W. Griffin: The Hostage

Then he went to the mushroom sauce pan, picked it up, and dribbled an inch-wide path of sauce on top of the slices.

"Anna-Maria," he announced. "This is called a Chateaubriand."

"Si, senor."

"Put this sauce in a sauce bowl," he said. "And then serve the Chateaubriand. I will take the wine and glass with me."

"Si, senor."

"Do you want me to come sit with you?" Maria asked.

"No, dear. Thank you just the same. Why don't you have a bath? I'll be in shortly."

He picked up the bottle of cabernet sauvignon and his glass and went into the dining room and sat down at the table.

Anna-Maria came in with the platter.

"I will need some bread, please. The hard-crusted rolls. And butter. And, of course, salt and pepper. And don't forget the sauce."

When Anna-Maria had delivered everything, he checked to see that everything he needed was present.

"Thank you, Anna-Maria," he said. "You may go. I do not wish to be disturbed."

"Si, senor," Anna-Maria said, and left the dining room.

Three minutes later, she was back.

Jean-Paul was annoyed. He had told her he did not wish to be disturbed, and he had had just barely time enough to move a couple of slices of the beef-and it looked and smelled marvelous-to his plate, and here she was, back.

"I told you, Anna-Maria, that I didn't wish to be disturbed."

"Excuse me, senor. But there are two men here… officials."

"Officials? What kind of officials?"

"Officials, senor. From the government. They have badges."

What the hell?

"And they wish to see you, senor."

Jean-Paul rose angrily from the table, threw his napkin on it, and marched to the front door.

Two men were standing there.

"May I help you, gentlemen?"

"Are you Senor Jean-Paul Bertrand?"

"Yes, I am. And who are you?"

"I am Assistant Chief Inspector Muller of the Immigration Service," the larger of the two said. "And this is Inspector O'Fallon."

He held out his credentials.

"We are very sorry to trouble you, senor," Chief Inspector Muller said. "And at this hour of the night. And we do apologize, sir."

"What is it?"

"Do you have your passport, Senor Bertrand?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"You're sure, senor?"

"Yes, of course I'm sure. Why do you ask?"

"Senor Bertrand, as you may know, our immigration records are now computerized."

"So I've heard."

"This afternoon, Senor Bertrand, according to the computer, you attempted to enter Uruguay on a Varig flight from Rio de Janeiro."

"That's absurd!"

"The computer also says that you entered Uruguay some time ago, and have never left."

"That's true."

"What we suspect, Senor Bertrand, is that the other Senor Bertrand, who is being held in custody, is not really who he says he is. That his passport is either a forgery, or that he has somehow come into possession of your passport."

Assistant Chief Inspector Muller gave Jean-Paul Bertrand time to think this over, and then went on. "One or the other is true, Senor Bertrand. And the question can be simply answered. If you have your passport, then the other is a forgery. And the other Senor Bertrand will be dealt with accordingly. On the other hand, if your passport has somehow been… misplaced… It happens, senor. If it has been misplaced into the hands of the other Senor Bertrand, then he will be dealt with accordingly. I cannot believe that a gentleman of your reputation and standing would loan his passport-"

"I certainly would not!" Jean-Paul proclaimed righteously. "My passport is-or should be-in my safe. I'll get it for you."

"Thank you very much, senor."

"May I offer you a cup of coffee, something to drink, while I get it?"

"No, thank you, senor," Inspector O'Fallon said. "We're on duty."

"I'll be right with you," Jean-Paul Bertrand said. "My safe is in my office, in the rear of the house."

"Thank you, senor," Assistant Chief Inspector Muller said.

"The sitting room is in here," Jean Paul said. "If you'll wait there? Are you sure I cannot offer you anything?"

"Thank you just the same, senor," Muller said. The safe was bolted both to an interior wall and to the floor. Jean-Paul had learned that when he was looking for something in it, it was much easier just to sit on the floor than to bend over and try to look inside. He had done so now.

He had a hell of a time finding the damned passport, but finally did.

A forged passport, I understand. But one with my name on it? What's that all about?

Oh, of course. In case someone checks, there is a valid passport in the name of Jean-Paul Bertrand.

Oh, God, is this incident going to be in the newspapers?

He heard a sound, and looked over his shoulder.

The younger one, Inspector O'Fallon, was standing behind him.

What the hell is he doing in here?

"Inspector O'Fallon, isn't it?" Jean-Paul asked.

"No, not really," Castillo said, in English.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know how it is, Lorimer. Sometimes people use other names. Will you hand me the passport and stand up, please?"

"What's going on here?"

Castillo snatched the passport from Lorimer's hand as he stepped over him and pushed the safe door open more widely.

Jean-Paul scurried backward on the floor and ran into a set of legs.

Then he felt himself being hauled to his feet.

"Put your hands behind you, please," the man who had said he was Assistant Chief Inspector Muller ordered.

Jean-Paul did as he was told.

He looked around his office.

Muller was doing something with his wrists.

Jean-Paul took a closer look at the face of the man who had said he was Inspector O'Fallon but had just now called him Lorimer, in American English.

But then something else caught his eye.

There was a face at the window, and it looked as if whoever stood there was trying to break the window with something.

The last thing Jean-Paul Lorimer, Ph.D., saw in this world, before two 9mm bullets struck him in the mouth and forehead, was the breaking glass of the window and an orange flash. Castillo reacted to the sound of the breaking glass and the burst of submachine fire instinctively. He dropped to the ground, scurried behind the desk, and reached for the Beretta he was carrying in the small of his back.

What the fuck?

This desk is going to be about as much protection against a 9mm as a Kleenex.

There was the sound of more firing outside. He recognized the characteristic chatter of a Car 4. More than one Car 4. And then the sharper crack of a 7.62.

Didn't I hear a 7.62 just before the goddamn submachine gun went off?

He saw a cord running across the floor to the desk.

If they can't see you, they can't shoot you.

Unless they spray the room with a submachine gun.

What the hell!

He jerked on the cord and a lamp on Lorimer's desk crashed to the floor. But didn't go out.

Sonofabitch!

There was the sound of another 7.62mm round going off, and of voices shouting something unintelligible, and then several more bursts from Car 4s.

Castillo reeled in the lamp, finally found the switch, and turned it off. The room was now dark.

Castillo got to his knees, then took a running dive from behind the desk toward the corner. No one shot at him. He found the wall with his hands and pushed himself into the corner. He waited for a moment to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. To turn the lamp off, he had had to find the switch, which was a push device in the bulb socket, which meant that he'd had the light from a clear-glass sixty-watt bulb right in his eyes.

Finally, he could make out the outline of the windows, and raised the Beretta in both hands to aim at it.

"Alfredo?" he called.

"I'm hit," Munz called back. "I don't know how bad. I have Lorimer's brains all over me."