W. Griffin - The Hostage

"Put Senorita Schneider in fifteen-eighteen, please."

"Would you like to have a bottle of champagne and some flowers-roses, perhaps?-waiting for the young lady, Senor Gossinger?"

"I don't think that would be a very good idea, thank you."

As far as the young lady is concerned, our relationship is-and will remain-professional and platonic. There wasn't much that had to be moved from 1550 to 1500, and there were two bellmen and Sergeant Markham to help him, but it was after nine-thirty before the process was completed.

"I am now going to drink one of these," Castillo said, holding up two bottles of Quilmes beer from the in-room bar, "and then make a valiant attempt to catch a few winks." He extended a bottle to Markham, and added, "I suggest you do the same."

"I'm not sure I should be drinking," Markham said.

"Trust me, Roger, you should drink that beer." With Sergeant Markham stretched out on the couch in the sitting room of suite 1500, Castillo lay down on the super-king-sized bed in the bedroom. The first thing that came to mind were mental images, not all of which could honestly be deemed lewd and obscene, of Special Agent Schneider.

He finally chased them away with images of Jack the Stack Masterson in the taxicab.

Jesus, was that only this morning? When his cellular telephone buzzed, he was dreaming. In his dream, Sergeant Schneider was being much, much more affectionate than she had ever been in his waking hours.

He looked at his watch. He had been asleep for fifteen minutes.

"Castillo."

"I really hope I either woke you up or interrupted something really indecent," Major H. Richard Miller's very familiar voice announced.

You have no idea, you sonofabitch!

How did he get this number?

"How's the knee?"

"How do you think it is? After every sonofabitch and his brother has been digging around in it for a month with the very latest in shiny sharp instruments of torture?"

"What's up, Dick?"

"We can't find this Lorimer guy in Paris, and God knows I've tried. You are going to have one hell of a phone bill, old pal."

"You sound as if you're not calling from your Walter Reed bed of pain."

"Actually, having accepted your kind invitation to share your pad," Miller said, "I'm lying on your couch in the Mayflower as we speak. In the morning they will roll me into your office at the Nebraska complex, where I will lie on your couch there."

"What about Lorimer?"

"Well, we finally got an address for him, seven Rue Monsieur, and a phone number. No answer on the phone. Isaacson called some Secret Service guy he knows in Paris. The guy went there. The concierge said she had no idea where Lorimer was, but that he was often gone for a week or two. His car is in the garage. Isaacson said that he's going to ask Secretary Hall to ask Secretary Cohen to lean on the UN to find out where he is. And Isaacson said for me to call you and bring you up to speed."

"Thanks, Dick. Are you sure you're all right to work?"

"I'm fine. I presume the love of your life has not yet arrived?"

"Screw you. And if you're referring to Betty Schneider, the ETA is twenty-three-thirty local."

"An hour difference between here and there, huh?"

"It's almost ten here."

"As a friendly word of advice I'm almost positive you will ignore, try to think with your upper brain for a change, before you do something stupid with that woman."

"Jesus Christ!" Castillo heard himself flare. "She's no longer a cop that I can make a pass at. She's now in the Secret Service and she works for me. I still like to think of myself as an officer and a gentleman. So fuck you, Dick!"

There was a moment's silence, and then Miller said, "Charley, ol' buddy, you have no idea how happy that outburst made me. I'll be in touch."

The line went dead.

Castillo sat up in the bed and turned the light on.

I don't know where that outburst came from, either, but it was right on the money. I can't make a pass at Special Agent Schneider. I shouldn't even be fantasizing about her.

Moot point. She has made it as clear as humanly possible that she has no interest in me at all.

But I'm glad Dick brought it up.

I am entirely capable of doing the wrong thing, and probably would have.

What the hell is the matter with me?

In one movement, he laid the cellular on the bedside table and fell back on the bed.

Then, a moment later, he sat up again, picked up the phone, and punched the autodial button for Howard Kennedy.

Kennedy answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Did I wake you up, Howard?"

"As a matter of fact, no."

"Are you in the hotel?"

"Why?"

"I thought we might have a drink. There's a jazz quartet in the bar."

"Very kind of you, but what I'm doing is standing in the rain at Ezeiza watching ground handlers in whom I have no confidence whatsoever loading very expensive- and very nervous-horses onto an airplane. I'll take a rain check, though."

"Are you going with the horses wherever they're going?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"But you'll be coming back soon?"

Kennedy's silence indicated he wasn't going to answer the question.

"Pity," Castillo went on, "some old friends of yours are coming to town."

There was another silence long enough to make Castillo think Kennedy was not going to respond when he did:

"The major crime investigation team from Quantico?"

"I don't know where they're from, but they're coming from Washington."

"Have you got their names?"

This time Castillo hesitated before replying.

Why the hell not get him the names? What harm can it do?

"I can get them as soon as they get off the Gulfstream."

"When will that be?"

"Eleven-thirty, give or take. I told another of your former associates to meet the plane and find them someplace to sleep."

"What's his name?"

"Yung. He's stationed in Montevideo-"

"Chinese? Feisty little bastard? Round face, five-eight, one-fifty?"

"Yeah. You know him?"

"Very well. What did he tell you he's doing in Montevideo?"

"He didn't tell me he's doing anything. I have the impression he's just one more of your former associates looking into money laundering. The ambassador asked the ambassador in Montevideo if any of them had kidnapping experience, and he sent Yung and another guy here."

"His name?"

"I don't have it handy. But I can get it."

"Where are they landing? Here?"

"Jorge Newbery. There's a transport on the way that should land at Ezeiza at about the same time."

"I just saw an Air Force colonel in full uniform surrounded by Argentine Air Force brass; I wondered what he was up to."

"I'm going to get the family-and the body-out of here just as soon as I can."

"What were you planning to chat about, Charley, while we were listening to the jazz quartet?"

"I thought I might idly inquire if you had ever heard of a fellow named Jean-Paul Lorimer."

Kennedy replied by spelling Lorimer in the phonetic alphabet.

"Correct."

"Never heard of him, but if you get me those names, I'll be happy to ask around."

"Deal. How do I get them to you?"

"On the phone. How else?"

"I thought you were about to leave."

"I'll leave after I have those names."

"Done."

"Here's a freebie, Charley. Whatever David William Yung, Jr., is doing in Montevideo, it almost certainly has very little to do with examining bank statements."

"You mean he's looking for you?"

"That, too, of course. But that's not what I meant. He's a real hotshot; they don't waste people like David looking for dirty money."

"You sound as if you know him well."

"I told you I did. We used to work together."

"Can you give me a hint?"

"I just did. I'll be waiting for your call, Charley."