The Hostage pa-2

by W. E. B Griffin

  "I work for Ambassador McGrory, not Silvio," Yung said.

  "No, you don't. You work for the State Department's bureau of intelligence and research. Doing something so secret that the secretary of state didn't know about it until the day before yesterday," Castillo said.

  Castillo could see a flicker of surprise on Yung's face.

  "Did you tell McGrory what you're really doing down here?"

  Yung didn't reply.

  "Okay, that explains a lot. You didn't tell McGrory what you're really doing, so he thinks you're just one more legal attache working for him. Right?"

  "I've got the ambassador, Charley," Santini said.

  "That was quick," Castillo said as he reached for the telephone.

  "The miracle of modern communications," Santini said.

  "Good morning, Mr. Ambassador. I'm on a cellular, so we're going to have to be careful what we're saying. I'm in Montevideo-actually, Carrasco-with Special Agent Yung. What I hope you'll be willing to do is relay the message from our friend Natalie to Yung. When the other fellow did that, it got a little garbled, and he's annoyed that I'm walking on his grass without his permission."

  Ambassador Silvio replied briefly.

  "Thank you, sir. I hope to see you shortly," Castillo said, and handed Yung the telephone.

  "Special Agent Yung, Mr. Ambassador," Yung said.

  He had the cellular to his ear for thirty seconds, and then he said, "Yes, sir, that's perfectly clear. That's not exactly the way I received the message here."

  Ambassador Silvio said something else.

  "Yes, sir," Yung said. "I understand, sir. Thank you very much, sir. Do you want to speak with Mr. Castillo again, sir?"

  The ambassador apparently did not wish to again speak with Castillo. Yung ended the call and handed the cellular to Santini.

  Yung smiled wryly at Castillo.

  "After the ambassador relayed Secretary Cohen's message," he added, "he said, 'For purposes of clarification, Mr. Castillo has permission from the highest possible authority not only to walk on anybody's grass he wants but to sow it with salt if that's what he chooses to do.'"

  Castillo chuckled and smiled and said, "Okay. You satisfied?"

  Yung nodded.

  "So what are you actually doing here? I know it's not looking for money launderers."

  "You don't know?"

  "No, I don't. But you're going to tell me, right?"

  Yung nodded. "Actually, it has something to do with money laundering. But not to develop a case against money launderers."

  "I don't think I follow you."

  "How much do you know about the UN oil-for-food business?"

  "A hell of a lot more now than I did a week ago," Castillo said. "What about it?"

  "An astonishing number of people all over Europe and the Middle East-for that matter, all over the world- made a lot of money from that operation. Primarily Frenchmen-some very highly placed Frenchmen-and Germans. And Russians. It's an incredible amount of money, and like the Nazis in World War Two, they decided that South America, primarily the Southern Cone, is the place to hide it.

  "The director of the bureau of intelligence and research started to build dossiers on these people even before the Second Desert War. Using his own people, I mean. And it got out. There's a lot of one-worlders, UN lovers, in the State Department. They think that leaking things is their patriotic duty. So he, quote, called off, end quote, the investigation. And then he went to the director of the FBI-they were both FBI agents as young men-and explained the situation and asked for help. And here I am."

  "I heard you were a hotshot," Castillo said.

  "Who told you that?"

  "The same guy who told me whatever you were doing here it wasn't looking for money launderers."

  "Howard Kennedy," Yung said.

  "Who?"

  "I know you're pals," Yung said.

  "I never heard that name in my entire life until just now," Castillo said. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

  "Yeah, sure. Well, if you should ever happen to meet somebody with that name, give him my regards," Yung said. "When we were young, innocent, and naive, we really thought we could protect society from the barbarians. Had a lot of fun, for a while, doing it. And then Howard decided he'd rather be a barbarian. It paid better, and it wasn't nearly as frustrating. Sometimes I think I should have changed sides when he did."

  "So tell me about these dossiers you're building," Castillo said.

