W. Griffin - The Hostage

This is obviously a double-gated community, a gated community within a gated community, as opposed to a double-gaited community, which is one whose inhabitants are a little vague about their sexual preferences.

He saw first a Bell Ranger helicopter sitting on what looked like a putting green, and then the house, an English-looking near mansion of red brick with casement windows. As they approached, the main door of the house opened and a tall man who appeared to be in his late thirties walked out and down a shallow flight of steps to the cobblestone driveway.

Aleksandr Pevsner-also known as Vasily Respin and Alex Dondiemo and a half dozen other names, an international dealer in arms and, it was often and credibly alleged, head of at least a dozen other enterprises of very questionable legality, and for whom arrest warrants had been issued at one time or another by at least thirteen governments-was wearing gray flannel slacks, a white button-down shirt (in the open neck of which, in the Argentine manner, was a silk scarf held in place by a sterling silver ring), a powder blue pullover sweater, and highly polished brown shoes with thick rubber cushion soles.

He folded his arms over his chest, smiled, and waited for the Mercedes to stop and for Frederic to quickly run around the front of the car to open the rear door.

"Ah, Charley," Pevsner called in Russian as Castillo got out. "Thank you for coming. It's a delight to see you."

"Frankly, I didn't think much of the first invitation, Alex," Castillo replied, also in Russian, offering Pevsner his hand.

"For which I have already apologized, and will apologize again now, if you wish."

"Once is enough, Alex," Castillo said, adding, "Nice house."

Pevsner broke the handshake and put his hands firmly on Castillo's upper arms and looked into his eyes. Pevsner's eyes were large and blue and extraordinarily bright. The first time Charley had met him, he had unkindly wondered if Pevsner had been inhaling controlled substances through his nose.

"I must ask you two questions, my friend," Pevsner said. "In a moment, you will understand why."

"Ask."

"What are you doing in Argentina? Why are you here?"

This is one of those times when telling the truth and only the truth is the smart thing to do. Charley immediately answered, "The wife of the chief of mission at our embassy here has disappeared under circumstances which look like kidnapping. The President sent me down here to see what's going on."

Castillo saw that his answer surprised Pevsner, but he didn't pursue it directly.

"Your being here has nothing to do with me?"

Castillo shook his head.

"Not a thing. I had no idea you-or Howard-were anywhere near Argentina."

Pevsner looked into Castillo's eyes for a long moment.

Alex, I don't care how long you look for signs of me lying. You won't find any. And if I have any luck at all, you won't see signs indicating that I'm more than a little afraid of you.

Pevsner finally squeezed Castillo's arms in a friendly gesture and let him go.

"Thank you for your honesty, my friend," he said. "Now, why don't we go in the house, have a glass of wine, and let me introduce you to my family?"

"Your family?" Castillo blurted.

"Yes. My family. My wife and children."

I'll be goddamned! Well, that explains all the concern. But what the hell are they doing here? Castillo, after meeting Aleksandr Pevsner for the first time in Vienna, had reported to Secretary of Homeland Security Matt Hall that Pevsner had told him the missing 727 had been stolen by Somalian terrorists who intended to crash it into the Liberty Bell. Pevsner had said he would do whatever he could to help locate it because he was against Muslim terrorists for many reasons, the primary one being he was a family man who adored his wife and three children. He didn't want them hurt by Muslim fanatics. Pevsner had then produced a photograph of him with what he said was his family: a very attractive blond wife and three blond children who looked straight from a Clairol advertisement. Castillo knew it sounded incredible, and that Hall was going to have a hard time believing any of it.

He was not prepared, however, for the look of unabashed incredulity on Hall's face-and on Joel Isaacson's and Tom McGuire's. Clearly, they not only believed zero, zilch, nada of what he was telling them, but were also-worse-now questioning his reputation as a hard-ass special operator for wasting his and their time relating it.

"Charley, I've seen his dossier," Isaacson said. "It's this thick." He held his hands eighteen inches apart. "There's a lot in there about murder, extortion, bribery, smuggling, arms-dealing, you name it, but not one line about his being a devoted husband and loving daddy."

"I believed him," Castillo had replied.

"About what part?" Hall asked.

"Most of it," Charley said. "The family photograph looked too cozy not to have been staged."

"You actually think the airplane was stolen by Somalians? Who plan to crash it into the Liberty Bell? Because of what this international thug told you?" Hall asked, more sadly than angrily.

"Sir, you told me that one of the major problems in intelligence is with people at my level telling their superiors what they think the superiors want to hear, instead of what they believe. What I told you just now is what I believe."

"That wasn't me who told you that," Hall said after a long pause. "That was the President."

"Charley, do you know how close you came to having this guy take you out?" Joel Isaacson asked.

"Yeah, I do, Joel. He said he was glad he didn't have to give me an 'Indian beauty spot'-a small-caliber bullet in the forehead-and I believed that, too." [FOUR] Pevsner led Castillo into the house, through a two-story entrance foyer to a sitting room. With the exception of what was probably an antique samovar sitting on a table, the furnishings of the sitting room gave it a British feeling. Two walls were lined with books and oil paintings, and there was a red-leather couch with matching armchairs.

The windows offered a view of a large swimming pool under a curved plastic roof, something like a Quonset hut. Vapor rose from the pool.

Well, they don't have many heated swimming pools in Merry Old England, but this place still feels English.

A middle-aged woman in a maid's uniform came into the sitting room from a side door as the three men entered.

"Would you please ask Madam Pevsner if it is convenient for her and the children to join us?" Pevsner ordered in Russian.

The woman, unsmiling, nodded but didn't say anything. She left the sitting room by the door Pevsner, Kennedy, and Castillo had come in.

"Howard, see if you can find someone in the kitchen who can bring wine, and so forth," Pevsner ordered in English.

"Red, right, Charley?" Kennedy asked. "A cabernet?"

"Please," Castillo said, as he walked to the samovar for a closer look. He had just decided that it was a bona fide antique Russian kettle when Pevsner said in Russian, "Ah, Anna, come and welcome Charley to our home!"

Castillo turned and saw the wife and kiddies from the Clairol commercial walking into the room. They were all almost startlingly blond and fair-skinned. The mother looked to be in her late twenties, but Charley decided she had to be older than that to be the mother of the girl, who was thirteen or fourteen. There were two boys, one who Charley guessed was ten or so, and another about six. Everyone was wearing a thick white terry cloth robe.

Madam Pevsner smiled and put out her hand to Castillo and said in Russian, "I'm happy to meet you. My husband has told me so much about you."

The maid was now in the room.

"Olga, would you bring some wine?" Madam Pevsner ordered, and the maid walked to what was apparently the kitchen door.