“Unfortunately, to award them a medal for valor—my initial thought was the Distinguished Service Cross—there has to be a citation to accompany the decoration. Since their activities were of a covert nature, acting on a Presidential Finding that certain actions were necessary, a citation describing what they have done would make that Presidential Finding public. That’s not in the best interests of the nation. General Naylor pointed out to me, too, that a citation saying nothing more specific than ‘actions of a classified and covert nature’ would come to the attention of one or more Congressional oversight committees who would demand to know just what the hell was going on. The result would be the same. The story would be all over the Washington Post and the New York Times.
“So they don’t get the decoration they deserve and I would really like to see them have. General Naylor also suggested that what they did could honestly be described as ‘participating with the highest degree of professionalism in aerial flight under exceedingly hazardous conditions.’ So that’s what the citations on the DFCs say.”
He looked at the directors of the FBI and the CIA.
“These pictures will not be released to the press, but when Charley and Colonel Torine look at them in years to come, I’d like them to be able to recall the award was made with you two—and you, too, Tom, of course—looking on.
“Come on, up against the wall. General, will you read the orders, please?”
The FBI director and the DCI with absolutely no enthusiasm got out of their white wicker armchairs.
General Naylor waited until the photographer had lined everybody up, and then began to read: “Attention to orders. Headquarters, Department of the Air Force, Washington, D.C. 18 June 2005. Subject: Award of the Distinguished Flying Cross. The Distinguished Flying Cross, thirteenth award, is awarded to Colonel Jacob . . .”
“Much better, Charley,” the President said, in reference to what Castillo was now wearing, a polo shirt, khaki trousers, and boat shoes. “Now sit down, have a beer, and tell me what I can do for you.”
The President saw the look on Castillo’s face.
“Why do I think I’m going to regret that offer?” the President asked.
Castillo didn’t reply.
“Come on, Charley, what’s on your mind?” the President pursued.
General Naylor’s face was frozen.
“There’s two things, Mr. President,” Castillo said. “We would never have located that airplane without Mr. Pevsner.”
“That’s the Russian gangster?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you want me to do, Charley?” the President asked, more than a little sarcastically. “Pardon him? I don’t think I can do that. I think we’re the only country in the Western world who doesn’t have a warrant out for him.”
“Sir, he has intelligence sources we, self-evidently, don’t have. I’d really like to . . . to suggest that the government should maintain a relationship with him.”
“For God’s sake, Castillo,” FBI Director Mark Schmidt exploded, “that Russian bastard’s got a record that makes John Gotti look like a Boy Scout.”
“And he has intelligence sources we just don’t have,” Castillo repeated evenly. “And which he has proved willing to make available to us.”
“He’s got a point, Mark,” the President said. “How would we do what you suggest, Charley? What does this guy want?”
“He wants the CIA off his back, sir. Right or wrong, he suspects that since they have stopped using him, they—”
“Hold it right there,” the President interrupted.
“‘Stopped using him’? The CIA’s been using him?” He looked at the DCI. “Tell me about that, John.”
The DCI looked uncomfortable.
“On several occasions, Mr. President,” he said, “Operations has covertly dealt with Pevsner, chartered his aircraft to deliver certain things where they were needed—”
“How about ‘frequently dealt’ with him?” Castillo interrupted, earning an immediate glower from the DCI.
“To deliver the weapons and other goodies they bought from him?” Castillo went on.
The President looked at Castillo, and then at the DCI and waited for him to go on.
“There were some transactions of that nature, Mr. President,” the DCI admitted. “But that’s in the past. I’ve ordered that all connections with this character be severed.”
“And now he believes, rightly or wrongly,” Castillo said, “that since the agency has stopped using him, they’ve been trying to arrange his arrest—or worse—by the governments the agency hired him to work against.”
“You don’t know that, Castillo!” the DCI snapped.
“I said that’s what he believes,” Castillo said.
“Why?” the President asked, softly.
“Because if he’s in some jail in a remote area of the Congo—or dead—there’s no trail back to the agency, sir.”
The President sat back in his chair and looked out across the Atlantic. He took a long and thoughtful pull at the neck of his beer bottle.
After a moment, he turned to Charley and said carefully, “I want you to tell Mr. Pevsner that while I find it difficult to believe that anything like that could be happening—it sounds more than a little paranoiac—I have, as a token of my gratitude for his valuable assistance vis-à-vis locating that 727, directed the DCI to look into the matter, and if anything like that is going on, to stop it immediately.”
“Thank you, sir,” Castillo said.
“You have any questions about that, John?” the President asked.
“No, sir,” the DCI said.
“And that I have told the director of the FBI that I want to be informed of the details of any investigation of Mr. Pevsner now under way in the United States, or which may be begun in the States. Make sure he understands that if he violates any of our laws, he will be prosecuted.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You understand what I’ve just said, Mark?”
“Yes, sir,” the director of the FBI said.
Castillo happened to look at General Naylor, who was shaking his head as if in disbelief.
