W. Griffin: The Hostage

Masterson looked and saw a pack of demonstrators running from the embassy to the residence.

"No wonder he's taking his time getting back on the Busquebus," Darby said. "If he'd been at the embassy, he'd have had to run the gauntlet twice, once to get out of the embassy, and again to get in the residence." A hundred yards past the residence, there was no sign whatever of the howling mob at the embassy. There was a large park on their right, with joggers and people walking dogs, and rows of elegant apartment buildings on their left until they came to the railroad bridge. On the far side of the bridge they had the Army's polo fields to their left, and the racetrack, the Hipodromo, on their right. There was nothing going on at the polo fields, but the horse fanciers were already lining up for the evening's races.

Then there were more rows of tall apartment buildings on both sides of the street.

They passed under an elevated highway, which meant they were passing from the City of Buenos Aires into the Province of Buenos Aires. The City of Buenos Aires, Masterson often thought, was like the District of Columbia, and the province a state, like Maryland or Virginia.

"It looks like traffic's not so bad," Alex said.

Masterson leaned forward to look out the windshield.

They were passing a Carrefour, a French-owned supermarket chain. Masterson, who had served a tour as a junior consular officer in the Paris embassy, and thought he had learned something of the French, refused to shop there.

"You're right," Masterson said, just as the driver laid heavily on the horn.

There came a violent push to the side of the BMW, immediately followed by the sound of tearing and crushing metal. The impact threw Darby and Masterson violently against their seat belts.

There came another crash, this one from the rear, and again they felt the painful pressure of the restraints.

The driver swore in rapid-fire Spanish.

"Jesus Christ!" Masterson exploded, as he tried to sit straight in his seat.

"You all right, Jack?" Darby asked.

"Yeah, I think so," Masterson said. "Jesus Christ! Again! These goddamn crazy Argentine drivers!"

"Take it easy," Darby said, quickly scanning the situation outside their windows with the practiced eye of a spook.

Masterson tried to open the door. It wouldn't budge.

"We'll have to get out your side, Alex," he said.

"That's not going to be easy," Darby said, gesturing toward the flow of traffic on the street.

The driver got out of the car, stepped into the flow of traffic, and held up his hand like a policeman. Masterson thought idly that the driver had probably started his career as a traffic cop.

A policeman ran up. The driver snapped something at him, and the policeman took over the job of directing traffic. The driver came back to the car, and Darby and Masterson got out.

Masterson saw the pickup that had first struck them was backing away from them. It was a four-door Ford F-250 pickup with a massive set of stainless steel tubes mounted in front of the radiator. He thought first that the tubes-which were common on pickup trucks to push other vehicles out of the mud on country roads- were probably going to have a minor scratch or two and the BMW was probably going to need a new door and a new rear body panel.

Then he saw the car, a Volkswagen Golf, that had hit them from the rear. The right side of the windshield was shattered. He went quickly to the passenger door and pulled it open. A young man, well-dressed, was sitting there, looking dazed, holding his fingers to his bloody forehead.

Masterson had an unkind thought: If you didn't think seat belts were for sissies, you macho sonofabitch, your head wouldn't have tried to go through the windshield.

He waved his fingers before the man's eyes. The man looked at him with mingled curiosity and annoyance.

"Let's get you out of there, senor," Masterson said in fluent Spanish. "I think it would be better for you to lie down."

He saw that the driver was an attractive young woman-probably Senor Macho's wife; Argentine men don't let their girlfriends drive their cars for fear it will make them look unmanly-who looked dazed but didn't seem to be hurt. She was wearing her seat belt, and the airbag on the steering wheel had deployed.

"Alex," Masterson called, "get this lady out of here."

Then he pulled his cloth handkerchief from his pants pocket, pressed it to the man's bleeding forehead, and placed the man's right hand to hold it.

"Keep pressure on it," Masterson said as he helped the man out of the Volkswagen and to the curb. He got him to sit, then asked, "Need to lie down?"

"I'm all right," the man said. "Muchas gracias."

"You're sure? Nothing's broken?"

The man moved his torso as if testing for broken bones, and then smiled wanly.

Alex Darby led the young woman to the curb. She saw the man and the bloody handkerchief, sucked in her breath audibly, and dropped to her knees to comfort him.

It was an intimate moment. Masterson looked away.

The big Ford truck that had crashed into them was disappearing into the Carrefour parking lot.

The sonofabitch is running away!

Masterson shouted at the policeman directing traffic, finally caught his attention, and, pointing at the pickup, shouted that he was running away.

The policeman gestured that he understood, but as he was occupied directing traffic, there wasn't much that he could do.

Goddammit to hell!

Masterson took his cellular telephone from his inside pocket and punched an autodial number. When there was no response, he looked at the screen.

No bars! I am in the only fucking place in Buenos Aires where there's no cellular signal!

Darby saw the cellular in Masterson's hand and asked, "You're calling the embassy?"

"No goddamn signal."

Darby took his cellular out and confirmed that.

"I'll call it in with the radio," he said, and walked quickly to the BMW.

A minute later he came back.

"Lowery asked if we're all right," he said. "I told him yes. He's sending an Automobile Club wrecker and a car. It'll probably take a little while for the car. The demonstrators are still at it."

"The sonofabitch who hit us took off," Masterson said.

"Really? You're sure?"

"Yes, goddammit, I'm sure."

"Take it easy, Jack. These things happen. Nobody's hurt."

"He is," Masterson said, nodding at Senor Macho.

"The cops and an ambulance will be here soon, I'm sure."

"Betsy's going to shit a brick when I'm late," Masterson said. "And I can't call her."

"Get on the radio and have the guard at Post One call her at the Kansas."

Masterson considered that.

"No," he decided aloud. "She'll just have to be pissed. I don't want the guard calling her and telling her I've been in another wreck." [FOUR] Restaurant Kansas Avenida Libertador San Isidro Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1925 20 July 2005 Elizabeth "Betsy" Masterson, a tall, slim, well-groomed thirty-seven-year-old, with the sharp features and brownish black skin that made her think her ancestors had been of the Watusi tribe, was seated alone at the bar of Kansas-the only place smoking was permitted in the elegant steakhouse. She looked at her watch for the fifth time in the past ten minutes, exhaled audibly, had unkind thoughts about the opposite sex generally and Jack, her husband, specifically, and then signaled to the bartender for another Lagarde merlot, and lit another cigarette.

Goddamn him! He knows that I hate to sit at the bar alone, as if I'm looking for a man. And he said he'd be here between quarter to seven and seven!

Jack's embassy car had been in a fender bender- another fender bender, the second this month-and was in the shop, and he had caught a ride to work, and was catching a ride home, with Alex Darby, the embassy's commercial attache. Jack had called her and asked if she could pick him up at Kansas, as for some reason it would be inconvenient for Alex to drop him at the house.