The shooters

XII

[ONE]

The Llao Llao Resort Hotel

San Carlos de Bariloche

Rio Negro Province, Argentina 2035 10 September 2005 They all crowded into the elevator and rode to the lobby floor. When the door opened, Pevsner touched Castillo's arm and motioned everyone else out.

"I need a moment with my friend Charley," he announced, waving toward the dining room. "The rest of you go in."

Everyone obeyed but Max, who simply sat down and looked to Castillo for instructions. The others made their way around him, and when they all had left the car, Pevsner pushed one of the upper-floor buttons. The door closed and the elevator started to rise.

Pevsner somehow managed to stop the elevator as it ascended; Castillo wondered if an alarm bell was about to go off.

"I don't want to scare Anna and the children," Pevsner said, "so don't say anything at the table."

"What's going on, Alek?"

Pevsner didn't respond directly.

"I will arrange for your baggage to be taken to the boat," he said. "You can spend the night at the house. Among other things, that'll give us the opportunity to talk."

"I can't get far from the communicator," Castillo said, thinking aloud.

"And the boy who operates it?"

Castillo nodded, then said, "He's the communicator, and he's young, Alek, but don't think of him as a boy."

Again, Pevsner didn't respond directly. After a moment, he said, "All right, everybody goes. That'll take a little longer to arrange." He smiled. "That's probably better anyway. A gun battle would disturb the guests."

"There's a possibility of that?"

Pevsner nodded.

"What's going on, Alek?"

"About an hour and a half ago," Pevsner said, "Gellini called and said you were back in Argentina-"

"Gellini?" Castillo wondered aloud, then made the connection: "The SIDE guy?"

Pevsner nodded.

"The man who replaced Alfredo when he was relieved," he confirmed.

"And who now works for you?" Castillo asked.

Pevsner seemed unable to answer that directly, too.

"He admires you, friend Charley. The way you stood up for Alfredo when he was relieved."

Alfredo Munz had been chief of SIDE when J. Winslow Masterson was murdered. He had been retired-in fact, fired-in order to be the Argentine government's scapegoat. Castillo, who had found Munz not only unusually competent and dedicated, thought that the Argentine government's action was inexcusable and had told his replacement, Coronel Alejandro Gellini, so much in less than tactful terms.

"Alfredo was screwed, Alek, and you know it. I told Gellini what I thought of it. And him."

"Gellini could not protect Alfredo from the foreign minister, and neither could I. But there was a silver lining to that cloud: Alfredo now works for you, and Gellini admires you."

"And what did my admirer have to say besides telling you that I was back down here?"

"That people are trying to kill you."

"A lot of people have been telling me that lately. He didn't happen to say who?"

"This is serious business, friend Charley," Pevsner said, smiling and shaking his head in exasperation.

"Gellini didn't happen to say who?" Castillo asked again.

"What is that word you use? 'Bounty'? Gellini said there is a bounty on you."

"I think he probably meant 'contract,'" Castillo said. "Meaning: whoever would whack me would get paid."

Pevsner nodded. "What is a 'bounty'?"

"A price the good guys put on the head of a bad guy," Castillo explained. "Or on some bad guy who jumps bail. Who put out the contract on me?"

"Gellini knows only that the gangsters know about the contract; he didn't know who issued it. It could be something the FSB has done in addition to their own plans for you, but I don't know. They usually like to do that sort of thing themselves."

"What're the FSB's plans for me?"

"What do you think, friend Charley? First you took out the Cuban, Vincenzo-"

"Major Vincenzo was shooting at me at the time."

"-and then Komogorov of the FSB."

"Colonel Komogorov was shooting at you at the time. And I didn't take him out, Lester did."

Pevsner shook his head in exasperation again.

"As you well know, when something like that happens, what the FSB wants to hear-what Putin himself wants to hear-is not some excuse or explanation. They want confirmation that whoever has killed one of them has himself been killed."

"I know an Argentine cop who has much the same philosophy of life."

Pevsner looked at him curiously.

"I don't understand," he said, finally.

"It's too long a story to be told in an elevator. It will have to wait until after dinner."

This time Pevsner expressed his exasperation by exhaling audibly. He pushed a button on the control panel and the elevator began to descend.

[TWO] The dinner was first class, which did not surprise Castillo. But he was surprised at how hungry he was and how much he ate, including all of an enormous slice of cheesecake topped with a strawberry sauce he thought was probably a hundred calories a spoonful.

Afterward, Pevsner led the group back to the elevator bank and they filled both elevators. This time, the elevators went down and the doors opened on a corridor in the basement.

At the end of the corridor, a door opened to the outside, where a Peugeot van and three men-obviously armed-waited for them. They climbed into the van and were driven maybe a kilometer to a wharf on the lakeshore.

This has to be Lake Moreno, Castillo decided.

Munz said, "Pevsner's place is on the other side of the lake-Moreno."

Floodlights came on as they stepped onto the wharf. Castillo saw a cabin cruiser, what looked like a thirty-five-or forty-foot Bertram sportfisherman tied to the pier, and had a mental image of the boat being hauled along some narrow provincial road on a trailer, dazzling the natives.

There were no lights on the boat, but as they approached the vessel he heard its exhaust burbling. As soon as they were on the boat, in the cockpit aft, the floodlights on the pier went on and the cabin lights on the boat illuminated.

