The shooters

XIII

[ONE]

Silvio Pettirossi International Airport

Asuncion, Paraguay 1830 11 September 2005 It was winter here, and night came early, making moot Castillo's worry that maybe he should have made a low-level reconnaissance anyway, even after learning the shooters had located where Timmons was being held.

I wouldn't have been able to see anything, even if I knew what I was looking for.

It had been a long flight; they had been in the air almost eight hours, with an hour and a half on the ground at the Taravell airport in Cordoba, where they'd gone through Argentine customs and immigration.

There almost had been a dogfight at Cordoba. Max had taken an instant dislike to a large black Labrador retriever-a drug sniffer for the Policia Federal-when the Lab had put his curious nose in the Commander the moment the door opened-and found himself facing a visibly belligerent Max determined to protect his airplane.

After considering his situation for perhaps twenty seconds, the Lab concluded that there was only one wise course of action to take when faced with an apparently infuriated fellow canine twice his size.

The Lab took it…and rolled over on his back, putting his paws in the air in surrender.

Max examined the Lab for a moment, gave him a final growl, then exited the aircraft and trotted-Somewhat arrogantly, Castillo thought-to the nose gear of the Commander for what had become his routine postlanding bladder voiding.

The Lab's handler was mortified. Thus Castillo was not surprised when he and his fellow officers subjected the cabin and the baggage compartment to a very thorough inspection. As they were doing it, however, Munz softly told him it was probably routine and they could expect a similar close inspection when they landed in Asuncion.

"A lot of drugs are brought across the border in light aircraft like this one," Munz said. "They don't take off or land at airports with their contraband, of course, but they sometimes-when empty-put down at airfields like this one to take on fuel or whatever. Sometimes, the sniffer dogs pick up traces of heroin or cocaine or marijuana, and that lets the police know that the aircraft is involved in the trade and they thereafter try to keep an eye on it. It's about as effective as trying to empty the River Plate with a spoon, but…"

He shrugged, and Castillo nodded.

They landed at Pettirossi International immediately after an Aerolineas Argentinas 727 set down.

"That's the last flight today from Buenos Aires," Munz said. "And it will return. What that means is we're going to have to wait until the authorities deal with both flights before they turn their sniffer dogs loose on this airplane."

"Wonderful! More delay," Castillo said, disgustedly.

Standing on the tarmac waiting for the Paraguayan officials, Castillo saw on the terminal building that it was possible to still make out the lettering of AEROPORTO PRESIDENTE GEN. STROESSNER under the fresh paint of its new name.

For some reason, the wait wasn't as long as they feared. They got lucky.

And when they finally made it through customs and were in the unsecured area of the terminal, they saw that a van with HOTEL RESORT CASINO YACHT amp; GOLF CLUB PARAGUAY painted on its side was waiting for guests.

"Alfredo, why don't you take Lester out there, get us rooms, and-without asking-see if you can't find my shooters? I'm ashamed to admit I don't have their names, which they almost certainly aren't using anyway."

When Castillo arrived with Lieutenant Lorimer, Sergeant Mullroney, and Max at the U.S. embassy at almost eight o'clock, an officious Paraguayan security guard at the well-lit gate informed Castillo and his party that the embassy had closed for the day.

"Get the Marine guard out here," Castillo ordered, angrily, in English.

As Castillo listened to the security guard speak into his radio in Spanish, he pretended not to understand the unkind things the guard said under his breath about Americans in general and this one in particular.

The Marine guard who came to the guardhouse several minutes later recognized Lorimer.

"Hello, Lieutenant," he said.

"We need to get inside."

"I can let you in, but I can't let your friends in-"

"We're American," Castillo offered.

"-without getting one of the officers to pass them in."

"Well, then, Sergeant," Castillo said. "Get an officer. Preferably Mr. Crawford."

The Marine guard now examined him more closely.

"Mr. Crawford, sir? Our commercial attache?"

"Mr. Jonathon Crawford, whatever his title," Castillo said.

"May I ask who you are and the nature of your business with Mr. Crawford, sir?"

Castillo handed him the credentials identifying him as a supervisory agent of the United States Secret Service.

The sergeant examined the credentials very carefully.

"And this gentleman, sir?"

"He is Detective Sergeant Mullroney of the Chicago Police Department. Show the sergeant your tin, Sergeant."

Mullroney did so. The sergeant examined the leather folder carefully and then handed it back.

"I guess I can let you gentlemen in as far as Station One, sir," the sergeant said. "I mean to the building, but not inside. I'll call Mr. Crawford from there, sir."

"Thank you."

"But you can't bring that dog into the building, sir."

"Why don't we take Max as far as Station One and then see what Mr. Crawford has to say about that?"

"I don't know, sir…"

"That was more in the nature of an order, Sergeant," Lorimer said, "than a question."

"Yes, sir," the Marine sergeant said.

There was a row of chrome-frame plastic seats in the lobby of the building, and two sand-topped, chrome-can ashtrays despite the ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING! signs on two walls.

Mr. Jonathon Crawford, "commercial attache" of the embassy, appeared thirty minutes later. He was a nondescript man in his fifties whose only distinguishing characteristic was his eyes. They were deep and intelligent.

"You wanted to see me?" he asked, without any preliminaries.

"If you're Crawford, I do," Castillo said, and handed him the Secret Service credentials.

Crawford examined them and looked at Mullroney.

"Show Mr. Crawford your badge, Charley," Castillo said, then turned back to Crawford. "I think you know Lieutenant Lorimer?"

