So where did you get yours, Howard? Maybe you didn’t just arrive in the obscene hours of the morning?
“Rushed right from the plane to the cellular store, did you, Charley?”
“Howard, it’s not nice—didn’t your mommy tell you?—to read other people’s minds. But, to satisfy your curiosity, I got mine from the Secret Service guy here. The Secret Service takes care of its own. Where did you get yours?”
“I borrowed it from a friend.”
“Sure.”
Kennedy looked at him and smiled, but didn’t respond directly. He handed Charley’s cellular back to him.
“I’d love to push the autodial buttons on that, and see who answers.”
“Who do you think might answer?”
“They call the FBI guys in embassies ‘legal attachés,’ I guess you know.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Castillo responded, “none of the autodial buttons will call the FBI. I don’t even know anybody in the FBI here. As a matter of fact, I just learned they don’t even have an FBI detachment, or whatever, at the embassy. What about your buttons?”
Kennedy didn’t reply directly to that, either. Instead, he said, “So what’s on your agenda right now? Can I drop you someplace?”
“I’m going to the embassy.”
“It’s right on my way. I’ll drop you.”
“On your way to where?”
“The King Faisal Islamic Center. It’s just a couple of blocks from the embassy.”
“I have a hard time picturing you touching your forehead to the floor in prayer.”
“It’s business, Charley. Just business.”
“Isn’t that the line the Mafia uses, just before they shoot people?”
“Would that the Arabs were as easy to deal with as the Mafia,” Kennedy said, and stood up. He took a wad of money from his pocket and dropped several bills on the table. “You want a ride or not?”
A black Mercedes-Benz S500 with heavily darkened windows was waiting for Kennedy when he came through the revolving door. A large man who looked vaguely familiar got quickly out of the front passenger seat and opened the rear door.
“You remember Herr Gossinger, don’t you, Frederic?” Kennedy said.
“Guten morgen, Herr Gossinger,” the man said without expression.
The last time I saw you was in Vienna. I pegged you as either Hungarian or Czech, but what the hell. It all used to be Austria.
“Grüss Gott!” Charley said, trying to sound as Viennese as possible.
Kennedy got quickly in the backseat, and Charley slid in after him.
[TWO]
The United States Embassy Avenida Colombia 4300 Buenos Aires, Argentina 0905 22 July 2005
As Kennedy’s Mercedes turned off Avenida Libertador, Castillo could see both the American embassy and the ambassador’s residence, a large, vaguely European-looking mansion fronting on Libertador. A large, armored, blue Policía Federal van was parked on the street across from it, but Charley couldn’t see any police.
The embassy sat a block away, overlooking a park, behind both a steel picket fence and a half circle of highway-divider concrete barricades. It was unquestionably American, he thought somewhat unpatriotically.
Another building—the embassies in London and Montevideo come to mind—built to the pattern that should have won the architect the opposite of the Pritzker Prize: one for designing the Ugliest Office Buildings of the Century.
The only thing that keeps people from confusing that drab concrete oblong with a misplaced airport warehouse is that the gray walls are perforated with neat rows of square inset windows.
There are probably a thousand roadside Marriott or Hilton motels that are better-looking and look American. Why the hell couldn’t they have used brick, and thrown in a couple of columns? Made it look a little like Monticello, or even the White House?
The intensity of his reaction surprised him.
Why am I pissed?
Fatigue? Hangover?
Being sent down here to do something I have no idea how to do?
Maybe that. Okay, certainly that. But really, it’s Howard Kennedy.
What the hell is he doing here? It’s no coincidence. Or is it?
I don’t know—have no way of knowing—and that disturbs me.
And why is he absolutely unable to believe that I have no intention of flipping him to the FBI? Goddammit, by now he should know he can trust me. Which of course makes me unable to trust him . . .
“The entrance is way down on the left,” Kennedy said. “And it looks like there’s a line of people ahead of you.”
“Probably people applying for visas,” Castillo replied. “There’s supposed to be an employee entrance on the right. Just drop me anywhere along here.”
A moment later the Mercedes pulled to the curb. Charley saw the man in the front jump out to open the door for him. He turned to Kennedy and offered his hand.
“Thanks, Howard,” he said.
“I have every confidence you’re not going to tell the legal attaché how you got here.”
“Oh, goddammit, Howard! I told you, there’s no FBI here.”
“So you said.”
“Fuck you, Howard.”
“Hey, Charley, I’m just pulling your chain.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Let’s try to have a drink and/or dinner,” Kennedy said.
“Yeah. Give me a call.”
He got out of the Mercedes and walked quickly across the street. There was a gap wide enough to walk through between the wedges of the concrete barrier. Once through that, he could see a gate, with a guard shack and a revolving barrier, in the steel picket fence.
There were three men in the guard shack, wearing police-style uniforms with embroidered patches of some security service on the sleeves. What looked like Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolvers hung in open holsters from Sam Browne belts.
He extended the leather folder holding his Secret Service credentials to one of the guards.
“I’m here to see Mr. Santini,” he said in English.
