There was even an upside to this.
The attention by the press would be to the murder of Jack the Stack Masterson, who despite his Phi Beta Kappa key didn't have enough brains to get out of the way of a beer truck, and no one would pay much, if any, attention to the disappearance of his brother-in-law in France.
He dropped the Herald onto the floor beside the bed and turned to Maria del Juanita.
"Darling, put some clothes on, and tell Senora Sanchez I will have my coffee in the library."
VIII
[ONE] El Presidente de la Rua Suite The Four Seasons Hotel Cerrito 1433 Buenos Aires, Argentina 0647 24 July 2005 A full minute after Special Agent Jack Britton lifted the brass knocker on the door of suite 1500-which was actually a switch triggering the door chimes-Major C. G. Castillo pulled the door open to him.
Castillo was wearing a plush white ankle-length terry cloth robe adorned with the crest of the Four Seasons hotel. He needed a shave, his hair wasn't combed, and it wasn't wet, either.
Britton thought, I got here even before he got into the shower, then said: "Schneider's not up yet, either. Or she's in the shower. She didn't answer when I knocked. But your driver is. They put him through to me by mistake. I told him I'd tell you he was here."
"Come on in, Jack," Castillo said. "We're running a little late. They haven't even taken the dishes away from last night."
Castillo walked to the telephone on the coffee table, punched a number, and in Spanish asked the concierge to send up his driver with copies of La Nacion, Clarin, and the Herald; to check on his suit with the valet; and to immediately send up two large pots of coffee.
Britton listened and watched intently, trying to understand what was being said.
And then his interest really perked up.
The bedroom door opened and Special Agent Schneider came out, dressed as she had been the night before in blue jeans and a sweater.
"Good morning, Jack," she said, matter-of-factly.
She had her voice under control but not her blush mechanism.
"If you're going to order breakfast," she said, "order a big one for me."
She then walked out of the El Presidente de la Rua Suite, calling over her shoulder, "I won't be long."
The door closed, and Britton and Castillo looked at each other.
"I think, Jack," Castillo said finally, "that this is one of those times when silence would be golden."
Britton nodded, then said, "Sorry. I have to say this. From the way you looked at her just now, I could tell that you're not fooling around with her, that it's something more serious. So good for you. I know she's nuts about you."
"How the hell could you know that?"
"When we were in G-Man School, the subject of our conversations always seemed to wind up with you. And the proof came last night when we were eating. Both of you looked at everything but each other. And then, just now, the two of you looked like Adam and Eve in the garden before Eve started fooling around with the snake. She's a good lady. You're lucky."
Because he could think of nothing else to say, Castillo asked, "Is that what you call it, 'G-Man School'?"
"Yeah. Actually, it wasn't too bad." He grinned. "Betty was a laugh when they finally put us on the range. She had kept her mouth shut and her face straight when they were explaining how to squeeze the trigger and telling her not to let the recoil throw her, after a while she'd get used to it, but I could tell she didn't like being patronized.
"Anyway, there we are on the pistol range, two lowly candidates and the instructor. I'm standing behind her. So she gets the 'open fire' order, and her Glock sounds like an Uzi.
"'This was timed fire, Candidate Schneider. One aimed shot at a time.'
"'That's what I did, sir,' Schneider says, all sweet and feminine. 'I aimed each time, sir.'
"'Well,' the instructor adds, 'as you will see, you'll never hit anything firing that rapidly. Roll back number seven.'
"So they rolled the target back to us and she'd put all fourteen rounds into the bad guy's face.
"The instructor didn't like being duped but couldn't let it go. 'It would seem, Candidate Schneider, that you have had some previous marksmanship experience. If you're trying to make me look foolish or whatever, it won't work.'"
Castillo chuckled.
The door chimes went off. It was the lady from the valet service with Castillo's suit.
