W. Griffin - The shooters

"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.

[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.