The shooters

IX

[ONE] Aeropuerto Internacional Ministro Pistarini, Ezeiza Buenos Aires, Argentina 0525 9 September 2005 Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF, turned from the left seat in the cockpit of Gulfstream III N379LT toward Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, USA, who was standing in the doorway, and pointed his index finger toward the passenger compartment.

Torine ordered, "Sit."

Colonel Castillo complied with the order.

Captain Richard M. Sparkman, USAF, suppressing a smile, then retarded the throttles a tad, waited two seconds more, then greased the aircraft onto the runway.

"Nice," Colonel Torine said to Captain Sparkman over the privacy of the intercom. "Your other option, of course, was coming in hard and/or short or long and having Charley remind you of it for the rest of your natural life."

"What kind of a pilot is he?"

"If you quote me, I will deny it, but he's one of the naturals. Get him to take you for a chopper ride sometime. You'll feel like one of those soaring swallows that fly from Capistrano to Plaza de Mayo here in B. A."

"Stupid question, I guess," Sparkman said. "I saw all those DFCs."

"Three of them," Torine said. "Each for doing something with a helicopter that the manufacturer will tell you is aerodynamically impossible."

Ezeiza ground control directed them to the far left of the terminal building, where ground handlers parked them between two McDonnell Douglas MD-11 cargo aircraft, one belonging to FedEx and the other to Lufthansa, which made the Gulfstream look very small indeed.

"Passengers may now feel free to move about the aircraft," Torine called over the cabin speakers. "Please remember to take your personal items with you. That includes ravenous bears masquerading as lapdogs."

Castillo reappeared in the cockpit doorway.

"How do you want to handle this, Charley?" Torine asked. "Use the valet parking? Or have us stick with it and catch up to you later?"

"There's nothing on here of interest, except the AFC radios, and we'll take them with us. Let's stick together."

"And the weapons?" Torine argued.

"No problem, right, until we try to take them off the airplane? Just leave them."

"I will now go deal with the authorities," Torine said. "When do I tell them we'll need it?"

"On an hour's notice," Castillo said.

"Remember, we're here to fish," Torine said.

Castillo knew that that had come from Darby when Torine had radioed him their arrival time at Ezeiza. Darby had said, "The purpose of your visit is sport-fishing on the Pilcomayo River."

Max took one look at the customs officials at the foot of the stair door and decided he didn't like them. He was, however, now on a leash-Castillo had bought in Quito a hefty woven leather souvenir lariat for that purpose-and thus didn't pose a real problem. Still, the customs officials, smiling nervously, gave Max a wide berth as he towed Castillo to the nose gear.

Inside the terminal, when Castillo's group tried to pass through customs and immigration, there was another problem with Max. They were told that the official charged with ensuring that live animals entering the country had the proper documentation-in Max's case, a certificate from a doctor of veterinary medicine stating he had the proper rabies and other inoculations-had not yet come to work. They would have to wait until he showed up.

Castillo then saw, at about the same time Delchamps did, the two burly men in civilian clothing leaning against the wall across the baggage carousel from them, trying not to conceal their interest in the newly arrived American sportfishermen.

They might as well have had COP tattooed on their foreheads.

When Castillo locked eyes with Delchamps, it was obvious they were both wondering if the official-who-had-not-yet-come-to-work was really late, or whether this was some kind of stall.

Max was not concerned. He had for some reason changed his mind and decided he liked the customs officers who wouldn't let him into the country, and had offered them his paw. They had responded by offering him a thick rope to tug on, and he now was dragging two of them across the baggage room.

Castillo was somewhat concerned that when it came to inspecting their luggage there might be special interest in the AFC satellite telephones in the suitcases carried by Lester Bradley and Jamie Neidermeyer.

There was a cover story ready, of course-that they were ordinary satellite telephones necessary to keep Senor Castillo in touch with the world headquarters of the Lorimer Charitable amp; Benevolent Fund in Washington, D.C.-but that sounded fishy to even Senor Castillo, and there might be problems later if the customs officers decided they had best make a record of the entry of the radios into Argentina so that they would leave the country when Senor Castillo did, and not be sold in Argentina without the appropriate taxes being paid.

The problem did not come up. By the time the official charged with making sure Max was healthy showed up a half hour later, Max had so charmed the customs officials-mostly by being stronger than the two of them tugging on the rope-that as soon as the official had stamped his vaccination certificate they waved them past the luggage X-ray machines and through the doors to the lobby for arriving passengers.

There were no familiar faces waiting for them. But Torine nudged Castillo and nodded toward a man waving a sign with "Herr Gossinger" written on it.

Castillo discreetly signaled the others to wait, then walked over to the man.

Before Castillo could open his mouth, the man with the sign greeted him, in German: "Herr Munz welcomes you to Argentina, Herr Gossinger. He awaits you and your party at the estancia."

"Danke schoen," Castillo replied, and motioned for the others to follow him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the two cops who had been in baggage claim were now in the terminal, and obviously about to follow him and the others wherever they went.

The man with the sign led them out of the terminal to a small yellow Mercedes bus with ARGENTOURS painted on its doors. As the driver, eyeing Max warily, stuffed their luggage into it and the two cops watched the process, Torine discreetly nudged Castillo again, this time indicating a BMW with ordinary Argentine license plates.

Castillo saw Alfredo Munz behind the wheel. Alex Darby, the "commercial attache" of the United States embassy, was sitting next to him. Neither Darby nor Munz gave any sign of recognition.

There were two people in the backseat of the BMW whom Castillo couldn't identify.

Not surprising. I can barely see Darby and Munz through those darkened windows.

But what the hell is this all about?

When the yellow Mercedes bus pulled away from the terminal, Munz's BMW followed it, and when they had left the airport property and were on the highway headed toward downtown Buenos Aires, Munz passed the bus and pulled in front.

That wasn't surprising either, but a minute or so later, Corporal Lester Bradley made his way with some difficulty through the crowded bus to kneel in the aisle beside Castillo.

"Colonel, I may be wrong, but I thought I should bring to your attention the possibility that we're being followed."

Yung heard him. He said, "It's those two cop types who were eyeing us in the terminal."

