W Griffin - Hunters

"So how's the skiing?"

"Very nice, thank you. Our friend is in 1808 at the Conrad in Punta del Este."

"You're sure?" Castillo said, but after a moment he realized he was talking to a broken connection.

Delchamps looked at him with a question in his eyes.

"O ye of little faith!" Castillo said, and turned to Yung. "What's the Conrad in Punta del Este?"

"Fancy hotel. Fanciest. With a casino."

"Is there an airport there?"

"Yeah."

"Jake, could we take the Gulfstream from here to wherever Punta del Este is in Uruguay…"

"On the Atlantic, about a hundred kilometers from Montevideo," Yung furnished.

"…and then to Quito without refueling?"

"No problem. What do you plan to do about immigration?"

"Worry about that when we get to the States," Castillo said.

He stuck out his tongue at Delchamps, made a loud humming sound, then said: "You can interpret that-it's the best I can do-as sounding 'Boots and Saddles.' Kennedy is in room 1808 of the Conrad and we're going to go get him."

"Who we?" Delchamps asked.

"You, Munz, me, and Two-Gun," Castillo said. "Alex, can you get on a secure line and tell the CIA guy in Montevideo…what's his name?"

"Robert Howell," Darby replied. "Bob Howell."

"…to meet us with a car-better yet, a Yukon, or at least a van, something big-at the Punta del Este airport? And that we're leaving right now?"

"Do I tell him why?"

"No, just that it's important."

Max happily trotted after Castillo as he headed for the quincho door.

"Not this time, pal," Castillo said.

He could hear Max barking and whining even after he'd entered the big house and headed for the driveway. [SEVEN] Punta del Este Airport Punta del Este, Republica Oriental del Uruguay 1335 14 August 2005 Robert Howell, the "cultural attache" of the U.S. embassy, was waiting for them at the small but well-equipped airport with a blue Yukon displaying diplomatic tags.

Castillo introduced Delchamps to him-Howell knew who Delchamps was but had never met him-then explained what he intended to do: Grab Howard Kennedy, bring him back to the airport, and fly him to the States, with only a fuel stop in Quito.

"I'd like to have you in on this, but if it would make things awkward for you just give us the truck and come back in two hours. If we're lucky, I'll leave the key under the mat."

Howell said, "I'm in. We may need my diplomatic carnet. If there's trouble, all they can do is expel me as persona non grata."

"Thank you."

"How do we get him out of the hotel and into the truck?"

"Let's make sure he's there first, then worry about that," Delchamps said. "Our noble leader is placing a lot of faith where I'm not at all sure it belongs."

Castillo ignored him.

"How come this place looks so deserted?" Castillo asked. "There's nothing here but a couple of light twins and some Cessna 172s."

"It's winter," Howell said. "Punta del Este is just about closed in the winter. Wait till we get downtown." Ten minutes later, Castillo could see a long line of high-rise apartment buildings overlooking a wide, nice-looking beach. When they came close to the apartments, however, he was surprised at what he found: The blinds were drawn behind almost all of the apartment windows, there were few cars on the street (and even fewer in the parking lots under the high-rise buildings), and only a very few people on the streets.

This is almost surreal, Castillo thought.

Five minutes after that, the Conrad came into view, an imposing structure Castillo guessed was twenty stories high.

"They keep this open for the gamblers," Howell said. "But I'd say it's not even one-quarter full."

He turned off the road and drove up the driveway.

"Well, there's activity here," Delchamps said. "Why does that make me feel uneasy?"

The parking area in front of the main door of the resort was crowded with vehicles. With the exception of two stretch limousines and a Volkswagen bug, they were all police vehicles of one description or another.

"Why do I think going back to the airport would be a good idea?" Delchamps asked.

"Oh, let's go play the slots!" Castillo said. "I feel lucky."

"Well, I suppose it's remotely possible that somebody tried to knock off the casino and the entire Uruguayan police force has responded," Delchamps said and opened his door.

They walked up a wide flight of marble stairs and were halfway across the lobby when a voice called, "Alfredo!"

Everybody stopped. A man was quickly walking toward them.

"I am not as happy to see you, my friend," Chief Inspector Jose Ordonez said as he wrapped Munz in a bear hug and kissed his cheek, "as I would be if you were alone."

He looked at the others. "And my friend David Yung and Mr. Howell, of the culture department of the American embassy. How nice to see you both again."

He turned to Castillo and Delchamps and put his hand out to Delchamps.

"Colonel Castillo, I'm Chief Inspector Jose Ordonez of the Federal Police and I've been looking forward to meeting you."

"My name is Smith," Delchamps said. "No hable Espanol."

Ordonez smiled at him and shook his hand.

"I'm Castillo," Castillo said.

"Jose Ordonez, Colonel," Ordonez replied, offering his hand. "If I may say so, you're very young to have done all the things people say you have done."

"I try to live clean," Castillo said. "What did we do, walk in on a police convention?"

"I suppose it does look like a convention, doesn't it?" Ordonez said. "But, sadly, no. We are all here on duty. One of your countrymen has run into some difficulty."

"You don't say?"

"I was just about to call your embassy and tell them, but since Mr. Howell and Mr. Yung are here I can dispense with that. I'll show them the problem. If it's all right with them, the rest of you may come along."

He gestured toward the elevator bank and they all got in.

The door from the corridor opened into the living room of suite 1808. One wall was mostly glass and offered a view of the Punta del Este downtown sky-line and the Atlantic Ocean.

There were two men sitting in high-backed upholstered chairs. One of them, who looked as if he had slipped down in the chair, had his mouth open. The back of the chair behind him was matted with blood and brain tissue.

The other man was Howard Kennedy.

He had been strapped into his chair with duct tape. There was something in his mouth, either a red ball or a ball of another color, now covered with blood. His eyes were wide-open.

His body seemed strangely limp and, after a moment, when he saw Kennedy's hands, Castillo understood.

"It would seem," Ordonez said, matter-of-factly, "that Mr. Kennedy was beaten to death, not with a baseball bat or something like that but with a piece of angle iron. They started with his toes, then his feet, then his shins, and then changed to his fingers, hands, wrists, etcetera. You can tell by the blood pattern. It must have taken some time for them to finish. We believe this man to be Howard Kennedy."

"That's Howard Kennedy," Castillo said. "Was Howard Kennedy."

"We're not sure who the other man is," Ordonez said.

"That's Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Zhdankov," Delchamps furnished, "of the FSB's Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight Against Terrorism."

"That's not what his passport says, Senor Smith," Ordonez said. "It says he's a Czech businessman."

"Then I'm obviously wrong," Delchamps said.

"I really hope so," Ordonez said. "What we have here is bad enough, an American businessman and a Czech businessman murdered during a robbery. Even if that robbery, as has been suggested, was part of a drug deal that went wrong, that would pose far fewer problems for me-and, indeed, for Uruguay-if I had to start investigating the murders of a senior KSB officer and a man known to have close ties to an international outlaw by the name of Aleksandr Pevsner. You understand?"