W. Griffin - The Hostage

It was easier and quicker to park the Bus yourself. And when you were finished with dinner-or waiting for a husband who didn't show the simple courtesy of calling and saying he was delayed, and who didn't answer his cellular-all you had to do was walk into the parking lot, get in the Bus, and drive off.

When she'd come in today, the parking lot had been nearly full, and she'd had to drive almost to the rear of it to find a home for the Bus. But no problem. It wasn't that far, and the lot was well lit, with bright lights on tall poles on the little grassy-garden islands between the rows of parked cars.

She was a little surprised and annoyed when she saw that the light shining down on the Bus had burned out. Things like that happened, of course, but she thought she was going to have a hell of a hard time finding the keyhole in the door.

When she actually got to the Bus, it was worse. Some sonofabitch-one of the valet parkers, probably-had parked a Peugeot sedan so close to the left side of the van that there was no way she could get to the door without scraping her rear and/or her boobs on either the dirty Peugeot or the Bus, which also needed a bath.

She walked around to the right side of the Bus and with some difficulty-for a while she thought she was going to have to light her lighter-managed to get the key in the lock and open the door.

She was wearing a tight skirt, and the only way she was going to be able to crawl over the passenger seat and the whatever-it-was-called thing between the seats to get behind the wheel was to hike the skirt up to her crotch.

First things first. Get rid of the purse, then hike skirt.

She opened the sliding door and tossed her purse on the seat.

The front door suddenly slammed shut.

What the hell?

She looked to see what had happened.

There was a man coming toward her between the cars. He had something in his hand.

What the hell is that, a hypodermic needle?

She first felt arms wrap around her from behind, then a hand over her mouth.

She started to struggle. She tried to bite at the hand over her mouth as the man coming toward her sort of embraced her. She felt a sting on her buttocks.

Oh, Jesus Chri… Four minutes later, a dark blue BMW 545i with heavily darkened windows and a Corps Diplomatique license plate pulled out of the flow of traffic on Avenida Libertador and stopped at the curb. It was a clearly marked NO PARKING NO STOPPING zone, but usually, as now, there were two or three cars with CD tags parked there.

In the rear seat of the BMW, Jack Masterson turned to Alex Darby.

"Now that your car has joined mine in the shop, how are you going to get to work in the morning?"

"I can have one of my guys pick me up," Alex replied.

"Wouldn't you rather I did?"

"I was hoping you'd ask."

"Eight-fifteen?"

"Fine. You want me to send this one back here after he drops me off?"

"No. Betsy has the Bus. Send this one back to the embassy." He raised his voice and switched to Spanish. "Make sure the dispatcher knows I need a car at my house at eight tomorrow morning."

"Si, senor," the driver replied.

"That presumes," Masterson said to Darby, "that I'm still alive in the morning. She who hates to wait is going to be highly pissed."

Darby chuckled.

Masterson got out of the car and half-trotted across the sidewalk to the Kansas entrance. He pushed his way through the crowd of people waiting to be seated and went up the shallow three-step stairs to the bar.

Betsy was nowhere in sight, either at the bar or in one of the half dozen booths.

Shit!

One of the bartenders caught his eye and held up his hands in a helpless gesture. Jack walked to him.

"You just missed her, senor," the bartender said. "Not two minutes ago, she left."

Shit!

Maybe I can catch her in the parking lot!

"Muchas gracias," he said, and then hurriedly went back through the entrance foyer and left through the door leading to the valet parking entrance.

If she used valet parking, she might still be waiting. Betsy was nowhere in sight.

Shit!

Jack trotted into the parking lot and looked around.

He didn't see the Bus anywhere at first, and then he did, in the back of the lot. The interior lights were on, which meant she'd just gotten to the car.

He took off at a dead run for the Bus.

I don't have any idea what she's doing with the door open, but it means I probably can get there before she drives off.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry!" he called when he got to the Bus.

Where the hell is she?

There was no room to get to the driver's door, and when he got to the passenger side, he saw that it wasn't open, just not fully closed. That explained the interior lights being on.

Where the hell is she?

He slid the sliding door open enough so that he could slam it shut. He saw the purse on the seat.

"Oh, Jesus H. Christ!" he said softly.

He took his cellular from his shirt pocket and pushed an autodial button.

Answer the fucking phone, Alex!

"Alex Darby."

"Alex, I think you'd better come back here. Come to the rear of the parking lot."

Darby heard the tone of Masterson's voice.

"Jesus, what's up?"

"The Bus is here. The door was half open. Betsy's purse is on the backseat. No Betsy. I don't like the looks of this."

"On my way, Jack." "Hand me the microphone and turn the speaker up," Alex Darby said to his driver. "And then head back to the Kansas. Fast."

"Si, senor," the driver said, and took the shortwave radio microphone from where it lay on the passenger seat and handed it to Darby. The shortwave net provided encrypted voice communication.

Allegedly, the encryption was unbreakable. Very few people believed this.

Alex keyed the mic. "Darby to Lowery."

Almost instantly, the speaker came to life. "Yeah, Alex. What's up?"

"I just had a call from Jack Masterson. Something very unusual is going on at the Kansas on Aven-"

"In San Isidro?" Lowery cut him off. "That Kansas?"

"Right. His van is there, and his wife's purse, but no wife. Jack sounds very concerned."

"I'll call the San Isidro cops," Lowery said. "I'm in Belgrano; ten, twelve minutes out. On my way."

"Thanks, Ken."

"Let's hope she's in the can, powdering her nose," Lowery said. "See you there. Lowery out." Jack Masterson, scanning the parking lot and making mental notes of what and who were in the immediate area, pushed another autodial button on his cellular phone.

"Post One, Staff Sergeant Taylor," the Marine guard on duty at the embassy said, as he answered the unlisted telephone.

"This is Masterson. I need to speak to Ken Lowery now."

"Sir, Mr. Lowery has left the embassy. May I suggest you try to get him on the radio?"

"I don't have a goddamn radio. You contact him, and tell him to call me on my cellular. Tell him it's an emergency."

"Yes, sir." [FIVE] The Residence Avenida Libertador y Calle John F. Kennedy Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina 2110 20 July 2005 "?Hola?" Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio said, picking up the telephone beside his armchair in the sitting room of the ambassadorial apartment on the third floor of the residence.

"Alex, Mr. Ambassador. We have a problem."

"Tell me."

"Everything points to Betsy Masterson having been kidnapped from the parking lot of the Kansas in San Isidro about an hour ago."

For a long moment, the ambassador didn't reply. He was always careful with his words.

"Ken Lowery is aware of this?" he asked, finally.

"Yes, sir. I'm in Ken's car, headed downtown from the Kansas."

"Jack?"

"I talked him into going home, sir. My wife is on her way over there."

"Why don't you and Ken come here, Alex?" Silvio asked. "And I think it might be useful if Tony Santini came, too. I could call him."