Castillo looked out over the luggage stacked in the back of the bus. There behind them were four men in a blue Peugeot sedan.

"And two of their friends," Castillo said.

"What's going on, Colonel?" Yung asked.

"I think they're friendlies, bringing up our rear. Munz and Darby are in that BMW in front of us. As to what's going on, I haven't a clue."

Ten minutes later, perhaps five seconds after Castillo had decided they were en route to the safe house in Pilar-they were on the sort of parkway that connects the downtown Buenos Aires-Ezeiza autopista with the Acceso Norte, which turns into Ruta 8-the BMW ahead of them suddenly turned onto an exit road and the bus, tires squealing, followed them.

When Castillo looked out the back, he saw that the Peugeot behind them had come to a stop in the middle of the exit road, effectively blocking anyone who might be following.

They drove three blocks into what looked like a working-class neighborhood-rows of small, wall-sharing, single-family homes built of masonry, broken only by buildings that could have been small factories, or garages, or warehouses-then made another screeching turn, and abruptly slowed before making a left turn off the street and rolling through an opened overhead door into a three-story building.

A stocky man wearing a pistol shoulder holster was standing just inside the door, and as soon as the bus was inside, he pulled on a chain mechanism that quickly lowered a corrugated steel door.

The room had been dimly lit. Now fluorescent lights flickered on, filling the area with a bright, harsh light.

They could see they were in some kind of garage. Vehicles of all descriptions-twenty-five or thirty, perhaps more, including several taxis and a nearly new Mercedes-Benz 220-were parked closely together, noses out, against the walls. There was a ramp at the end of the room leading upward.

"Is this where we go fishing, Colonel?" Chief Warrant Officer Five Colin Leverette asked.

The bus driver opened the door.

Munz stuck his head into the bus.

"We change vehicles here," he announced.

"What's going on, Alfredo?" Castillo asked in German.

"In a moment, please, Karl," Munz replied in German, then said in English, "Would everybody please get off the bus?"

Max needed no further encouragement. Munz ducked out of his way at the last possible second.

Max ran around the area-In a strange gait, Castillo noticed, almost as if he's running on his toes. He's hunting, that's what he's doing. I'll be damned if he didn't sense that just about all us warriors of legendary icy courage on the bus were scared shitless by this mysterious little joyride-found nothing that worried him and returned to Munz, where he sat down and offered him his paw.

"Max says it's safe to get off the bus, fellas," Davidson said.

"Don't laugh at him," Castillo said. "Remember the last time he went looking for something in a garage?"

"Who's laughing?" Davidson said agreeably.

Everybody piled off the bus.

The driver went to the rear and started unloading the luggage. Two more large men who looked like cops-the ones who had been in the backseat of Munz's BMW, Castillo decided-moved quickly to help him.

Castillo caught Munz's eye and wordlessly asked who they were and what was going on.

"I'll explain this all in a minute," Munz said. "We're pressed for time. Lester, could you find Acceso Norte from here?"

"Yes, sir," Corporal Bradley replied. "I am fairly familiar with the area."

"Yung?" Munz asked.

"Yeah. I know my way around B.A."

"Karl, would it be all right with you if Lester and Yung drove everybody not needed here out to Nuestra Pequena Casa?"

"Who's 'needed here,' Alfredo?" Castillo asked.

"Edgar and Jake should be in on this, Charley," Alex Darby said.

"Okay," Castillo said. "Are we going to need a radio right now?"

Darby shook his head.

"Okay, load the cars that Mr. Darby's going to give you," Castillo ordered. "Neidermeyer, if you ride with Two-Gun, we won't have both radios in one car. Otherwise, suit yourselves. Take all the luggage. Edgar and Jake, you'll stay."

They nodded.

Two minutes later, the corrugated steel door clanked noisily up. Yung drove a Volkswagen Golf out of the building. The door came clanking quickly down again, to rise two minutes later to permit the exit of a Jeep Grand Cherokee with Bradley driving.

When the corrugated steel door had crashed noisily down again, one of the cops who had helped with the luggage raised his hand toward the ramp.

"Please," he said in English.

They started to follow him up the ramp. Max ran past him without difficulty. The others had a little trouble. The ramp was quite steep, not very wide, and had six-inch-wide anti-wheel-slip bumps running across it.

At the next level, they found themselves in an area much like the level they had just left. Vehicles of all descriptions were parked tightly together against the walls.

Max was standing in the middle, looking at a brown uniformed gendarmeria sergeant sitting on a folding chair with an Uzi in his lap. The gendarme sat in front of a steel door in an interior concrete-block wall.

As the man led them across the open area toward the door, the gendarme, eyeing Max warily, got quickly out of his chair and had the door open by the time the man got to it.

The man went inside, and there was again the flicker of fluorescent lights coming on.

"Please," he said once more, as he waved them inside.

Max trotted in first.

The room was dominated by an old desk-once grand and elegant-before which sat a simple, sturdy, rather battered oak conference table. There were eight chairs at the table. The wall behind the desk was covered with maps of Argentina in various scales, including an enormous one of Buenos Aires Province. Along both walls were tables holding computers, facsimile machines, telephones, a coffee maker, and some sort of communications radios. All of it looked old.

"Please," the man said again, this time an invitation for everyone to sit down.

"That will be all, thank you," Munz said to the man.

"Si, mi coronel," the man said, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Max lay down with his head between his paws and looked at the closed door.

"Okay, Alfredo," Castillo said. "What's going on, starting with where are we?"

"We have a law of confiscation in Argentina, Karl," Munz said. "This building was being used as a warehouse for cocaine and marijuana; it was seized. And so were the vehicles you saw. Comandante Liam Duffy of the Gendarmeria Nacional now uses it, unofficially, as an office and base of operations."

"He's the guy who the DEA guy was on his way to see when he was snatched?" Delchamps asked.

Munz nodded.

"So what are we doing here?" Delchamps went on. "And who are all the guys with guns?"

"Comandante Duffy thought there was a good chance that you would be at some risk at the airport…"

"How did he know we would be at the airport?" Torine asked.

