“If you and Sieno were sitting up all night in Paul’s car, Colonel,” Silvio said, “I don’t think anyone can fairly accuse you of being derelict in your duties.”
“I fucked up big time, Mr. Ambassador, that’s the bottom line,” Paul Sieno said.
“I don’t feel that you did, Paul,” Silvio said kindly, then turned to Alex Darby. “Alex, will you stay here to learn what you can? And at the hospital?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Castillo, can I see you for a moment?”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
Silvio took Castillo’s arm and led him out of earshot.
“We’re going to have to talk, Mr. Castillo,” the ambassadorsaid. “Is there some reason we can’t do that now? Would you ride to the embassy with me?”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
“Do you have any idea what’s going on here, Mr. Castillo?” Ambassador Silvio asked when they were in the ambassador’s big BMW. “Is there something I should know?”
“Sir, I have no idea what’s going on,” Castillo said, and then blurted, “except that it’s a fucking outrage.”
“I’m a diplomat, I’m not supposed to use language like that, but I quite agree.”
“Sorry, sir. That slipped out. He was such a nice guy!”
“Yes, he was,” Silvio agreed. Then he said, “Excuse me,” and took out his cellular telephone and pushed an autodial number.
“Jack has been murdered, my love,” he said in Spanish. “At the moment, that’s all I know. Betsy, who has been drugged, has been taken to the German Hospital—
“No. Drugged. Not sedated—
“I was going to suggest that you go to the hospital, but until they bring her out of it, I can’t see what good that would do. Alex Darby’s wife is with the Masterson children—
“Thank you. Make sure you have at least one of Lowery’s people with you, and that the Policía Federal are following you—
“None of us would have believed what just happened, my love. Do what I tell you. I’ll call you shortly.”
[TWO]
The Office of the Ambassador The United States Embassy Avenida Colombia 4300 Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina 0635 23 July 2005
“I expect that you will want to make a report to your superiors, Mr. Castillo,” Ambassador Silvio said as he led Castillo into his office.
“Yes, sir.”
“You might as well do that from here,” Silvio said.
“That’s very kind of you, sir, but I don’t mind—”
“We really haven’t finished our conversation, have we?” Silvio interrupted him. “Just as soon as I speak with the secretary of state, I’ll have them put you through.”
Is he doing that to be a nice guy—which he certainly seems to be—or so that he can hear my report?
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“Having said what I just said, I realize that I have no idea how to get through to the secretary at this hour of the morning—it’s what, half past five in Washington? And I think she would want to hear this directly from me.”
“Sir, I know how to do that,” Castillo said.
The ambassador indicated the secure telephone on his desk.
Castillo put the receiver to his ear and heard, “Operator.”
“My name is Castillo. I need a secure line to the White House. The ambassador’s here to clear it, if you need that.”
Silvio took the phone from Castillo.
“This is Ambassador Silvio. Mr. Castillo is cleared to call the White House now and at any time in the future.”
“Thank you,” Castillo said as he took the handset back.
“White House.”
“This is the United States Embassy, Buenos Aires. Please verify this line is secure.”
Ten seconds later the White House operator said, “This line is secure.”
“This is C. G. Castillo. I need the secretary of state on a secure line, please.”
This took a little longer. It was thirty-five seconds before a male voice said, “This is the secretary of state’s secure line.”
“C. G. Castillo for the secretary of state.”
“The secretary is asleep, Mr. Castillo.”
“I thought she might be. Put me through, please.”
Another forty-five seconds passed.
“Put him through, please,” Natalie Cohen said.
“Castillo, Madam Secretary.”
“Charley, do you realize what time it is here in Washington?”
“Yes, ma’am. Hold one for Ambassador Silvio.”
He heard the secretary of state mutter, “Oh, God!” as he handed the ambassador the telephone.
Then he started for the door. The ambassador waved his hand to signal him to stay.
“Ambassador Silvio, Madam Secretary,” Silvio said. “I have the sad duty to inform you that the body of Chief of Mission J. Winslow Masterson was found an hour and a half ago. He had been shot twice in the head. . . .”
“The secretary wishes to speak to you, Mr. Castillo,” Silvio said, and handed him the telephone.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“How come you placed the call, Charley?”
“I knew how to get through to you without going through layers of bureaucrats.”
“Do you know anything the ambassador doesn’t?”
“No, ma’am. Nobody has any idea what’s going on.”
“Presumably you’ve told Matt Hall?”
“No, ma’am. That’s next.”
“You want me to give him a heads-up?”
“Thank you, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“I’m going to have to wake the President up with this. He finally told me, last night, that he’d sent you down there. And of what you found out, Sherlock.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m sure we’ll be talking, Charley.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There was a series of clicks on the line, then:
“White House. Are you through?”
“Castillo again. Now I need Secretary Hall on a secure line.”
“Hold, please.”
“Secretary Hall’s secure line,” said a new voice.
“Tom?”
“This is Special Agent Dinsler. Who is this, please?”
“Is either Tom McGuire or Joel Isaacson around there?”
