“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Charley, that that’s not curiosity.”
“I was wondering if there is a ransom demand, and he says, ‘Fuck the rules, I want my wife back, I’ll pay,’ where would he get the money, how would he get it down here?”
“What is that line, ‘Great minds run on parallel paths’?”
“Something like that.”
“The answer to the first part of the question is that the IRS took their bite—at his level, right at half, countingLouisiana state income tax—out of the lost-wages part of the settlement. In other words, he got something like eight and a half million, and taxes ate half of that. The rest of the settlement was compensation for pain and suffering, et cetera. That’s tax free.”
“You’re talking more than forty million dollars. Where is it?”
“It’s more than that now. There’s a guy—he and Jack went to some private high school together—in the Hibernia National Bank and Trust in New Orleans who’s been managing it for him. Managing it very well.”
“He’s from New Orleans?”
Darby shook his head. “Just across the border in Mississippi, a place called Pass Christian, on the gulf. Betsy’s from New Orleans; her father, who’s a retired ambassador, lives there.”
“You checked Masterson out, I guess?”
“No. He told me. I met Jack when we were both in Paris, years ago. We’re close. I’m the successor executor—after his father—of his will. So he figured I should know what I was letting myself in for.”
Castillo nodded and they fell silent for a moment.
“That’s another problem the poor bastard has, telling Betsy’s family,” Darby said.
“You think he’s told his?”
“I don’t think he’d want to tell his father without telling Betsy’s, and Betsy’s father’s likely to have a heart attack. Literally. He’s got a really bad heart condition.”
“Somebody said something about a brother-in-law?”
“Works for the UN. Jack doesn’t like him.”
“Why not?”
Darby shrugged. “He never told me. But it was pretty evident.”
Then Darby changed the subject: “To answer your first question: What I would do if I were Jack Masterson—what I’m half afraid he’s already done—is get on the phone to his money guy at Hibernia: ‘Get me a million dollars, get on the next plane down here with it, and don’t tell anyone.’”
“It might not be that easy,” Castillo said. “Rich people don’t keep much cash around, either cash-cash, or in a checking account. Even a banker would have trouble coming up with a million in cash without somebody asking some hard questions.”
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” Darby said.
Castillo ignored him.
“And a million dollars in hundreds takes up a lot of space. A hundred thousand right from the Federal Reserve makes a bundle about this big.”
He demonstrated with his hands.
“You really live in an apartment in the Mayflower, Charley?” Darby asked.
Castillo decided to ignore that, too, but then changed his mind.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“From the same guy who told me about you and the DCI. I won’t tell you who he is, but you know him. He was in Afghanistan when we were. Not to worry; he likes you.”
“What else did my friend with the big mouth tell you about me?”
“That you’re Texas oil money.”
“I’m from Texas and I can afford to live in the Mayflower. Can we leave it at that?”
“Okay.”
“There’s also some sort of a law,” Castillo said, “that when you take ten thousand, or more, in cash from a bank, the bank has to tell somebody. I don’t know who, maybe the IRS, but somebody. And I don’t know what I’m talking about here, but I think there’s another law that says you have to declare it if you’re taking ten thousand—maybe five thousand—in cash out of the country.”
“I’ll ask Tony. He’d know. Or one of those FBI guys from Montevideo. They would know . . .”
There was the buzzing of a cellular phone. Both men took theirs out.
“Hey, Charley,” Howard Kennedy’s voice came somewhat metallically over Castillo’s cellular. “How’s things going?”
Darby put his cellular away and looked with interest at Castillo.
“What’s new, Howard?” Castillo asked.
“A mutual friend would like to see you.”
“Really?”
“He’s quite anxious you meet.”
Why do I find that menacing?
“That’s very flattering. Why?”
“I have no idea. What are you doing now? Where are you?”
“I’m drinking a cup of coffee in a restaurant in San Isidro.”
“It would just take a couple of hours, Charley. Can I pick you up? What restaurant?”
“Hold one, Howard,” Castillo said, and took the cellular from his ear.
Painful experience had taught him that cellular microphones were very sensitive. He hit a series of keys with his thumb to select the MUTE function, then, for insurance, raised his right buttock, shoved the cellular under, and sat on it. His buttocks was the only object he knew for sure would effectively cover the cellular’s mic.
Darby had apparently come to the same conclusion, because he smiled understandingly. Castillo smiled back.
“This is a guy I really should see,” Castillo explained.
“I was hoping it was Tony saying they’d heard something.”
“Me, too,” Castillo said. “Is there some reason you think I should go back to the embassy?”
Darby shook his head. “But I have to get back. I told Jack I’d go with him to pick up his kids at school. You’ll be all right to get to your hotel?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Castillo lifted his rump, reclaimed the phone, and keyed UNMUTE.
“You still there, Howard?”
“What the hell was that all about?”
“I’m in the Kansas restaurant, on Libertador.”
“I know where it is. I’ll be there in ten, fifteen minutes. Same car. Can I get you to wait on the street?”
“Why don’t you go into the parking lot? That will make it easier for the FBI.”