"He was with us at the house when you radioed saying you were going to Ezeiza instead of Jorge Newbery," Darby offered.

"You had this guy in Nuestra Pequena Casa?" Castillo snapped at Alex Darby. "That's supposed to be our safe house!"

"A lot of things have happened, Charley," Darby replied.

"Obviously," Castillo said, thickly sarcastic.

"Easy, Ace," Delchamps said, then looked at Darby. "Like what, Alex? What has happened?"

"The bottom line is that Chief Inspector Jose Ordonez, of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policia Nacional, is back in the game…"

"Jesus Christ!" Castillo exploded. "How the hell-?"

"Let him finish, Ace," Delchamps said reasonably.

Castillo glowered at him but said nothing.

"If I may…," Alfredo Munz began, and when Castillo motioned impatiently for him to go on, Munz picked up the explanation: "The day I came back here, I called Jose Ordonez. For several reasons. One, to thank him for what he had done for us. And to tell him that I was back. And, frankly, the primary reason I called was to ask him how well he knew Duffy. I knew we had to deal with Duffy, and I knew Duffy only casually. And I knew Duffy would know that I had been 'retired' from SIDE, and was afraid that he wouldn't want to have anything to do with me."

"And?" Castillo said.

"Jose told me that Duffy had come to Uruguay to see him, and that as a result of the interesting conversation he'd had with him, he had called Bob Howell and asked him how Duffy could get in touch with me. And, more important, with you."

Robert Howell, the "cultural attache" of the U.S. embassy in Montevideo, was in fact the CIA station chief.

"And what did Howell tell him?" Castillo asked carefully.

"The truth-or what he thought was the truth. That both you and I were in the United States, but that he would relay the message."

"And what did Howell do?"

"He got on the next plane to Buenos Aires and came to see me," Darby said. "So I took him out to Nuestra Pequena Casa to see Alfredo to see if he had any idea what this was all about."

"Did you?" Castillo asked.

Munz shook his head.

"I don't think we were in the house thirty minutes," Darby said, "when Duffy showed up at the front door."

"The front door, or at the gate?" Castillo asked.

"The front door," Darby said. "Obviously, he had people on me or Howell-more likely both-and they followed us from the embassy. And no country club security guard is going to tell a comandante of the gendarmeria he can't come in."

"What did he want?" Castillo asked.

"To talk to me," Munz said. "But especially to you."

"What about?"

"I wanted to show you some photographs, Colonel," a voice behind Castillo said. It sounded not only American, but as if the speaker were a native of Brooklyn.

Castillo turned to see a tall, muscular, very fair-skinned man with a full head of curly red hair. He was in the process of taking off his suit jacket, under which he carried in a shoulder holster what looked like a full-frame Model 1911A1 Colt.45 semiautomatic pistol.

Max was now on his feet, his head cocked to one side, looking at the newcomer.

So you're Liam Duffy, Castillo thought.

And how long have you been outside listening to this conversation, Senor Duffy?

Duffy walked around to behind the ornate desk. He hung his jacket on the back of his chair, sat down, and then announced, "I am Comandante Duffy, of the Gendarmeria Nacional."

He really does sound like he's from Brooklyn.

Where the hell did that come from?

"How do you do, Comandante?" Castillo said. "Am I to thank you for the protection we've had since we walked into the terminal at Ezeiza?"

"Alfredo, who I recently learned is a very dear friend of a very dear friend of mine in Uruguay-Jose Ordonez-which makes him a very dear friend of mine, thinks we might work together, Colonel. With that in mind, it was in the interest of the gendarmeria to guard you and your men against a threat I don't think you knew existed."

"What kind of a threat?"

"Possibly being shot, or perhaps being strangled."

"Now, who would want to do something like that to innocent tourists who came to your beautiful country to fly-fish its rivers of trophy trout?"

"The same people who did this, Colonel," Duffy said.

He tossed a large manila envelope-very skillfully, it landed right where Castillo was sitting-across his desk.

Castillo took from the envelope a thick sheath of color prints. They had been printed on ordinary paper, but the quality told him they had been taken with a high-quality digital camera.

He took a quick look at the first one, then passed it to Delchamps, and signaled that he was to pass it to Torine and the others when he had seen it.

It showed a bullet-riddled body of a man in a brown, military-type uniform. He was lying on his back, eyes open, in a dark pool of blood, on what was probably the gravel shoulder of a macadam country road.

There were, in all, eight photographs of the body. Several fairly close photographs of the head and torso showed the head was distorted. It had been shot several times at close range, including, Castillo judged, once in the mouth. There were more signs of entrance wounds in the body than Castillo could conveniently count, which strongly suggested the use of a submachine gun, with what looked like an entirely unnecessary coup de grace shot in the mouth.

Next came as many photographs of a second gendarme. He had died of strangulation. A blue metal garrote had been so tightly drawn against his throat that it had cut into the flesh; he had lost a substantial quantity of blood before he had died.

Then there were glossy photographs of two gendarmes sitting in a chair. Both had their wrists handcuffed and showed signs of having been beaten.

Castillo passed along the last of the pictures and the envelope to Delchamps, then looked at Duffy. Duffy locked eyes with him, and Castillo sensed it would not be in his best interests to break the eye contact first.

Castillo didn't look away until Munz touched his arm with the envelope, now again thick with pictures. He took it from Munz, stood up, and walked to Duffy's desk. He put the envelope on the desk, then walked back to his chair, sat down, and looked at Duffy again.

"My gendarmes were manning road checks when the hijos de puta did this to them," Duffy then said. "The gendarmeria sometimes sets up road checks at random sites and sometimes at sites where we have information about where drugs will be coming down the highway. In both cases here, we had had information that drugs would be coming down two particular highways, which happen to be some seventy kilometers apart."

Duffy paused a moment, then continued: "Killing and kidnapping gendarmes is very unusual. Criminals almost never kill members of the gendarmeria, and never before have kidnapped any of them."

"Why is that, Comandante?" Delchamps asked softly.

"Because they know it is unacceptable," Munz said.

"What does that mean, 'unacceptable'?" Castillo demanded.