Crawford examined the credentials and handed them back, but said nothing to-or about-Lorimer.

"This wouldn't have kept until morning? I have guests at my house."

"If it would have kept till morning, I would have come in the morning," Castillo said.

"That your dog?"

Castillo nodded.

"No dogs in the embassy, sorry."

"What do you want me to do, Crawford, call Frank Lammelle-or, for that matter, John Powell-and tell him that you find it impossible to talk to me right now because you have guests and don't like dogs?"

"I don't think I like your attitude, Castillo."

"Well, then we're even, aren't we? I don't like being kept waiting for half an hour while you schmooze your guests and finish your drink. Frank sent you a heads-up that I was coming. You should have been expecting me."

Crawford looked at him a long moment with tight lips.

"Make a note in your log, Sergeant," Crawford ordered, "that-over my objections-Mr. Castillo insisted on bringing his dog into the embassy."

Then he gestured for the sergeant to open the door. There came the sound of a solenoid buzzing, and then Crawford pushed the door open.

He led them to an elevator, waved them onto it, then punched in a code on a control panel to make the elevator operable. It rose two floors. He led them down a corridor to an unmarked door-also equipped with a keypad-punched in the code, and then pushed open that door.

They entered an outer office, and he led them through that to a larger office and then gestured for them to sit in the leather-upholstered chairs.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," he said. "The cold truth of the matter is my wife flipped when I told her I had to come down here. I was not in a very good mood. Can we start all over?"

"My name is Castillo, Mr. Crawford. How are you tonight?"

"Thanks. I think I just told you how I am. How are you, Lorimer?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"You're now working for the Office of Organizational Analysis, I understand. What's that all about? What is the Office of Organizational Analysis?"

Castillo answered for him.

"And that transfer, Mr. Crawford," he concluded, "was already in the works when Special Agent Timmons went missing," he said. "I brought Lorimer with me because he had been stationed here. I've never been in Paraguay."

"Do you speak Spanish?"

Castillo nodded. "I'm a Texican."

"A what?"

"A Texan with Mexican roots. I speak Mexican Spanish."

I also can pass myself off as a Porteno, and after I'm here three days, people will swear that I sound just like whatever they call the natives here. Asuncionites?

But the less qualified you think I am, the better.

"I heard you were coming here, Mr. Costello…"

"Castillo," Castillo corrected him.

"Castillo. Sorry. But not from Deputy Director Lammelle. Actually, it was back-channel."

"You want to call Lammelle and check my bona fides before this goes any further?"

"No. I understand you're here officially; there's no need to bother Deputy Director Lammelle. But I don't know exactly why you're here."

"There's unusual interest in Special Agent Timmons. My boss sent me down to find out what I can."

"And your boss is?" Crawford asked, casually.

"And to report to him what I find out," Castillo went on.

"You didn't say who your boss is."

"No, I didn't."

"Are those Secret Service credentials the real thing?"

"About as real as your 'commercial attache' diplomatic carnet. If somebody were to call the Secret Service, they would be told there is indeed a Supervisory Special Agent by the came of Castillo."

"Exactly what is it that you want from me, Mr. Castillo?"

"I want you to give Lieutenant Lorimer and Sergeant Mullroney access to all information regarding this incident, and that means I want them to have access to your people. Alone."

"What exactly is Sergeant Mullroney's role in this?"

"Personal and professional. Professionally, he works drugs in Chicago. Personally, he's Special Agent Timmons's brother-in-law."

"That's not a problem. But is that all?"

"That's all I'm going to do for now," Castillo said. "I'll write my report, then see if these people turn him loose or not. Or if he dies of an overdose."

"Well, I don't think that's going to happen. Timmons will more than likely be turned loose. Maybe tonight. Maybe two weeks from now. But, for the sake of knowing…what do you plan to do if he isn't released?"

"Bring some people and other things down here to help you get him back."

"Other things? For example?"

"For example, a couple of helicopters. Ambassador Montvale is working on that now."

Crawford's eyebrows went up. "The Paraguayan government is not going to let you try to get Timmons back," he said, "much less bring people and helicopters into the country to do it."

"Ambassador Montvale is a very persuasive man," Castillo said. "And, besides, that wasn't my decision. I will just implement it."

"How are you going to do that?"

"I'm sure I will be told what to do, and how, and when."

"I understand you met Milton Weiss," Crawford said.

Castillo nodded, then said, "Is that who gave you the back-channel heads-up about us coming down here?"

Crawford nodded.

"Milton," he said, "led me to believe he let you know a little about an interesting operation we're planning here."

"Grabbing the cruise ships?" Castillo said.

Crawford didn't reply.

"Well," Castillo went on, "I told Weiss I was not a DEA agent and my paycheck doesn't come from Langley, so that was none of my business, and I would-if possible-stay out of your way so I won't compromise your operation."

"'If possible'?"

"I'm not prescient, Crawford. I don't know what my orders will be if Timmons isn't turned loose and turns up dead. At that point, someone will decide what's important and I'll be told what to do. If this cruise-ship-grabbing operation of yours is so important, maybe you should start doing more than you have so far to get Special Agent Timmons back."

Crawford sat up in his chair.

"Just who the hell do you think you are, Castillo, to waltz in here and question what I've done or not done?"

Castillo did not immediately reply. He thought, That took me a little longer than I thought it would to make him lose his temper.