"There's a room-service menu in the drawer of that desk," Castillo said, and pointed. "When Roger gets up here, find out what he wants, and then order for everybody. I'm going to get dressed." [TWO] Special Agent Schneider sat across the breakfast table from Major Castillo, which position precluded Major Castillo from surreptitiously holding her hand-or perhaps touching her knee-beneath the table, but did not, he soon learned, prohibit Special Agent Schneider from rubbing the ball of her foot against his calf.
They were almost finished eating when the chimes sounded again.
Roger Markham rushed to the door, and Castillo was wondering what the hell it could be now when he heard a familiar voice: "You're American, right? Maybe a Marine?"
"Yes, sir," Markham replied.
"Go back in there, throw Major Castillo and whoever's with him out of bed, and tell him Colonel Jake Torine, USAF, wishes a moment of his valuable time."
Castillo, laughing, started to get out of his chair. As he did, he saw from Special Agent Schneider's face that she failed to see what was amusing.
Colonel Torine, a tall, somewhat bony man in a sports jacket and slacks, marched into the sitting room and saw the people at the table in the dining alcove.
"Oops!" he said. "Sorry, Charley. I didn't know you had people in here."
"Good morning, sir," Castillo said. "I should have contacted you last night."
"No. It's the other way around. I should have reported to you when we got in last night. Those were my orders, from General Allan Naylor himself. But it was late, and raining like hell, and I figured I'd wait until morning. The defense attache told me where I could find you."
"Great!" Castillo began.
Torine silenced him with an upraised palm and went on: "Then I got here, and the hotel had never heard of you. So I stood there in the lobby for a couple of minutes, wondering why the attache had sent me to the wrong hotel, and then I decided that there are two Four Seasons hotels, and I was in the wrong one, so I went back to the desk and asked the guy where the other one was."
Castillo laughed.
"At that point, I remembered your alter ego, asked for Herr Gossinger, and here I am."
Castillo saw from their faces that Betty had some idea what was going on, and Jack Britton and Roger Markham none at all.
"Guys, I sometimes use the name Gossinger when I'm working," he explained. "That's how I'm registered here."
Britton, who had worked deep undercover for years as Ali Abid Ar-Raziq, nodded his understanding. Roger Markham's face registered what could have been awe.
My God, he's a real intel operator with a phony ID and all!
"Colonel," Castillo said, "remember when the Philadelphia cops turned up the intel that the guy who owned our 727 had sold another one to Costa Rica?"
"Oh, yeah."
"There they are," Charley said.
"No," Britton said. "There she is. Betty put that together. I had nothing to do with it."
"Betty Schneider and Jack Britton, now of the Secret Service," Castillo went on. "This is Colonel Jake Torine, who flew the 727 home from Costa Rica."
They shook hands.
"No, I haven't had breakfast, and yes, thank you, I could eat a bite," Torine said.
"I don't know how warm it still is," Castillo said, liftinga stainless-steel dome and revealing a pile of still-steaming scrambled eggs.
"Warm enough," Torine said and sat down.
He started spooning eggs onto a plate.
"So what's going on, Charley?" Torine asked.
Castillo handed him the Buenos Aires Herald.
"Th
is is what's been given out," he said. "Most of it's pretty accurate. I'll fill you in on what's not."
Torine took the newspaper and started to read. Shaking his head as he swallowed his last bite of breakfast, Torine handed the Herald back to Castillo.
"There's an editorial, too," Castillo said. "Headlined THE NATION IS SHAMED."
"Should they be?" Torine asked.
"Embarrassed, sure," Castillo said. "A diplomat's wife is kidnapped and then the diplomat gets blown away. That's not supposed to happen in a civilized nation. This isn't the Congo. But 'shamed' is a little strong. And God knows, they got their act in high gear the minute this happened to find out who did it.
"What we think happened is that Mrs. Masterson's kidnappers got in touch with him, set up a meeting, and he sneaked out of his house and went to meet them. And got himself blown away."
"Weren't they watching the house?" Torine asked, incredulously.
"They had cops and SIDE agents-you know what SIDE is?"
