W. Griffin - The Hostage

Castillo picked up the telephone.

"Operator," a male voice said.

He sounds young. Probably a soldier.

"My name is Castillo. I need a verified secure line."

"Yes, sir. You have been cleared. The number, please?"

It's a little after ten-thirty here; half past nine in Washington. Hall may or may not be in the office. I'll let the switchboard find him.

Castillo gave the White House switchboard number to the operator.

"Sir, that's the White House," the operator said.

"Yeah, I know."

"Sir, you're not cleared to call the White House."

"Who has to clear me?" Castillo asked, and at the last split second added, "Sergeant."

"Either the ambassador or Mr. Masterson, sir."

Well, he took the Sergeant without any reaction. That may be helpful.

"Well, I don't want to bother Mr. Masterson, Sergeant, so I suppose you'd better get the ambassador on the horn. I need to put this call through."

"Sir, Mr. Darby has the authority to clear calls to the White House. Would he know if you're authorized?"

"Yes, he would. Give him a yell, Sergeant."

Thirty seconds later, "Commercial Attache" Darby gave the operator permission to put Mr. Castillo's call through to the White House switchboard. "White House."

"This is the U.S. Embassy, Buenos Aires," the operator said. "Would you verify the line is secure, please?"

That took about fifteen seconds.

"The line is secure," the White House operator announced.

"This is C. G. Castillo. I need to speak with Secretary Hall. I have no idea where he is."

"Oh, I think we can find him for you. Hold one." "Hall."

"I have a secure call for you, Mr. Secretary, from Mr. Castillo in Buenos Aires."

"Put Mr. Castillo through, please," Hall said. In the presidential apartment in the White House, the President looked across the table in the breakfast room at his wife, and Matt Hall's wife, and made a decision.

"Put that on the speakerphone, Matt," he ordered, "but don't tell him." "You there, Charley?"

"Yes, sir."

"We've been expecting to hear from you before this."

"Sir, there's not much to report that you probably haven't heard already."

"Well, take it from the top, Charley. You never know."

"Yes, sir. Joel's pal Tony Santini met me at the airport. Really good guy, sharp as a tack. Tony took me to the hotel, the Hyatt-which is now the Four Seasons, by the way. He told me what he knew, essentially that Mrs. Masterson was grabbed in the parking lot of a restaurant called Kansas in an upscale neighborhood called San Isidro. She was waiting for her husband, and when he didn't show went to her car and was grabbed.

"He said there had been no word from the kidnappers-this was at maybe seven this morning, and there still has been no word, as of now. Tony said the Argentines were keeping it out of the papers, so if I went there as Gossinger, they would (a) wonder how I heard about it, and (b) tell me zilch.

"So I went there as a Secret Service agent who just happened to be in town. Apparently that happens all the time. Tony introduced me to the embassy security guy, Lowery, nice guy, but a lightweight-"

"Why do you say that, Charley?" Hall interrupted.

"The way Tony Santini put it, most of his investigations have been of some diplomat fooling around with some other diplomat's wife. Nothing like this."

"Okay," Hall said.

"While I was in his office, Masterson came in. A really nice guy, and really upset. You know the story of his getting run over and-"

"Getting a fifty-million-dollar settlement? Yeah, I know it."

"The figure I heard was sixty million. Anyway, I was introduced to him as a Secret Service agent, and he asked me to go to a brainstorming session with all the players. The CIA station chief-more about him in a moment- the DEA people, and two FBI guys from Montevideo who are supposed to have some experience with kidnappings. One of them looked at me strangely. Then, and just now when I came in the commo room."

"What do you mean by that?"

"If I were paranoid, and I am, I would suspect that there's been a deniable bulletin from the J. Edgar Hoover Building telling everybody to keep an eye open for that sonofabitch Castillo."

"You really think that, Charley?"

"I can't prove it, but I got the same look from the CIA station chief, a guy named Darby-he's as sharp as a tack, too-and I know he knew who I was. Am."

"How do you know that?"

"After the brainstorming session-which came up with nothing-he offered to show me the restaurant, and when we got in his car, he told me the last time he'd seen me was in Zaranj, Afghanistan-he was station chief there-and that he'd put two and two together and concluded I was the guy involved in getting the 727 back."

"So is he going to tell the ambassador? Or anyone else?"

"For auld lang syne he said he would wait until tomorrow morning, but that he would have to tell him. About two hours ago, I told him to go ahead and tell him. I wanted to get on a secure line, rather than screw around with e-mails. So he knows. As I was coming into town, Darby relayed a very polite request from the ambassador that I come to his office at half past nine in the morning."

"What about the ambassador?"

"Both Santini and Darby think he's first class. Anyway, after having a very nice lunch in the Kansas which really made me feel guilty, I went nosing around by myself, and came up with zilch, except the possibility that the kidnappers are American. When I passed this on to Darby, he said the Argentine cops had already- 'delicately,' he said-offered this possibility. Outside this phone booth, the FBI-including Yung, the FBI guy I think has made me-is sending the names of all Americans who've come down here in the past thirty days to the NCIC."

"What about the local authorities?"

"From everything I've been able to pick up, they're really doing their best, and with the same result, zilch. So what everybody is doing is waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"And that's about it?"

"Yes, sir. I feel about as useless as teats on a boar hog. Jesus, I wish the President hadn't come up with the nutty idea that I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'd really like to help, and I'm in way over my head."

"Hold one, Charley."

"Sherlock, this is the President."

"Jesus Christ!" Castillo blurted.

"No. Just the President," the President chuckled. "And I'm glad I did, Sherlock. I could not have asked for a more succinct and comprehensive report, and I know that any report that came close to being as good as the one you just gave Secretary Hall would have taken a lot more time to reach me."

"Sir, I'm sorry-"

"No need to be, Charley. I have just one question."

"Sir?"

"What about Mr. Masterson? Is he-and their children-being protected?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Darby-he and Mr. Masterson are close-told me that he's having some of his people sit on Mr. Masterson, hopefully without his being aware that this is going on. And there's Argentine cops and SIDE people all over, too."

"Their FBI?"

"Yes, sir. Much like it. Both Mr. Santini and Mr. Darby tell me they're good at what they do."

"When you see Ambassador Silvio in the morning, you might tell him of my concern."

"Yes, sir, I will."

"Well, I guess that's it," the President said. "You're doing what I sent you down there to do, Charley, and doing it well."

"Thank you, sir."

"Mrs. Hall wants me to pass on her regards, and I'm sure my wife would like to add hers."

"Yes, sir."

"Goodnight, Charley," the President said. "Interesting guy," the President observed.

"And a very nice one," Mrs. Janice Hall said. "You could hear his concern for that poor woman and the family in his voice."

"Until she actually met him, Janice could not stand men to whom women are drawn like moths to a candle."