“No.”
“My name is Castillo. Will you put me through to Secretary Hall, please.”
“The secretary is asleep, sir.”
He called me “sir,” which means he doesn’t know Castillo from Adam’s off ox.
“Wake him, please.”
“May I ask what this concerns, sir?”
“Get him on the goddamn phone, now!”
There was no reply, but fifteen seconds later Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall came on the line.
“All you had to do was tell Dinsler who you are, Charley. You didn’t have to swear at him,” Hall said, his voice annoyed.
“Yes, sir. Sir, Mr. Masterson, Mr. Masterson, the chief of mission, has been murdered.”
“Jesus Christ!” Hall said. “And his wife?”
“She’s in the German Hospital, surrounded by eight SIDE agents, and four of ours. The bastards drugged her. She woke up—more accurately, came half out of it— in the backseat of a taxicab and found her husband slumped beside her with two bullets in his brain.”
“My God, Charley!”
“Yeah, and he was a really nice guy, too.”
“When did this happen?”
“Sometime after midnight. He got away from the people sitting on him at his house—a CIA guy and a big shot, a colonel from SIDE, plus half a dozen others— and apparently took a taxicab to meet somebody. Probably to pay ransom, or to arrange to pay it.”
“Give me all the details, and slowly. I’m going to have to tell the President and Natalie.”
“Natalie already knows. Ambassador Silvio just talked to her, an
d she said she would tell the President.”
“Okay. Now you tell me what you know.”
“Yes, sir. There’s not much beyond what I already have told you. A truck driver found Mrs. Masterson wandering dazed on a street in the port. She had been drugged. He called the cops, the cops found Masterson’s body, searched it enough to find his diplomat’s carnet, and called SIDE. The colonel from SIDE, a heavy hitter, was sitting outside Masterson’s house with one of Darby’s guys.
“Darby’s guy called Darby, Darby called the ambassador, and then called me and said he was sending a car for me. The SIDE colonel, his name is Munz, was in Darby’s guy’s car. When we got there, Mrs. Masterson was already in an ambulance, with an oxygen mask, and there were cops all over the place.
“Darby, the ambassador, and the embassy security guy, Lowery, and some of his guys showed up moments later. Once the ambassador had seen Mrs. Masterson, they took her to the hospital. The SIDE colonel sent two cars and eight of his men with the ambulance, and Lowery and some of our people went with them.”
“How is Mrs. Masterson?”
“She’s still pretty much out of it, but once they get her to the hospital—”
“What the hell is going on, Charley? Who the hell is doing this? Why?”
“Nobody has a clue, and every time I think maybe this, or maybe that, it doesn’t wash.”
“For example?”
“A bungled kidnapping. Why did they kill Masterson if he paid the ransom? Why didn’t they kill her, too? They killed the cabdriver, maybe—probably—because he saw them. So why let her live? She certainly saw something. I just wish the President had sent somebody who knows what he’s doing down here.”
“He didn’t. He sent you,” Hall said, and then asked, “You think Masterson was trying to pay the ransom? Where would he get the money? I thought you said there had been no contact with the kidnappers?”
“Somebody contacted Masterson last night. Maybe before. Otherwise, why would he have gotten away from the agency guys—and SIDE—watching his house?”
“Okay.”
“And as far as getting money to pay the ransom, all that would take is a telephone call, telling somebody— his financial guy, probably; they’re old friends—to get five hundred thousand, or a million, in cash and get it down here as quickly as possible. A courier could have been on the same plane I was on, for that matter, and there’s a direct American Airlines flight from Dallas. Or he could have hired a Citation or something like it. He has—had—the money, and he was desperate.”
“Yeah,” Hall agreed thoughtfully, and then asked, “Where are you?”
“I’m with Ambassador Silvio. In his office.”
“He knows you were sent down there by the President?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your next step? You know he’s going to ask.”
“I’m going to go to the hospital. Maybe, when she comes out of it . . .”
“How am I going to be able to get in touch with you?”
“Santini, Joel’s buddy, loaned me a cellular. I don’t know if you can call it, but I know I can call the States with it.”
“Give me the number.”
Ninety seconds later, as Castillo held it in his hand, the cellular rang.
“Castillo.”
“It works, apparently,” Hall said. “I’m going back to the secure line.”
Two seconds later, Hall said, “I could have said this on the cellular. Keep in touch, Charley. Let me know anything you find out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hall broke the connection without saying anything else.
“White House. Are you through?”
“Shut it down, please,” Castillo said, and replaced the handset in its cradle. He sensed Silvio’s eyes on him.
“You think Jack Masterson was trying to pay ransom?” Silvio asked.
“Sir, that’s one—”
A female voice came over an intercom loudspeaker.
“Mr. Ambassador, the foreign secretary is on two.”
Silvio reached for the telephone.
“Good morning, Osvaldo.
“Osvaldo, I’m always happy to receive you at your convenience.
“That will be fine. I will be expecting you.
“I appreciate that, Osvaldo. And I agree, this is a genuine tragedy. I will be waiting for you.”