"Like you," Castillo then said, "I'm just a simple servant of the public, hoping I can make it to retirement. So tell me, what have you done, Crawford, to get Timmons back? Anything at all? Or have you placed your faith in the honesty and competence of the Paraguayan law enforcement community?"

With a little luck, he will now say, "Fuck you, Castillo."

Crawford glowered at him for a long moment, then said, "Is there anything else I can do for you tonight, Mr. Castillo? I really have to get back to my guests."

"By ten o'clock tomorrow morning, Crawford, I need a list of the things you've done to get Special Agent Timmons back. My boss said I was to get that to him as soon as possible. Give it to Lorimer."

Maybe now a "Fuck you!" or a "Kiss my ass!"?

"Very well, Mr. Castillo," Crawford said. "But you'll really have to excuse me now."

He stood up and smiled, then gestured toward the door.

"I'll have to check you out with the Marine guard," he said.

[TWO] Hotel Resort Casino Yacht amp; Golf Club Paraguay Avenida del Yacht 11 Asuncion, Paraguay 2120 11 September 2005 Just as the elevator door was closing, a tall, good-looking, olive-skinned young man stopped the door and got on. He wore his shiny black hair long, so that it covered his shirt collar. And on his hairy chest-his yellow shirt was unbuttoned almost to the navel-there gleamed a gold medallion the size of a saucer.

"Thank you ever so much," he said, smiling broadly. "Muy amable."

Castillo, who had automatically classified the Spanish as Mexican, managed a smile, but not without effort.

I don't feel very amiable, asshole.

The last thing I need right now is a Mexican drunk breathing charm and booze fumes all over me.

The door closed and the elevator started to rise.

As Pevsner had done in Llao Llao, the Mexican manipulated the control panel and stopped the elevator.

Castillo felt a rush of adrenaline, and then the Mexican drunk said in English, "Welcome to the Hotel Resort Casino Yacht and Golf Club Paraguay, Colonel. Master Sergeant Gilmore, sir."

"Gilmore?" Castillo asked, incredulously.

"Yes, sir. My mother's the Texican. She married a gringo. If the colonel will give me a look at his room key?"

Castillo held it up.

"Sir, if the colonel will wait until they deliver his luggage, and then flick his lights three times, and then leave the lights off, repeat off, and unlock the balcony sliding door, Technical Sergeant Bustamante and I will be able to report properly without attracting attention."

"You don't just want to walk down the corridor and knock on the door? Who are we hiding from?"

"There have been some unsavory characters, Colonel, who seem fascinated with Bustamante and myself. Bolivians, maybe. Maybe Cubans. But what would Cubans be doing here?"

"I'll explain that when you surreptitiously appear in my room. But give me a couple of minutes. I've got some people with me. I want them to be there."

"Yes, sir. Corporal Bradley told me."

"He did?"

"Mean little sonofabitch, isn't he?" Master Sergeant Gilmore said, admiringly. "I was having a surreptitious look at what looked like an AFC case in his room, when all of a sudden there he was, with his.45 aimed at my crotch. He got me hands down, Colonel. It was five minutes before he'd let me get off the floor. If I hadn't been able to tell him who Sergeant Major Jack Davidson was, I'd probably still be there."

"Never judge a book by its cover, Sergeant. You might want to write that down."

"Should I call him and the German guy and tell them you want to see them right now?"

Castillo nodded.

"And I'll call Lorimer and Mullroney," Castillo said.

"Okay," Castillo ordered when everyone was in the room, "unlock the sliding door, then flick the lights three times and leave them off."

Then he firmly grasped Max's collar. He didn't want to surprise the shooters when they came into the darkened suite.

"I'll be curious to see how they do this, Charley," Munz said as the lights blinked. "These places are supposed to be burglar-proof. And we're on the third floor."

"I have no idea," Castillo confessed.

Corporal Bradley's voice in the darkness explained, "They're using a rubber-covered chain with loops every foot or so for handholds. And it has a collapsible grappling hook at the end, sir. Sergeant Gilmore showed me when he came to my room. I'd never seen a system like that before."

Ninety seconds later, there was the sound of the sliding door opening and then closing.

"The drapes are in place," Master Sergeant Gilmore said. "Somebody can hit the lights."

When the lights came on, Castillo didn't see any kind of a chain on either Gilmore or Technical Sergeant Bustamante, who looked like Captain D'Elia's younger brother.

"You used a chain, Sergeant Gilmore?"

Gilmore pulled a thin chain from a deep pocket on the hip of his trousers.

"Clever," Castillo said.

"Well, you know how it is when you're in the stockade, Colonel. You've got nothing to do but think up things like this."

Castillo laughed.

The Army's elite Delta Force-and some other, even more secret units-were housed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, in what at one time had been the post stockade.

"Isn't a stockade a military prison?" Sergeant Mullroney asked.

"Yes, it is, Mullroney," Castillo said, mock seriously. "It's where we keep people like these two chained up when they're not working."

He went to Bustamante and offered his hand.

"My name is Castillo, Sergeant. We're glad to have you."

"I'm glad to be here, sir."

"That's because you don't know what's going to happen," Castillo said.

"Can I ask another dumb question?" Mullroney asked.

Castillo thought, Not "no" but "hell no," and was about to say exactly that when Mullroney asked anyway.

"Maybe I'm out of line, Colonel, but was pissing off that CIA guy the way you did smart?"

You bet your ass you're out of line.

Who the hell do you think you are, calling me on that?