Torine nodded.
"So, not only cops and SIDE agents all over the place, but sitting in a car in front of his house at two in the morning when Masterson sneaked out was a CIA spook named Paul Sieno and Colonel Alfredo Munz, the head of SIDE."
"You think Masterson went to pay the ransom and something went wrong?"
"I just don't know. All I know is that Alex Darby, the station chief, Sieno-good guy, I knew him in Afghanistan; his cover is commercial attache and Alex says he's his best man-and Munz did the best they know how to make sure something like this didn't happen. And it did. I should throw in that Masterson was Darby's best friend."
"Jesus, what the hell is this all about?"
"I wish to hell I knew," Castillo said. "And one more thing, Colonel: These bastards have something on Mrs. Masterson-maybe a threat to kill the kids, maybe something else-that's got her terrified."
"That's understandable, isn't it?"
"Surrounded by the embassy's security people, plus the CIA, the Secret Service, and SIDE, you'd think she'd feel protected enough to at least come up with a description of who grabbed her," Castillo said. "If we are to believe her, and I don't, she doesn't remember anything. That's one of the reasons I had them send Betty down here"-one of them, anyway-"to see if she can get close to her and come up with something."
Special Agent Schneider's mind apparently ran on a parallel path with one of them, anyway. Castillo felt the ball of her foot on his calf again, and when he looked at her, there was a hint of a smile on her lips and a naughty look in her eyes.
"The one question in my mind, ever since I heard about this, was whether it is terrorist-connected," Torine said.
"If it had just been assassinating Masterson, maybe. But if terrorists did it, they would have been boasting about it an hour after it happened. And I don't think they would have passed up the opportunity to kill Mrs. Masterson when they had the chance."
Torine nodded his understanding.
"So what happens now?" he asked.
"We get her and the children out of Argentina just as soon as we can get her on your airplane. Have you got approach charts for Keesler Air Force Base?"
"Of course. Why Keesler?"
"Mrs. Masterson wants him buried in Mississippi. That's where he's from. The Mississippi Gulf Coast."
"General Naylor told me the President wants Mr. Masterson buried in Arlington."
"It's her call, isn't it?"
"Obviously. When do you think she'll be ready to leave?"
"I think-think, don't know-that they're going to release her from the hospital this morning. If I had my way, she'd go directly from the hospital to the airport. But I doubt that's going to happen. Maybe late tonight, which would put us into Keesler in the morning. But probably sometime tomorrow."
"The defense attache told me the Argentines want to put the casket in the Catedral Metropolitana, so they can pay their respects," Torine said. "What's that?"
"I hadn't heard that," Castillo replied. "And I have no idea."
"It's like their national cathedral," Sergeant Roger Markham furnished. "Not far from the Casa Rosada, which is like their White House. Except it's pink. The Casa Rosada, I mean. The cathedral looks like what the Parthenon must have looked like before it fell down. Marble, I think."
"The Marines to the rescue," Castillo said. "Keep going, Roger."
"Well, it's their big-time church. San Martin-that general they call 'the Great Liberator'? He was a pal of Thomas Jefferson. Avenida Libertador is really named after him, like if we named Washington Square 'Father of Our Country Square.'"
"Fascinating," Colonel Torine said, managing to keep a straight face.
"They guard his tomb inside like we do the Unknown Soldier, twenty-four/seven. If they want to put Mr. Masterson's body in there, it's really an honor."
"You're right, Roger. And I can see why they'd want to do it, but I don't know how that's going to go down with Mrs. Masterson, not to mention my orders to get her and the kids out of here as quickly as possible."
He looked at Torine.
"What we're going to do now is go to the hospital and introduce Betty and Jack to her. I told you, she's frightened. It might be useful if you went along, if you'd be willing. Tell her the travel plans, you know, whatever might make her feel better."
"You don't have to ask, Charley," Colonel Torine said. "About that or anything else. General Naylor didn't like it much, I don't think, but he made it very clear that you're running this exercise."