Silvio broke the connection with his finger, but kept the handset in his hand.
“The foreign minister officially requests an immediate audience,” Silvio said. “And personally, he said he’s heartbroken. I think he means that; he got along very well with Jack.”
Castillo nodded, but didn’t say anything.
Silvio took his finger off the switch, then pressed a button on his telephone.
“Oh, Sylvia. I’m glad you’re in. Could you come in right away, please? Thank you.”
He hung up the telephone and looked at Castillo again.
“The foreign minister, sometime during our audience, is going to ask me how I intend to deal with the press. To avoid hurting his feelings by having some doubts about his suggestions along that line, I’m going to show him what I have already released to the press.”
A moment later, a slightly chubby woman in her late forties put her head into Silvio’s office. She had heavily rimmed spectacles sticking out of her salt-and-pepper— and somewhat unkempt—hair. Silvio waved her in.
“Good morning, Sylvia,” Silvio said.
“With all due respect, Mr. Ambassador, what’s good about it? Jack was one of the good guys. And those poor kids!”
“Sylvia, this is Mr. Castillo. Mr. Castillo, this is Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt, our public affairs officer.”
Ms. Grunblatt’s offered handshake suggested that while she considered it a strange custom and a complete waste of her time, she resigned herself to the act.
“How much have you heard, Sylvia?”
She looked at Castillo as if wondering what she could say before a man she didn’t know.
“Ken Lowery gave me a heads-up earlier,” she said finally. “And then he called and told me he was at the German Hospital, and I went there on my way here. He pretty much filled me in.”
“The foreign minister is on his way here. When he gets here I want to be able to tell him what we have released to the press.”
“Which is?”
“In the opening lines, I’d like something to the effect that we are grateful to the Argentine government—on whom we have been relying to get to the bottom of this tragic event since it developed—for their great efforts, in which we have complete confidence.”
Ms. Grunblatt considered that for about fifteen seconds.
“Okay. And what else?”
“Sylvia, I learned from you that when all else fails, tell the truth.”
“And the truth is?”
“All we know is that Mrs. Masterson disappeared undercircumstances that suggested she had been kidnapped, and that Mr. Masterson was murdered, probably by the abductors, as she was left in the taxicab with him.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll get right on it.”
“It will take him, say, fifteen minutes to get here.”
“You’ll have it, Mr. Ambassador.”
“I’d like a look at what Miss Grunblatt comes up with, please,” Castillo said.
That earned him a frosty glance. She said, “It’s Mizz Grunblatt, Mr. Costello.”
“It’s Castillo, Mizz Grunblatt.”
“You think you might wish to add something, Mr. Castillo?” Silvio asked.
“Oh, no, sir. I’d just like to know what we’re saying.”
“Am I allowed to ask who Mr. Castillo is?” she asked.
“He works for the President, Sylvia, which means we tell him anything he wants to know.”
“Is that for dissemination?” she asked.
“Absolutely not,” Castillo said.
She held up both hands, palms out, to indicate that that informatio
n could not be torn from her under any conditions.
He smiled at her.
“Do you kill people who look over your shoulder while you work?” Castillo asked.
“Only if they’re looking down my dress,” Ms. Grunblatt said. “You that hot to see what I come up with?”
“I’d like to see it before I go to the German Hospital,” he said.
“Sure, why not?” she said.
“I’ll see that you have a car and driver, Mr. Castillo,” the ambassador said.
“I can take a taxi, sir.”
“Indulge me,” the ambassador said.
“Thank you, sir.”
[THREE]
“So what do you think?” Ms. Grunblatt asked.
“I think it’s just what the ambassador wants,” Castillo replied. “Who gets this?”
“Once the boss approves it, I’ll e-mail it first to the Herald—that’s the English-language paper here—and then AP, then the New York Times. Then I’ll call them to let them know I sent it. After that, everybody else—the local media.”
“Fax one to a man named Karl Gossinger at the Four Seasons.”
“Who is he?”
“He works for a German newspaper called the Tages Zeitung.”
And he will shamelessly paraphrase your very well-written yarn and send it off as his own.
She looked at him curiously but said only, “Consider it done.”
The door to her office opened and a large and muscular young man in civilian clothing came in. His tweed jacket didn’t do much to conceal the large revolver on his belt. Castillo was sure he was one of the Marine guards.
“Mr. Castillo?”
“Right.”
“Sir, I’ve got your car anytime you’re ready to go.”
“I’m ready,” Castillo said. He looked at Ms. Grunblatt. “Thanks.”
“If you find out anything over there, you’ll keep it to yourself, right?”
“You will be the second to know.”
The Marine led him to an embassy BMW in the embassy basement and held the rear door open for him.
“Would it be all right with you if I rode up front?” Castillo asked.
“Yes, sir. Whatever you want, sir.”
Castillo walked around the front of the car and pulled the passenger door open. There was a leather toilet kit on the seat.
“There’s a toilet kit on the seat,” Castillo announced. “Yours?”
The Hostage Page 17