"It means the gendarmes will take revenge," Munz said. "Killing anyone they suspect may have been involved."

He let that sink in for a moment, then went on: "The gendarmeria operates all over Argentina, very often in remote areas and with very few men. They usually operate in two-man teams, and sometimes alone. They are not attacked, because the price for doing so is too high. When this happened-"

"When did this happen?" Castillo interrupted. "Before or after Timmons was snatched?"

"A week after Timmons was taken," Munz said. "The day-or the day after-Max found Lorimer in the bushes at Nuestra Pequena Casa."

"The gendarmeria, Colonel," Duffy said, "prides itself on always getting its man. It was not wise to do what these hijos de puta did, and I asked myself why these narcos had.

"The first conclusion obviously to be drawn was that they decided to send the gendarmeria the same kind of message they have been sending your DEA people in Asuncion-that they will not tolerate interference with their business.

"Then I asked myself why they had suddenly decided to do this. What came to mind there was that they were about to start significantly increasing the flow of product to the point where so much money would be involved that they would think that protecting the shipments was worth the risk of behaving toward the gendarmeria in a manner heretofore considered unacceptable.

"If this were true, I reasoned, it was possible-even likely-that my men were targeted by the narcos, rather than it being that they simply had stopped a narco truck and that the narcos had resisted. If the latter were the case, then both men would have been killed-no witnesses-not one of them taken away.

"That posed a number of questions, including how they had learned-that is, who had told them-where the road checks would be. I had some ideas about that, but nothing that I could prove. The most kind was that the hijos de puta offered the farmhands, the peones, in the area a little gift if they would telephone a number to report where we had set up a road check. Less kind was the possibility that the narcos offered a little gift to the officers of the Policia Federal in the area to do the same thing.

"But the major question in my mind was what had happened to cause the sudden increase in actions by the hijos de puta that they had to know were not only unacceptable to the gendarmeria but would also call attention to them, which was also not in their best interests.

"At that point, I remembered hearing some gossip about something interesting that had happened in Uruguay. It sounded incredible, but I decided it was worth looking into. What I had heard was that a drug deal had gone wrong on an estancia in Tacuarembo Province in central Uruguay. According to this story, six men, all dressed in black, like characters in a children's movie, had been found shot to death.

"I thought that checking out the story would be a simple matter. Jose Ordonez is more than a professional associate with whom I have worked closely over the years. As I said, we are dear friends. I thought all I would have to do would be to telephone Jose-unofficially, of course; I have Jose's private number and he has mine-and ask him what there was to this incredible story. And also to ask him if he had noticed any sudden increase in the drug shipments into and out of his country.

"So I called him. When I asked him what had happened in Tacuarembo Province, he didn't answer directly. He said that it had been too long since we had seen one another, and that we should really try to have lunch very soon.

"Well, the very next morning, I was on the Buquebus to Montevideo," Duffy went on. "Tourist class, as I was paying for it myself. Getting an official authorization to travel to Uruguay is difficult, takes time, and then only results in a voucher for a tourist-class seat. Is it that way in the U.S. Army, Colonel?"

"Very much so, Comandante. Getting the U.S. Army to pay for travel is like pulling teeth."

"That, then, raises the question of who is paying for the helicopter in which you have been flying all over down here."

Castillo looked Duffy square in the eyes and said evenly, "I have no idea what you're talking about, Comandante."

"If we are going to work together, Colonel, we are going to have to tell each other the truth."

The last three words of the sentence came out: udder da trute.

Castillo couldn't restrain a smile.

"You find that amusing?" Duffy asked.

"Colonel Munz didn't tell me you were from Brooklyn, Comandante."

"I don't understand."

"You have a Brooklyn accent, Comandante."

Duffy, visibly annoyed, looked at Munz.

Munz gestured that he didn't understand, and then turned to Castillo and said, "I don't understand either, Karl."

"Okay," Delchamps said, "Cultural History 101. Pay attention, there will be a pop quiz. Sometime around the time of the potato famine in Ireland, the Catholic Church sent a large number of priests-from Kilkenny, I think, but don't hold me to that-to minister to Irish Catholic immigrants in the New World. Many of them went to Brooklyn, and many to New Orleans. Their flocks picked up their accent. Now that I've heard Comandante Duffy speak, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if some of them were sent down here, too."

Now Duffy smiled.

"On the other hand," Duffy said to Castillo, "you sound like a Porteno, Colonel. What did Holy Mother Church in Argentina do, send Porteno priests to New York?"

Castillo laughed.

"Actually, I'm a Texican," Castillo said.

"A what?"

"A Texican. One whose family came from Mexico a very long time ago, before Texas was a state. My family's from San Antonio."

"I am a great admirer of the Texas Rangers," Duffy said.

"I have two ancestors who were Texas Rangers, a long time ago."

"Sometimes we think of the colonel as the Lone Ranger," Delchamps said. "Can I ask what a Porteno is?"

"Somebody from Buenos Aires," Alex Darby offered, "who speaks with sort of a special cant."

"And a hijos de puta?" Delchamps pursued.

"Argentina is a society where people like narcos are held in scorn by men," Darby said, chuckling. "Hijos de puta is a pejorative."

"I believe you would say 'sonsofbitches,'" Duffy said.

"What did you have in mind, Comandante," Castillo asked, "when you said, 'If we are going to work together'?"

"Well, Jose and I had a very nice luncheon in the port restaurant in Montevideo. Do you know it?"

Castillo shook his head.

"You'll have to try it sometime. It's really excellent, if you like meat prepared on a parrilla. It's right across from the Buquebus terminal."

"Can we get to the point of this?" Castillo asked.

"During which," Duffy went on, nodding, "Ordonez told me, in confidence, of course, that what really happened at Estancia Shangri-La had nothing to do with narcos."

"Would you believe me if I told you I never heard of Estancia Shangri-La?"

"No. But I certainly understand why you would profess never to have heard of it. If I may continue?"

Castillo made a dramatic, sarcastic gesture for him to do so.