“That’s not funny, goddammit!”
“Just pulling your chain, Howard.”
“Ten minutes, out in front,” Kennedy said, and the connection went dead.
Darby looked at him curiously.
“Private joke,” Castillo explained. “Somebody else the FBI doesn’t like.”
Darby nodded. “There’s a lot of people like that. Why don’t we put our numbers in each other’s cellular?”
“If you’re going to tell Lowery—or Masterson or the ambassador—what I’m doing down here, that would be a waste of time.”
“Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But I’m not going to say anything tonight, and then not until I give you warning. And who knows what’s liable to happen tonight?”
“Thanks,” Castillo said, and handed him his cellular for Darby to punch in his number.
[TWO]
The black Mercedes-Benz S500 appeared in the flow of westbound traffic on Avenida Libertador, and Castillo stepped off the curb so they would see him. The car pulled to the curb and the rear door was opened from the inside. He saw Kennedy inside.
“Get in, Charley,” Kennedy said.
The car started the moment Castillo had pulled the door closed.
“Grüss Gott,” Castillo said, speaking the Viennese greeting in as thick an accent as he could muster.
“Grüss Gott, Herr Gossinger,” Frederic replied from behind the wheel.
That’s not a Viennese accent. Not even Czech. Good ol’ Frederic’s probably a Hungarian.
Why did I do that? Why do I care?
The Mercedes made the next left turn. They were moving through a residential area, looking much, Castillo thou
ght, like one of the better neighborhoods of San Antonio, except that all the houses here were behind walls—some of them topped with razor wire—and almost all of them had bars on the windows.
Kennedy touched his arm and handed him something. It looked like a black velvet bag.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a velvet bag,” Kennedy said. “It goes over your head.”
Now I know why I felt menaced. They call it “intuition.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all. You know my boss. He pays a good deal of consideration to his privacy.”
“Fuck you, Howard, and fuck your boss!” Castillo said evenly. Then he raised his voice for the benefit of Frederic. “Stop the car!”
“Jesus Christ, Charley, there’s nothing personal in this!”
“Stop the car before I have to hurt you, Howard.”
“Take us back to the restaurant,” Kennedy ordered in German, and then added, to Castillo, “You know he’s not going to like this.”
“Make sure you tell him I said, ‘Go fuck yourself, Alex.’ Now stop the goddamn car.”
Kennedy hesitated a moment, then ordered Frederic to pull to the curb.
Castillo got out, slammed the door, and started to walk toward Avenida Libertador. He heard the Mercedes drive off.
It was a three-block-long walk to Libertador, and he was half a block away when he saw the Mercedes. It was stopped at the curb, facing him, and Kennedy was standing on the sidewalk beside it. He was holding something in his left hand.
I don’t think he’s stupid enough to pull a gun and force me into the car, but there’s no telling.
When Castillo got closer, he saw that what Kennedy had in his hand was a cell phone.
“You have a call, Herr Gossinger,” Kennedy said jokingly. He was wearing an uncomfortable smile.
“If Frederic looks like he’s even thinking of getting out of the car, you’re going to either the hospital or the morgue,” Castillo said.
Kennedy handed Castillo the telephone, and then took three steps backward and raised his open hands to show he had no intention of doing anything.
Castillo, maintaining eye contact, said into the phone, “Hello?”
“If Howard offended you in any way, my friend,” Alex Pevsner said in Russian, “you have my apology.”
“Howard was doing what you told him to do. And don’t call me your friend,” Castillo replied in Russian. “Where I come from, friends trust friends; friends don’t ask friends to put bags over their heads.”
“When you get here, my friend, you will understand why I was trying to be a little more cautious than I usuallyam. And you will understand that I really consider you a trustworthy friend.”
“Why should I go anywhere?”
“Because I am asking you as a friend.”
“I don’t want to have to hurt Howard.”
“There will be no need to even consider something like that. Please give me just a few hours of your time.”
Whatever this is about, it’s important to him. He doesn’t ask people to do things; he tells them, and, it is credibly alleged, has them killed if they don’t do what he says.
“Okay,” Castillo said, after a just perceptible hesitation.
“Thank you, Charley,” Pevsner said, and there was a click as the connection was broken.
Castillo looked at Kennedy and then tossed the phone to him.
“Get in the car, Howard, and put the bag over your head,” Castillo said.
He took pity on Kennedy when he saw the look on his face.
“Just pulling your chain, Howard.”
[THREE]
Their route took them through the residential district of San Isidro, and then past a long line of interesting-looking restaurants facing the San Isidro Jockey Club. He thought he more or less knew where he was. His grandfather had taken him and Charley’s cousin Fernando here a half dozen or more times when they were in high school.
Then quickly they were on a wide superhighway—six lanes in each direction—and although this was new to him, Castillo was pretty sure that it was the old Pan Americana Highway. The Argentines had been expanding it for years, and they had apparently finally finished what they called an autopista.
After six or seven kilometers at what Castillo decided was at least twenty klicks above the posted 130-kilometers-per-hour speed limit—meaning they were going ninety-plus miles per hour—the road split, and Frederic took the left fork. Signs said that the right fork was the highway to Uruguay and that they were now headed for Pilar.
