W. Griffin - The Hostage

Pevsner nodded, just perceptibly. "I'm a businessman, Charley. If people want me to airlift something somewhere, I'll do it."

"I understand. The point is, right now we have an understanding. You don't break any American laws and we don't come looking for you. The problem is that you're about to break an American law."

"What law would that be?"

"Interfering with an official investigation; obstructing justice."

Pevsner smiled.

"You're not suggesting that I would actually be charged with something like that? Come on, Charley."

"Oh, you wouldn't be charged with anything. But the arrangement would be broken, and the President would be free to really start helping Interpol in their so-far not very successful attempts to put the cuffs on you."

"As much as it pains me to even think of something like this, have you thought of what might happen to you before you could tell anybody anything?"

"You mean, maybe getting my throat cut? Or getting a beauty mark?"

"Those things seem to happen, Charley, to people who threaten me or, more important, the happiness of my family."

"You don't think I just walked in here cold, do you? If I'm not back where I'm expected within an hour-and it's a ten-minute drive-or I don't make a telephone call and say the right things, Ambassador Silvio will request an immediate meeting with the foreign minister. He will tell him he has just learned that Aleksandr Pevsner, who Interpol is searching so hard for, is living in the Buena Vista Country Club."

"What makes you so sure he doesn't already know?" Pevsner snapped.

"I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that he does. But that's not the same thing as being told he does by the American ambassador, is it? And the Argentines seem, at those levels of the government, to solve embarrassing problems by throwing people to the wolves. Wouldn't you agree, Alfredo?"

Pevsner glared at him.

"Think it over, Alex," Castillo said. "Very carefully."

"Goddamn you, Charley," Pevsner said, more sadly than angrily.

"And fuck you, Alex. I say that in the friendliest possible way."

"What do you want to do with the helicopter?"

"You really don't want to know, do you?"

"Hypothetically?"

"Hypothetically, if I knew (a) where somebody I wanted to teach to sing was located-in a foreign country; and (b) I knew that other people were trying to make sure that he didn't sing, what I think I would do would be to get him back home to the good ol' USA as quickly and quietly as possible. A helicopter would be useful if someone was, hypothetically, of course, thinking of doing something like that."

"You just told me, you realize, that Lorimer is not living in Buenos Aires. Or any other city. You want the helicopter to move him from someplace in the country to an airport. An airport large enough to take a plane that could fly him out of the country. You didn't, by any chance, come all the way down here in that Lear you had in Cozumel?"

"I'd love to keep playing twenty-questions with you, Alex, but I have to be running along. Are you going to loan me your helicopter or not?"

"Goddamn you, Charley."

"You already said that. Nice to see you, Alex." Castillo stood up. "I'll have to pass on the lomo sandwich and the beer. Thanks anyway."

"Sit down, Charley," Pevsner said. "You can have the helicopter."

"Thank you."

"What do I tell the pilot? Have you thought this through?"

"Tell your pilot to fly it to Jorge Newbery by five o'clock this afternoon. Tell him to park it at Jet-Aire. Have him top off the tanks, leave the key under the pad in the pilot's seat, and take three days off."

"Who's going to fly it?"

"I will. And when I'm through with it, I'll take it back to Jorge Newbery, give you a call, and your pilot can pick it up."

Pevsner nodded. He looked at Munz, and after a momentadded, "Take Alfredo with you. I'm sure he'll be useful."

"Absolutely not. But thank you just the same."

"Alfredo is not in the beauty spot business, if that's what you're thinking."

"But he could come back and tell you where we'd been, couldn't he?"

"If you'd already taken Lorimer out of the country, what difference would that make? What I'm thinking is that when it comes out-and it will-that you got to Lorimer before the other people looking for him did, it would be embarrassing for me if people knew you'd used my helicopter to kidnap him."

"Kidnap him? What a terrible thing to even think! What I'm thinking of, hypothetically, of course, is returning this poor, lost soul to the bosom of his loved ones."

"Of course. What I'm suggesting is that if something happened while you were carrying out this humanitarian mission of yours-officialdom asking questions you'd rather not answer, for example-Alfredo could deal with that better than you could."

Goddammit, he's right.

The question is, will Munz deal with the officialdom, or just wait for the opportunity to whack Lorimer?

Castillo looked at Munz.

"Are you wondering, Karl, if I have become an assassin for hire?" Munz asked.

"That occurred to me."

Munz met his eyes for a long moment.

"If I were in your place, I would wonder, too. The answeris no, I have not. I ask you to consider this: These people have changed my life, too. I bear-and my wife and my family shares-the shame of my being relieved and retired for incompetence. I would really like to find out who they are."

So you can pop them, Alfredo?

"I said the thought had occurred to me. It did, and I dismissed it," Castillo said.

Do I mean that? Or am I already wondering who I can trust to pop him the moment he looks like he's thinking of whacking Lorimer?

I guess I meant it.

But that doesn't mean I shouldn't seriously consider the selection of someone to pop him in case I'm wrong. Or prepare to do it myself.

"Thank you," Munz said.

"Why don't you tell your pilot to fly Alfredo to Jorge Newbery?" Castillo said. "That will make him less curious about what's going on."

Pevsner considered that and nodded.

The maid appeared with a tray laden with hard-crusted lomo sandwiches and a wine cooler filled with ice and beer bottles.

"Ah, our lunch," Pevsner said. Then he turned to Castillo. "Didn't you say something about having to call someone, Charley, to let them know you're with friends?"

"I was lying about that, Alex."

Pevsner looked at him, shook his head, and said, "You sonofabitch. I say that in the spirit of friendship and mutual trust, of course." [THREE] Nuestra Pequena Casa Mayerling Country Club Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1505 29 July 2005 Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio, Ph.D., ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary of the President of the United States of America to the Republic of Argentina, was sitting in the living room attired in blue jeans, battered health shoes, and a somewhat ratty-looking sweatshirt on which was the faded logo of Harvard University. He had a beer bottle in his hand.

"Good afternoon, sir," Castillo said.

"Good to see you again, Charley," the ambassador said, rising from his chair to offer his hand. "Do I detect curiosity on your face? Perhaps because of my attire?"

"If I may say so, sir, you're not your usual natty self."

"I'm glad you asked," Silvio said, as he sat down. "When Alex said you wanted to see me and here, rather than at the embassy, the problem then arose, 'How was I going to get out here without having my SIDE escort wonder what I was doing at Our Little House?'"

"So you ditched the SIDE escort?" Castillo said, smiling.

"In a manner worthy of James Bond," Silvio said. "I left the embassy, went to the residence, changed clothes, and went jogging. I led three SIDE stalwarts on a merry chase through the park until they were puffing with the exertion. Then I speeded up the pace until they were far behind. And then I just happened to see a car driven by one of Alex's men, who stopped and offered me a ride."