  "Well, there's fourteen FBI agents, including me, here looking at money laundering. As one of them, I have access to what's developed. They're looking for drug money, primarily-and there's a hell of a lot of that-which means they're looking for Colombians and Mexicans, mostly. And Americans, of course. When they come across some European moving a lot of money around here, they check with the DEA, the treasury department, whoever, to see if there's a drug connection or an American connection of some kind. If there isn't, they let it drop." He paused, then added, "And I pick it up."

  "And do what with it?"

  "What my boss wants is proof-photocopies-of bank records; who deposited how much and when; records of who bought an estancia or a car dealership or a million-dollar villa in Punta del Este. I don't really know what he thinks anybody will do with it. He still has stars in his eyes. Expose the bad guys and the world will be a better place. I can't see that happening."

  "Yes, you can," Castillo said. "You've still got stars in your eyes, too. Otherwise, you'd have changed sides when your friend-what was his name?-did."

  "And what about you, Castillo? No stars in your eyes? How did you get involved in something like this? I know what 'render them harmless' really means."

  "I am simply carrying out the instructions of my government, as I understand them, as an officer and a gentleman of the United States Army."

  "Oh, shit!" Yung chuckled. "Yeah, that's right. You are an Army officer, aren't you? A major. Back to my question, how did an Army officer get involved in something like this?"

  "I just told you," Castillo said. "Where are your files?"

  "Here. I can't leave them in the embassy. Another price I pay for being a secret hotshot, to use Kennedy's words, is that my fellow FBI agents think I'm either stupid or lazy or both. I don't turn in half the work they do."

  "If you're working on something like this, I'm surprised you can turn in any work at all," Castillo said. "Can I see the files?"

  "Reluctantly," Yung said. "I don't want it getting out what I've been doing here. Who else is going to know what's in my files? Even that I have them?"

  "Would you believe me if I say no one?"

  "Why should I?"

  "I'll make a deal with you," Castillo said. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours. And that will be our little secret."

  "What's in your files?"

  "The names of people-Germans, French, and Russians-who are reliably reported to have made money on Oil for Food and probably are sending it over here. I promised my source I would not turn them over to the CIA or the FBI or anybody. And I won't. But maybe it would help if you took a look at them, maybe make a match with somebody you've got a dossier on. That might help us find this bastard Lorimer."

  "What's your interest in Lorimer?"

  "He was the head bagman for Oil for Food. He knows who got how much, and when, and what for. And if I find him, I think I can convince him to point me in the direction of whoever whacked Masterson and Markham. Lorimer is who I'm really after."

  "Never heard of him," Yung said. "Sorry."

  "And I have to find him before the bad guys do. They want to make sure he doesn't talk. They already whacked one of his guys in Vienna. Deal?"

  "Why not?" Yung said. "Where's your list?"

  "In my briefcase," Castillo said, and picked it up from the floor and placed it on a coffee table. Yung pushed himself out of his chair and walked to the table as Castillo opened the briefcase.

  "Well, I can save you time about him," Yung said.


  "Excuse me?"

  "Bertrand," Yung said. "The guy in the picture."

  "This picture?" Castillo asked and held it up. "You know this guy?"

  "His name is Bertrand," Yung said. "He's a Lebanese antiquities dealer."

  "A Lebanese antiques dealer?"

  "Antiques are old furniture, things like that," Yung clarified. "Antiquities are things boosted from King Tut's tomb, things like that. Really old stuff. And Bertrand's very good at it, makes a lot of money. I learned a lot from him."

  "About antiquities?"

  "About how to have money in a bank and not worry about getting it back out. You do know, don't you, why people don't use Argentina much to launder and/or hide money?"

  "No. But I wondered why there were so many FBI agents in Montevideo and zero in Argentina."

