W. Griffin - The Hostage

"Aye, aye, sir," Bradley said, with a visible lack of enthusiasm. [THREE] El Presidente de la Rua Suite The Four Seasons Hotel Cerrito 1433 Buenos Aires, Argentina 2240 24 July 2005 "Why don't you fix yourself a drink, Major?" Castillo said to Querrina as they came into the sitting room of the suite. "I won't be long."

"Very kind of you, sir. But no thank you. I have the duty."

"I have it, too," Castillo said. "But there are exceptions to every rule, and I have just decided this is one of those times."

He walked to the bar and poured an inch and a half of Famous Grouse into a glass. He took a sip, and then held the glass up in a second invitation.

"As you say, sir, there are always exceptions," Querrina said.

"Help yourself, I won't be long," Castillo said, and carried his glass into the bedroom and closed the door.

He found a socket for the cellular charger behind the bedside table and plugged it in. When he connected his cellular to it, he found that he wasn't going to have to sit on the floor. He laid the charging cellular on the bed, and then started to pack.

It didn't take him long, and he was just about to zip the bag closed when he remembered the bill he'd gotten at the desk. There was no sense carrying that around in his pocket for God knows how long, and he couldn't just toss it, because the Teutonically efficient financial department of the Tages Zeitung demanded a copy of his bills to compare with what American Express said he had spent.

He patted his pockets, found the bill, and started to put it in his laptop briefcase when a warning light lit up in the back of his brain.

What the hell is wrong?

He looked at the bill carefully.

Well, the Four Seasons doesn't give its accommodations away. But there's nothing on here out of the ordinary-

Except that it's made out to Karl Gossinger.

There's nothing wrong with that, either, except that Gossinger entered the country, which means Castillo didn't, and Castillo's going to leave tomorrow. All sorts of questions would be asked about the German national getting on the USAF Globemaster with the Widow Masterson and her husband's body.

Shit!

You fucked up again, Inspector Clouseau!

As a practical matter, however, when Argentine Immigration shows up at Ezeiza, I don't think they are going to peer suspiciously at C. G. Castillo's passport to see if he entered the country legally, especially since C. G. Castillo will be surrounded by SIDE agents.

So what I'll do is hand them my American passport, hope they don't look closely, and worry about Gossinger's immigration problems later.

He put the Four Seasons bill in the briefcase and checked to make sure Gossinger's passport was concealed in the lid with his other alter ego identification.

Then he sat on the bed and pushed an autodial number.

A deep-voiced male answered, "?Hola?"

"My name is Castillo," he said in Spanish. "May I speak with Senor Pevsner, please?"

"One moment, senor."

Castillo glanced around the room and saw something he hadn't seen before. On the bedside table on the other side of the bed was some sort of package. Whatever it was, it was wrapped in tissue, and a rose lay across it.

What the hell is that?

"Charley? I was hoping you would call," Aleksandr Pevsner said in Russian.

"Were you? Why?"

"To learn that you're all right. I heard what happened to your driver and agent."

"Well, if you heard that from somebody close to Colonel Munz, Alex, you better get a new source. They fired Munz."

"I heard that, too. I'm sorry about your people, Charley."

"Alex, I want the bastards who did that."

"I understand."

"This is personal, Alex."

There was a moment's hesitation before Pevsner replied.

"I would expect nothing less of you as an officer. Or do you really mean personal?"

"I mean really personal, Alex."

"Oh, then I really am sorry, my friend."

"I spoke with Howard just before he left."

"He didn't mention that."

"I asked him to find out what he could about a man named Jean-Paul Lorimer, a UN diplomat in Paris. The next time you speak with him, would you tell him that I now really want to know about this man?"

"I'll have Howard contact you. Where will you be?"

"Here until about noon tomorrow. That's when we leave with Masterson's family. And his body."

"I doubt if I'll hear from him before that. Then you'll be in Washington?"

"First Mississippi, then Washington. Tell him to call my cellular or the hotel."

"I will. And I will also see what I can learn about this Lorimer person. Jean-Paul Lorimer, you said?"

"Right. I would really be grateful."

"I hesitate to say this to someone of your background, but are you adequately protecting yourself?"

"I have two SIDE cars, four SIDE agents-including a major-and, far more reassuring, an American Marine I'm not sure is old enough to vote."

Pevsner chuckled, then said, seriously: "There are some very dangerous people-obviously professionals- involved in whatever's going on. I'm sure you appreciate that."

"I do. You haven't had any fresh ideas about what this is all about, have you?"

"No. And no one I've talked to-people one would think would have at least an idea-have any idea, either."

"Keep asking, will you?"

"Of course. And Anna will pray for you-and yours- my friend."

"Thank you."

"Friends take care of friends, my friend. We'll be in touch, Charley. Be careful."

"Goodbye, Alex."

Pevsner switched to German: "Not goodbye. Auf wiedersehen."

Castillo broke the connection, then looked at the cellular.

Flash! CNN and the New York Times have learned that C. G. Castillo, the President's not-so-secret agent, is a close personal friend of Aleksandr Pevsner, the infamous Russian arms dealer and all-around bad guy. Their source is an unnamed FBI agent whose reports have been reliable in the past.

Shit!

He put the cellular in his pocket.

What the hell is in that tissue-wrapped package?

He walked around the bed, pushed the rose on top of the package out of the way, and untied the bow that held the tissue paper in place.

The package contained the freshly laundered brassiere and underpants of Special Agent Elizabeth Schneider, which the room maid had apparently found where they had been kicked under the bed.

"Oh, Jesus!" Castillo breathed.

With some difficulty-his eyes were watering-Castillo rewrapped the intimate apparel and put it in his laptop briefcase, in the space beside the extendable handle.

Then he swallowed hard, breathed deeply, and picked up his bag and the briefcase and went into the sitting room.

"Okay, Major," he said. "All done. Let's go." [FOUR] Room 677 The German Hospital Avenida Pueyrredon Buenos Aires, Argentina 2340 24 July 2005 Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, was visibly relieved to see Castillo when he got off the elevator.

"All packed, Corporal?" Castillo asked.

"Yes, sir," Bradley replied. "Sir, the gunny said, in case he misses you tomorrow, to tell you thanks."

"For what?"

"For sending me with Sergeant Markham."

Castillo nodded but didn't reply. He turned to Jack Britton. "The hotel's moved your stuff and Betty's to my room, Jack. The bill's taken care of. Tom McGuire said to tell you to send an in-flight advisory as soon as the Gulfstream enters American airspace, giving your ETA in Philadelphia. The Secret Service will meet the plane."

Britton nodded. "Send it to who?"

Shit! Castillo thought. He said, "That little detail got overlooked. Send it to Philadelphia Approach Control, with a copy to the office of the secretary of Homeland Security, personal attention Secretary Hall. That ought to get their attention. You're also probably going to refuel at MacDill Air Force Base. There's Secret Service people there. Find them, and tell them."