But, actually…

"Actually, I'm glad you brought that up. What I was trying to do with Crawford was make him think I'm a wiseass out of my league." Much like you, Mullroney. "I think I managed to do that, but I couldn't make him lose his temper, and I tried. Okay?"

Mullroney nodded.

Castillo looked at the others and went on: "Crawford is dangerous. I still don't know what he's up to, but he's not on our side. Everybody got that?"

There were nods.

"Okay, the burglars are Sergeants Bustamante and Gilmore, from Captain D'Elia's team. This is Colonel Munz, who works for me; Lieutenant Lorimer, who also works for me; and Sergeant Mullroney, who is a Chicago cop and Timmons's brother-in-law. And Corporal Bradley, our designated marksman."

Castillo looked at Gilmore.

"So what have you got?"

"I don't know if it's what you're looking for, Colonel," Gilmore said. "But there is a very strange setup on the river a couple of miles downstream from the hotel. You have a laptop, sir?"

"What are you going to do, Google Earth it?"

"Yes, sir. I've got the coordinates on this, sir." He held up a USB flash memory device that recorded data. It was the size of a small disposable butane lighter. "I thought I'd start with the big picture."

Within a minute, everyone was looking at the laptop computer screen, which now showed a composite aerial photograph of the river south of Asuncion as it would appear from an airplane at five thousand feet.

"What exactly are we looking at?" Castillo asked.

"I finally learned how to add my own data to the imagery, Colonel. Hold one, sir."

He plugged the flash memory device into one of the USB ports on the side of the laptop. An icon of it immediately popped up on the screen. Thirty seconds later, after he touched several keys, a more or less circular ring of tiny flashing spots appeared on the map on the Paraguayan side of the river.

"I still don't know what I'm looking at," Castillo said.

"Bustamante found it, sir. We were fishing."

"Fishing?"

"Yes, sir, I even caught a couple," Gilmore said with a grin, then sighed. "We had covered a lot of water before we came across it. We noticed something wasn't right."

"How's that?" Castillo said.

"There was something about the riverbank, sir," Bustamante offered.

"What?" Castillo said, gesturing Give it to me with the fingers of his right hand.

Bustamante, anticipating the reaction his answer was going to cause, shrugged. "The grass was too green, Colonel. Twelve feet or so of green grass. The rest was all brown."

"Suggesting?" Castillo asked.

"I didn't know, sir. Maybe it was near a stream. Maybe somebody was watering it. But I figured it was worth a look, so we took one as soon as it was dark."

"How?

"He swam, sir," Gilmore said.

"You brought wet suits with you?"

"No, sir. We have night goggles."

"It was a little chilly," Bustamante admitted.

"Why Bustamante?"

"He found the green fucking grass, Colonel," Gilmore said, reasonably.

"And what did you find?"

"It was planted," Bustamante said. "Plastic boxes, maybe three feet by a foot, four of them, and all mounted on a heavy timber, so they could be moved out of the way and put back easy. I figured somebody wanted access to the river and didn't want anybody to see it."

"And farther inland?"

"Well, there was also a motion sensor on the boxes of grass-I almost set it off-so I went kind of slow. I called Gilmore and told him he ought to have a look, so he came in with the boat."

"You have radios?"

"We bought throwaway cell phones in the airport," Gilmore said. "They work fine."

"And?"

"Well, we reconnoitered, Colonel," Bustamante said. "The place is crawling with detection devices, and put in by somebody who knows what he's doing." After a moment, he added: "Damned near got caught."

Castillo turned quickly and looked at him.

"'Caught'?" Castillo parroted. "By who?"

Bustamante shrugged. "I don't know, sir."

"Some big sonofabitch moving like a cat," Gilmore offered. "At least one guy, maybe more." He shrugged. "If he was a perimeter guard, he sure as hell didn't act like one."

Oh, shit! Castillo thought. Is this a repeat of our run-in at Estancia Shangri-La?

Who the fuck can this guy be-another ex-Stasi?

Or…maybe one of Duffy's goons going in ahead of us?

Who the hell knows?

With drugs and money, anything is fucking possible.

"I swam the hell out of there just the same," Bustamante said. "I was more afraid this guy was going to trigger one of the sensors."

Gilmore moved the cursor on the screen to one of the blinking dots, the one closest to the river. An inset appeared, a photo.

"You can barely see the device," Bustamante said, "but if I had stepped over the grass boxes-or even touched them-it would have gone off."

Gilmore moved the cursor to another of the flashing dots and another inset photo appeared, this one of a trip wire.

"I couldn't tell if it would do anything but set off a Claymore," Bustamante said. An inset of a concealed, barely visible Claymore mine appeared. "But I guess that would be like an alarm bell, right, a Claymore going off?"

"That's about all we were able to do, Colonel," Gilmore said. "We worked our way around their perimeter. I figure there's probably five, six acres of protected terrain. We just didn't have the stuff to try to penetrate it. Sorry."

"You couldn't penetrate it?" Castillo asked, in mock shock. "A couple of trip wires and some Claymores and you just quit? Turn in your Ranger tabs. You're a disgrace to the Hurlburt School for Boys." Then he smiled and finished: "Great job, guys. I never expected anything like this."

"You think that's the place you're looking for, sir?"

"Unless it's some pig farmer worried about piglet rustlers," Castillo said. "What else could it be?"

"The Claymore was made in East Germany," Bustamante said. "I thought that was sort of interesting."

"Roads?"