"I also learned from my friend Jose that his very dear friend, El Coronel Alfredo Munz, formerly the head of SIDE, was associated with you, Colonel. I had only the privilege of a casual acquaintance with El Coronel Munz before the Interior Ministry threw him to the wolves following the murder of Senor Masterson, but I had always heard that he was an honest man, despite the rumors that he was very close to a very bad man named Aleksandr Pevsner."

"Never heard of him, either," Castillo said. "You, Edgar?"

Delchamps shook his head.

Duffy's face first paled, then flushed.

"Enough of this nonsense," Comandante Liam Duffy said angrily. "Let me tell you what I know about you, Colonel Castillo. When the diplomat's wife was kidnapped, you suddenly appeared on the scene and were placed in charge of the situation. But by someone superior to the ambassador, because the ambassador was placed at your orders. You directed the protection of the Masterson family. After Masterson was murdered, you found out who had killed him, and when those hijos de puta went to the estancia of Masterson's brother-in-law, most probably to eliminate him and take possession of some sixteen million dollars, they were surprised to find you and a team of your men waiting for them, having traveled there by helicopter.

"You eliminated all of the bastards and took possession of the sixteen million dollars. You lost one of your men, and Colonel Munz suffered a wound. And these were not ordinary narcos. One of them was Major Alejandro Vincenzo of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia."

He paused.

"Shall I go on, Colonel Castillo?"

"What is it that you want from me, Comandante?" Castillo asked.

"What I intend to do, Colonel, is find and deal with the criminales who murdered and kidnapped my men. I will make the point very strongly that this was unacceptable behavior. I'm very much afraid that in your efforts to free Special Agent Timmons, you will interfere with my plans to do this. That is something I cannot-will not-permit.

"From what both Ordonez and Munz tell me about you, you let nothing get in your way of what you consider your mission. So you have the choice, Colonel, between working under my orders or leaving Argentina. You have already broken many of our laws, and are obviously prepared to break whatever of our laws might interfere with your mission.

"Working under my orders will mean that I will have access to your assets, including money, intelligence, equipment, and personnel. More important, it will mean that you will take no action of any kind without my approval.

"On the other hand, you will have access to my intelligence and what few assets I have. Ordonez has told Munz I am a man of my word. I am. We have a more or less common goal. You want to get your man Timmons back from the narcos. Beyond that, I don't know. We share an interest in interdicting the flow of drugs, of course. But we both know that neither you nor I-or you and I together-can stop the trade. But we can, I believe, cost the hijos de puta a great deal of money. That's something.

"So what you are going to do now, Colonel Castillo, is go out to Nuestra Pequena Casa-which was rented under fraudulent conditions for illegal purposes-and get on that marvelous radio of yours-the possession and use of which are also offenses under Argentina law-and tell your superior of this conversation. If he is agreeable to our working together, Alfredo knows how to contact me. If not, I will give you twenty-four hours from noon today to get out of Argentina before I notify the Interior Ministry of your illegal behavior, and the foreign ministry of the actions of el Senor Darby, el Senor la Senora Sieno, and others, which I feel certain will merit their being declared persona non grata. Do I make myself clear, Colonel?"

Castillo met Duffy's eyes and nodded.

"I mentioned sharing my intelligence with you," Duffy said. "It has come to my attention that the narcos were aware you were coming to Argentina to deal with Special Agent Timmons's kidnapping. Their solution to that potential problem for them was to kidnap you, and failing that, to kill you. And, of course, your men. It was for that reason that my men were at Ezeiza and escorted you here. I didn't want that to happen to you until we had a chance to talk."

"Thank you very much for your concern," Castillo said with a sarcastic edge.

"It is nothing, Colonel. Have a pleasant day."

Duffy stood up behind his desk and threw the envelope of photographs back across the desk to Castillo.

"You may have those, Colonel," he said as he put on his suit jacket. "In case you might need a reminder that if the hijos de puta are willing to do this to my men, they'll certainly be willing to do the same to Special Agent Timmons."

Then he walked out of the room, leaving the door open.

Max lay down again, watching the door with his head resting between his front paws.

They heard the sound of an engine starting, of a car moving, then the sound of it bumping down over the bumps of the ramp, then the screech of the corrugated steel overhead door opening to the street.

Castillo looked at the others and found they were all looking at him.

"Gentlemen," he said. "Why don't we go out to Nuestra Pequena Casa and get some breakfast?"

He paused, then went on: "And if you have nothing better to do, please assemble your thoughts vis-a-vis getting your leader out of this fucking mess."

[TWO]

Mayerling Country Club

Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1125 9 September 2005 When Munz slowed the BMW as they approached the striped pole barrier to the country club, he looked over at Castillo, who was sitting beside him. Max had somehow managed to squeeze himself between Castillo's feet, and now had his head on Castillo's lap. Castillo, his head bent, was apparently asleep.

Munz smiled and shook his head.

"We're here, Karl," Munz announced. "Our gendarmeria escort has just left us."

Castillo's head immediately jerked erect.

"Would you believe I was thinking?" he asked.

"No," Jake Torine said from the backseat.

Torine was jammed in between Alex Darby and Edgar Delchamps.

"I was trying to make an important decision," Castillo said.

"And did you?"

"I thought I would seek your wise counsel before reaching a final decision," Castillo said. "Based on your vast poker-playing experience."

"What the hell are you talking about, Ace?" Delchamps asked.

"When do I call that Evil Leprechaun sonofabitch and tell him I surrender?"

"Is that what you're going to do?" Darby asked.

Castillo did not reply directly. Instead, he went on, "Do I call almost immediately, as if my superior in Washington immediately caved in? Or in an hour-or two or three-giving Duffy the idea that my superior ordered me to surrender only after solemn thought, probably after he consulted with his superiors?"

"I gather you are not going to seek Montvale's sage advice?" Delchamps said. "Or anybody else's?"

"Two problems with that," Castillo said, "the first, of course, being that Montvale is not my superior. Second, my asking Montvale would permit him to happily run to the President-who is my boss-then sadly report that, as he predicted, the impetuous young colonel has gotten himself in a bind in Argentina. The idea there being to really put me in Montvale's pocket. So the only 'anybody else' I can call is my boss-'Good morning, Mr. President. The Lone Ranger here. A redheaded Argentine cop has got me by the balls and I really don't know what to do.'"