"I hear a cell phone ringing," Betty announced.
Castillo patted his clothing as he remembered his was in the bedroom, then quickly got up and went to get it. That took some time, as it was in the pocket of the pants he had been wearing when Betty had come looking for her lost handkerchief, and had been kicked out of sight when Jack Britton had rung the door chimes.
As had, Castillo learned when he reached under the bed for them, Betty's brassiere and underpants.
That means when she walked out of here, she wasn't wearing anything under her blue jeans and sweater!
A series of mental images flooded his mind.
Goddammit, what's the matter with you? Answer the goddamn cellular!
By the time he'd gotten the telephone from his pocket, it was too late.
The phone, however, had captured the caller's number. He pushed the MISSED CALL key, then the DIAL key.
"Sylvia Grunblatt."
The embassy public information officer. What the hell does she want?
"C. G. Castillo, Ms. Grunblatt. Were you trying to reach me?"
"Where are you?"
Not that it's any of your business, but-
"I'm in the Four Seasons."
"According to them, they don't have anybody named Castillo registered. You want to tell me what that's all about?"
"How'd you get my cellular number?"
"Ambassador Silvio gave it to me."
"How can I help you, Ms. Grunblatt?"
"The shoe's on the other foot. The press is onto you. Somebody around here has a big mouth."
"You want to explain that?"
"The New York Times guy wants to know about the President's agent, starting with his name, and so do CNN and AP and La Nacion, ad infinitum. What do I tell them?"
"You have no idea what they're talking about."
"They're not going to believe that, and they're not going to like it."
"Ambassador Silvio told me you're a first-class press officer. You'll think of something."
"I can hear them now," she said. " 'Are you trying to tell me, Sylvia, that my source was lying to me?' "
"To which you respond, 'I cannot vouch for your unnamed sources. I can only tell you what I have been told.'"
"To which they will respond, 'Oh, bovine excreta, Sylvia,' or words to that effect."
"Sylvia, I'm sorry, but your splendid relations with the press are going to have to be sacrificed for operational requirements."
"I was afraid of that," she s
aid. "The ambassador said I was to handle this any way you wanted."
"The one thing I don't need is my name, picture, or the words 'Presidential Agent' in the newspapers or on the tube."
"Okay, you got it. But be warned, they'll be looking for you. Since there are-with one exception-no other developments in the story, you-the President's agent- are the story."
"What's the one exception?"
"Presuming the ambassador can get Mrs. Masterson to go along-he hasn't asked her yet-the Argentines want to pin the Grand Cross of the Great Liberator on Jack's casket, which at the time will be lying in state in the Catedral Metropolitana. If she goes along-and she might not; if I were her I think I'd tell the Argentines to go piss up a rope-that will be a spectacle. The press- especially TV-likes spectacles, and that may get some of the heat off you."
"I was about to go to the German Hospital," Castillo said.
"You got somebody from SIDE with you who can get you in the back door? Otherwise be prepared for celebrity."
"How will they know what I look like?"
"The leak about the President's agent was intentional. I think it follows they would have also leaked a description."
"You have any idea who the leaker is?"
"If I had to bet, I'd bet it was one of the law enforcement types…"
Yeah, Castillo thought, and I'll bet the bastard's name is Yung.
"… but nothing more specific than that. If I can get the name, you want it?"
"Indeed I do."
"I was hoping you would."
"Why?"
"Because I ran out of imagination after I thought castration would be a suitable punishment for the sonofabitch, and I'm sure you can think of something more exquisitely painful."
"Indeed I can."
"Stay in touch, please, Mr. X."
"Thanks, Sylvia."
Castillo put the cellular in his trousers pocket, whereupon it immediately rang again.
Now what the hell does she want?
"Yes, Sylvia?"
"Actually, this is Juan Silvio."
"Good morning, sir."
"Before I get into this, I presume Ms. Grunblatt did get in touch with you?"
"Yes, sir. I just got off the line with her."
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