They went through a tollbooth without stopping, just slowing enough for a machine to read a device that opened the barrier, and then Frederic quickly accelerated back to their way-above-the-speed-limit velocity.
On the left was a large factory, a long rectangular building three stories high and three hundred meters long, connected to four enormous round concrete silos with a rat’s nest of conveyors.
LUCCETTI, LA PASTA DE MAMA was lettered in thirty-foot-tall letters across the silos.
Castillo chuckled. Kennedy looked at him.
“Mama’s family obviously eats a lot of pasta,” Charley said.
Kennedy smiled and said, “There are more Italians here than Spanish.”
The autopista here was narrower—three lanes in each direction—but the speed limit was still 130 kph, and Frederic was still driving much faster than that.
Outside the autopista fence there were now large, attractive restaurants and what looked like recently constructed showrooms for Audi, BMW, and other European and Japanese automobiles. Charley saw only a Ford showroom to represent American manufacturers, and wondered idly where Mercedes-Benz had their showroom.
He had been out this way as a kid, too, but then there had been only a two-lane highway leading from Buenos Aires to the estancias in the country.
The area around Pilar was obviously now an upscale residential area—somebody had to be buying the Audis and BMWs—but there were no houses visible from the highway, just businesses catering to people with money.
Frederic took an exit ramp off the highway, and there was the missing Mercedes showroom, a typically elegant affair across the road from a large shopping center anchored by a Jumbo supermarket.
And then they were in the country again.
Three klicks or so down a two-lane highway—which slowed Frederic down to no more than, say, sixty-five or seventy mph—the car braked suddenly and turned off the road and slowed as they approached a two-story red-tiled-roof gatehouse.
A sign carved from wood read BUENA VISTA COUNTRY CLUB.
There were four uniformed guards at the gatehouse, two of whom looked into the Mercedes carefully before a heavy, red-and-white steel barrier pole was raised. All the guards were armed, and inside the gatehouse Charley saw a rack holding a half-dozen riot guns. They looked like American Ithaca pump shotguns.
Now this, Castillo thought, is what you call a “gated community.”
Once inside the property, there were signs announcing a thirty-kph speed limit, and these were reinforced with speed bumps on the macadam road every two hundred meters or so. Frederic now obeyed the speed limit.
And then, far enough into the property so they would not be visible from the road outside, the first houses came into view.
The Mercedes rolled slowly down a curving road past long rows of upscale houses set on well-manicured hectare lots. There were no barred windows, as there had been on the upscale houses in San Isidro. They passed a polo field—lined with the same quality houses—and then another, and then came to several greens and then the clubhouse of a well-maintained golf course. There were thirty or so cars in the parking lot.
And then more houses on the winding road. The houses and the lots in this area were larger. Some— perhaps most—of them were ringed with shrubbery, tall enough so that only the upper floors of the houses were visible. Castillo saw that the shrubbery also concealed fences.
Freder
ic turned off the road and stopped before a ten-foot-high gate. After a moment, the gate rolled open to the right. Charley saw a workman at what was probably the gate control. He had a pistol under his loose denim jacket. Once they were inside, Charley saw a man in a golf cart rolling along the perimeter of the property. There was a golf bag mounted on the cart that did not completely conceal the butt stock of a shotgun.
This is obviously a double-gated community, a gated community within a gated community, as opposed to a double-gaited community, which is one whose inhabitants are a little vague about their sexual preferences.
He saw first a Bell Ranger helicopter sitting on what looked like a putting green, and then the house, an English-looking near mansion of red brick with casement windows. As they approached, the main door of the house opened and a tall man who appeared to be in his late thirties walked out and down a shallow flight of steps to the cobblestone driveway.
Aleksandr Pevsner—also known as Vasily Respin and Alex Dondiemo and a half dozen other names, an international dealer in arms and, it was often and credibly alleged, head of at least a dozen other enterprises of very questionable legality, and for whom arrest warrants had been issued at one time or another by at least thirteen governments—was wearing gray flannel slacks, a white button-down shirt (in the open neck of which, in the Argentine manner, was a silk scarf held in place by a sterling silver ring), a powder blue pullover sweater, and highly polished brown shoes with thick rubber cushion soles.
He folded his arms over his chest, smiled, and waited for the Mercedes to stop and for Frederic to quickly run around the front of the car to open the rear door.
“Ah, Charley,” Pevsner called in Russian as Castillo got out. “Thank you for coming. It’s a delight to see you.”
“Frankly, I didn’t think much of the first invitation, Alex,” Castillo replied, also in Russian, offering Pevsner his hand.
“For which I have already apologized, and will apologize again now, if you wish.”
“Once is enough, Alex,” Castillo said, adding, “Nice house.”
Pevsner broke the handshake and put his hands firmly on Castillo’s upper arms and looked into his eyes. Pevsner’s eyes were large and blue and extraordinarily bright. The first time Charley had met him, he had unkindly wondered if Pevsner had been inhaling controlled substances through his nose.
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