“This gate is for embassy personnel only,” the security guard said, more than a little arrogantly, and pointed to the far side of the embassy.
You sonofabitch, you didn’t even look at my credentials!
An Argentine rent-a-cop is denying a Secret Service agent access to an American embassy? No fucking way!
“You get on that goddamn telephone and tell the Marine guard that a United States Secret Service officer is here at the gate,” Castillo snapped, in Spanish.
Looking a little surprised at the fluent Spanish, as well as the tone, the guard gestured for Castillo to show him his credentials again. Another security guard picked up the telephone.
Castillo turned his back on them.
That little display of anger was uncalled for. What the hell is the matter with me?
But on the other hand, I think that would have been the reaction of a bona fide Secret Service agent. Maybe not Joel, but Tom McGuire certainly would not put up with any crap from a rent-a-cop.
He saw the Mercedes had not moved.
Trying to see if I’m really going in, are you, Howard?
No. What you’re trying to do is see whether I am immediately passed in, which would mean I’m known here, or whether I’m being subjected to this rent-a-cop bullshit because they don’t know me.
He smiled and waved cheerfully, and the Mercedes started to move.
“If you will come with me, please, señor?” the rent-a-cop who had been on the telephone said in English.
Castillo turned and saw that the revolving barrier was moving. He went through it, and the security cop was waiting for him.
“Do you have a cellular telephone or other electronic device, sir?”
“I have a cellular,” Castillo said in Spanish.
“You’ll have to leave it with me, sir. It will be returned when you leave.”
“We will talk to the Marine guard about that,”
Castillo snapped in Spanish, and started walking to the embassy building.
After a moment’s hesitation, the security guard walked after him.
There were maybe fifteen people standing outside the glass entrance walls. They were all smoking.
I doubt the you-can’t-smoke-in-a-U.S.-government-building zealots have ever wondered how much time is lost by all these people taking a smoke break. What’s that cost the taxpayer?
Okay, Charley. Tantrum time is over. Be nice.
Inside the lobby there was a row of chrome-and-leather benches—like the seats in an airport—against the wall, portraits of the President, the Vice President, and the secretary of state on the walls, and, behind a glass-walled counter, a Marine guard—a sergeant—wearing a khaki shirt, dress blue trousers, and a white Sam Browne belt.
“May I help you, sir?” the Marine guard asked.
Charley handed him the credentials folder, which the sergeant examined carefully.
“I’m here to see Mr. Santini.”
“He has a cellular,” the security guard accused.
The sergeant picked up a telephone and punched a button.
“Sergeant Volkmann at Post One,” he said. “There’s a Mr. Castillo to see you, sir.” There was a pause, and then the sergeant said, “Yes, sir,” and looked at Castillo.
“Mr. Santini will be right down, sir,” the Marine sergeant said. “Please have a seat.”
He pointed to the benches.
“He has a cellular,” the security guard said again.
“Excuse me, sir,” the Marine sergeant said.
Castillo looked at him.
“Are you armed, sir?” the Marine sergeant asked, pointing to a metal-detector arch in front of the door leading inside.
Castillo shook his head.
“Thank you, sir.”
Castillo sat down on one of the benches.
The secretary of state, unsmiling, looked down at him from the wall.
Natalie, I really wish you had been able to talk the President out of sending me down here.
The security guard flashed Castillo a dirty look as he walked out of the lobby.
Santini came through the metal detector arch a minute later.
“Good morning, sir,” he said, putting out his hand. “I just learned that you were coming.”
“How are you, Santini?” Castillo said as he shook the hand.
Santini turned to the Marine guard.
“Can I get Supervisory Special Agent Castillo a frequent visitor badge, or am I going to have to run that through Lowery?”
“Sorry, sir,” the Marine said. “Mr. Lowery runs a tight ship.”
“Well, then, give him a regular visitor badge.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have to have his passport, Mr. Santini.”
“Jesus Christ!” Castillo said, and then smiled at the sergeant as he handed him his passport. “Sergeant, that ‘Jesus Christ’ was directed at whoever made a dumb rule, not you.”
“No problem, sir,” the Marine said, with a hint of a smile.
He handed Castillo a plastic yellow visitor’s pass on what looked like a dog tag chain, and pushed a clipboard to him.
“If you’ll sign that, please, sir.”
“And if you’ll follow me, sir,” Santini said, “we’ll see if we can’t straighten this out with Mr. Lowery.”
“He the security guy?” Castillo asked.
“Yes, sir, he is.”
Castillo hung the visitor’s badge around his neck and followed Santini through the metal detector.
Inside, behind the Marine guard post enclosure, was a foyer. In the center of it were two elevator doors, one of them open. Santini waved Castillo through it and pushed a floor button.
“I would say that we are about to corner the security lion in his lair,” Santini said, when the door had closed and they were alone, “except that he’s more of a pussy-cat.”
The door from the third-floor corridor to the embassy security officer’s office was open. Kenneth W. Lowery— he looks a hell of a lot like Howard Kennedy—was sitting at his desk, talking on the telephone.
