W. Griffin - The shooters

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."