Pevsner asked with a gesture whether Castillo wanted to go into the cabin or up to the flying bridge. Castillo opted for the flying bridge, despite the fact that the air was chilly. These were the Andes Mountains, and springtime would not come to Argentina for several weeks. But Castillo-perhaps as a reflex response-wanted to see what could be seen and began climbing the ladder fashioned of heavy-gauge aluminum tubing toward the flying bridge.

Max barked his protest at not being able to follow him up the ladder. Elena appeared at the cabin door and called to him. He looked to Castillo for guidance.

"Go with Elena," Castillo ordered, and after a moment's thought Max walked into the cabin.

The man who had been with Pevsner when Castillo had first seen them was at the helm, his hands on the controls. As soon as Pevsner was on the flying bridge, the boat began to move.

Set into the panel were radar and GPS screens, and the man used the latter to navigate.

Meaning, of course, that he's pretty sure nothing is out there, on the surface or below.

Wrong. I hear other engines.

A moment later, as Castillo's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw first the wake of a boat ahead of them and then the boat itself, a twenty-odd-foot inboard. The three men who had been waiting for them outside the Llao Llao were in it.

The small inboard boat picked up speed and began to turn, obviously intending to circle the sportfisherman.

"Nice boat, Alek," Castillo said, raising his voice over the sound of wind and the rumble of twin diesels. "How did you get it here?"

"By truck," Pevsner replied. "The first try was a disaster. They went off the road and turned over."

"Jesus!" Castillo said, sympathetically.

"Always look for the silver lining, friend Charley. It took another month to get another boat from Miami-this wouldn't fit in any of my airplanes-but I now have spare parts for everything but the hull."

Twenty minutes later, a light appeared almost dead ahead. The radar screen showed something that had to be a pier extending into the lake from the shore. The engines slowed. A minute later, floodlights on a pier came on and the inboard boat came out of the darkness and tied up. A twin of the Peugeot van at the Llao Llao was backed up onto the pier.

Three minutes later, they had tied up to the wharf and were in the van, which started down the pier. As soon as the vehicle reached the foot of the pier, the floodlights went off.

It was a five-minute drive along a steep, curving, gravel road, and then they passed through a gate in a ten-foot-tall stone wall and came to a stop before an imposing house.

Pevsner led them all inside.

Anna and the boys and the girl-Elena, who is almost exactly as old as my son-said a polite good night.

Castillo looked around. There was an enormous room off the entrance foyer. A crystal chandelier hung from what was probably a thirty-foot-high ceiling, illuminating a wall on which hung probably fifty stuffed deer and stag heads. On either side of a desk, two stuffed, snarling pumas faced each other.

This is familiar.

Why do I recognize it?

The memory bank produced an image of a large, fat, jowly man standing at the entrance to the room, dressed in lederhosen and a Bavarian hat with a pheasant tail feather stuck in it, and holding a bow and arrow.

I'll be goddamned!

Pevsner said in Russian: "My people will take care of your bags, friend Charley. Does the boy-your communicator-have to be present while we talk?"

"No, but he has to be close," Castillo answered in Russian. "And he'll need some place to set up his radio."

"Will he require help?"

Castillo shook his head.

"Then let's go in there," Pevsner said, pointing to the enormous room and taking Castillo's arm.

Castillo switched to German and asked, "Are you sure it will be all right with the Reichsforst und Jagermeister?"

"You are amazing," Pevsner said in Russian. "How are you familiar with that, with Carinhall?"

Castillo continued to speak German: "My grandfather had a book-a large, leather-bound book-that Goring gave him when he was a guest. I used to look at it when I was a kid."

"Your grandfather was a Nazi?"

"He was an Army officer who was badly wounded at Stalingrad and evacuated just before it fell. With Billy Kocian, incidentally. He told me Goring used to receive busloads of wounded senior officers at the place, and everyone got a book. The first picture inside, so help me God, was of Goring in lederhosen holding a bow and arrow.

"But, no, to answer your question, my grandfather was not a Nazi. My mother told me-when she knew she was dying; she said she thought I should know-that he was on the SS's list of those officers known to be associated with Claus von Stauffenberg in the bomb plot, and they were looking for him until the end of the war."

"What kind of a senior officer, Karl?" Pevsner said, now speaking German.

"Infantry, detailed to Intelligence. He was a lieutenant colonel at Stalingrad; they promoted him to colonel while he was recuperating."

"And now the German senior officer's grandson is an American senior officer detailed to Intelligence, and the descendants of the SS, now in the employ of the Russians, are looking for him in order to kill him. Blood really does run deep, doesn't it, friend Charley?"

Castillo realized that Pevsner's observation made him uncomfortable and wondered why.

"I think you mean, 'History does repeat itself, doesn't it?'" Castillo said, then went on quickly before Pevsner could reply: "I had a couple of days off one time in Berlin and went to see Carinhall. It's in Brandenburg, in the Schorfheide Forest-was there; Goring had the place blown up to keep the Russians from getting it. They did a good job. The gates are still there, but aside from that not much else is left."

A maid rolled a cart loaded with spirits and the necessary accoutrements into the room, cutting off the conversation. After she had positioned the cart, she looked at Pevsner.

"That will be all, thank you," Pevsner said, and waited to continue speaking until she had left them alone.

"Would you have me serve you, friend Charley? Or…?"

"Wait on me, please. I find that flattering. Some of that Famous Grouse single-malt will do nicely, thank you very much."

Pevsner shook his head and turned to making the drinks.

Pevsner began: "The fellow who built this place-I bought it from his grandson-was German. Nothing much is known about him before he came here-and I have inquired and have had friends inquire. There is no record of a Heinrich Schmidt having ever lived in Dresden, which is where his Argentine Document of National Identity says he was born.