Delchamps chuckled.

"Make the call in two or three hours, Karl," Munz said, softly but seriously.

"Reasoning?" Castillo asked.

"Liam Duffy would be suspicious if you called him right away, that you did not consult with your superior and were lying to him. He expects that you do have a superior-far down the ladder from your President, but a superior, or superiors. If you wait the several hours, he will probably think that you have been ordered to cooperate with him. And will think that makes you less of a problem to him."

Castillo grunted, then looked at Darby.

"Alex?"

"I think you should follow Alfredo's advice," Alex Darby said. "He tends to be right."

"Jake?" Castillo said, turning.

"That's a decision someone of my pay grade is not qualified to make," Torine said.

"Edgar?"

"I go with Alfredo," Delchamps said.

"Okay. I'll call him in three hours," Castillo said.

"Karl," Munz said, "remember that Duffy said, 'Munz knows how to contact me.'"

"I remember," Castillo said. "So?"

"I suggest it might be better if I was your contact with Duffy."

Castillo was considering the implications of that when Delchamps said, "He's right again, Ace."

"Okay again, then," Castillo said.

He looked out the window. They were almost at Nuestra Pequena Casa.

"I thought with a little bit of luck I might never see this place again," he said.

Susanna Sieno opened the door of the house as they pulled up to it. Max got out first, climbing over Castillo into the rear seat and then jumping out the rear door as Darby opened it.

Castillo swore.

"Not very well trained, is he, Ace?" Delchamps asked innocently.

There was a man sitting in a straight-backed chair just inside the door. He stood up and came to attention as Castillo entered.

He was short, stocky, olive-skinned, had a neatly trimmed pencil-line mustache and a closely cropped ring of dark hair circling the rear of his skull, the rest of which was hairless and shiny. He was wearing a shiny blue single-breasted suit, a white shirt, and a really ugly necktie, which ended halfway down his stomach.

That Irish sonofabitch has had the balls to put a spy in here!

Confirmation of that seemed to come when the man said, "Buenos dias, mi coronel. A sus ordenes."

Castillo nodded, and replied in Spanish, "Good day. And you are?"

"Capitan Manuel D'Elia, mi coronel."

Castillo continued the exchange in Spanish: "And what are you doing here?"

"I am here for duty, mi coronel."

"Comandante Duffy sent you?"

"No, mi coronel."

"Then who did?"

"General McNab, mi coronel."

"You're an American?"

"Si, mi coronel."

"Where are you from, Captain?"

Captain D'Elia switched to English. "Miami, Colonel."

"It's not your day, is it, Ace?" Delchamps said. "He really got you."

Castillo flashed him a dirty look.

D'Elia said, "I sent Colin Leverette to Rucker-he said he knew you, sir-while I got the team moving from Bragg. And I brought up the rear. I got here yesterday morning. Mrs. Sieno brought me out here."

"Your whole team is here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Here here? Or someplace else?"

"I'm the only one here, sir. The others are stashed in hotels around Buenos Aires. Except our commo and intel sergeants who-at Mr. Darby's suggestion-I sent ahead to Asuncion."

"Where in Asuncion?"

Darby said, "They're in the Hotel Resort Casino Yacht amp; Golf Club Paraguay, Charley. Gambling, chasing ladies, maybe even playing golf-on your nickel-and incidentally looking around."

"They're not going to attract attention doing that?"

"They're traveling on Mexican passports, Colonel," D'Elia said. "Legitimate ones. They're Texicans."

He looked at Castillo to see if he understood the term.

"You're looking at one," Castillo said.

D'Elia smiled.

"With all possible respect, sir-and I admit you do talk the talk-you look like a gringo to me."

"And you don't, fortunately," Castillo said. "What about your sergeants in Asuncion?"

"No one will think they're gringos, Colonel."

"And the rest of your team?"

"Everybody but Colin Leverette can pass-has passed-as a native Latino. That's presuming Paraguay isn't that much different from Bolivia or Venezuela. Or Cuba, for that matter, although not everybody on my team has had the chance to see how Castro has fucked up the land of my ancestors."

"Colin told me he'd been to Cuba," Castillo said.

"He did fine in Cuba as a Brazilian," D'Elia said. "In Venezuela-not so many black-skinned folks-he also passed himself off as a Brazilian. He speaks pretty good Portuguese."

"He also speaks pretty good Pashtu," Castillo said.

"So do I," D'Elia said in Pashtu. "Darby and I were talking about that. We must have just missed each other over there, sir."

"You knew Alex there?"

D'Elia nodded.

"And Mrs. Sieno and I have been exchanging Cuban war stories," he said.

"Under those circumstances, welcome, welcome, Captain," Castillo said. "Just as soon as we get something to eat, I'll bring you up to speed on what's going down."

He turned to Susanna Sieno.

"How about mustering the troops in the quincho, Susanna?"

"Everybody?"

Castillo nodded, then understood her question.

"Ask Sergeant Mullroney and Lieutenant Lorimer to come watch us eat first, please. Then muster them in the quincho."

"Sit down, please, Sergeant Mullroney," Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo said politely when the Chicago detective came into the dining room of the main house with Lorimer. "While we talk about what we're going to do with you."

Mullroney sat down across the table from Castillo; Lorimer sat down between Torine and Delchamps.

A plump, middle-aged woman and a younger one began distributing ham and eggs and plates of rolls.

Her daughter? Castillo wondered.

Whoever they are, they wouldn't be here if Susanna didn't trust them.

Castillo pushed a coffee thermos across the table.

"Has Charley here been a good boy, Eddie?" Castillo asked.

"A very good boy, sir," First Lieutenant Edmund Lorimer said.

"Then we mustn't forget to give him a gold star to take home to mommy-I mean, the mayor-mustn't we?"

"No, sir, we mustn't. I'll be sure to do that. May I ask when that will be, Colonel?"

"First thing tomorrow morning," Castillo said. He looked at Mullroney for a long moment, then asked, "No comment, Sergeant?"

"You know the mayor's not going to be happy if you send me home, Colonel," Mullroney said after a moment.

