W. Griffin - The Hostage

They were sitting at a table in the crowded bar of the Kansas, smoking cigars with their coffee.

They had been sitting for several minutes without speaking, lost in their own thoughts, and the question came out of the blue. It took Darby a moment to come back from wherever he had been.

"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Charley, that that's not curiosity."

"I was wondering if there is a ransom demand, and he says, 'Fuck the rules, I want my wife back, I'll pay,' where would he get the money, how would he get it down here?"

"What is that line, 'Great minds run on parallel paths'?"

"Something like that."

"The answer to the first part of the question is that the IRS took their bite-at his level, right at half, countingLouisiana state income tax-out of the lost-wages part of the settlement. In other words, he got something like eight and a half million, and taxes ate half of that. The rest of the settlement was compensation for pain and suffering, et cetera. That's tax free."

"You're talking more than forty million dollars. Where is it?"

"It's more than that now. There's a guy-he and Jack went to some private high school together-in the Hibernia National Bank and Trust in New Orleans who's been managing it for him. Managing it very well."

"He's from New Orleans?"

Darby shook his head. "Just across the border in Mississippi, a place called Pass Christian, on the gulf. Betsy's from New Orleans; her father, who's a retired ambassador, lives there."

"You checked Masterson out, I guess?"

"No. He told me. I met Jack when we were both in Paris, years ago. We're close. I'm the successor executor-after his father-of his will. So he figured I should know what I was letting myself in for."

Castillo nodded and they fell silent for a moment.

"That's another problem the poor bastard has, telling Betsy's family," Darby said.

"You think he's told his?"

"I don't think he'd want to tell his father without telling Betsy's, and Betsy's father's likely to have a heart attack. Literally. He's got a really bad heart condition."

"Somebody said something about a brother-in-law?"

"Works for the UN. Jack doesn't like him."

"Why not?"

Darby shrugged. "He never told me. But it was pretty evident."

Then Darby changed the subject: "To answer your first question: What I would do if I were Jack Masterson-what I'm half afraid he's already done-is get on the phone to his money guy at Hibernia: 'Get me a million dollars, get on the next plane down here with it, and don't tell anyone.'"

"It might not be that easy," Castillo said. "Rich people don't keep much cash around, either cash-cash, or in a checking account. Even a banker would have trouble coming up with a million in cash without somebody asking some hard questions."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," Darby said.

Castillo ignored him.

"And a million dollars in hundreds takes up a lot of space. A hundred thousand right from the Federal Reserve makes a bundle about this big."

He demonstrated with his hands.

"You really live in an apartment in the Mayflower, Charley?" Darby asked.

Castillo decided to ignore that, too, but then changed his mind.

"Where'd you hear that?"

"From the same guy who told me about you and the DCI. I won't tell you who he is, but you know him. He was in Afghanistan when we were. Not to worry; he likes you."

"What else did my friend with the big mouth tell you about me?"

"That you're Texas oil money."

"I'm from Texas and I can afford to live in the Mayflower. Can we leave it at that?"

"Okay."

"There's also some sort of a law," Castillo said, "that when you take ten thousand, or more, in cash from a bank, the bank has to tell somebody. I don't know who, maybe the IRS, but somebody. And I don't know what I'm talking about here, but I think there's another law that says you have to declare it if you're taking ten thousand-maybe five thousand-in cash out of the country."

"I'll ask Tony. He'd know. Or one of those FBI guys from Montevideo. They would know…"

There was the buzzing of a cellular phone. Both men took theirs out.

"Hey, Charley," Howard Kennedy's voice came somewhat metallically over Castillo's cellular. "How's things going?"

Darby put his cellular away and looked with interest at Castillo.

"What's new, Howard?" Castillo asked.

"A mutual friend would like to see you."

"Really?"

"He's quite anxious you meet."

Why do I find that menacing?

"That's very flattering. Why?"

"I have no idea. What are you doing now? Where are you?"

"I'm drinking a cup of coffee in a restaurant in San Isidro."

"It would just take a couple of hours, Charley. Can I pick you up? What restaurant?"

"Hold one, Howard," Castillo said, and took the cellular from his ear.

Painful experience had taught him that cellular microphones were very sensitive. He hit a series of keys with his thumb to select the MUTE function, then, for insurance, raised his right buttock, shoved the cellular under, and sat on it. His buttocks was the only object he knew for sure would effectively cover the cellular's mic.

Darby had apparently come to the same conclusion, because he smiled understandingly. Castillo smiled back.

"This is a guy I really should see," Castillo explained.

"I was hoping it was Tony saying they'd heard something."

"Me, too," Castillo said. "Is there some reason you think I should go back to the embassy?"

Darby shook his head. "But I have to get back. I told Jack I'd go with him to pick up his kids at school. You'll be all right to get to your hotel?"

"I'll be fine."

Castillo lifted his rump, reclaimed the phone, and keyed UNMUTE.

"You still there, Howard?"

"What the hell was that all about?"

"I'm in the Kansas restaurant, on Libertador."

"I know where it is. I'll be there in ten, fifteen minutes. Same car. Can I get you to wait on the street?"

"Why don't you go into the parking lot? That will make it easier for the FBI."

"That's not funny, goddammit!"

"Just pulling your chain, Howard."

"Ten minutes, out in front," Kennedy said, and the connection went dead.

Darby looked at him curiously.

"Private joke," Castillo explained. "Somebody else the FBI doesn't like."

Darby nodded. "There's a lot of people like that. Why don't we put our numbers in each other's cellular?"

"If you're going to tell Lowery-or Masterson or the ambassador-what I'm doing down here, that would be a waste of time."

"Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But I'm not going to say anything tonight, and then not until I give you warning. And who knows what's liable to happen tonight?"

"Thanks," Castillo said, and handed him his cellular for Darby to punch in his number. [TWO] The black Mercedes-Benz S500 appeared in the flow of westbound traffic on Avenida Libertador, and Castillo stepped off the curb so they would see him. The car pulled to the curb and the rear door was opened from the inside. He saw Kennedy inside.

"Get in, Charley," Kennedy said.

The car started the moment Castillo had pulled the door closed.

"Gruss Gott," Castillo said, speaking the Viennese greeting in as thick an accent as he could muster.

"Gruss Gott, Herr Gossinger," Frederic replied from behind the wheel.

That's not a Viennese accent. Not even Czech. Good ol' Frederic's probably a Hungarian.

Why did I do that? Why do I care?

The Mercedes made the next left turn. They were moving through a residential area, looking much, Castillo thought, like one of the better neighborhoods of San Antonio, except that all the houses here were behind walls-some of them topped with razor wire-and almost all of them had bars on the windows.