W. Griffin - The Hostage

"I'm afraid you'll have to check that," the stewardess told him.

"Why do I suspect that all the luggage in the bins does not belong to first-class passengers?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to check that," the stewardess repeated.

"I don't suppose that since I thought I would have space in the first-class bins, and find that I don't, you could put this in with the coats and jackets? I really hate to check it."

"I'm afraid you'll have to check it," the stewardess said firmly.

It would also seem to logically follow, Castillo thought, watching the luggage carousel rotate at MIA, that since my suitcase was loaded, if not last, then close to last, it would be unloaded first. That obviously is not the case.

The suitcase finally showed up. Castillo pulled out the handle and dragged it from luggage recovery. Surprising him not at all, the map in the entrance foyer showed him that Aerolineas Argentinas was at the other end of the airport, almost in Key West. It was a long walk through the crowded airport, which reminded him of his cousin Fernando Lopez's appraisal of Miami International: "It is the United States' token third world airport."

That reminded him, Jesus Christ, I almost forgot! that he would have to call Fernando and/or Abuela, their grandmother, and tell them he would not be able to come home for the weekend, even if Fernando flew up to pick him up.

He finally reached the Aerolineas Argentinas counter. There was a long line of people in the first-class line, all of whom seemed to have extra, overweight, or oversize luggage. There were far more such people than there were seats in the first-class compartment of either a 747 or a 767, which suggested that they were economy-class passengers who had taken advantage of there being no one in the first-class line.

Twenty minutes later, he reached the head of the line and was given permission to approach the counter by the clerk, who beckoned to him with her index finger like the Queen of Spain summoning a footman.

He laid a passport issued by the German Federal Republic and an American Express corporate credit card issued to the Tages Zeitung on the counter.

"My name is Gossinger," he said. "I have an electronic ticket, I believe." Getting through airport security was-if possible-more harassing than usual. Castillo was randomly selected for close examination. Not only did the security people make him take his shoes off, but their pawing through his luggage effectively nullified his careful packing. And he was concerned about the detailed examination of his briefcase cum laptop carrier that was to come.

They made him turn the laptop on to prove that it indeed was not an explosive device, but they didn't show much interest in the briefcase itself. That was a relief. Herr Gossinger did not want to have to explain what he was doing with C. G. Castillo's passport and Secret Service credentials.

Finally they were through with him, and he went to the Club of the Americas, the first- and business-class lounge that served Aerolineas Argentinas and other South American airlines that did not have their own lounges.

He fixed himself a double scotch on the rocks, then found a secluded corner and sat down. He took his cellular telephone from his pocket and punched an autodial key.

"Hello?"

"And how is my favorite girl?"

"Your favorite girl is wondering if you're calling to tell me you're not coming home for the weekend."

"Abuela, I'm in the airport in Miami, waiting to get on a plane for Buenos Aires."

"Well, I'll give you this. Your excuses are out of the ordinary. Darling, I was so looking forward-"

"Abuela, this wasn't my idea."

"What are you going to do in Argentina? Am I allowed to ask?"

No, you're not.

"I should be back within the week."

"Buenos Aires?"

"Uh-huh."

"It's winter down there now. You did think to pack warm clothing?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"If it's convenient, Carlos, I'm almost out of brandy. You know the kind."

"I'll get you a case."

"I think you're limited to six liters."

"I'll find out."

"Be careful. I talked to Jeanine Winters just this morning, and she said kidnapping is now the cottage industry down there."

Jeanine Winters was a very old friend of Dona Alicia. The Winters family, Texans, had been operating an enormous cattle operation in Entre Rios province and a vineyard in Mendoza Province for generations.

Jesus, has she heard about this diplomat's wife? Did Mrs. Winters hear about it already, and tell her?

"Abuela, nobody's going to kidnap me."

"Just be careful, Carlos, is all I'm saying."

"Si, Abuela."

"I'll say a prayer for you."

"Thank you."

"Vaya con Dios, mi amor," Dona Alicia said, and hung up.

[ONE] Aeropuerto Internacional Ministro Pistarini de Ezeiza Buenos Aires, Argentina 0615 22 July 2005 Aerolineas Argentinas proved to be much more accommodating about luggage than Delta had been. Just as soon as Castillo had stepped aboard through the main cabin door, a steward had offered to take his briefcase on wheels from him.

"I can store it with the coats, sir," the steward said. "Save you from having to hoist it into the overhead bin."

This courtesy was followed as soon as he took his seat in the first-class compartment of the Boeing 767; a stewardess appeared with a tray of champagne glasses.

He took one, even though he told himself he didn't need it after the three drinks he'd had in the Club of the Americas.

He hadn't needed the glass of merlot that came with the appetizers just as soon as they reached cruising altitude, either, but he took that, and a second glass with the entree-a nice little filet mignon, served with roasted potatoes. And the glass of brandy he had with the camembert and crackers dessert wasn't needed, either.

When the movie came on, he thought the odds were that in a couple of minutes he would doze off and sleep the sleep of the Half-Crocked and More or Less Innocent most of the way across the Southern Hemisphere.

Nothing wrong with that. Unless you're sitting in the left seat in the cockpit, that's the only way to fly: unconscious.

He didn't fall asleep. It was a Mel Gibson movie; Gibson was playing the role of a prosperous businessman whose kid was kidnapped.

Well, let's see how he handles this; maybe I'll learn something, Castillo thought as he pushed the overhead button to summon a stewardess to order another brandy. Castillo thought Gibson was a fine actor. He had played, very credibly, the role of light colonel Hal Moore in the movie version of the book We Were Soldiers Once… and Young, written by Moore and Joe Galloway.

Castillo had read the book, the story of what had happened to one of the first battalions of paratroopers who had been converted to air assault-helicopter inserted-troops at Fort Benning, and then followed them to Vietnam, where some nitwit in the First Cav had inserted them in the wrong place and almost gotten them wiped out.

It was nonfiction, and he'd bought the book because he'd heard that Galloway-who had been at Fort Benning and then gone to Vietnam with the battalion-had done a good job describing the early days of Army aviation, and he thought it might tell him something about what the late WOJG Jorge Alejandro Castillo, boy chopper jockey, had gone through before he bought the farm. And because he knew the light bird battalion commander Galloway had written about-Moore-had wound up with three stars; there had to be a lesson in that alone.

He'd really liked the book, and had taken a chance and gone to see the movie. He almost never went to war movies; most of them were awful. The ones that didn't make you laugh made you sick.

The Soldiers movie had been as good as the book. He thought it was just about as realistic as the movie version of Black Hawk Down, Mark Bowden's book on the disaster that hit the special operators in Mogadishu in 1993, and he had viewed that one with the expert eye of someone who'd been flying a Blackhawk in Somalia at the time.