W. Griffin - The Hostage

"You sonofabitch!" Lieutenant Schneider interrupted. "You really don't-"

"Out!" Chief Kramer exploded. "Out of here, Schneider! Right goddamn now!"

"Let him stay until I finish," Castillo said evenly.

Kramer raised an eyebrow, stared at Schneider, then sighed and nodded.

"Having said that," Castillo went on, "I'm going to keep Secret Service protection on her until I get the bastards that shot her. The agents are pretty good at protecting people."

"So are we," Chief Kramer said. "And as far as you're concerned, Schneider, when you come to visit your sister and you see detectives from Dignitary Protection sitting on her beside the Secret Service, instead of Highway, you think long and hard about why I decided to do that. Now get out of here. Wait by the elevator. I'm not through with you."

"How about keeping him in here while I go say goodbye to her?" Castillo asked. "I really have to get out of here right now."

Kramer nodded. "Sit there, Lieutenant Schneider," he ordered, pointing to a vinyl-upholstered couch. "And if you get off that couch before I tell you you can, I'll have you up on charges."

Kramer waited until Lieutenant Schneider angrily threw himself onto the couch and then put out his hand to Castillo.

"Let me know what I can do to help."

"Thanks, Fritz," Castillo said, and walked out of the waiting room.

Special Agent Jack Britton was standing by Betty's door.

"I only heard you were coming here forty-five minutes ago, Charley. I called Miller and-"

"I'm glad you're here, Jack," Castillo said. "I'm headed for Paris and what I'd like you-"

"Miller told me," Britton interrupted. "Everything. Thanks for keeping me on this."

"I need you, Jack."

"I'm on an American Airlines flight from Miami to Buenos Aires at eleven something tonight."

"Go to the Four Seasons, and then get in touch with Tony Santini."

"I'll do it."

Castillo pushed open the door to Betty's room. Her mother and father were standing on either side of the bed. Her father gave him another icy look, and when he did, her mother looked over her shoulder and saw Castillo.

"Charley's here, honey," her mother said. "Dad and I will be right outside."

"Thank you, Mrs. Schneider," Castillo said softly. He offered his hand. "We haven't been formally introduced, and I'm very sorry it had to be under such conditions."

Betty's mother took his hand in both of hers, made a soft smile, then turned for the door.

Her father shook his head, walked wordlessly to the door, and held it open for his wife, then followed her through it.

Castillo went to the bed and took Betty's hand.

With great difficulty, Betty asked, "The Mastersons? Okay?"

"They've got twenty-four Delta shooters and half of the Mississippi state police sitting on them."

"Delta?"

"Special Forces guys."

She was surprised to hear that and asked with her eyes for an explanation.

"Long story, baby. Not important. But the Mastersons are safe. The key to this is her brother. Right after we landed in Mississippi, she told me the bad guys really want her brother. She doesn't know where he is. So I'm on my way to Paris to find him. He should know who these bastards are."

"Can you do that?"

"Find him, you mean? I'm going to try hard."

"Just go to Paris?"

Jesus Christ, I have to go through the classified business, even with her!

"Baby, this is Top Secret-Presidential, which means you can't tell anybody, even your family."

Especially your goddamn brother.

She nodded, but her eyes asked for an explanation.

"The President, in what they call a finding, set up a covert unit to find the people who did this. He gave it to me, together with all the authority I need to do whatever has to be done."

Her eyebrows showed that she was impressed.

"I'll make sure they keep you up to speed on what's happening. But you have to keep it to yourself."

"Will they tell me?"

"Special Agent Schneider, you are now assigned to the Office of Organizational Analysis, which is the cover for this," Castillo said. "I'm the chief. You'll be told."

"I wish I could go with you."

Jesus, she's not thinking of us holding hands as we take the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Or sitting in the Deux Magots on the Left Bank. She wants to go as a cop.

"Me, too."

"Be careful, Charley."

"Wiener schnitzel, baby. I have to go."

He bent over, kissed her very gently on the lips, and looked into her eyes for a long moment.

Then she shrugged, squeezed his hand, and motioned with her head toward the door.

As he and Fernando got on the elevator, he heard the Latin Secret Service agent talk to her lapel microphone.

"Don Juan coming down." [FIVE] Hotel de Crillon 10 Place de la Concorde Paris, France 0525 27 July 2005 Paris was just starting to wake up when they landed. There had been little traffic on the way in from Le Bourget, and the Place de la Concorde had been nearly empty of vehicles and pedestrians.

"I think the best thing to do is grab some sack time," Castillo announced as they registered. "What about leaving a call for half past ten?"

"Good idea," Torine said.

Castillo knew the problem was going to be jet lag. Their body clocks thought it was midnight, not half past five in the morning.

They weren't really tired, or even particularly sleepy, despite the time they had been up and the distances they had traveled since getting up almost twenty-four hours before at the Masterson plantation in Mississippi. For one thing, that had been only eighteen hours ago in real time. Paris time was six hours ahead of Mississippi.

For another, they'd shared the piloting between them, from Philadelphia to Gander, Newfoundland, and then to Shannon, Ireland, and finally Le Bourget. The "off-duty" pilot-a role each had played-had nothing to do but doze, and the Lear's seats in the main cabin, which folded back to near horizontal, had made dozing easy. It was as if they'd gotten up early and taken several naps before midnight.

The temptation was to take a quick shower, grab a quick breakfast, and then rouse the Paris CIA station chief from his bed and get to work finding Jean-Paul Lorimer. The smart thing to do was to take a quick shower and go to bed, sleeping as long as possible. When sleep proved impossible, with a little bit of luck, the body clock might be fooled, and it would be something like getting up fresh and ready to do a full day's work.

Castillo tipped the bellman and then looked around his suite. The heavy curtain across the windows of his bedroom was permitting a crack of light. He went to it and impulsively pushed it aside far enough to look out. He had a view of the Place de la Concorde and the bridge across the River Seine.

Then he pulled the curtain closed, took fresh linen from his bag, and started to undress. He was down to his Jockey shorts when the telephone rang.

"Hello?"

"Five minutes, in front of the hotel," Howard Kennedy said. "I'm in a black Mercedes."

"I expected no less of you," Castillo replied, even though halfway through the sentence he realized Kennedy had hung up. Ten minutes later-having decided that his need for a shave and a shower was more important than jumping to obey Kennedy's curt orders-Castillo walked across the empty lobby and out onto the Place de la Concorde.

There was no Mercedes in sight.

Not to worry. Kennedy might be pissed, but he wants to see me, and badly. He's not about to drive off, never to return.

Castillo turned right and walked toward the U.S. embassy. He had just reached the fence, where he was able to see the American flag flying in the courtyard, when he heard the squeal of tires.

He turned and saw a black Mercedes S600 sedan in front of the Crillon. The headlights flashed. Castillo walked-purposely slowly-back to it.