"I guess not," Castillo said. "But the situation here-already bad-got worse about an hour ago, which leaves me with two choices. Making the mayor unhappy by sending you back home, or watching this operation blow up in my face-which, as you know, Sergeant, means in the President's face-which is not really an option."

"Lorimer just told you I haven't been giving anybody any trouble," Mullroney protested.

"That's because Lieutenant Lorimer has been sitting on you, under my orders to take you out if you even looked like you were thinking of doing something you shouldn't. So you behaved, and you get to go home-alive-with that gold star I was talking about."

"You really don't want to piss off the mayor, Colonel," Mullroney said.

"No, I don't, and I don't think I will. Making him unhappy and pissing him off are two different things. Do you know what we mean by a Gold Star for Mommy, Sergeant?"

Mullroney didn't reply, and his face showed embarrassed confusion.

"I will send a letter to the mayor with Colonel Torine," Castillo said, "with copies to the President and the director of National Intelligence, saying how much we appreciate his offering us your services, and how hard you have tried to be of use, but that I have reluctantly concluded you just don't have the investigative, analytical, and other skills necessary, and that I decided the best thing to do to ensure the success of the operation was to send you home."

"You sonofabitch!" Mullroney said.

Castillo went on as if he hadn't heard him: "Now, that will almost certainly make the mayor unhappy, but I think if he's going to be pissed off at anybody it will be at you, Sergeant Mullroney, for not being able to cut the mustard. I don't think that will make you too popular with Special Agent Timmons's family, either."

Mullroney locked eyes with Castillo but didn't say anything.

"Permission to speak, sir?" Lorimer asked.

Castillo appeared to be considering that before he made a Come on with it gesture.

"Sir, inasmuch as Sergeant Mullroney didn't ask to be sent with us, it doesn't seem fair that he should find his ass in a crack."

From the expression in Mullroney's eyes, ol' Charley did in fact volunteer to come along with us.

Volunteering no doubt scored a lot of points with the mayor.

And there'd be even more brownie points if we-and he-managed to get Timmons back.

"We're not in the 'fair' business, Lorimer," Castillo said coldly. "And therefore, since you are presumed to understand that-"

"Colonel," Delchamps interrupted. "If I may?"

Castillo appeared to be considering that, too, before he gestured for Delchamps to continue.

I don't know what you're going to say, Edgar, but obviously you picked up on where I'm trying to go with Mullroney.

You even called me "colonel."

What's going to happen now, I think, is instead of the ordinary good guy, bad guy scam, we're going to have two good guys saving Mullroney from bad ol' Colonel Castillo.

"I understand your concerns, Colonel," Delchamps went on. "But what I have been thinking is that Detective Mullroney might be useful when we go to Paraguay."

"How?" Castillo asked, his tone on the edge of sarcasm.

"In dealing with both the people in the embassy and the local police. With regard to the former, whether you go there as Colonel Castillo or as Mr. Castillo, you are still going to be the important visitor from Washington, and they are not going to tell you anything that might come around, in that marvelous phrase, to bite them on the ass. As far as the local police are concerned-your command of the language notwithstanding-you are going to be a visiting gringo, and they are not going to tell you anything."

Delchamps paused, then continued, "Now, Detective Mullroney-"

"Actually, I'm a sergeant," Mullroney interrupted.

Delchamps flashed Mullroney a look making it clear that he didn't like being interrupted, then went on, "Sergeant Mullroney is a bona fide police officer, low enough in rank so as not to frighten away the people in the embassy but yet to be, so to speak, one of them. I'm suggesting that he might be told-or would see-things they would not tell or show you."

I am now pretending to carefully consider what Delchamps just said.

The funny thing is it makes sense, even if he came up with it just to help Lorimer and me keep Mullroney on a tight leash.

"There may be something to what you say, Delchamps," Castillo said after what he considered to be a suitable pause, "but do you really believe that it outweighs the risk of Mullroney doing something stupid that would blow the operation?"

"Well, you'd have to keep him on a short leash, of course," Delchamps said, "but, yes, Colonel, I do. You might be surprised how valuable he might be."

"Sir, I'll be sitting on him," Lorimer said.

"But you have this odd notion of fair play, Lieutenant," Castillo said.

Castillo put what he hoped was a thoughtful look on his face and kept it there for thirty seconds, which seemed much longer.

"And," Castillo then went on, "to be of any use to us in the manner you suggest, he would have to know what's going on-starting with being present at the briefing I am about to deliver-and I'm uncomfortable with that."

"Sir, I'll be sitting on him," Lorimer said again.

"You've mentioned that," Castillo snapped.

"Sorry, sir," Lorimer said, and looked at Mullroney with a look that said, Well, I tried.

"All right," Castillo said. "I'll go this far. You will not return to the United States with Colonel Torine tomorrow. I will give this matter further thought, and let you know what I finally decide."

"Thank you," Mullroney said softly.

"Take Sergeant Mullroney out to the quincho and tell the others I'll be there shortly. I need a word with these gentlemen."

"Yes, sir," Lorimer said.

He gestured for Mullroney to get up and then followed him out of the room.

When the door had closed, Castillo mimed applauding. The others chuckled.

"May I ask a question, Karl?" Munz said.

"Sure."

"You don't trust him, do you?"

"He strikes me as the kind of not-too-bright guy who, meaning well, is likely to rush off in the wrong direction. And we can't afford that."

"Can I ask why you trust me?"

"Aside from all that money we're paying you, and the bullet you took for us?"

Torine, Darby, and Delchamps chuckled.

"You know what I mean, Karl," Munz pursued.

"Straight answer?"

Munz nodded.

"There are some people I intuitively know I can trust. You're one of them. That may not be professional or even smart, but-the proof being I'm not pushing up daisies-so far it's worked."

"Thank you," Munz said softly, on the edge of emotion. "I had the same feeling about you."

Their eyes met for a moment.

"Hurriedly changing the subject," Castillo said, "pay close attention. Your leader has just had one of his brilliant-if somewhat off at a tangent-thoughts."

"Can you hold it a minute, Ace?" Delchamps asked.

"Sure."