"Of course, the records may have been destroyed when Dresden was firebombed. What's interesting is that there is no record of his having immigrated to Argentina, or having been issued a DNI. Or of Herr Schmidt becoming an Argentine citizen. What I did learn was he bought this place-it was then four hundred sixteen hectares of forestland-and began construction of the house two months after it was alleged that a German submarine laden with cash and jewelry and gold had discharged its cargo near Mar del Plata and then scuttled itself at sea."

Pevsner handed Charley a glass, held his own up, and tapped rims.

"To friends you can really trust, friend Charley."

"Amen, brother. May their tribe increase."

"Unlikely, but a nice thought," Pevsner replied, took a sip, then went on: "Such a submarine was found eighteen months ago off Mar del Plata, incidentally. Probably just a coincidence."

"I know that story. There were three of them loaded with loot. One was known to have been sunk in the English Channel. The second is known to have made it here. I thought the third one just disappeared."

"It did. But-from what I have learned-only after it unloaded its cargo here in Argentina. Anyway, Herr Schmidt lived very quietly-one might say secretly-here with his family-a wife, a daughter, and a son-until his wife died. Then he passed on. Under Argentine law, property passes equally to children. The son-no one seems to know where he got the cash-bought out his sister's share, and she went to live in Buenos Aires, where she met and married an American, and subsequently moved to the United States.

"The son married an Argentine, and aside from shopping trips to Buenos Aires and Santiago, Chile-never to Europe, which I found interesting-lived here with his wife and their only son-the fellow from whom I bought the place-much as his father had done. I understand that the father-and, later, the son-were silent partners in a number of business enterprises here.

"When the son passed on, the widow did not want to live here alone, so she moved to Buenos Aires. The property sat unused for some years, until at her death it was finally put on the market and I bought it. Interestingly, they reduced the asking price considerably on condition I pay cash. More specifically, in gold. And that payment take place in the United Arab Emirates."

"What are you suggesting, Alek? That the guy who built this place was a Nazi?"

"I'm suggesting nothing, friend Charley. But I, too, noticed the architectural similarity to the reception hall at Carinhall, and went to some lengths to check that out. Between you and me, friend Charley, if Hermann Goring walked in the front door, he would think he was in Carinhall. I wouldn't be surprised if Herr Schmidt used the same architect. For that matter, the same drawings.

"That led me to look into which business associates of Goring-not party members or people like that-had gone missing during and after the war. No luck in making a connection with Herr Schmidt."

"What you are suggesting is that some Nazi big shot did in fact get away with running off to here."

"That has happened, you know. Just a year or so ago, they found that the owner of a hotel here in Bariloche, a man named Pribke, had been an SS officer deeply involved in the massacre at the Ardeatine Caves outside Rome. He was extradited to Italy. And actually, friend Charley, there is an interesting legend that one of the founders of this area was an American, from Texas, who was here because the authorities were looking for him at home."

"Butch Cassidy? The Sundance Kid?" Castillo asked, sarcastically.

Pevsner shook his head. "They were in Bolivia."

"I didn't know you were such a history buff, Alek."

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

"What I am, friend Charley, is a man who would like to build a future for his children that would be unconnected with their father's past. I am more than a little jealous of Herr Schmidt."

Castillo looked at him but didn't reply.

Jesus Christ, he's serious.

Where's he going with this?

"You're a father, you will understand," Pevsner went on.

Actually, Alek, I'm having a hard time accepting that I am a father.

But, yeah. I understand.

"I think so," Castillo said.

"I never thought-I am a pragmatist-that I could do what Herr Schmidt did. These are different times. But I did think that I could perhaps do something like it. Did you see The Godfather?"

Now what?

Castillo nodded.

"I thought I could do something like young Michael Corleone wanted to do: Go completely legitimate. You remember that part?"

Castillo nodded again.

"I reasoned that if I gave up the more profitable aspects of my businesses-really gave them up-and maintained what you would call a low profile here-"

"I get the picture," Castillo interrupted.

"Not quite, I don't think, friend Charley. And I think it's important that you do."

"Go ahead."

"I have been using you since you came into my life, sometimes successfully, sometimes at a price. You recall how we met, Herr Gossinger?"

"On the Cobenzl in Vienna," Castillo said. "I thought you had stolen an airplane."

"You came very close to dying that night, friend Charley. When I heard that you wanted to interview me, I thought I would send a message to the press that looking into my affairs was not acceptable and was indeed very dangerous."

I believe him.

But why is he bringing that up now?

"But then Howard found out that you were really an American intelligence officer-Kennedy was very good at what he did; it's sad he turned out to be so weak and greedy-and you were using the name Karl Gossinger as a cover.

"I found that interesting. So I decided to meet you in person. And when you suggested that-I love this American phrase-we could scratch each other's back, I went along, to see where that would go-"

"Cutting to the chase," Castillo interrupted, "I would never have found that 727 without you. And I made good on my promise. I got the CIA and the FBI off your back."

"So you did, proving yourself intelligent, capable, and a man of your word."

"I'm going to blush if you keep this up."

"You'll remember certainly that the Southern Cone, especially Argentina, never came up in Vienna. You found the 727 where I told you it would be, in Central America."

"Yeah, I remember."

"When that transaction between us was over, I thought it had gone extraordinarily well. You got what you wanted. And I got what I wanted, the CIA and the FBI to leave me alone. Which was very important to me, as I was already establishing myself here and-being pragmatic-I knew that if they were still looking for me, they would have inevitably found me."