  "Because this is where the money is laundered and hidden," Yung said. "Argentina used to be the place, but a couple years ago, just before Argentina defaulted on its government bonds, the government decided to help themselves to the dollars in everybody's bank accounts. The peso on one Sunday was worth one U.S. dollar. On Monday morning, the government announced the 'pesification of the dollar.' All dollar deposits in Argentine banks were converted to pesos at a rate of one-point-three pesos per dollar. In other words, if you had a hundred dollars on Sunday, on Monday you had a hundred thirty pesos. Now, if you wanted dollars, you had to buy them, and the rate was five to the dollar. In other words, your hundred-dollar deposit was now worth twenty-six. A lot of people-including a lot of honest ones-took a hell of a bath. The Argentines blamed it on the IMF, who had loaned them the money they couldn't, didn't want to, repay."

  "Fascinating!"

  "Their argument was pure Argentine. It was like some guy on a thousand-a-month salary buying a Cadillac with no money down. Then, when it comes time to make the monthly payment, he says, 'Not only am I not gonna make the payment, but I'm gonna keep the Caddy, too, because you should have known I couldn't afford to pay for it.'"

  "You're serious, aren't you?" Castillo asked.

  "Absolutely. The banking system took a hell of a beating. The Scotia Bank-one of Canada's biggest; they'd been doing business in Argentina for more than a century-just took their losses and pulled out. For a while it looked like CitiBank and Bank of Boston were going to take their losses and leave, too, but they finally decided to stay."

  "How did this affect the antiquities dealer? Bertrand?"

  "Well, first of all, he was smart enough to have his money here-a lot of money; the last time I looked it was a little over sixteen million, U.S.-and not across the river. And then he's got an interesting deal with the banks."

  "What kind of a deal?"

  "This is pretty complicated…"

  "Make it simple for me," Castillo said.

  "Okay. He doesn't deposit his money in his banks. He loans it to them, just like he was another bank. Banks are always borrowing money from each other, so nobody notices one more loan. They don't pay Bertrand what they have to pay other banks, so they're happy. And he's happy because he has their note, callable on demand. Or he can endorse the bank's promissory note over to somebody-anybody-else, an individual or another bank. You see how it works? Like a super cashier's check."

  "I'm not sure," Castillo admitted. "How is he sure the banks will come up with the money when he says, 'Pay me'?"

  "Because he's taken out insurance that they will," Yung said, just a little smugly. "He gets it either from the bank or the insurance company. It costs him a little money, sure, but his money is safe."

  "What if somebody steals the promissory notes?"

  "Unless he signs them, they're just pieces of paper."

  "You know a lot about this guy, don't you, Yung?"

  "I've been keeping my eye on him ever since I came down here."

  "You know something about his personal habits? Where he lives?"

  "He's got an estancia-he calls it 'Shangri-La'-in Tacuarembo Province, and a fancy condominium in Punta del Este. He doesn't use the condo much because, getting to his personal habits, he likes the young girls- very young girls-he has at Shangri-La."

  "There's one thing you don't know about this guy, Yung," Castillo said.

  "And what's that?"

  "His real name is Jean-Paul Lorimer."

  Yung looked at Castillo incredulously, and then smiled.

  "You're kidding!"

  Castillo shook his head. "Uh-uh. Can you show me where Shangri-La is on a map?"

  XVIII

  [ONE] Nuestra Pequena Casa Mayerling Country Club Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1305 29 July 2005 Alex Darby-notified by the guards at the gate that his guests were arriving-was waiting at the door of the large, stucco house when Castillo, Britton, and Santini drove up.

  "Come on in," he said. "Have any trouble finding it?"

  "Just followed the signs," Castillo said. "'Our Little House'? Isn't that a little cutesy-poo for a safe house, Alex?" He looked around the foyer and the well-furnished living room. "And fancy. What's this place costing the agency?"

  "There are safe houses and safe houses, Charley. This is a safe house, but not the agency's. I own it. I stole it."

  "You own it?"

  Darby didn't reply.

  "Come on in, and we'll have some coffee. Unless you want something stronger?"

  "I would love something very strong, but not now," Castillo said as they followed Darby into the living room and sat down around a coffee table.

  "Get this, Charley," Darby said, and pointed under the coffee table.

  Castillo saw him push a floor-mounted button with his shoe.