"When I talked about Mullroney being useful in Paraguay, I meant it. Not only for the reasons I gave."

"Okay?"

"Did you pick up on what Duffy said about him being worried about your health?"

Castillo nodded.

Delchamps said, "Somebody-Weiss, probably-has sent the CIA guy in Asuncion a heads-up. 'Watch out for Castillo.'"

"I sort of thought he would," Castillo said.

"And did you sort of think his reaction would be 'whack Castillo'? and/or 'whack him and everybody with him'?"

"Who's Weiss?" Darby asked.

Delchamps held up his hand, palm outward, as a sign to Darby to wait a minute.

Castillo shook his head.

"No. I didn't," Castillo said, simply.

"What's your take on the threat, Alfredo?" Delchamps asked. "A little theater on Duffy's part?"

"No. I think he believes there was a threat."

"Which would mean he has somebody in the embassy, or at least somebody in Asuncion, who he trusts and who fed him that," Delchamps said.

Munz nodded his agreement.

Delchamps turned to Darby.

"Maybe you know him, Alex," he said. "Company old-timer. Milton Weiss?"

"I don't know him. I've seen him around."

"Weiss first came to me, then to Castillo, and told us (a) that the station chief in Asuncion is a lot smarter than he wants people to think he is, and (b) that they've got an operation going where they're going to grab a cruise ship, maybe ships-"

"Cruise ships?" Darby said, incredulously.

Delchamps nodded, and continued, "Under maritime law, they're subject to seizure if the owners collude in their use to transport drugs."

"How are they going to prove the owners knew?" Darby asked.

"According to Weiss, they have that figured out," Castillo said.

"And they don't want our operation to free Timmons to fuck up that operation," Delchamps said.

"At first it made sort of sense, but then I found out that the agency doesn't know anything about this operation-for that matter, anything-going on down there that we could screw up getting Timmons back."

"You think the bastards in Langley would tell you?" Darby asked.

Delchamps answered with a question: "Alex, do you think an operation like that would or could escape the notice of either John Powell or A. Franklin Lammelle?"

Darby considered that for a moment.

"No. One or the other, probably both, would know about it. The potential for it blowing up…"

"The DCI told me he knew of no such operation."

"Told you personally?"

"Yeah. And I believed him. Then he sent for Lammelle, and asked him, and Lammelle said he didn't know anything about it, either. And I believed him, too."

"So what do you think's going on?"

"I don't know. But when I thought about it, putting myself in the Asuncion station chief's shoes, if I had come up with an operation anything like what Weiss told us he's got going-and I'm not known for either modesty or my love for the Langley bastards-I'd want all the help I could get. Even if that meant taking it to Langley myself and waiting in the lobby or the guard shack to catch Lammelle or the DCI wherever I could find them."

"Again, Edgar, what do you think's going on?" Castillo asked.

"No goddamn idea, Ace, except that I know it's not what Weiss has been feeding us. But now that we have it on good authority that my fellow officers of the clandestine service want to whack me and the President's agent, I'm beginning to wonder if maybe they've changed sides."

"Jesus Christ," Jake Torine said softly.

"So what do we do?" Castillo said.

"I don't know that either. But I think-what I was saying before about Mullroney being useful-that you and he should go to the embassy in Asuncion and let him stumble around."

"Use him as a beard?" Castillo asked.

Delchamps nodded, then asked: "Can I use your 007 radio to make a couple of calls? Like maybe two hundred? There are some questions I can ask some people I know."

"You don't have to ask, for Christ's sake," Castillo said.

"That's the best I can do right now, Ace. I suggest you go to Asuncion with Mullroney, acting as if you don't think there's anything wrong, but it's your call. You don't have to be a rocket scientist to whack people."

"I want to talk to Pevsner before I go to Asuncion."

"They'll expect you two in Asuncion as soon as you can get there," Delchamps said simply.

"Let's make that choice after we hear what Duffy has to say," Castillo said.

"Okay. You need me in that meeting, or can I get on the horn?"

Before Castillo could open his mouth, Delchamps went on: "Sorry. We haven't heard your brilliant thought."

"It was brilliant just a few minutes ago," Castillo said. "Now it doesn't seem either very brilliant or especially important."

"Let's hear it," Delchamps said.

"I was worried about the Hueys and the guys from the 160th on the Ronald Reagan."

"Why?" Torine asked.

"There's a two-star admiral on board. Two-star admirals tend to cover their ass. We can't afford not to get those choppers repainted and off the ship, but the senior 160th guy is a major. Majors tend to do what flag and general officers tell them to do."

"I knew a major one time, an Army Aviator, who didn't seem all that impressed by two-stars," Darby said. "He even stole one of their Black Hawks."

"Borrowed, Alex. Borrowed. I gave it back," Castillo said.

"What are you thinking, Charley?" Torine asked.

"That we need a more senior officer aboard the Reagan," Castillo said. "Like maybe an Air Force colonel bearing a letter from Truman Ellsworth or maybe even Montvale, saying in essence, 'Don't fuck with the Hueys.'"

"God, you are devious!" Torine said. He thought that over a moment, and then said, "What if I got on-what did Edgar call it?-'the 007 radio' and called Ellsworth and said I was a little worried…"

"Talk about devious!" Delchamps said.

"…he would think it was his idea," Torine finished. "When are the Hueys going to leave Rucker?"

"I don't know," Castillo said.

"So you call-you, Jake," Delchamps said, "and find out, and then you call Ellsworth and say, 'I just found out the choppers are about to go on board the Reagan, and I'm a little worried about something going wrong.'"

"Why do I feel I have just been had?" Torine asked. "Okay, Charley, you're right. Some admiral is liable to feel he can't get in trouble launching black helicopters if something happens-like being too far at sea-that keeps him from launching them."

"Thanks, Jake."

"Don't be too grateful, Ace," Delchamps said with a grin. "Nobody's going to shoot at him on the Reagan, which I think explains his sudden enthusiasm."

Torine gave him the finger.

"We can call from right here, right?" Torine asked.

Castillo nodded.

"That will be all, Colonel," Torine said. "You may now go brief the troops."