“Okay, Charley,” the President asked, jocularly. “What else can I do for you?”
“I don’t suppose you would let me go back to being a simple soldier, would you, Mr. President?”
General Naylor’s eyebrows rose.
“From what I have seen, Charley,” the President said, “I doubt if you were ever a simple soldier. But to answer your question, no, I would not. That’s out of the question.”
“And what was the President’s reaction?” Alex Pevsner asked.
“He said that if he finds out you’re breaking any laws in the United States, he will cheerfully throw you in jail. But he told the director of Central Intelligence that if he’s running any sort of operation to tip you to anybody to stop it.”
“And you believe he really said that to the CIA?”
“I was there when he said it. He appreciates what you did helping us find that airplane.”
Pevsner looked with his brilliant blue eyes into Castillo’s face for a long moment. “I was about to say that I will show my appreciation for the President’s appreciation by seeing what I can find out about the diplomat’s wife . . .”
“Thank you,” Castillo said.
“Let me finish, please,” Pevsner said sharply. “But, obviously, if you reported to him that I had told you thus and so, that would locate me here, and I don’t want that. So I will make inquiries with the understanding that if I am able to learn anything, you will tell no one the source of your information. Okay?”
“Understood. Thank you, Alex.”
“Anna, why don’t you get a pair of my swimming trunks for Charley? Then you can have a swim while I’m on the phone.”
“I should be getting back to Buenos Aires,” Castillo said.
“I think your time would be more profitably spent waiting for me to find out what I can,” Pevsn
er said, somewhat sharply, and then added, far more charmingly: “And Anna and I would really like you to stay for dinner.”
“Thank you,” Castillo said.
“If there were developments, someone from the embassy would call you, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then have a swim, and later we’ll have some more wine and I will personally prepare an Argentine pizza for you.”
You will personally prepare an Argentine pizza?
“Sounds fine, Alex. Thank you.”
[FIVE]
The pizza oven, a wood-fired, six-foot-wide, clay-covered brick dome, was about twenty feet from the swimming pool in front of a thatch-roofed quincho, which was a building devoted to the broiling of food over a wood-fired parrilla, and then eating it picnic-style.
There were fires—tended by a young Argentine man—blazing in both the parrilla and the oven when Castillo followed Anna and the children through a flap in the heavy plastic swimming pool enclosure to walk to the quincho, where more enormous crystal glasses and a half dozen bottles of wine awaited them.
There was also a wooden table, near the oven, covered with a tablecloth, at which two young Argentine maids, under the stern supervision of the middle-aged Russian-speaking maid, were kneading pizza dough and chopping tomatoes and other pizza toppings.
Castillo felt a tug at his sleeve and looked down to see that Sergei was smilingly offering him a plate of empanadas, a deep-fried meat-filled dumpling.
“Muchas gracias,” Castillo said, taking one.
“De nada,” Sergei said.
“It would appear Sergei is taken with you,” Pevsner said. Castillo hadn’t seen him come into the quincho.
“At least one member of your family is a good judge of character.”
“Unfair, Charley,” Pevsner said. “I’m an excellent judge of character, and Anna is even better.”
Castillo smiled but didn’t reply.
Pevsner handed him a glass of wine.
“Come with me and watch as I personally prepare your pizza,” Pevsner said.
“I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”
“The secret is the oven temperature,” Pevsner said as he walked up to the domed oven. “And this is the way you test that.”
He walked to the table, behind which the three maids and the young man were lined up, and picked from it a page from a newspaper. He crumpled it in his hands and walked back to the oven.
The young man trotted over and raised its iron door with a wrought-iron rod. Pevsner tossed the balled-up paper into the oven and signaled to the young man that he should lower the door.
“One, two, three, four, five, six,” Pevsner counted aloud, then gestured for the door to be raised.
The newspaper was blazing merrily.
“If it doesn’t ignite in six seconds, it’s not hot enough,” Pevsner announced very seriously, gesturing for the door to be closed again.
“Fascinating,” Castillo said.
Pevsner gestured for him to go with him to the table.
The Russian-speaking maid came around with a two-foot-wide pizza dough on a large wooden paddle. She held it between Pevsner and the maids, who stood waiting behind the table with large serving spoons. With his index finger, Pevsner directed one maid to spoon tomato sauce onto the dough, and kept pointing the finger until he decided there was a sufficiency.
He repeated the process with red and green peppers, then with several kinds of salami and pieces of bacon and chicken, finally concluding the process by supervising the spread of what looked like Parmesan cheese over the whole thing.
Then he marched back to the oven with the maid holding the pizza on a paddle trailing him, gestured to the young man to raise the door, and then gestured for the maid to slide the pizza into the oven, and finally for the young man to close the door.
Charley had a hard time keeping a smile off his face.
So far, he hasn’t touched the pizza he’s personally preparing for me with so much as his pinkie!
“I will now prepare another,” Pevsner announced and marched back to the table, where he repeated the process twice more. This time, however, the prepared but unbaked pizzas on paddles were laid on the table.