"One. A couple of clicks from this highway," Gilmore said, pointing. "You want us to have another shot at penetration, Colonel?"

"Absolutely not," Castillo said. "As clumsy as you two are, that would let them know we plan to do terrible things to them."

Both smiled. Neither spoke, but there was a question in their eyes.

"Are we up, Lester?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get me Major Miller."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Put the GPS coordinates on the screen so I can read them," Castillo ordered.

The legend on the handset read: AGNES FORBISON.

"I was beginning to worry that you'd been stolen by gypsies," she said as she opened the conversation. "Where are you, Charley?"

"In Paraguay. Where's Dick?"

"He's arranging Ambassador Lorimer's trip down to the estancia. Oh, hell, I cannot tell a lie, Charley. He decided he's up to flying the Gulfstream as copilot, and in the absence of the only one who could have told him no, that's what he authorized himself to do. Shall I call him and tell him you said no? They probably are still in the country."

Castillo considered that for a moment.

"No. He would know you ratted on him. It'll be all right; all he'll have to do is work the radios. But it poses a problem right now."

"What do you need?"

"Continuous satellite surveillance starting yesterday-using every sensing technique they have-of a small piece of Paraguayan real estate."

"You found where they have this guy? God, that was quick."

"Where we strongly believe he is," Castillo said. "Two very good shooters from the stockade did it. I was going to have Dick set up the surveillance-"

"You don't think I can?"

"I think we have to go through Montvale, and I'm not at all sure that Montvale will produce what he promises to produce. I was going to send Dick to Fort Meade or Langley-wherever this stuff will come in-to watch what he does and make sure that it doesn't slip through the cracks and that no copies are passed around the intelligence community. I can't afford any tracks, either."

"I can go to Meade or Langley and do that as well as Dick could. And he's not here. Unless you don't want me to…"

"With profound apologies for not remembering that you are, of all of the merry band, the best one to deal with the ambassador, Agnes, get the SOB on the line. And listen in, of course."

"You're forgiven," Agnes said.

"White House."

"Colonel Castillo needs Ambassador Montvale on a secure line, please."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ambassador Montvale's line, Truman Ellsworth."

"This line is secure. Colonel Castillo calling the ambassador."

"The ambassador's not immediately available. Will the colonel talk to me?"

"Ellsworth," Castillo jumped in, "when the ambassador becomes available, tell him that when I couldn't get him, I called the President and that he'll probably be hearing from him."

"Hold one, Castillo."

"And how are things in the Southern Cone, Charley?"

"Looking up, Mr. Ambassador."

"What can I do for you?"

"Got a pencil? I want to give you some coordinates."

"Coordinates of what?"

Castillo began to read the coordinates from the laptop screen.

"Wait, wait a moment, Castillo…okay, I'm ready. Start again."

Castillo did, then said, "Would you read those back to me, please, so we know we have them right?"

Montvale's exasperation was evident in his voice as he read back the coordinates.

"Okay?" Montvale asked, finally.

"Okay. Now what I need, starting immediately, is satellite surveillance of that area. I want everything: photographs, infrared, electronic emissions of all kinds, everything those clever people have and I probably don't know about."

"What are they looking for?"

"Whatever they can find."

"What's there, Colonel?"

"I think Special Agent Timmons is there, but before I go after him, I want to make sure."

"Go after him?"

"That's what I've been ordered to do, you'll remember. But I've been thinking about the sensitivity of the operation."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"So what I want you to do, please…" His voice trailed off in thought, then he said, "Where is the first place the imagery will go? Langley or Fort Meade?"

"I'm surprised you don't know. It goes to Meade, then is linked to Langley."

"Okay…"

"Do you have any idea what you're asking? How difficult it will be to shift satellites? How much it will cost?"

"I didn't think it would be easy, Mr. Ambassador. And I'm sure it will be expensive. Would you rather I ask the President to authorize it?"

"What's in the back of my mind…are you interested? And can I say what I have to say without you taking offense?"

"Of course."

"If you have found Timmons and if those helicopters you're trying to send down actually get there and you can stage a successful operation, fine. But you're not sure you've found Timmons. And something-God knows, anything-can interfere with those helicopters getting down there-"

"I'd love to have them, the helicopters, of course, but I have a Plan B in case something goes wrong. And didn't you get Colonel Torine onto the Ronald Reagan to ensure that everything possible is being done, will be done, to get them to me?"

"Yes, I did. But to continue, if something goes awry, questions will be asked, especially about the satellite surveillance. People are going to know that happened."

"I have a Plan B for that, too, Mr. Ambassador."

"Do you really?"

"When you order the surveillance, I want you to have the analysts at Meade taken off all other duties until this is over. I want them told this is classified Top Secret Presidential. And I want the automatic link to Langley cut off."

"What are you going to do with the data at Meade?"

"Mrs. Forbison will be there. She will forward to me what the analysts tell her."

"Your office manager?"

"Actually, she's the deputy chief of OOA for administration," Castillo said. "And she's been cleared for the Finding."

"You're going to send her to Meade?" Montvale asked, incredulously.

"And by the time she gets there, I hope you'll have ordered that no one but she-or whichever of my men with a Finding clearance she designates-is to get any of the material generated by the surveillance."

"When is she going to Meade?"

"Just as soon as we get off the phone. Right, Agnes?"

"Yes, sir," Mrs. Forbison said.

"Good evening, Mrs. Forbison," Montvale said, icily. "I wasn't aware you were on the line."