"And then I showed up here," Castillo said.

Pevsner nodded.

"Now that we both know who Howard Kennedy really was," Pevsner went on, "I don't think it is surprising that when you bumped into Howard in the elevator at the Four Seasons, his first reaction was to suggest to me that we had made a mistake in Vienna and it was now obviously the time to rectify that omission."

You mean, whack me.

"He suggested we could have our Russian friends do it, so there would be no connection with me. My initial reaction was to go along-I naturally thought that you had turned on me, and had come here to demand something of me.

"But, again, I was curious, and told Howard that that would wait until we learned what you wanted from me. So I told Howard to put a bag over your head and bring you out to my house in Buena Vista in Pilar. The bag offended you. I understood. So I told Howard to bring you anyway. You could be dealt with at Buena Vista.

"While I was waiting for you, I realized that I was really sorry I had misjudged you and regretted that I would have to deal with the problem. The strange truth seemed to be that I liked you more than I knew I should."

Giving me an "Indian beauty mark" in the center of my forehead with a small-caliber, soft-nose pistol bullet…that's how you were going to "deal with the problem."

"If you try to kiss me, Alek, I'll kick your scrotum over the chandelier."

"You are…impossible!" Pevsner said.

"But lovable."

Pevsner shook his head in disbelief.

"I often function on intuition. I knew when I looked into your eyes that you were telling me the truth about your reason for being in Argentina, that not only didn't you want anything from me but you had no idea I was in Argentina."

"Oh, but I did. I wanted to borrow your helicopter."

"That came later," Pevsner said, somewhat impatiently. "What happened at the time was that I decided we were friends. I have very few friends. Howard was a trusted employee-my mistake-but I never thought of him as my friend. I trust my friends completely. So I introduced you to my family. Anna liked you from the moment you met. So I decided to help you find-and possibly assist in getting back-the kidnapped wife of the American diplomat. Alfredo was then working for me; it wouldn't take much effort on my part.

"That night, I asked Anna whether she thought I had made a mistake about you. She thought not. She said, 'He's very much like you.'"

"I thought you said she liked me."

"Why do you always have to mock me?"

"Because it always pisses you off?"

Pevsner, smiling despite himself, shook his head.

"The next morning, you met Alfredo on your way to where Pavel Primakov's people had left Masterson's body."

"Whose people?"

"Colonel-I've heard he's actually a colonel general-Pavel Primakov is the FSB's senior man for South America. You did know they were responsible for the murder of Masterson, didn't you?"

"I had no proof and no names. But there was no question in Billy Kocian's mind that the FSB was responsible, trying to cover Putin's involvement in the Iraqi oil-for-food cesspool."

"The proof of that would seem to be what they tried to do with Kocian on the Szabadsag hid, wouldn't you say?"

An attempt to kidnap-or, failing that, murder-Eric Kocian on the Liberty Bridge in Budapest had been thwarted by his bodyguard, Sandor Tor, and by Max, whose gleaming white teeth had caused severe muscular trauma to one of the triggermen's arms.

"Point taken," Castillo said.

"Where is the old man now?"

"In Washington."

"The FSB wants him dead-to get ahead of myself-about as much as they do you."

"The last time I talked to Billy, he complained that he was being followed around by deaf men wearing large hearing aids who kept talking into their lapels."

It took a moment for Pevsner to form the mental picture. Then he smiled. "Good men, I hope."

"The best. Secret Service. Most of them are on, or were on, the President's protection detail."

"Getting back where we were, friend Charley," Pevsner went on, "I asked Alfredo what he thought of you and his response was unusual. He said that he felt you were a lot more competent than your looks-and your behavior-suggested, and that, strangely, he felt you were one of the very few men he trusted instinctively.

"You proved your competence almost immediately by finding Lorimer on his estancia, getting there with your men before Major Vincenzo and his men did-and they had been looking for him for some time-and then, of course, by effectively dealing with Vincenzo."

"And losing one of my men in the process. And getting Alfredo wounded. Let's not forget that."

Pevsner ignored the comment.

"And then there are two more things."

"Keep it up," Castillo said, raising his glass in a mock toast, then taking a large sip of the single-malt. "Flattery will get you anywhere."

"What motivates you to always be a wise guy, friend Charley?" Pevsner asked, exasperated, but went on before Castillo could reply. "First, when Alfredo told you he thought I was trying to dispose of him, you took care of him and his family, knowing that was-if the situation was what you thought it was-in defiance of me.

"I was annoyed-very disappointed-with you at the time by that, and worse, by the way you threatened me with turning the CIA loose on me again unless I loaned you my helicopter for your Uruguayan operation. I don't like being threatened."

"Would you break out in tears if I told you that you have the reputation for being a ruthless sonofabitch?" Castillo said. "Helping Alfredo was a no-brainer for me, Alek. I knew that Alfredo hadn't betrayed you-"

"How did you know that?" Pevsner interrupted.

"We were talking a moment ago about there being men you instinctively trust. And you do have that ruthless sonofabitch reputation, Alek. Who should I have trusted? A man like Alfredo, or a man with a reputation like yours? Who, incidentally, had a known ruthless sonofabitch whispering in his ear?"

"And that brings us to that treasonous scum, doesn't it?"

"Does it?"

"A traitor who told my good friend Lieutenant Colonel Yevgeny Komogorov that I was going to meet with you in the Sheraton in Pilar, knowing full well-"

"Well, that didn't happen, did it?"

