W Griffin - Hunters

"To South America?"

"I want him to work with the people and the data down there, Mr. Ambassador."

"I'd really like to have his take on the probability of there being nuclear weapons about to be detonated in this country."

"Yes, sir."

"Does that mean you're going to send him to see or not?"

"I've got two more telephone calls to make, Mr. Ambassador, and then we're going to the airport."

"In other words, you're not going to send him to see me."

"There's just not time, Mr. Ambassador."

"This is another of those times when I really wish you were working for me, Castillo."

"Yes, sir. I thought something like that might be running through your mind."

There was a long silence, then the White House operator came on the line: "Are you through, Colonel?"

Castillo realized that Montvale had broken his end of the connection.

"It looks that way. Thank you."

Castillo put the White House phone back in its cradle and picked up the handset of another. "Lopez."

"Carlos. You weren't in your office, but they gave me your cellular number."

"I'm at the Double-Bar-C," Fernando Lopez said.

"What are you doing there?"

"Why do you think, Gringo? Abuela's here."

"So are half a dozen Secret Service agents."

"I thought I should be here, okay? What's on your mind?"

"What do you know about the Kenyon oil company, specifically the Kenyon Oil Refining and Brokerage Company? Is there a Kenyon?"

"Jesus, you really don't live here anymore, do you?" Lopez said, not very pleasantly. "Yeah, there's a Kenyon. There's a lot of them. One of them, Philip, is a classmate of mine. You don't remember him?"

"No, I don't."

"Now that I think about it, I'm really surprised. You belted him good one time when he said you had to be queer because you talked funny and rode a sissy saddle."

"Tubby?" Castillo asked as the memory came to him of a heavyset twelve-year-old trying to fight back tears after his nose had been bloodied.

"Yeah," Fernando said. "Tubby. Nobody calls him that much anymore."

"He runs Kenyon?"

"Yeah, he does. Why do I think, Gringo, that I am going to be unhappy when you explain this sudden interest in Philip J. Kenyon III?"

"You're not going to like it, Fernando," Castillo said. "Is he in Midland now, do you think?"

"He was yesterday," Fernando said. "I saw him in the Petroleum Club. He asked me if I still played poker and I had to tell him no because Maria and Abuela and the Munzes were with me. The Friday-night three-card stud games of fame and legend are still going."

"He'll be there-at the Petroleum Club-tonight?"

"You going to tell me why you want to know?"

"Not over the phone. I'll tell you when I see you."

"And when will that be?"

"As soon as I make one more telephone call, I'm headed for the airport. It's about three hours in the air. Figure another hour and a half to go wheels-up. It's now ten. Knock an hour off because of the time zones. We should be there sometime before three."

"Midland-Odessa or here?"

"Midland. We're going from there to Buenos Aires, and I can't do the customs stuff from the strip at the Double-Bar-C."

"Who's we?"

"Yung, a guy named Delchamps, a guy named Doherty-an FBI big shot-Miller, and me."

"Plus Jake Torine. It'll be a little crowded, but it'll be all right."

"Jake's not coming, and we may not be staying overnight."

"First things first. Yes, you are staying overnight. Abuela will expect you to spend the night. Jesus, you just don't give a damn about people's feelings, do you, Carlos?"

"Okay. We'll spend the night."

"If Jake's not coming, who's flying the Gulfstream?"

"Miller will work the radios," Castillo said after a just-perceptible hesitation.

"Sure. Why not? You've been flying that Gulfstream for, what, ten whole days now? And really racked up a lot of time. Maybe ten, even twelve, hours. And shot maybe six landings. You're out of your mind, you know that?"

"I can fly the Gulfstream," Castillo said.

"There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold pilots. You ever hear that?"

"I can fly it. It practically flies itself."

"I was about to say it's been nice knowing you, but that wouldn't be entirely true."

"So I don't suppose you're going to meet me at Midland-Odessa?" Castillo asked, but, before Lopez had a chance to reply, went on: "No, actually have the senior Secret Service agent meet us. I have to talk to him and I'd rather do that at the airport."

"Your wish is my command, Carlos. See you sometime this afternoon."

The connection went dead.

He called me Carlos again. He called me Carlos three times. He must be really pissed at me.

And, unfortunately, with good reason.

He got another dial tone, and then, reading them from Alex Darby's cellular, carefully punched in a long series of numbers. "?Hola?"

"Hello, Alek," Castillo said, in Russian.

After a long moment, Aleksandr Pevsner replied, in Russian, "Ah, Colonel Castillo, my former friend. I am surprised that you would dare to call me ever again."

"'Former friend,' Alek?"

"You lied to me, and about something you knew was very important to me."

"Are you going to tell what? Or are you just going to sulk like a little boy?"

"You dare to deny it? To mock me?"

"To mock you, sure. You're the mockable type. But I can't deny anything until you tell me what it is."

"Munz is what I'm talking about."

"What about him?"

"You knew where he was all the time and said you didn't."

"I didn't say I didn't know where he was," Castillo said. "I didn't tell you I didn't know. You jumped to that conclusion."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"Kennedy can't find him?"

"Or his family, Colonel Ex-Friend."

"I don't understand the question. Are you telling me that Howard can't find Alfredo and his family? Or asking if I know where Senora Munz and the girls are?"

"If you knew where the women are would you tell me? The truth?"

"I do and I would."

"Where are they?"

"Safe. In the safest place I can think of them to be right now."

"You're not going to tell me where?"

"No."

"And Alfredo?"

"He's in the second-safest place I could think of for him to be."

"I want to talk to Alfredo."

"Well, he has your number, Alek. If he wanted to talk to you, I think he would have called. That's his call. So far as Senora Munz is concerned, give me four hours or so to have her released from her cell and for the tranquilizers to wear off and I'll ask her if she wants to call you. But I have to say, I don't think she'd call unless Alfredo said it was okay, and we're right back to square one."

"You sonofabitch. When I find you, you will be sorry."

"Actually, you won't have to find me. I'll be in Argentina in twenty-four hours or less and I want to talk to you. And so do several friends of mine."

"Ha!"

"The reason I'm calling, Alek, is to try to make sure you'll still be alive when I get there."

"Meaning what?"

"I think it's entirely possible that certain people-certain of your countrymen, as a matter of fact-would like it a lot better if you had one of those Indian beauty marks you're always talking about in the center of your forehead."

There was a perceptible pause before Pevsner replied.

"My countrymen? What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"One of the people who were there when Alfredo shot himself cleaning his pistol was a member of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia. That being the case, isn't it reasonable that the KSB is involved?"

There was a perceptible pause before Pevser replied, in a tone of disgust, "The Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia? Where did you get that? Why should I believe it?"