"Standard office procedure, Mr. Ambassador," Agnes said, sweetly. "Whenever the chief is speaking with you or the President. You didn't know?"

"No, I didn't."

"Unless you've got something for me, Mr. Ambassador, that's all I have," Castillo said.

"I'll get right on this, of course," Montvale said. "And you will keep me up to speed, right, Colonel?"

"Absolutely," Castillo said. "Break it down, Lester."

"It's broken down, Lester?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get Agnes back for me, please."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Yes, Chief?"

"Who won that one, Agnes?"

"You did. Hands down. You couldn't tell?"

"I thought I did. So why am I worried?"

"What happens now?" she asked.

"I'm going to Buenos Aires first thing in the morning. There's a lot to be done. I'm going to leave Lester's radio here, so you'll be able to send the data to the shooters here. How do I get them into the voice-recognition circuit?"

"You identify yourself-it has to be you, me, or Miller-and say, 'Adding voice-recognition personnel.' Then you have them give their names and say a few words."

"Stand by," Castillo said, and motioned for Sergeants Bustamante and Gilmore to join him.

"You heard that?" he asked, and they nodded.

"Colonel Castillo. Adding voice recognition personnel. Master Sergeant Gilmore."

He looked at Gilmore and said, "Repeat after me: 'Master Sergeant Gilmore.'"

"Master Sergeant Gilmore," Gilmore said.

Castillo nodded and went on: "'When I failed reconnoitering as a Ranger, I had to become a Green Beanie."

Gilmore automatically began, "'When I failed'…" Then he paused. "With all possible respect, Colonel, sir, screw you."

An artificial voice joined the conversation: "Sufficient data. System recognizes"-the voice now changed to Gilmore's-"Master Sergeant Gilmore."

Castillo nodded appreciatively.

"Colonel Castillo," he went on. "Adding voice-recognition personnel. Technical Sergeant Bustamante."

He looked at Bustamante, and said, "Repeat after me, 'Technical Sergeant Bustamante.'"

"Technical Sergeant Bustamante," Bustamante began, then quickly added, "Thank you, Colonel, for all those very kind things you have said about me. While I'm normally a modest-"

"Sufficient data," the artificial voice broke in. "System recognizes"-and Bustamante's voice added-"Technical Sergeant Bustamante."

"Wiseass," Castillo said.

"Okay, Agnes, they're on. The communicator will be able to help you pick what data to send down."

"I wasn't going over there by myself."

"If they say something about the radio, tell them to check with Montvale. But don't let it out of your hands. Entirely separate from this, those NSA guys would really like a look at the encryption circuits."

"I will guard it as I would my virtue."

"That's the best you can do?" Castillo said with mock shock.

There was a moment's silence, then Agnes said, with laughter in her voice, "Screw you, Charley!"

"Break it down, Lester."

"Okay," Castillo said. "In the morning, Lester, Max, and I are going to go to Buenos Aires. Lorimer and Mullroney are going to go to the embassy and nose around, half for show, half to see if they can come up with something."

Lorimer and Mullroney nodded.

Castillo went on: "Colonel Munz will do whatever he thinks makes the most sense. You two will start writing the ops order, based on what you know and what intel we get from the satellite or anybody else. Number them. Whenever one is complete, based on what you have, send it to me. To the safe house. There's a radio there, and probably some others have caught up with us by now. Between now and oh dark hundred-I want to leave as early as possible; it's a long way to Buenos Aires-Lester will check you out on the radio and procedures. Any questions?"

Heads shook.

"Good. Let's go."

[THREE]

Nuestra Pequena Casa

Mayerling Country Club

Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1345 12 September 2005 "Duffy and D'Elia just came in the gate," Susanna Sieno announced as she hung up a telephone in the quincho.

"If I were not a modest man, I would say we are about to blow the comandante's mind," Castillo said.

"This is pretty impressive stuff, Charley," Susanna said.

"I meant with our drapes," he said, gesturing toward drapes now closed over the plateglass windows. "Lavender and pink stripes, with gold highlights. Really chic!"

She gave him the finger.

"Next time, you buy them," she said. "More important, you look soulfully into the eyes of the drapes-hanger, or whatever the hell he's called, to get him to hang them right now, not manana sometime."

The lavender-and-pink-striped drapes-with gold highlights-were thick enough to shut out all light from the outside and, of course, ensured that no one could see into the quincho.

The quincho was now the command post, at least for the time being, for what had been jokingly dubbed Operation GGT-Go Get Timmons.

Four sixty-four-inch flat-screen LCD television monitors sat on a low table against the new drapes.

One was tuned to the Fox News Channel, with the sound barely audible.

Another monitor was connected to the AFC console and showed the data coming in from Fort Meade as it arrived. The encryption system was fast, but there was an enormous amount of data being sent. The result of this was that the screen first filled with what looked like snowlike static, which then began to take form, until the entire image was clear.

The third monitor was connected both to a large computer server and to Castillo's laptop computer. He could call up any of the satellite images to the flat-screen by pushing a key or two on the laptop. Now, since the decryption process was over, the images appeared almost instantaneously.

The fourth monitor was connected both to the server and to a laptop computer being operated by Sergeant Major Jack Davidson, who Castillo had announced was "going to be our map guy."

His job was to prepare and continuously update the maps that would be issued-either in printed copies or as a computer file-to everyone who would have need of one.

Like Castillo, Davidson could instantly call up on his laptop screen, and the monitor, any of the maps and any other data stored in the database. The difference was that Davidson-and he alone-could change the data.