  There was a faint tinkle of a bell, and a moment later a middle-aged woman in a maid's uniform appeared.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Juanita, will you bring us some coffee, please?" Darby asked. "And some pastries?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Very classy," Castillo said. "You said you own this place? Correction, you said you stole it."

  "Both," Darby said. "What do you think a place like this is worth?"

  "Half a million, anyway. Probably more, a lot more, with the panache of Mayerling attached."

  "You heard what happened here a couple of years ago, the 'pesification'?"

  "Special Agent Yung delivered a lecture on that just now in Carrasco."

  "I'd been here a couple of months when that happened. Nobody had any dollars anymore. The government had just converted them to pesos, at a third-a fourth-of what they had been worth before. People were desperate for dollars; the bottom fell out of the real estate market. I paid a hundred and seventy-five grand for this."

  "You did steal it," Castillo said. "And you live here?"

  "I rent it to Cisco Systems. They pay me twelve thousand a month so the guy who runs things for them in the Southern Cone has a nice place to live, reflecting the prestige of Cisco Systems to the natives. He lets me use it when I need it."

  He saw the look on Castillo's and Santini's faces. "You know what Cisco Systems does, right?"

  "Data transfer? Something to do with the Internet?"

  "Largest operators in both. Can you imagine how much goes over their nets that would be of interest to me?"

  "This guy is undercover with the agency?"

  "No. But he's a retired Signal Corps colonel. He used to work for IntelSat. From time to time he tells me things he's found interesting. And from time to time- like now-I ask him if I can borrow the place to get out of the city for a couple of days. Cisco maintains an apartment in the Alvear Plaza for visiting executives. So he and his wife stay at the Alvear for a couple of days, do the restaurants, go to the Colon, etcetera."

  "Nice deal!"

  "It's now all paid for, so the rent goes in my pocket." He paused, smiled, and chuckled. "Which came to the attention of the counterintelligence people in Langley. I guess the Riggs Bank felt it their patriotic duty to tell them I was depositing a lot more money than I should be on what the agency pays me. So they investigated. They
came down here and spent three weeks investigating."

  "And?"

  "I'd already told my boss what I was doing. His reaction was jealousy, not disapproval. So when they triumphantly laid on his desk their report that the guy in Buenos Aires was in the real estate business, he said, 'I know.'"

  Castillo chuckled.

  "And it's like we're queer, Charley, to answer that question before you ask it. The Cisco guy doesn't ask, and I don't tell."

  "You're a lot smarter than you look, Alex," Castillo said.

  "So what did you find out from the FBI guy in Montevideo?"

  Castillo didn't answer the question, but asked one: "What time is Ambassador Silvio coming?"

  "I didn't know how quickly you could get here, so I told him three. Everybody will be here at three. Is that okay?"

  "That's fine," Castillo said. "I've got an errand to run. I'm sure I can be back by then. While I'm gone, Tony and Jack can tell you what happened with that sonofabitch in Montevideo."

  "I thought maybe you'd be pals after he was told to make nice," Darby said.

  "Not quite. And I'm going to need some maps, topographic maps, of Tacuarembo Province, Uruguay. The more detailed, the better. And of the terrain on a reasonably straight-line route from here to there."

  "Why do I think you're planning a helicopter flight?"

  Castillo didn't answer that question, either.

  "And, to go on my errand, I'm going to need a car without CD tags."

  "Our host has a Mercedes SUV he lets me use. It comes with a driver."

  "I don't want the driver," Castillo said. "Just the car."

  The maid came in, pushing a cart with a silver coffee service.

  "By the time you finish the coffee, I'll have the keys to the Mercedes."

  "I don't have time for coffee, Alex," Castillo said, and stood up. [TWO] Buena Vista Country Club Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1345 29 July 2005 Castillo braked to a stop at the heavy, yellow-striped barrier pole, and with some difficulty finally found the window control switch and lowered the window.

  The guard eyed him suspiciously but didn't speak.

  "I'm here to see Mr. Pevsner."

  "I'm sorry, sir. But there's no one here by that name."