W. Griffin - The Hostage

"I hope Joel told you I wasn't sent here because I was the best-qualified man all around to conduct an undercover kidnapping investigation."

"Joel said you had two skills: you were one hell of a swordsman and pretty good about stealing stolen air-liners back from the bad guys."

"He didn't mention my poker playing?"

"No," Santini said, smiling. "But figure that out. If he told me that, he would be admitting you took him."

"Joel has one flaw in his character," Charley said. "He actually thinks he can play poker."

"He also thinks he can actually play gin," Santini said. "When we were on the presidential detail, waiting, we got to play a hell of a lot of gin. I took a lot of his money."

They smiled at each other.

"But we digress, Herr Gossinger," Santini said. "We were talking about my little suggestion."

"Let's hear it."

"If, say," Santini began, "a fellow Secret Service agent just happened to be passing through Buenos Aires, and checked in with me at the embassy, and he and I just happened to bump into Ken Lowery, and I told Lowery, 'I was just telling Agent Whatsisname here about Mrs. Masterson,' Lowery would understand that-he's always making reference to 'we federal agents' as if he were one-and would probably stumble over his tongue to tell you how he's dealing with the problem."

"Am I detecting you don't think too much of this guy's ability as an investigator?"

"He's a good guy, like I said, but how many times do you think he's had a chance to investigate anything more serious than some dip diddling another dip's wife? Such conduct being detrimental to the foreign service of the United States."

Castillo chuckled, then asked, "What would happen to you if they found out you'd set this up? And they probably would, sooner or later."

"Maybe they would send me home in disgrace," Santini said. "And I could go back to being a real Secret Service agent. Coming down here wasn't my idea. Or maybe you could have told me, as the Presidential Agent, what you were doing and ordered me to keep my mouth shut."

"Consider yourself so ordered," Castillo said. "But I have to tell you the last time I did that-to a guy who had some information I needed-the DCI wasn't impressed and relieved him for cause. He finally wound up with a letter of commendation from the President, but he had a very uncomfortable couple of days before that happened."

"What'll happen will happen," Santini said.

"How come they sent you down here?"

"I hurt myself, and was placed on limited duty, so they sent me down here to look for funny money."

"How'd you hurt yourself?"

"Joel didn't tell you?"

Castillo shook his head.

"If you laugh, I'll break both your arms," Santini said, conversationally. "I fell off the Vice President's limo bumper, and the trailing Yukon ran over my foot."

"I won't laugh, but can I smile broadly?"

"Fuck you, Herr Gossinger," Santini said, smiling.

"What would another Secret Service agent be doing, passing through Argentina?"

"Any one of fifty things, it happens all the time, at least once a month. Usually, it's a supervisory special agent bitching about my expenses; crap like that. The only problem I can see would be if somebody asked you to prove who you were."

"Wait one," Charley said.

Less than two minutes later, he handed his Secret Service credentials to Santini.

"Hall got you these?" he asked when he'd examined them.

Castillo shook his head.

"Joel went to Hall and got them for me."

"These would work, I think. Your call."

"It looks to me like a winner," Castillo said. "Thanks, Tony."

Santini made a deprecating gesture.

"The dips don't go to work until nine," he said. "So why don't you get yourself settled, and then about nine, take a taxi to the embassy?"

"Okay."

"Facing the embassy, to the right is the gate for employees. Use that one. The guards are Argentines. Flash the tin at one of them, and they'll escort you into the building, to Post One, where there's a Marine guard. Flash the tin at him, tell him you want to see me. I will appear and profess surprise at seeing Supervisory Special Agent Castillo, and get you a visitor's badge. Then we will arrange to bump into Lowery."

"Sounds good. A taxi? Not a remise?"

"A taxi to the embassy. There's no sense in letting SIDE know you went right from your hotel to the embassy."

Castillo asked for an explanation with a raised eyebrow.

"For a little background," Santini said, "the drivers of Palermo Remise are off-duty cops. That means they can carry guns. That's useful; there's a lot of bad guys here. The problem is I suspect the off-duty cops they send me are SIDE agents. If my cynicism is on the money, I've worked out an unspoken agreement with SIDE. I use their remises, the drivers report to SIDE where I go, and who I talk to. That way they don't have to put a tail on me. I just don't talk business in a remise."

"Understood," Castillo said.

"But generally-unless you don't want SIDE to know where you're going-Palermo Remise is a good idea," Santini said, and handed him a business card. "It never takes them much longer than ten minutes to pick you up, no matter where you are. They use cellulars."

Castillo nodded.

"Thanks, Tony."

Santini handed him a Motorola cellular telephone and a charger. Again, Castillo asked about it with a raised eyebrow.

"My personal cell number is Auto Four," Santini said. "My personal-unlisted-number is Five, and my office is Six. I've got a good Argentine administrative assistant, Daniel. As far as I know, he's not working for SIDE."

Castillo nodded his understanding.

"You can call the States with that, but it's about nine dollars a second, so don't spend hours chatting up your girlfriend."

"Who pays the bills for this? The Secret Service or the embassy?"

"The Secret Service. Which means me. Which means, I guess, Supervisory Agent Castillo, you can talk to your girlfriend as long as you want to."

Hi there, Betty. Charley Castillo. I was just sitting here in my hotel room in Buenos Aires wondering how things are going up there in Georgia, and thought I'd give you a call.

Yeah, I know they must be keeping you pretty busy there in agent school, or whatever the hell they call it.

Sorry to bother you.

"Thanks, Tony."

Santini touched his arm.

"See you a little after nine," he said, and walked from the balcony, through the room, and out the door.

Charley took a shower. The only word to describe the bathroom was sumptuous. Except for the ceiling, everything was marble. There was both a Jacuzzi and a large shower stall, and a heated chrome rack on one wall held enough thick towels to dry an elephant.

He put on what he thought of as his "bureaucrat's uniform," a dark gray single-breasted suit with a white button-down shirt and a striped necktie.

He looked at his watch and saw that it was five minutes past eight, which meant it was five minutes past seven in Washington. Calling Joel Isaacson to thank him for Santini would have to wait. And it didn't make sense to send an e-mail. For one thing, he didn't have much to say, except what Santini had told him. Maybe after he talked to the security guy at the embassy he would know more. And if by twelve-eleven in D.C.-he didn't know more, then he would send an e-mail saying just that: Nothing yet. Working on it. Best wishes. Sherlock Holmes.

He reached for the telephone to call room service and then changed his mind. He would have coffee in the lobby. If there was nothing else to attract his attention- and he thought there was a good chance there would be; the only other place he knew where there were so many good-looking women was Budapest-he'd have a look at the Buenos Aires Herald.

He thought for a moment about what to do with Gossinger's passport and credit cards, and then put them in the padding of the laptop case. It was always awkward to be found with two sets of identification.