W. Griffin - The Hostage

"You can go to hell, Matt," Mrs. Hall said.

"I think sending him down there was one of my better ideas," the President said, and then added, "As was leaving him with Matt."

"Excuse me?" the first lady asked.

"When he got that airplane back, my first thought was to bring him into the White House. Then I realized that wouldn't be smart. Can you imagine what pressure would be on him if he worked here? Everybody in this building would be trying to (a) control him, and (b) keep him off my phone and out of the Oval Office. Having him working for Matt fixes all of that." [SEVEN] Room 1550 The Four Seasons Hotel Cerrito 1433 Buenos Aires, Argentina 0625 23 July 2005 Castillo had left a call for seven-which would give him two hours to get dressed, have breakfast, and get to the embassy by half past nine-and when he glanced at his watch as he reached for the ringing telephone and saw what time it was, he felt a chill. It was too much to hope this call was going to be good news.

"?Hola?"

"Castillo?" It was Darby's voice, not at all charming.

"Yes."

"You didn't answer your cellular," Darby accused.

"What's up?"

"There will be a car waiting for you by the time you can get downstairs."

"What's up?"

"Well, I'll tell you it's not good news," Darby said, and hung up.

V

[ONE] Avenida Tomas Edison Buenos Aires, Argentina 0640 23 July 2005 There had been a small gray Alfa Romeo-as far as Castillo could tell, they were identical to Fiats, except for the nameplates-with Argentine civilian license plates waiting on the drive outside the Four Seasons hotel when Castillo pushed through the revolving door.

As Castillo looked at it, wondering if it was meant for him, the driver pushed open the passenger door. "Senor Castillo?"

Castillo walked quickly to the car and got in. The car took off with a squeal of its tires before Castillo had time to fasten the seat belt.

"You speak Spanish, Mr. Castillo?" the driver asked in American English.

Castillo took a good look at him. He was an olive-skinned, dark-haired man in his thirties in a business suit who could, Castillo decided, easily pass for a porteno, a native of Buenos Aires.

"Si," Castillo said.

"Say hello to Colonel Alfredo Munz of SIDE," the driver said, in fluent porteno Spanish.

The windows of the Alfa Romeo were heavily darkened; Castillo had not seen anyone in the backseat. He turned on his seat and saw a stocky blond man in his forties. Castillo put out his hand.

"Mucho gusto, mi coronel."

Munz's grip was firm.

"Mucho gusto," he replied, adding, "Senor Darby has told me about you, senor."

I wonder what he told you?

The car was now passing the French embassy, its horn blowing steadily in short beeps. The driver ran the red light and nearly got clipped by a Fiat delivery truck going up Avenida 9 Julio. The Alfa Romeo made a squealing left turn onto 9 Julio, and then raced down the autopista in the extreme right lane, reserved for emergency vehicles.

"What's happened?" Castillo asked. "Where are we going?"

"The cocksuckers shot Masterson," the driver said.

What did he say? They shot her? Oh, Jesus H. Christ!

But that sounded as if he meant him.

"Mrs. Masterson, you mean?"

"No. Masterson."

What the hell?

"I thought Darby had somebody sitting on him."

"Yeah, he did. Me. I fucked up big time."

They came to a row of tollbooths. Without slowing, still blowing the horn, the driver went through the right lane, despite the furious arm-waving of a policeman who saw him coming. The policeman jumped out of the way at the last minute and reached for his pistol.

"SIDE! SIDE! SIDE!" Colonel Munz shouted out his open window.

Christ, I hope that cop believes him!

There was no shot.

At least none that I can hear.

They came to a T in the road. Running another red light, the driver turned left, dodging between two enormous over-the-road tractor-trailers and then rapidly accelerating.

Castillo saw they were now on Avenida Presidente Castillo.

This is not a very elegant street to be named after a Castillo, El Presidente, or even one from San Antonio.

It was apparently the main route to the docks, and the roadway showed the effects of heavy-most probably grossly overloaded-trucks. The Alfa bottomed out every thirty seconds or so.

It was too noisy in the car to ask questions, and it would not have been wise to distract the driver's attention from the traffic.

Avenida Presidente Castillo took a bend to the left, then came to a stop sign, which the driver ignored, which almost saw them hit head-on by an enormous Scania tractor pulling a trailer with two containers on it.

Then another left, and another, and Castillo saw they were now on Avenida Tomas Edison. This was even rougher looking than Avenida Presidente Castillo. It was a two-lane road where the macadam had been mostly worn away from the cobblestones it had at one time covered. On their left were deserted warehouses, and on their right a decrepit port area, lined with rusting, derelict, and half-sunk riverboats.

And then there was a sea of flashing red-and-blue lights.

Four Policia Federal stood in the middle of the street, all of them with their hands up to stop them. Castillo saw a half dozen other cops taking barriers from the back of a truck.

The driver slammed on the brakes, slowing but not stopping.

Colonel Munz was now halfway out the rear window, waving his credentials and shouting, "SIDE! SIDE! SIDE!"

The policemen got out of the way; two of them saluted.

Fifty meters farther down the street an enormous- and enormously confident-Policia Federal sergeant held up his hand in casual arrogance to stop them.

The arrogance disappeared immediately when he recognized Munz.

"In there, mi coronel," he said, pointing to the shell of a deserted warehouse, the entire front of which was open, another thirty meters distant.

There were three police cars: one Policia Federal; a second from the Naval Prefecture, which has police power in the port; and a third from the Gendarmeria National. There were several unmarked cars, with flashing blue lights on their dashboards, and two ambulances, one from the German Hospital, the second from the Naval Prefecture.

Fifty yards past them, a huge tractor-trailer with a single,enormous container on it was stopped in the middle of the road, its stop and parking lights flashing.

When the driver slammed the brakes on and the Alfa Romeo screeched to a stop before the deserted warehouse, Castillo could see a taxicab parked nose-in against the rear wall of the building. There was a knot of seven or eight men, most of them in uniforms carrying the symbols of senior police officers, between the taxi and the front of the building.

Munz erupted from the backseat of the Alfa and marched purposefully toward them. Castillo and the driver got out and followed. The knot of police all turned to face him. Several of the senior police officers saluted.

"I sent word that nothing was to be touched until I got here," Munz announced. "I presume nothing has?"

"Mi coronel," a man in a navy uniform with the sleeve stripes of a commander said, "one of my men was first on the scene. Aside from reaching into the victim's pockets looking for identification, he touched nothing else."

"Looking into his pockets to see if he had any money is more like it," the driver of the Alfa Romeo said softly, behind his hand, to Castillo.

One of the senior police officers said something to Munz that Castillo couldn't hear.

Colonel Munz's eyebrows went up in surprise.

"Where is he?" Munz demanded.

The Navy officer indicated a man in a khaki uniform standing uncomfortably near the street.

"Get him over here," Munz ordered. He pointed to a spot on the ground.