“I can usually trust them,” Pevsner said, “once I’ve made sure the temperature is right, to put them into the oven and take them out, but I like to prepare them myself.”
“If you want something done right, do it yourself,” Charley heard himself saying solemnly.
“Exactly,” Pevsner said.
It’s not fair of me to make fun of him. What’s the matter with me? He’s being nice, this whole thing is nice, the little kid, Sergei, handing me an empanada is nice. The whole family thing is nice. It reminds me of Grandpa dodging Abuela to slip Fernando and me a couple of slugs of wine at the ranch in Midland while he was roasting a pig over an open fire for the family. Except, of course, that Grandpa did everything but butcher the pig and crank the spit.
This is family. This is nice.
I think Betty Schneider would like this. Not the guy with the shotgun in his golf cart, but Anna and the three kids, and proud Papa preparing a pizza for everybody with his own unsullied hands.
I wonder what the Masterson kids are going to have for supper tonight?
I wonder what that poor bastard has told them, is telling them?
Is he pretending everything is going to be all right?
Preparing them for the worst?
Jesus, when you hear somebody’s been snatched, you never think of the kids! What a rotten fucking way to make an easy buck, grabbing a kid’s mother!
And here I am making nice watching Alex looking into his pizza oven.
There’s nothing I could do in Buenos Aires, so why am I feeling guilty?
“Lost in thought, Charley?”
Castillo turned to see Howard Kennedy holding a glass of wine.
He had disappeared from the swimming pool when Castillo and Anna Pevsner had gone out to it, and he hadn’t been around since.
“I was wondering what the Masterson kids are having for supper tonight,” Castillo said.
“The kids of the wom . . . ?”
Castillo nodded.
“Alex is working on it,” Kennedy said. “There should be something soon.”
“Jesus, I hope so. What’s the penalty for kidnapping here? Do you know?”
“Not for sure, but I do know there’s no death penalty period, and the average sentence for murder is fifteen years, which means they’re on the street in seven-to-ten.”
The Russian-speaking maid marched into the quincho with the now-baked pizza, and Alex Pevsner supervised her slicing of it with an enormous butcher knife.
Pevsner was called to the telephone three times as they ate their supper—the pizza was followed by steaks and foil-wrapped potatoes from the parrilla; Castillo was stuffed—each time taking the call in a small closet with a small window through which Castillo could see him talking.
It reminded Charley of the “phone booth” off General Naylor’s conference room at CentCom headquarters in Tampa, where the secure telephone was located.
Pevsner returned to the table without saying anything the first two times, but when he came out of the closet the third time, he signaled for Charley to come with him.
They walked thirty feet or so away from the quincho.
“I don’t have anything for you, Charley, I’m sorry. This last call was from someone who knows the important people at SIDE . . . you know SIDE?”
Charley nodded.
“And if anybody knew anything, SIDE would. And they’re looking hard. The pressure is on them.”
“Well, thanks for the effort,” Charley said.
“I’ll keep trying,” Pevsner said, then, “All of my sources believe this is not an ordinary kidnapping. My source with connections to the Policía Federal and the Gendarmeria said that they’ve hauled in for questioning everybody even suspected of being involved in kidnappings, and they came
up with nothing.” He paused and then asked, “Did this fellow actually get fifty million dollars after a truck ran over him?”
“Sixty million,” Charley said.
“The kidnappers may not be Argentine. They might even be American.”
“Yeah,” Charley agreed, thoughtfully.
I’ll put that thought in my e-mail to Hall. It’s the only wild idea about this that didn’t come up in that brainstorming session at the embassy.
Why e-mail? I’ll be up all night if I start swapping e-mails with Hall. And Darby made it clear that he’s going to blow my cover to the ambassador tomorrow anyway. It’d be better to get on the horn.
He took his cellular out and pressed an autodial number. He had the phone to his ear before he considered the genuine possibility that there might not be cellular service out here in the country.
“Darby.”
“Charley Castillo. I want to get on a secure line to Washington. Can you do that for me?”
“I can, but there’s the problem of you being just a Secret Service agent, and there would be questions.”
“Go ahead and tell the ambassador. Why not?”
“Okay. I think that’s probably the best thing to do. I’ll set up things at the embassy. Where are you?”
Castillo was aware that Pevsner was trying to make sense of his call.
“Ever hear of a little town called Maschwitz?”
“Yeah. I won’t ask what the hell you’re doing way out there.”
“Don’t. There’s one more thing, Alex. It was suggested to me that the kidnappers might not be Argentine, that they might even be American.”
“That was very delicately suggested to the FBI by the Policía Federal. If you notice a lot of activity in the commo center, it’s the transmission of the names of every American who’s come to Argentina in the past thirty days to the NCIC—the National Crime Information Center—to see if they come up with a hit.”
“Well, somebody’s done this, Alex.”
“Some sonsofbitches.”
“One more thing, Alex. Lowery took my Secret Service credentials to get me a visitor’s badge, and we left the embassy before I got them back.”
The Hostage Page 14