They were both devout believers in the adage-one that went back to the dark ages, when maps were printed, hung on a wall, covered with a sheet of acetate, and corrections and additions made with a grease pencil-that, "If more than one man can make changes to a map, said map invariably will soon be fucked up beyond all repair."

They had worked together before, and they worked together now with a smoothness born of practice.

The first satellite imagery had arrived in Nuestra Pequena Casa an hour before Castillo and Bradley. It was the first photography of the site, and about all it was good for was to enable Davidson to set up the system he knew Castillo would want to use.

By the time Castillo and Bradley walked into the quincho, the refining data had begun to come in. The first imagery had been much like the imagery provided by Google Earth, but in far greater resolution. It hadn't shown anything but suggestions of human activity.

The "refining data" that began to come in about the time Castillo and Bradley walked in used a number of sensing techniques, at first primarily infrared. It sensed differences in temperature between objects in the target area. Computer analyses of these defined what they were.

The easiest to identify were human beings. Their normal temperature was a given. The ambient temperature of the area was known. A difference of so many degrees determined with a great deal of certainty that that moving blob was a human being. And that one a cow. And that one a dog.

Similarly, the heat generated by such things as open fires, stoves, internal combustion engines-making the distinction between gasoline, diesel, and size-was recognized by the computers at Fort Meade and transferred as "refined data."

The blobs were replaced with a symbol-an outline of a truck, for example, or of a man-in which was a number estimating how confident, on a scale of 1 to 5, the computer was of its interpretation.

There would be more refining data as more satellites passed over the target area and the results of more sensing techniques were fed to the computers at Fort Meade. But after Davidson had "laid" the first refining data on top of the aerial photographs, what they had was enough for Castillo to make a decision.

"Bingo!" he said. "That has to be it."

"What that is, Charley, is some sort of a hidden operation," Davidson said, reasonably. "A fairly large one, to judge by the bodies, and probably a refinery, to judge by the large unknown infrared blobs." He paused. "But none of this data has Timmons's name on it."

"So what do we do, Jack?" Castillo had asked. "Send Bustamante or someone else back to penetrate? Running the risk that they get caught? In which case, the best scenario would be that they would move Timmons and the gendarmes someplace we couldn't find them. Or cut their throats and toss them in the river?"

"Don't forget giving them an overdose," Davidson said. He made a face of frustration. "That's why they pay you the big bucks, Charley, to make decisions like that."

"Or we just go in," Castillo went on, "and if Timmons isn't there, we kidnap a couple of them and arrange a swap."

"I don't think you want to do that," Susanna said. "Do you?"

"No, I don't want to do that."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is that the same as 'No, I won't do that'?"

"No."

"Come on in, gentlemen," Castillo called cheerfully as Comandante Duffy and Captain D'Elia appeared in the quincho door. "And I'll…oops!"

A third man-stocky, nearly bald, dark-skinned, and in his thirties-had followed them in. Castillo had no idea who he was, and was already phrasing how he would tell Duffy he was not to bring any of his gendarmes to the safe house without prior permission when the man saluted very casually and, in English, introduced himself:

"Captain Urquila, Colonel," he said. "I ran into D'Elia at the embassy, and he said-since I hadn't actually reported in to you-that I probably should come out here and do it; that you were either here or would be shortly."

Castillo returned the salute as casually.

"What were you doing at the embassy, Captain Urquila?" Castillo asked, very softly and politely.

Davidson, who knew what it often meant when Castillo spoke very softly and politely, looked concerned.

"I wanted to ask Mrs. Sieno, sir, when I could expect you to be in country."

"And how long have you been in country, Captain?" Castillo asked again, softly and politely.

Urquila did the math in his head before replying.

"A week, sir. I got here the morning of the fifth. My team was up when General McNab laid this on us. I appointed myself and my medic the advance party, and we were on the LAN Chile flight out of Miami that night."

"You've been here a week, Captain-correct me if I'm wrong-and today you went looking for Mrs. Sieno at the embassy?"

"That's right, sir."

"And-curiosity frankly overwhelms me, Captain-how have you passed the time since you arrived in beautiful Argentina?"

"I've been nosing around Asuncion, sir, looking for someplace where these people could be holding this DEA guy."

"You and your medic," Castillo said, his tone making it more a question than a statement.

"Just he and I at first, sir. But now my whole team is up there."

"And why did you do that?"

"General McNab briefed me on the problem, sir, and when I came to see Mrs. Sieno before…"

Is he saying he saw Susanna before?

Castillo looked at Susanna. She nodded.

"…right after I got here, and she said she didn't really know where you were, and to hang loose, I figured the best thing to do was start nosing around looking for this place."

"Tony's found something very interesting, Colonel," D'Elia offered.

"Really?" Castillo said. "And what would that be, Captain?"

"Well, there's a sort of hidden compound on the Paraguayan side of the river-right on the river-protected by some really heavy anti-intrusion stuff. Including Claymores. Now, I've never seen this Timmons guy, but these people have three guys chained together to a pole. Two of them are Latinos, wearing some kind of brown uniform. The third is in a suit; he's got light skin, and I'd say the odds are he's Timmons or whatever his name is."

Jesus Christ!

"You've penetrated this compound?" Castillo asked, suddenly very serious.

"Not me, sir. My intel sergeant. Master Sergeant Ludwicz-"

"Skinhead Ludwicz?" Castillo interrupted. "That Master Sergeant Ludwicz?"