"If it were not for you, Janos and I would be dead."

"True."

"And I am grateful."

"Which gratitude you demonstrated by having Howard Kennedy and Viktor Zhdankov beaten to death-slowly, apparently-in Punta del Este. After I told you I wanted Kennedy alive so that I could ask him a couple of dozen questions."

"Howard knew too much about me for him to continue to live. And I could not permit it to get around that anyone who attempted to assassinate me would live very long."

After a moment, Castillo asked: "Are we getting near the end of our walk down memory lane, Alek? I'd really like to know who wants me whacked."

Pevsner ignored the question. He took a long, thoughtful sip of his drink.

"And now you are here, friend Charley, presumably to ask me something, or for something. I wanted you to know where you and I stand before you do that."

"Okay. Cutting to the chase, a DEA agent by the name of Timmons was kidnapped in Paraguay. So far as I know, he's still alive. As quietly as possible, I want him back. Alive."

"'A DEA agent'?" Pevsner parroted, incredulously.

"A DEA agent named Timmons," Castillo repeated.

"How did you get involved in something like that?"

"How would you guess?"

"The President of the United States is involving himself personally in rescuing one drug enforcement agent?"

Castillo didn't answer.

"And how did you think I could help?"

"I thought maybe you could get word through mutual acquaintances to whoever is holding him that if Agent Timmons were to miraculously reappear unharmed, either in Asuncion or somewhere in Argentina, I would not only be very happy but would be out of here within twenty-four hours. Otherwise, I'm going to have to come after him, which would make everybody unhappy, including me."

"I think I'm missing something here," Pevsner said. "You don't really think you can load a half-dozen men on my helicopter and just take this man away from these people?"

"Your helicopter is not in my contingency plans, Alek, but thank you just the same."

"Do you even have an idea who has this man? Or where?"

"I'm working on that."

"Or who they are? I don't think they're liable to be Bolivian drug dealers."

"Why would you say that?"

"My information is that Major Vincenzo-who was in charge of dealing with the drug people for Colonel Primakov-has already been replaced by another officer from the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia, as have the ex-Stasi people who you also eliminated in Uruguay."

"I'm not surprised."

"You can't be seriously considering dealing with people like that with a handful of men, no more than you can load on my helicopter."

"Weren't you listening when I said your helicopter is not in my contingency plans?"

"Then what?"

"Can you keep a secret, friend Alek?"

"You dare ask me that?"

"Yes or no?"

"My God, Charley!"

"If you'll give me Boy Scout's Honor"-he demonstrated what that was by holding up his right hand with the center three fingers extended; Pevsner looked at him in confusion-"that's Boy Scout's Honor, Alek. Very sacred. Meaning that you really swear what I'm about to tell you will not leave this room."

Castillo waved his right hand with the fingers extended and gestured with his left for Pevsner to make the same gesture. Pevsner looked at him in disbelief, then offered a somewhat petulant philosophic observation.

"Maybe you behave in this idiotic and childish manner to confuse people," he said, "to appear to be a fool so that no one will believe you're as competent as you are."

"Yes or no, Alek?"

Pevsner raised his right hand, extended three fingers, and waved it angrily in Castillo's face.

"Thank you," Castillo said, solemnly. "Alek, you're a betting man. Tell me, who do you think would come out on top between Senor Whateverhisname is-Vincenzo's replacement-and his stalwart men and two Delta Force A-Teams dropping in on them with four helicopters armed with 4,000-round-per-minute machine guns?"

Pevsner looked at him for a long moment.

"You're serious," Pevsner said. It was a statement, not a question.

"And other interesting lethal devices," Castillo continued. "Said force backed up by a hundred or so gendarmes argentinos who want not only to get back two of their number also kidnapped by these people, but also to seek righteous vengeance for two of their number who were murdered."

Pevsner looked at him intently.

Castillo nodded knowingly and went on: "And their orders will be-I know, because their commanding officer told me, and I believe him-to leave as many bodies scattered over the terrain as possible and then to blow everything up."

Pevsner looked at him curiously but didn't say anything.

Castillo answered the unspoken question.

"He wants to send the message that kidnapping or murdering members of the gendarmeria is unacceptable behavior and is punished accordingly."

"Your president is going to do all this over one drug enforcement agent?"

"A lot of people, Alek, and I unequivocally count myself among them," Castillo said evenly, "believe in the work of these drug enforcement agents and do not consider them expendable."

"You're a soldier, friend Charley. You know men die in wars."

"We don't shoot our own men in the back. Or write them off when they're captured."

"My God, there's no way something like this could happen without it getting out."

"And that is why I was hoping you would pass the message through your mutual acquaintances to these bastards that I would much prefer that Timmons miraculously reappear unharmed instead of me having to come after him."

"That is wishful thinking. I am surprised you even suggested it."

"All they can say is 'no.' Give it a shot, please."

"I will not be talking to mutual acquaintances about this man," Pevsner said. "It would not only be a waste of my breath, but-and I'm surprised you didn't think of this, too-it would warn them that action is contemplated."

Castillo shrugged, hoping it suggested Pevsner's refusal didn't matter.

He instead was thinking, Now what the hell do I do?

Pevsner took a moment to drain his glass and think.

"You couldn't possibly get four helicopters and all the men you say you have into Argentina without at least the tacit approval of the Argentine government," Pevsner went on.

