Howard contact you. Where will you be?"

"Here until about noon tomorrow. That's when we leave with Masterson's family. And his body."

"I doubt if I'll hear from him before that. Then you'll be in Washington?"

"First Mississippi, then Washington. Tell him to call my cellular or the hotel."

"I will. And I will also see what I can learn about this Lorimer person. Jean-Paul Lorimer, you said?"

"Right. I would really be grateful."

"I hesitate to say this to someone of your background, but are you adequately protecting yourself?"

"I have two SIDE cars, four SIDE agents-including a major-and, far more reassuring, an American Marine I'm not sure is old enough to vote."

Pevsner chuckled, then said, seriously: "There are some very dangerous people-obviously professionals- involved in whatever's going on. I'm sure you appreciate that."

"I do. You haven't had any fresh ideas about what this is all about, have you?"

"No. And no one I've talked to-people one would think would have at least an idea-have any idea, either."

"Keep asking, will you?"

"Of course. And Anna will pray for you-and yours- my friend."

"Thank you."

"Friends take care of friends, my friend. We'll be in touch, Charley. Be careful."

"Goodbye, Alex."

Pevsner switched to German: "Not goodbye. Auf wiedersehen."

Castillo broke the connection, then looked at the cellular.

Flash! CNN and the New York Times have learned that C. G. Castillo, the President's not-so-secret agent, is a close personal friend of Aleksandr Pevsner, the infamous Russian arms dealer and all-around bad guy. Their source is an unnamed FBI agent whose reports have been reliable in the past.

Shit!

He put the cellular in his pocket.

What the hell is in that tissue-wrapped package?

He walked around the bed, pushed the rose on top of the package out of the way, and untied the bow that held the tissue paper in place.

The package contained the freshly laundered brassiere and underpants of Special Agent Elizabeth Schneider, which the room maid had apparently found where they had been kicked under the bed.

"Oh, Jesus!" Castillo breathed.

With some difficulty-his eyes were watering-Castillo rewrapped the intimate apparel and put it in his laptop briefcase, in the space beside the extendable handle.

Then he swallowed hard, breathed deeply, and picked up his bag and the briefcase and went into the sitting room.

"Okay, Major," he said. "All done. Let's go." [FOUR] Room 677 The German Hospital Avenida Pueyrredon Buenos Aires, Argentina 2340 24 July 2005 Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, was visibly relieved to see Castillo when he got off the elevator.

"All packed, Corporal?" Castillo asked.

"Yes, sir," Bradley replied. "Sir, the gunny said, in case he misses you tomorrow, to tell you thanks."

"For what?"

"For sending me with Sergeant Markham."

Castillo nodded but didn't reply. He turned to Jack Britton. "The hotel's moved your stuff and Betty's to my room, Jack. The bill's taken care of. Tom McGuire said to tell you to send an in-flight advisory as soon as the Gulfstream enters American airspace, giving your ETA in Philadelphia. The Secret Service will meet the plane."

Britton nodded. "Send it to who?"

Shit! Castillo thought. He said, "That little detail got overlooked. Send it to Philadelphia Approach Control, with a copy to the office of the secretary of Homeland Security, personal attention Secretary Hall. That ought to get their attention. You're also probably going to refuel at MacDill Air Force Base. There's Secret Service people there. Find them, and tell them."

"Got it."

Castillo nodded and then slowly opened the door to room 677.

There wasn't much light, just a small lamp on the bedside table, over which the stout nurse had draped a blue cloth.

"Did she wake up?" Castillo asked softly.

"She's starting to," the nurse said.

Castillo walked to the bed and looked down at Betty.

She looked gray.

The stout nurse tugged at his arm, and he turned to look at her.

She had a cheap white stackable plastic chair in her hands. Charley had heard-he didn't know if it was true-that they were molded from the recycled plastic of milk cartons and Coke bottles.

"You can't just stand there until she wakes up, senor," the nurse said. "Sit down, put your feet on this, and try to get a little sleep."

How the hell am I going to be able to sleep?

"Muchas gracias."

He sat in the folding chair, put his feet on the plastic chair, and when he was reasonably sure the nurse wasn't watching, put his hand up so that he could touch Betty's shoulder. Castillo opened his eyes.

Jack Britton was standing beside him, extending a coffee mug.

Castillo took the mug as a reflex action.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Quarter to nine," Britton said. "Time for you to change shirts, shave, and head for the cathedral."

"Jesus Christ! I should be in San Isidro. Why the hell didn't you wake me?"

"All you were going to do, Charley, was get in the way in San Isidro," Britton said. "I talked to Santini. He said to let you sleep."

Castillo got up, knocking the plastic chair over as he did.

"Your electric razor and a clean shirt's in the bathroom," Britton said, and walked out of the room.

Castillo looked down at Betty.

Her eyes were open, and she was pale but no longer gray.

"Hello, baby," Castillo said.

Betty made a grunt that could have meant, "Hi."

"How do you feel?"

Betty rolled her eyes, and then touched the bandages on her face and then made grunting sounds that after a moment he understood meant, "Can't talk."

"Sweetheart, you're going to be all right."

Betty pointed to the chair and grunted. When he looked confused, she repeated the grunts.

"I snore?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I love you," Charley said.

Betty nodded.

He bent over her and very gently kissed her on the lips.

More grunts, but this time he easily made the translation: "Wiener schnitzel."

"You took three hits," Castillo said. "You're going to be all right. Either tomorrow or the next day, you're goingto Philadelphia on the Gulfstream. Jack will be with you."

She nodded, then grunted, "Roger?"

"He didn't make it, baby. He went out quick."

Tears ran down her cheeks into the bandages.

Betty pointed to herself, then mimed firing a pistol, and grunted, "Get bastards?"

He shook his head.

She grunted, "Damn!"

"I have to go with the Mastersons," Charley said.

She nodded.

"I don't want to leave you."

She nodded again, then mimed something that after a moment he understood was shaving.

She's telling me to go shave.

He nodded, and walked to the bathroom. As he started to pull the door closed, she made a loud sound, and he quickly turned and looked at her.

She shook her head and pointed to her eyes.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. As he shaved, he could see her watching him in the mirror.

When he'd finished, and had changed his shirt, he went to the bed and looked down at her and ran his fingertips over her forehead.

She raised her balled hand with the thumb extended.

"Oh, Jesus!" he said softly.

She pointed to the door.

He kissed her once more and then turned and walked quickly out of the room.