W. Griffin - The Hostage

And Castillo thought that Gibson's portrayal of the battalion commander was right on the money. Gibson's portrayal of the distressed father was very credible, too. Gibson was being forced to make the very tough call between not paying the ransom, or following the advice of the FBI and the cops-and his hysterical wife, the mother of the child-to pay it. When a stewardess gently woke him to offer orange juice, Castillo was more than a little annoyed-if not very surprised-to realize that he had fallen asleep before Gibson had made the tough call.

That last glass of brandy did you in. Now you'll never know what Gibson decided.

I wonder what he did decide?

What the hell would I do in his shoes?

Jesus, it's only a movie.

But you're about to get close to a real kidnapping.

Let this missing the end of the movie be a lesson to you, Charley me boy.

Now you're working. Lay off the booze.

Except maybe for a glass or two of wine. Breakfast was nice, too: grapefruit juice that tasted like freshly squeezed, a mushroom omelet, and hard-crusted rolls served with large pats of unsalted butter.

He remembered Don Fernando-Grandpa-saying, "The only thing the Argentines do well consistently is eat."

Five minutes after a stewardess served a second cup of coffee, Castillo sensed that the pilot had retarded the throttles a tad, and two minutes after that a steward announced-in Spanish, English, and German, which Herr Gossinger thought was a nice touch-that they were beginning their approach to Buenos Aires, where the local time was five-thirty and the temperature was three degrees Celsius.

I really am going to freeze my ass in this seersucker. As the 767 taxied up to the terminal, another 767 caught his eye. It was parked on the tarmac, not at one of the terminal's airways. The legend painted in Arabic and English on its glistening white fuselage read "Pan Arabic."

Good ol' Alex Pevsner told me one of the reasons he hadn't stolen that 727 was that he didn't need an old airplane. And then he had added, "I just bought a nearly new 767 from an airline that went belly up in Argentina."

I wonder if that's it.

Probably not. But you never know with Pevsner. Castillo was the third person to get off the 767-after a portly housewife towing a howling five-year-old-and when he rolled his bags into the terminal, he thought for a moment that he had inadvertently gone through a door that should have been locked.

He hadn't. He was in a duty-free store, and a young woman-Jesus, I like that; long legs, dark eyes, and a splendid bosom-handed him a flyer announcing both that day's bargains and that he could take three hundred U.S. dollars' worth of goods duty-free into Argentina in addition to what was already permitted.

The duty-free store people have solved their problem of getting travelers into their emporium by making it impossible to get to Immigration and Customs without passing through the store; they've built it on both sides of the corridor.

Clever.

But screw them. I don't need anything.

When he got to the Immigration window, a large bag containing a double-box of Famous Grouse scotch, a half-pound bag of M amp;M's, and two eight-ounce cans of cashews was hanging from the handle of the wheeled briefcase.

My intentions were noble. I thought I would see if they had any of Abuela's Reserva San Juan Extra Anejo, so that I would be sure to remember to bring her some. They didn't, but they did have a damned good price on the Famous Grouse. And the cashews and M amp;M's were certainly a hell of a lot cheaper than the ten-bucks-a-can cashews and five-dollar one-ounce packages of nuts Hyatt offers in their minibars.

You're rationalizing again, Charley. The truth is you have no strength of character. If the duty-free-store spending spree isn't enough proof of that, note the way you lusted after the senorita passing out the flyers. You promised yourself you would be faithful to your Secret Service trainee-is that what they're calling her? Maybe cadet?-Betty Schneider, even though she professes not to want to get to know you better than she does now, which is to say, hardly at all. And absolutely not at all in the biblical sense. "And are you in Argentina on business or pleasure, Senor Gossinger?"

"Business and pleasure."

"What's the nature of your business?"

"I'm a journalist, here on a story."

"You understand that as a journalist, you will have to register with the Ministry of Information?"

"I'm only going to be here for a few days. Just to do a story on the survivors of the Graf Spee."

"The law is the law, senor."

This guy never heard of the Graf Spee.

"I certainly understand, and I'll register just as soon as I can. Probably later today."

That was pretty stupid, Inspector Clouseau. You didn't have to tell him you were a journalist. You could have told him you were a used-car salesman on vacation.

How come James Bond never gets asked what he's doing when he goes through Immigration?

Customs didn't give him any trouble. The customs officers pushed a button for each traveler, which randomly flashed a red and a green light. If it came up red, your bags went through the X-ray machine. If it came up green, they waved you through. Castillo won the push of the button.

He pushed through the doors to the arrival lobby.

There was a stocky man holding a crudely lettered sign with GOSSINGER on it.

"My name is Gossinger."

A balding, short, heavyset man in his forties standing next to the man with the sign put out his hand.

"Mr. Gossinger, my name is Santini. Mr. Isaacson asked me to meet you. Welcome to Argentina."

Castillo picked up on the "Mr. Isaacson." Not Joel. Not Agent. And responded accordingly.

"That was very kind of him. And kind of you. How do you do?"

"Some of the taxi drivers here at the airport tend to take advantage of unwary visitors."

"That happens at a lot of airports," Charley replied. "La Guardia comes immediately to mind."

Santini smiled, and then said: "We have a remise- you know what a remise is?"

Charley nodded.

"… with an honest driver," Santini finished, then gestured toward the doors. "Shall we go?"

When the man with the sign got two steps ahead of him, Santini quickly gestured-his index finger across his lips-for Castillo to say nothing important in the presence of the driver. Castillo quickly nodded his head.

They stood for a couple of minutes on the curb while the driver went for the car. Santini didn't say a word. Castillo, feeling colder by the second in his summer suit, silently hoped the driver hurried.

The car was a large, black Volkswagen with heavily tinted glass. As the driver bent to put Castillo's luggage in the trunk, Castillo saw that he had a pistol-it looked like a Beretta 9mm-in a belt holster.

Santini opened the rear door and motioned for Castillo to get in. When he had, Santini slid in beside him. When the driver got behind the wheel, Santini asked, "You don't speak Spanish, do you?"

Castillo asked with a raised eyebrow how he should reply. Santini, just perceptibly, shook his head.

"I'm afraid not," Castillo said.

"Pity," Santini said. "Mr. Isaacson didn't say where you would be staying."

"The Hyatt."

"It's now the Four Seasons, formerly Hyatt Park. They sold it."

"I guess nobody told my travel agent," Castillo said.

"You heard that, Antonio?" Santini asked. "The Four Seasons?"

"Si, senor."

The Volkswagen started off. It was a thirty-minute drive from the airport to the hotel. First down the crowded but nonetheless high-speed autopista toll road, and then onto Avenida 9 Julio, which Castillo remembered was supposed to be the widest avenue in the world.

As they came close to the Four Seasons, formerly Hyatt Park, Castillo saw that it was next to the French embassy, an enormous turn-of-the-century mansion. He'd forgotten that.