"Yes, sir. He said you two had been around the block a couple times."

Maybe that's who Bustamante saw on his intrusion!

I'll be a sonofabitch!

"Indeed we have," Castillo said.

"Well, he's one hell of a penetrator, as you probably know, so he went in. Alone. I didn't want to take any more chances than I had to, until I knew what was coming down."

"And Skinhead says he saw two brown-uniformed Latinos and a gringo in a suit, all chained to a pole?"

"Yes, sir. Sir, he said they have two bowls. One with water, one with food. And that they…this is what Ludwicz said, sir…and that they looked stoned, sir."

"As if, for example, they had been injected with heroin?"

Captain Urquila shrugged.

"Personally, sir, I don't know that I'd recognize the signs of someone on heroin, what they'd look like. And Ludwicz didn't say anything about seeing a needle, sir. Just that they looked stoned."

"Put the composite on the monitor, Jack," Castillo ordered.

"Why don't you have a look at this, Comandante?" Castillo said.

The composite appeared a second later.

Duffy's eyes widened.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Your compound look anything like this, Captain?" Castillo asked.

Urquila examined the composite very carefully and shook his head.

"That's not it?" Castillo asked, incredulously.

"Oh, that's it," Urquila said. "I should have known you'd be way ahead of me. Colonel, I hope I haven't fucked anything up by sending Ludwicz in there…"

"Come here, Captain," Castillo said, gesturing with his hands for Urquila to move in very close. When he had, Castillo grabbed both of Urquila's ears and kissed him wetly on the forehead.

"Captain Urquila, I love you. I love Skinhead Ludwicz and I love you!"

Captain Urquila and Comandante Duffy both looked somewhat dazed.

"Corporal Bradley!" Castillo called.

"Sir?"

"There is a bottle of Famous Grouse single-malt in my room. I have been saving it for a special occasion. This is it! Go get it!"

"Aye, aye, sir."

Bradley and the Famous Grouse single-malt appeared three minutes later. But Bradley was not alone. Edgar Delchamps and David Yung followed him into the quincho.

"You really should let people know when you come home, Daddy," Delchamps greeted him. "Otherwise, Two-Gun and me will start to think you don't love us."

"Sorry, Ed. I just wanted to see what the satellite-"

"Is that why you're celebrating?" Delchamps asked, and crossed the room so that he could look at the monitors.

He moved quickly, but not as quickly as Sergeant Major Davidson's fingers on his laptop keyboard.

All four monitors now displayed images of provocatively posed naked young females.

Delchamps gave Davidson the finger.

"Me, too, Jack," Susanna Sieno said, disgustedly. "Really!"

Davidson hit more keys and the composite came back up on the center screen.

"What are we looking at?" Delchamps asked.

"That's where these people have Timmons and two gendarmes chained to a pole," Castillo said. "It's a couple of miles south of Asuncion. In Paraguay."

"Believed to be the location," Delchamps asked, "or confirmed to be?"

"We have a visual from a very good man," Castillo said. "Master Sergeant Ludwicz, who is Captain Urquila's intel sergeant." He pointed to Urquila. "First name Tony, right?"

Urquila nodded. "Yes, sir."

"This is Ed Delchamps, known as The Dinosaur, and Two-Gun Yung of the Federal Bureau of Ignorance."

The men nodded at each other.

"For real, Urquila?" Delchamps asked. "You got a man into this place and got an eyes-on?"

Castillo said, "What Ludwicz saw was two guys in brown uniforms and a gringo in a suit. Chained to a pole, and probably doped up. That's what we're going on."

"I asked him, Ace, but okay. That's enough really good news to start pouring the sauce, Lester, my boy, but the colonel don't get none."

"Might I dare to inquire why not?" Castillo responded.

"There are several obvious reasons," Delchamps said. "But primarily because you're about to fly Two-Gun and me to Montevideo. And I have this perhaps foolish aversion to being flown about by a sauced-up pilot."

"Curiosity overwhelms me. Why am I flying you and Two-Gun to Montevideo? Why can't you go commercial? And what are the other obvious reasons to which you allude?"

"Well, Ace, if you insist-about three inches, please, Lester, two ice cubes and no water-for one thing, Ordonez wants to see you before Ambassador Lorimer arrives, which will be about seven P.M. if Miller is to be believed. And what is The Gimp doing flying that airplane? I am wondering. For another, before you slip into your armor and gallop off on your white horse to do battle with the forces of evil, we have to have a long chat about what the CIA is up to in Asuncion, and I want you to be sober for that."

"And what evil is the CIA up to in Asuncion?"

Castillo was having trouble restraining a smile. Captain Urquila had absolutely no idea what was going on, and it showed on his face.

"When I explain that to you, Ace, I'm sure you will have cause to shamefully remember what you said about Two-Gun being a member of the Federal Bureau of Ignorance."

"Oh, I doubt that!"

"That's because I haven't told you what splendid service Inspector John J. Doherty has rendered to our noble cause."

"Which is?"

"I will tell you on the way to Montevideo, on which journey will we embark immediately after Brother Davidson has explained to me the computer game he is playing. And, of course, after I finish this drink and probably another. I always need a little liquid courage in order to fly with you at the wheel."

He turned a chair around and sat in it backward, facing the monitor.

"You may proceed, Brother Davidson," Delchamps said. "And speak slowly and use itsy-bitsy words, as Two-Gun will also be watching, and I don't want to have to explain everything all over again to him."