"The Argentine government knows nothing about this," Castillo said, "and if I can work it, never will. And, yes, I can. I already have most of the shooters in country; the rest will be here in a day or two; and so will the helicopters. I'm going to get Agent Timmons back. I hope I can do it without the Evil Leprechaun carrying out the bloodbath he wants, but if that happens…"

"'The Evil Leprechaun'?"

"Reminding you that you're still bound by the Boy Scout's oath of secrecy, his name is Liam Duffy. He's a comandante in the Gendarmeria Nacional. You know him?"

Pevsner shook his head.

"I think I'll have another drink, friend Charley. You?"

Castillo emptied his glass and held it out. "Please."

As Pevsner made the drinks, Castillo heard him say, as if he was thinking aloud, "I almost wish I had given you a beauty mark in Vienna."

"Oh, Alek, you don't mean that! You love me!"

A moment later, Pevsner turned and handed Castillo the drink.

"Unfortunately, I do," he said, sincerely. "But I never dreamed how expensive that would be."

"There's no reason you have to be involved in this," Castillo said, seriously.

Pevsner snorted.

"You had better pray your Evil Leprechaun does what he says he wants to do," he said.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that's the only way your noble rescue mission can succeed without bringing yourself down-and me down with you."

"You're going to explain that, right?"

Pevsner raised his glass toward Castillo's and touched rims.

"Oh, God, friend Charley. You do cause me problems."

"That's what friends are for, right?"

Pevsner shook his head and exhaled audibly.

"You're sure that the Argentine government is not involved? Either with you? Or that they're not winking at this man Duffy?"

"The Argentine government has no idea what I plan. And I don't think they know what Duffy plans," Castillo said.

"Why do you say that?"

"When I got here, he had men waiting for me. He knew I was coming, which means he has someone in the U.S. embassy in Asuncion."

"Someone in your embassy knew you were coming?"

"That's another whole story."

"I should know it, if I'm to help," Pevsner said.

That's really none of his business.

But why not tell him?

Maybe he can fill in the blanks.

"As I understand it, Alek, the drugs are moved to the United States with fresh meat shipped from Ezeiza by air to Jamaica-maybe on your airplanes, although I don't expect you to fess up about that."

"My airplanes make a number of such flights, sometimes every other day," Pevsner said, somewhat indignantly. "But the pilots will not take off until they have in their hand documents from Argentine customs stating that the sealed and locked containers they are carrying have passed customs inspection. There may well be drugs in those containers, but I don't know about it, and neither does anyone who works for me. And my people know what happens to people who do what I have told them not to do."

"Okay. I believe you"-Strangely enough, I do, especially the part about what happens to people who do what you've told them not to-"but in Jamaica, they are loaded aboard cruise ships and smuggled into the United States from the cruise ships. The CIA station chief in the Asuncion embassy, and maybe the head man from the DEA, has been setting up an operation to seize the cruise ships under international law, which permits the seizure of ships whose owners collude in the shipment of drugs-"

"You believe this story?" Pevsner interrupted.

"What I know is that a CIA guy heard I was being sent down here to grab Timmons and looked me up to tell me-Timmons be damned-that he would be unhappy if my operation interfered with his."

"And you were sent down here anyway? One drug agent is worth more than seizing a cruise ship?"

"To answer the second question first, yeah, Alek, in my book one drug agent is worth more than a cruise ship. And, what's really interesting here, the director of the CIA and his deputy don't know anything about the ship-seizing operation."

"I find that hard to believe."

"I believe that. But that operation smells somehow."

"You don't have any idea what's going on?"

"No. But to get back to the Evil Leprechaun: I told you the only way that he could have known I was coming down here was that he has somebody in the Asuncion embassy close to either the CIA station chief or the head of the DEA there. There's no question in my mind that the CIA guy who came to me in Washington-after I told him I didn't care about his operation; I was going to get Timmons back-warned the CIA guy in Asuncion that I was coming."

"With the Delta Force people and the helicopters?"

Castillo shook his head. "He didn't know that. And I don't think he's found out. But the Evil Leprechaun told me he had word that there were people intent on whacking me and the people with me. I believe him."

"You don't mean your own CIA people?"

Castillo shrugged, meaning he didn't know.

"Duffy tried to bluff me," Castillo went on, "to get back to your original, original question. He threatened to have me kicked out of the country within twenty-four hours unless I put myself and my assets under his command."

"He knew about the helicopters and-what did you call them?-'the shooters'?"

Castillo nodded as he sipped his single-malt.

"He didn't then," he explained. "I told him this morning, after I called his bluff. He backed down. I don't think he would have backed down from his threat if the government-hell, even his boss in the gendarmeria-knew about the massacre he's planning."

"Why did you tell him anything?"

"Because I need his help in getting the helicopters up there around Asuncion where I can stage them, and to find out where these people have Timmons."

"You trust him?"

"Not very much. But as long as he thinks I'm on board to get his men back and I'm willing to go along with his plan to shoot everybody in sight and let the Lord sort them out, I don't think he's going to cause me any problems. I left him with one of the A-Team commanders, who'll warn me if he's about to go out of control."

"What have you got against letting him do what he wants to do?"

"I'm an Army officer, Alek, for one thing, not the avenging hand of God. For another, if I let him do that, and this operation blows up in my face, they call that murder."

"Letting him do what he wants is the only chance you have to get away with this, friend Charley."

"Unless you can get these people to let Timmons go."

