W. Griffin - The Hostage

The embassy sat a block away, overlooking a park, behind both a steel picket fence and a half circle of highway-divider concrete barricades. It was unquestionably American, he thought somewhat unpatriotically.

Another building-the embassies in London and Montevideo come to mind-built to the pattern that should have won the architect the opposite of the Pritzker Prize: one for designing the Ugliest Office Buildings of the Century.

The only thing that keeps people from confusing that drab concrete oblong with a misplaced airport warehouse is that the gray walls are perforated with neat rows of square inset windows.

There are probably a thousand roadside Marriott or Hilton motels that are better-looking and look American. Why the hell couldn't they have used brick, and thrown in a couple of columns? Made it look a little like Monticello, or even the White House?

The intensity of his reaction surprised him.

Why am I pissed?

Fatigue? Hangover?

Being sent down here to do something I have no idea how to do?

Maybe that. Okay, certainly that. But really, it's Howard Kennedy.

What the hell is he doing here? It's no coincidence. Or is it?

I don't know-have no way of knowing-and that disturbs me.

And why is he absolutely unable to believe that I have no intention of flipping him to the FBI? Goddammit, by now he should know he can trust me. Which of course makes me unable to trust him…

"The entrance is way down on the left," Kennedy said. "And it looks like there's a line of people ahead of you."

"Probably people applying for visas," Castillo replied. "There's supposed to be an employee entrance on the right. Just drop me anywhere along here."

A moment later the Mercedes pulled to the curb. Charley saw the man in the front jump out to open the door for him. He turned to Kennedy and offered his hand.

"Thanks, Howard," he said.

"I have every confidence you're not going to tell the legal attache how you got here."

"Oh, goddammit, Howard! I told you, there's no FBI here."

"So you said."

"Fuck you, Howard."

"Hey, Charley, I'm just pulling your chain."

"No, you're not."

"Let's try to have a drink and/or dinner," Kennedy said.

"Yeah. Give me a call."

He got out of the Mercedes and walked quickly across the street. There was a gap wide enough to walk through between the wedges of the concrete barrier. Once through that, he could see a gate, with a guard shack and a revolving barrier, in the steel picket fence.

There were three men in the guard shack, wearing police-style uniforms with embroidered patches of some security service on the sleeves. What looked like Smith amp; Wesson.357 Magnum revolvers hung in open holsters from Sam Browne belts.

He extended the leather folder holding his Secret Service credentials to one of the guards.

"I'm here to see Mr. Santini," he said in English.

"This gate is for embassy personnel only," the security guard said, more than a little arrogantly, and pointed to the far side of the embassy.

You sonofabitch, you didn't even look at my credentials!

An Argentine rent-a-cop is denying a Secret Service agent access to an American embassy? No fucking way!

"You get on that goddamn telephone and tell the Marine guard that a United States Secret Service officer is here at the gate," Castillo snapped, in Spanish.

Looking a little surprised at the fluent Spanish, as well as the tone, the guard gestured for Castillo to show him his credentials again. Another security guard picked up the telephone.

Castillo turned his back on them.

That little display of anger was uncalled for. What the hell is the matter with me?

But on the other hand, I think that would have been the reaction of a bona fide Secret Service agent. Maybe not Joel, but Tom McGuire certainly would not put up with any crap from a rent-a-cop.

He saw the Mercedes had not moved.

Trying to see if I'm really going in, are you, Howard?

No. What you're trying to do is see whether I am immediately passed in, which would mean I'm known here, or whether I'm being subjected to this rent-a-cop bullshit because they don't know me.

He smiled and waved cheerfully, and the Mercedes started to move.

"If you will come with me, please, senor?" the rent-a-cop who had been on the telephone said in English.

Castillo turned and saw that the revolving barrier was moving. He went through it, and the security cop was waiting for him.

"Do you have a cellular telephone or other electronic device, sir?"

"I have a cellular," Castillo said in Spanish.

"You'll have to leave it with me, sir. It will be returned when you leave."

"We will talk to the Marine guard about that," Castillo snapped in Spanish, and started walking to the embassy building.

After a moment's hesitation, the security guard walked after him.

There were maybe fifteen people standing outside the glass entrance walls. They were all smoking.

I doubt the you-can't-smoke-in-a-U.S.-government-building zealots have ever wondered how much time is lost by all these people taking a smoke break. What's that cost the taxpayer?

Okay, Charley. Tantrum time is over. Be nice.

Inside the lobby there was a row of chrome-and-leather benches-like the seats in an airport-against the wall, portraits of the President, the Vice President, and the secretary of state on the walls, and, behind a glass-walled counter, a Marine guard-a sergeant-wearing a khaki shirt, dress blue trousers, and a white Sam Browne belt.

"May I help you, sir?" the Marine guard asked.

Charley handed him the credentials folder, which the sergeant examined carefully.

"I'm here to see Mr. Santini."

"He has a cellular," the security guard accused.

The sergeant picked up a telephone and punched a button.

"Sergeant Volkmann at Post One," he said. "There's a Mr. Castillo to see you, sir." There was a pause, and then the sergeant said, "Yes, sir," and looked at Castillo.

"Mr. Santini will be right down, sir," the Marine sergeant said. "Please have a seat."

He pointed to the benches.

"He has a cellular," the security guard said again.

"Excuse me, sir," the Marine sergeant said.

Castillo looked at him.

"Are you armed, sir?" the Marine sergeant asked, pointing to a metal-detector arch in front of the door leading inside.

Castillo shook his head.

"Thank you, sir."

Castillo sat down on one of the benches.

The secretary of state, unsmiling, looked down at him from the wall.

Natalie, I really wish you had been able to talk the President out of sending me down here.

The security guard flashed Castillo a dirty look as he walked out of the lobby.

Santini came through the metal detector arch a minute later.

"Good morning, sir," he said, putting out his hand. "I just learned that you were coming."

"How are you, Santini?" Castillo said as he shook the hand.

Santini turned to the Marine guard.

"Can I get Supervisory Special Agent Castillo a frequent visitor badge, or am I going to have to run that through Lowery?"

"Sorry, sir," the Marine said. "Mr. Lowery runs a tight ship."

"Well, then, give him a regular visitor badge."

"Yes, sir. I'll have to have his passport, Mr. Santini."

"Jesus Christ!" Castillo said, and then smiled at the sergeant as he handed him his passport. "Sergeant, that 'Jesus Christ' was directed at whoever made a dumb rule, not you."

"No problem, sir," the Marine said, with a hint of a smile.

He handed Castillo a plastic yellow visitor's pass on what looked like a dog tag chain, and pushed a clipboard to him.

"If you'll sign that, please, sir."

"And if you'll follow me, sir," Santini said, "we'll see if we can't straighten this out with Mr. Lowery."