When he saw Santini, he smiled and waved him in.
“I’ll get back to you,” Lowery said, and hung up the telephone.
“Good morning, Tony,” he said.
“Say hello to Supervisory Secret Service Agent Castillo,” Santini said. “He’s in town to complain about my expense sheet.”
“Having seen your lifestyle, I can see where that would be entirely possible,” Lowery said, getting up and extending his hand across his desk. “Nice to meet you.”
“How are you?” Castillo said.
“What are the chances of getting Mr. Castillo a frequent visitor badge? He’s going to be in and out.”
“How long are you going to be here, Mr. Castillo?”
“Call me ‘Charley,’ please,” Castillo said. “As long as it takes to get Santini to admit he’s been robbing the service blind. That shouldn’t take more than a week or so.”
“Could I see your credentials, please? And your travel orders?”
“Credentials, yes,” Castillo said. “Travel orders, no.”
“You don’t have travel orders?” Lowery asked.
“Blanket,” Castillo said.
Lowery examined the credentials carefully.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a supervisory special agent before,” he said, making it a question.
How the hell do I respond to that?
“I wasn’t notified that you were coming,” Lowery said.
Another question, not a statement.
“That’s why they call it the Secret Service,” Santini said. “What we do is secret; we don’t tell anyone.”
Lowery did not find that amusing.
“Except for having a couple of chats with Santini, I have no business with the embassy,” Castillo said. “If there’s a problem with this frequent visitor badge he thinks I should have, forget it.” He paused and added: “There’s a number you can call to verify my bona fides on the back side of the photo ID.”
“Oh, no. No problem at all,” Lowery said quickly. “Can I borrow these for a moment? I’ll have my secretary make up the badge.”
“Sure,” Castillo said.
Lowery went through a side door and came back a moment later.
“Take just a couple of minutes. She’ll type it out and then plasticize it. I told her to make it out for two weeks. That be long enough?”
“More than long enough,” Castillo said. “Thank you.”
“Can I offer you a cup of coffee while we’re waiting?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Lowery went through the door again, and returned shortly with three china mugs.
“I know Tony takes his black,” Lowery said. “But there’s . . .”
“He takes it black? Then what’s that thirty-eight-dollar item for cream and sugar, Santini?”
Lowery looked at him, then laughed.
“Tony’s been telling me about your problem,” Castillo said.
“What problem is that?” Lowery asked warily.
“The missing wife,” Castillo said.
Lowery flashed Santini a dirty look.
Santini rose to it.
“Come on, Ken, it’s not as if Mr. Castillo works for the New York Times.”
Lowery considered that for a moment.
“Actually, just before you came in, I was wondering how long it will be before the Times guy hears about it.” He paused, then added: “What did Tony tell you?”
“Just that the wife of the chief of mission is missing under mysterious circumstances.”
“The husband’s climbing the walls, understandably,” Lowery said. “She was waiting for him in a restaurant in San Isidro. When he got there, her purse and car were there, and she wasn’t.”
“And you think she was kidnapped?”
Lowery hesitated before replying, then asked, “Have you got much experience with this sort of
thing, Mr. Castillo?”
“A little.”
Once, for example, I helped snatch two Iraqi generals, one Russian general, one Russian colonel, and half a dozen other non-Iraqis from a Scud site in the Iraqi desert. I don’t think that’s what you have in mind, but let’s see where this goes.
“Frankly, I don’t,” Lowery said. “Let me tell you what I’ve got, and you tell me what you think.”
“Sure.”
“I don’t think these people were just hanging around the Kansas parking lot to grab the first woman they thought looked as if someone would pay to get her back. Too many well-heeled folks pass through that parking lot on any given night, and never a nab. They were looking for Mrs. Masterson.”
“That suggests they think the government would pay to get her back. Don’t they know that we don’t pay ransom to turn people loose?”
“Jack Masterson has money,” Lowery said. “Lots of money. You don’t know who he is?”
Castillo shook his head.
“‘Jack the Stack’?” Lowery asked.
Castillo shook his head again.
“The basketball player?”
That didn’t ring a bell, but there was a very slight tinkle. “Oh.”
“In the fourth month of his professional basketball career,” Lowery explained, “for which, over a five-year period, Jack the Stack was to be paid ten million dollars . . .”
Castillo’s eyebrows went up. Christ, now I know! “But he was run over by a beer truck when leaving the stadium,” Castillo said.
“Driven by a guy who had been sampling his product,” Lowery finished. “He had twice as much alcohol in his blood than necessary to be considered legally under the influence.”
“And there was a settlement,” Castillo said.
“One hell of a settlement. Without even going to court. Jack wasn’t badly injured, but enough so that he would never be able to play professional ball again. The brewery didn’t want to go to court because not only were they going to lose—they were responsible and knew it; the truck driver was their agent—but there would be all sorts of the wrong kind of publicity. They paid not only the ten million he would have earned under his contract, but also what he could reasonably have expected to earn in the rest of his professional career. It came to sixty million, not counting the money he could have made with endorsements.”
The Hostage Page 10
