W. Griffin - The Hostage

Kennedy touched his arm and handed him something. It looked like a black velvet bag.

"What's this?"

"It's a velvet bag," Kennedy said. "It goes over your head."

Now I know why I felt menaced. They call it "intuition."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Not at all. You know my boss. He pays a good deal of consideration to his privacy."

"Fuck you, Howard, and fuck your boss!" Castillo said evenly. Then he raised his voice for the benefit of Frederic. "Stop the car!"

"Jesus Christ, Charley, there's nothing personal in this!"

"Stop the car before I have to hurt you, Howard."

"Take us back to the restaurant," Kennedy ordered in German, and then added, to Castillo, "You know he's not going to like this."

"Make sure you tell him I said, 'Go fuck yourself, Alex.' Now stop the goddamn car."

Kennedy hesitated a moment, then ordered Frederic to pull to the curb.

Castillo got out, slammed the door, and started to walk toward Avenida Libertador. He heard the Mercedes drive off.

It was a three-block-long walk to Libertador, and he was half a block away when he saw the Mercedes. It was stopped at the curb, facing him, and Kennedy was standing on the sidewalk beside it. He was holding something in his left hand.

I don't think he's stupid enough to pull a gun and force me into the car, but there's no telling.

When Castillo got closer, he saw that what Kennedy had in his hand was a cell phone.

"You have a call, Herr Gossinger," Kennedy said jokingly. He was wearing an uncomfortable smile.

"If Frederic looks like he's even thinking of getting out of the car, you're going to either the hospital or the morgue," Castillo said.

Kennedy handed Castillo the telephone, and then took three steps backward and raised his open hands to show he had no intention of doing anything.

Castillo, maintaining eye contact, said into the phone, "Hello?"

"If Howard offended you in any way, my friend," Alex Pevsner said in Russian, "you have my apology."

"Howard was doing what you told him to do. And don't call me your friend," Castillo replied in Russian. "Where I come from, friends trust friends; friends don't ask friends to put bags over their heads."

"When you get here, my friend, you will understand why I was trying to be a little more cautious than I usuallyam. And you will understand that I really consider you a trustworthy friend."

"Why should I go anywhere?"

"Because I am asking you as a friend."

"I don't want to have to hurt Howard."

"There will be no need to even consider something like that. Please give me just a few hours of your time."

Whatever this is about, it's important to him. He doesn't ask people to do things; he tells them, and, it is credibly alleged, has them killed if they don't do what he says.

"Okay," Castillo said, after a just perceptible hesitation.

"Thank you, Charley," Pevsner said, and there was a click as the connection was broken.

Castillo looked at Kennedy and then tossed the phone to him.

"Get in the car, Howard, and put the bag over your head," Castillo said.

He took pity on Kennedy when he saw the look on his face.

"Just pulling your chain, Howard." [THREE] Their route took them through the residential district of San Isidro, and then past a long line of interesting-looking restaurants facing the San Isidro Jockey Club. He thought he more or less knew where he was. His grandfather had taken him and Charley's cousin Fernando here a half dozen or more times when they were in high school.

Then quickly they were on a wide superhighway-six lanes in each direction-and although this was new to him, Castillo was pretty sure that it was the old Pan Americana Highway. The Argentines had been expanding it for years, and they had apparently finally finished what they called an autopista.

After six or seven kilometers at what Castillo decided was at least twenty klicks above the posted 130-kilometers-per-hour speed limit-meaning they were going ninety-plus miles per hour-the road split, and Frederic took the left fork. Signs said that the right fork was the highway to Uruguay and that they were now headed for Pilar.

They went through a tollbooth without stopping, just slowing enough for a machine to read a device that opened the barrier, and then Frederic quickly accelerated back to their way-above-the-speed-limit velocity.

On the left was a large factory, a long rectangular building three stories high and three hundred meters long, connected to four enormous round concrete silos with a rat's nest of conveyors.

LUCCETTI, LA PASTA DE MAMA was lettered in thirty-foot-tall letters across the silos.

Castillo chuckled. Kennedy looked at him.

"Mama's family obviously eats a lot of pasta," Charley said.

Kennedy smiled and said, "There are more Italians here than Spanish."

The autopista here was narrower-three lanes in each direction-but the speed limit was still 130 kph, and Frederic was still driving much faster than that.

Outside the autopista fence there were now large, attractive restaurants and what looked like recently constructed showrooms for Audi, BMW, and other European and Japanese automobiles. Charley saw only a Ford showroom to represent American manufacturers, and wondered idly where Mercedes-Benz had their showroom.

He had been out this way as a kid, too, but then there had been only a two-lane highway leading from Buenos Aires to the estancias in the country.

The area around Pilar was obviously now an upscale residential area-somebody had to be buying the Audis and BMWs-but there were no houses visible from the highway, just businesses catering to people with money.

Frederic took an exit ramp off the highway, and there was the missing Mercedes showroom, a typically elegant affair across the road from a large shopping center anchored by a Jumbo supermarket.

And then they were in the country again.

Three klicks or so down a two-lane highway-which slowed Frederic down to no more than, say, sixty-five or seventy mph-the car braked suddenly and turned off the road and slowed as they approached a two-story red-tiled-roof gatehouse.

A sign carved from wood read BUENA VISTA COUNTRY CLUB.

There were four uniformed guards at the gatehouse, two of whom looked into the Mercedes carefully before a heavy, red-and-white steel barrier pole was raised. All the guards were armed, and inside the gatehouse Charley saw a rack holding a half-dozen riot guns. They looked like American Ithaca pump shotguns.

Now this, Castillo thought, is what you call a "gated community."

Once inside the property, there were signs announcing a thirty-kph speed limit, and these were reinforced with speed bumps on the macadam road every two hundred meters or so. Frederic now obeyed the speed limit.

And then, far enough into the property so they would not be visible from the road outside, the first houses came into view.

The Mercedes rolled slowly down a curving road past long rows of upscale houses set on well-manicured hectare lots. There were no barred windows, as there had been on the upscale houses in San Isidro. They passed a polo field-lined with the same quality houses-and then another, and then came to several greens and then the clubhouse of a well-maintained golf course. There were thirty or so cars in the parking lot.

And then more houses on the winding road. The houses and the lots in this area were larger. Some- perhaps most-of them were ringed with shrubbery, tall enough so that only the upper floors of the houses were visible. Castillo saw that the shrubbery also concealed fences.

Frederic turned off the road and stopped before a ten-foot-high gate. After a moment, the gate rolled open to the right. Charley saw a workman at what was probably the gate control. He had a pistol under his loose denim jacket. Once they were inside, Charley saw a man in a golf cart rolling along the perimeter of the property. There was a golf bag mounted on the cart that did not completely conceal the butt stock of a shotgun.