"I've told you that that is not going to happen. These people are making a point. They can kidnap people. They're not going to turn this fellow loose because you threaten them. And if you just drop in and get him, leaving their men alive-and their refining facility and warehouse full of drugs intact-they would have to send another message. On the other hand, if you-or this fellow Duffy-leave bodies all over the terrain, to use your phrase, and blow up their warehouse and refinery, what do you think will happen?"

"I think you're about to tell me."

"There's no way that could be kept a secret. The word will get out-Duffy's gendarmes will talk. More important, Duffy will want it to get out, to take credit; he got the people who killed and kidnapped his gendarmes. And that will leave the Argentine government with the choice of trying Duffy for murder or saying, 'Congratulations, Comandante, for dealing so effectively with these criminals. It is to be regretted, of course, that so many of them died, but those who live by the sword, etcetera, etcetera…"

"What about my involvement?"

"Who's going to believe the United States government sent Delta Force shooters and helicopters to carry them down here to rescue one ordinary drug agent? I find that hard to believe myself, even coming from you, friend Charley."

Castillo looked at him with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"All you have to do is get out of wherever they're holding your man as soon as you have him," Pevsner said, then added, as if he had read Castillo's mind, "You know I'm right, friend Charley."

Castillo still didn't reply.

"And Colonel Primakov is wise enough to take his losses; he's too smart to attempt retribution against what he will believe is the Argentine government. He'll lay low for a while, and then start up again. He may even call off the people he sent looking for you. After all, you'll no longer be here, will you?"

"Shit," Castillo said.

"What's next for you?" Pevsner asked, the question implying that a discussion had been held and a conclusion drawn.

"I'm going to Asuncion in the morning," Castillo said. "To see what I can find out about who in the embassy ordered me whacked. And I want to see what I can find out about this scheme to seize cruise ships. There's something about it that smells."

"Is there an expression in English to the effect that wise men leave sleeping dogs lie? That's really none of your business, is it, friend Charley?"

Castillo looked at him and thought, And he's right about that, too.

"No, it isn't any of my business. Neither, I suppose, is finding out who in the embassy wants me whacked. Unless, of course, they succeed before I can get out of here."

[THREE]

La Casa el Bosque

San Carlos de Bariloche

Rio Negro Province, Argentina 0730 11 September 2005 Castillo, Munz, Janos, and Pevsner were standing on the steps of the house smoking cigars and holding mugs of coffee steaming in the morning cold. Max was gnawing on an enormous bone.

They had begun smoking the cigars at the breakfast table but had been ordered out of the house by Anna's raised eyebrow when Sergei, the youngest boy, had sneezed.

"He and Aleksandr both have colds, poor things," she had said, and then raised her eyebrow directly at her husband.

"Gentlemen, why don't we have our coffee on the verandah?" Pevsner had suggested.

Once there, he had said, not bitterly, "There is a price one must pay for children. It generally has to do with giving up something one is fond of. True, friend Charley?"

"Absolutely," Castillo agreed.

I think.

I have been a father about a week, and I'm still not familiar with the price…or the rules.

He heard a cry, a strange one, of a bird and looked around to find the bird. He didn't see the bird, but as he looked up he saw a legend carved into the marble above the massive doors.

"I'll be a sonofabitch," he said, and read it aloud: "House in the Woods."

"That's what Schmidt called it," Pevsner said.

"It's what our family calls the house in Germany, Haus im Wald," Castillo said.

"Where you grew up?"

Castillo nodded.

"Don't tell me it looks like Carinhall."

"No, it looks like a factory," Castillo said. "Or maybe a funeral home."

"Bad memories?"

"Quite the contrary. Good memories, except when my grandfather and uncle killed themselves on the autobahn, and then my mother developed pancreatic cancer a couple of months later. Haus im Wald was-is-ugly, but it's comfortable. And interesting. From the dining room window, I could look out and see the Volkspolitzei-and every once in a while, a real Russian soldier-running up and down the far side of the fence that cut across our property, and the stalwart troops of the 14th Armored Cavalry Regiment running up and down on our side of the fence. I decided right off that I would rather be an American."

"You didn't know you were an American?" Pevsner asked, confused.

"Not until I was twelve. I had a number of surprises in my twelfth year."

"But your son doesn't live there? You said something about his living with his mother."

"I didn't know I had a son until last week, Alek."

Castillo met Munz's eyes.

There's more than idle curiosity in those eyes.

Jesus, did he make the connection with the pictures? Does he know?

He can't know, but he damned sure suspects.

After a perceptible pause, Pevsner said, "And you'd rather not talk about it?"

"I didn't know I had a son until one of my men gave me the picture I showed you last night. The boy doesn't know about me, about our connection."

"A youthful indiscretion, friend Charley?"

"That's what they call a massive understatement," Castillo said. "His mother-five days before she married a West Point classmate of mine-had so much to drink that what began as a deep-seated feeling of revulsion toward me was converted to irresistible lust."

"But she must know…"

"I don't know if she does or not. I'm sure her husband doesn't, and I'm certain Randy, the boy, doesn't. The problem is her father does, I'm sure. He flew with my father in the Vietnam War-was flying with my father when he was killed. Randy looks just like my father."

"He has your eyes," Pevsner said. "The photo was clear."

Castillo nodded. "Worse, I'm sure my grandmother knows. For the same reason. The eyes. She took one look at my eyes in a picture-and I was then a twelve-year-old, blue-eyed, blond-headed Aryan-and announced that I was my father's son. Subsequently confirmed by science, of course, but she knew when she saw my eyes."

"Karl," Munz said. "This is none of my business…"

"But?"

