W. Griffin - The Hostage

The cameras were trained, too, on the reviewing stand as the family took their places beside the President. The President not only kissed Betsy but put his arms around her in a compassionate hug.

If that's not for the purpose of putting the ignorant masses who voted for him in a receptive state of mind for what he's going to say, then what is it for?

The secretary of state also embraced Betsy and kissed her, then did the same to Ambassador and Mrs. Lorimer and then the kids.

Daddy at least had the dignity to look a little offended. God, how I loathe that arrogant little bitch! She's nearly as bad as the President!

"My fellow Americans," the President began, and Jean-Paul Bertrand almost switched the television off then, but curiosity stayed his hand.

"I come here tonight bearing two messages.

"One is from you.

"The American people offer their profound condolences to the families of J. Winslow Masterson and Sergeant Roger Markham, USMC, who gave their lives in the service of the United States.

"The second message is from me," the President went on. "It is to those who committed the cowardly murders of these two good men.

"I say to you that this outrage will not go unpunished. I have ordered…"

Jean-Paul Bertrand switched off the television.

It would have been nice to see more of the family, but if the price to do that is looking at that man while he mouths such nonsense, it is simply too high.

[ONE] Penthouse C The Belle Vista Casino amp; Resort U.S. Highway 90 ("The Magic Mile") Biloxi, Mississippi 2230 25 July 2005 When the dark blue, nearly black, GMC Yukon XL pulled up in the brilliantly lit drive of the hotel, the driver's door was opened by a doorman in what looked like the uniform of an admiral in the Imperial Russian Navy.

"Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort," he announced. "How may I be of service?"

"You can tell me where I can park this thing," the driver said.

"We have valet parking, sir."

"No," the driver said, and showed the doorman his Secret Service credentials. "I keep control of the vehicle. And I need it close, in case it's required in a hurry."

"Oh," the doorman said. "Is one of you gentlemen Mr. Costello?"

"My name is Castillo," Charley said, from the backseat.

"And you are Mr. Masterson's guest, sir?"

"Uh-huh."

"Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort, Mr. Castillo," the doorman said and opened the rear door. "Mr. Threadgill, the manager on duty, will be here momentarily."

Castillo and Fernando Lopez got out of the Yukon.

Fernando Lopez was an enormous man-six-foot-three, two hundred thirty pounds-with a full head of dark black hair and a swarthy complexion. He was wearing a dark blue suit, a crisp blue shirt with a white collar, a red-striped tie, and black ostrich-hide Western boots.

"If you want to get a cup of coffee or something," Castillo said to the driver, "I think this will probably take about an hour."

The Secret Service agent nodded but didn't say anything.

A tall, thin, elegantly dressed man in his late forties walked up to them.

"Mr. Castillo?" he asked and, when Charley nodded, put out his hand. "Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort, Mr. Castillo. My name is Edward Threadgill, and I am the manager on duty. If you'll follow me, please?"

He led them through the lobby. In a lounge to one side, three enormous television screens showed Air Force One taxiing toward a runway.

He stopped before an elevator, somewhat dramatically flashed a plastic card, and then demonstrated how the card operated the elevator door. He then presented the card to Castillo.

"He'll need one of those, too," Castillo said.

"Certainly," Mr. Threadgill announced, produced anotherplastic card, and handed it to Fernando. "There you are, sir. And you are, sir?"

"My name is Lopez," Fernando said.

"Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort, Mr. Lopez."

"Thank you."

Threadgill bowed them onto the elevator.

The elevator ascended, then its doors opened on a large foyer. Threadgill led them to one of the four doors opening off it, ran the plastic card through another reading device, and then bowed them through the door.

Penthouse C was a large, elegantly furnished suite of rooms. Threadgill threw a switch, and curtains swished open, revealing a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows offering what in daylight would be a stunning view of the Gulf of Mexico, the sugar-white sandy beach, and the highway running along the coast. Now, a few lights twinkled out on the water and U.S. 90 was an intermittent stream of red lights going west, white lights going east.

There was a basket of fruit on a coffee table, and beside it a cooler holding two bottles of champagne.

"If you need anything, gentlemen," Threadgill said, "there are buttons in every room which will summon the floor waiter. There is of course twenty-four/seven room service."

"Thank you very much," Castillo said.

"Is there anything else, or may I leave you?"

"I can't think of anything, thank you very much," Castillo said.

Fernando Lopez waited until the door closed after Threadgill, and then said, "Knowing you as I do, Gringo, I'm sure there is some very simple reason why we are here in a suite normally reserved for really heavily losing baccarat players."

"Baccarat players?" Castillo asked.

"Yeah, this place is world headquarters for people who want to drop a couple of hundred thousand playing baccarat. You didn't know?"

Castillo shook his head.

"So what are we doing here?" Fernando asked.

"Thank you for not asking in the truck," Castillo said.

"That's the answer?"

"Masterson's father and I have to talk. We can't do that at his place-which he calls the plantation-because the widow's father has a bad ticker, and we don't want to upset him. He sent me here."

"What do you have to talk about? Wait. I'll rephrase that interrogatory: What the fuck is going on?"

"So I don't have to repeat everything twice, can you wait until he gets here? He should be here any minute, and I need a drink."

"Okay. I could use a little belt myself," Fernando said.

"What did that guy say about a floor-waiter button?"

"There has to be a bar in here," Fernando said.

He walked to a panel mounted on the wall and started pushing buttons. One of them caused a section of the paneled wall to move, revealing a small but well-stocked bar.

"Eureka, the gold!"

They had just enough time to fix the drinks and touch glasses when Winslow Masterson walked into the suite.

"I couldn't get away as quickly as I had hoped," he said. "But they were ready for you?"

"Yes, sir," Castillo said. "I took the liberty of…"

"You're my guests," Masterson shut him off with a gentle wave of his hand. "And a drink seems entirely appropriate at this time."

He went to the bar and poured himself a drink from the bottle of Famous Grouse that Fernando had used.

"The economics of this place has always fascinated me," Masterson said. "God only knows how much it costs them to maintain something like this, and since they are obviously not in the business of being a friend to man, there has to be a profit motive. It would therefore seem to follow that their hospitality is offered only to those who have-or are likely to lose-an enormous amount of money at the tables. Where do such people- and so many of them-come from?"

"I was thinking just about the same thing, sir," Fernando said.

"Excuse me, sir, for my breach of courtesy. I am Winslow Masterson."

"My name is Lopez, sir. Fernando Lopez."

"And you're a Westerner, Mr. Lopez. May I say I admire your boots?"

"Thank you, sir. Texan. San Antonio," Fernando said.

Masterson drained his drink and made another.