"There is a picture of the boy at the Double-Bar-C. On a table next to your grandmother's chair in the living room. With pictures of your father and your cousin and you, all as boys. The boy looks like your father as a boy. I asked who he was, and she said that he was General Wilson's grandson and told me who General Wilson was, and then she said, 'He's an adorable child. I often wish he was my grandson.' And there were tears in her eyes, Karl." He paused. "She knows."

Castillo shook his head.

"How terrible for you!" Pevsner said. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't have a fucking clue, Alek."

Pevsner gripped Castillo's shoulder firmly in what Castillo recognized as genuine sympathy.

The left of the double doors to the house opened and Corporal Lester Bradley came out. He held the radio handset.

"Saved by the Marine Corps once again," Castillo said.

"Sir?"

"What have you got, Lester?"

"Colonel Torine, sir. He's on the Gipper."

Castillo gestured for him to give him the handset. The legend on the small screen flashed: COL TORINE ENCRYPTION ENABLED.

"And how are things on the high seas, Jake?" Castillo said into the handset.

"You wouldn't believe how big this mobile airfield is, Charley."

"And how are you getting along with the admiral?"

"I'm going to have breakfast with him shortly. He's a little confused."

"How's that?"

"He somehow had the idea that I was bringing a letter to him from Ambassador Montvale, for whom I work."

"And you didn't have a letter? I guess you talked to Miller?"

"I seem to have misplaced the letter, but I didn't want to admit that to the admiral. But I did clear up his misunderstanding about who I work for."

"How'd you do that?"

"I told him that I worked for you. And who you work for. And under what authority."

"That was necessary?"

"I thought so, Charley. Wrong move?"

"I guess it couldn't be helped. Did he believe you?"

"Not until I suggested he could get that confirmed at the source."

"You called the President?"

"I got as far as getting the White House switchboard on here. When the admiral heard the White House operator say, 'Good evening, Colonel Torine,' the admiral said he didn't think it would be necessary to disturb the President."

"Good move, Jake."

"I also told the admiral my orders were to keep you advised of our position every four hours. Aside from coming right out and telling the admiral not to launch the birds-which I don't think Montvale would dare do-I think that's the end of the Montvale problem."

"And there goes the star he promised you for changing sides, Jake."

"Yeah, well, what the hell."

"Jake, I want you to take a close look at the pilots."

"What will I be looking for?"

"Any of them who would be uncomfortable with a really dirty operation."

"Ouch! That's likely?"

"It looks that way. I don't want you to explain the operation and then ask for volunteers. I'll do that here. But if there's somebody who strikes you as…being reluctant…to do what has to be done, just leave him on the carrier."

"These are all 160th pilots, Charley. I don't think I'll find anybody…"

"You never know. I knew a 160th guy who turned in his suit and became a Catholic priest after Kosovo."

"Anything else?"

"Don't put the Argentine insignia on the birds until the last minute; this operation still may get called off."

"Done."

"And keep me posted."

"Will do."

"Give the admiral my regards when you have breakfast," Castillo said. "Out."

Castillo held out the handset to Bradley, who didn't make any effort to take it.

"Sir," Corporal Lester Bradley said, "Mr. Darby wants to talk to you. I'll have to set that up at the console. Just watch the legend, sir, until you see his name."

Castillo nodded, and Lester trotted back into the house.

He held the handset in his palm until the legend read ALEX DARBY ENCRYPTION ENABLED.

"What's up, Alex?"

"D'Elia had an interesting telephone call from some friends vacationing in Paraguay."

"Really?"

"They asked him to send them a couple of dozen golf balls."

"You don't say?"

"They said they were completely out, and they'd had to spend a lot of time looking for balls in the rough, and although they'd found a bunch they found only one really good one. They said they were watching that one very carefully."

"Bingo!"

"I don't see what else they could mean, Charley."

"Neither do I."

"You going over there?"

"Just as soon as I can get to the airport."

"When you find out for sure, do you want me to tell the Irishman?"

"I'll tell you that when I call from there."

"Pevsner been any help?"

"In a manner of speaking. I'll explain that later. Thanks, Alex."

"Talk to you soon, Charley."

Bradley came back onto the verandah.

"You want to speak to anyone else, sir?"

"Call Major Miller and see what the schedule for the Lorimers coming down is. And then break it down, Lester."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Castillo looked at Munz and Pevsner.

"Since you could only hear one side of that conversation, I suspect you're curious."

"'Bingo!'?" Munz said.

"The shooters in Paraguay have apparently found where they've got Timmons," Castillo said. "Or that's what I think a message about golf balls meant. We'll know as soon as we get there."

"'A really dirty operation'?" Munz then asked.

"Alek says he thinks the only way we can get out of here with Timmons without appearing on the front page of The New York Times and other newspapers around the world is to let the Evil Leprechaun do what he wants to do."

Munz considered that.

"I know you don't like that, Karl, but I'm afraid Alek is right."

"Why did I think you were going to say that?" Castillo said. "Okay, thank you for your hospitality, Alek, and will you now arrange for us to get to the airport?"

"You're all going to Asuncion?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, I'm going to Buenos Aires, and if someone has to go there, I could take him in the Lear."

"Why are you going to Buenos Aires?" he asked, greatly concerned.

"To see what I can turn up that might be helpful to you. I've got a good deal at stake here if you can't do what you want to do."

"Just don't do anything to help unless you tell me first. Okay, Alek?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Pevsner said, mockingly.

"I mean that, Alek."

"I know, friend Charley," Pevsner said, seriously.