“No death penalty,” Castillo said.
“And, for your ears only, Mr. Castillo, while I would dearly love to see these people—what is that lovely phrase?—‘hung by the neck until dead, dead, dead,’ that’s just not going to happen.
“Furthermore, extradition poses some problems. Unfortunately, a number of Argentine officials and more important legislators oppose anything we norteamericanos ask for—probably a vestige of Juan Domingo Perón—as a Pavlovian reflex. While I’m fairly certain that extradition would ultimately be approved, I’m not certain.
“Our death penalty enters into the equation. When I was a young consular officer in Paris, there was a terrible man from Philadelphia who stuffed his girlfriend in a trunk and let her petrify there. When this was finally discovered and he was arrested, his attorney—now Senator Arlen Specter, as a matter of interest—got him out on bail, which he promptly jumped. We finally located him in France. When we tried to have him extradited, French officials and legislators, who seem to share the Argentine fondness for denying anything we Americans ask, were more than a little difficult.
“One of the reasons they cited for denying extradition was that we have the death penalty, and they don’t. There were other reasons, but that was one of their major moral arguments. It took us about twenty years to get this chap extradited from France. That took place just a couple of years ago. And I feel sure that our death penalty would be advanced as a reason for the Argentines to deny extradition.”
“I heard that story,” Castillo said. “I have some friends in the Philadelphia Police Department.”
Including a former sergeant named Betty Schneider, who at this very moment is on her way down here. And who may not be nearly as delighted to see me as I will be to see her.
“Two of whom, sir,” Castillo went on, “have become Secret Service agents. I asked that they be sent here to assist me. One of them is a woman, whom I intend to assign to Mrs. Masterson’s security detail. The other is a very bright detective, who will keep his eyes on the investigation for me. He’s a black guy, which I thought might be useful.”
“So you do have some ideas what to do?” Silvio said. “I suspect you’re not nearly as far out of your depth as you say you are.”
Oh, yes I am. And did I ask for Sergeant Schneider because I wanted her to sit on Mrs. Masterson, or because I can’t get her out of my mind? How does Dick Miller so cleverly phrase it? That I have the lamentable tendency to think with my dick?
“With all of these things in mind,” Silvio said, “it seemed to me that justice—as much of it as can be expected in this circumstance—would best be served to have these scum tried and convicted in an Argentine court.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Which means, of course, that all evidence gathered will be retained by the Argentine judicial system; that extraditionof these people, even if finally approved, would be futile. Even if we could get around the double jeopardy business, we would have no evidence to present. Plus, the very act—justified, legally permissible, or not— of asking for extradition would certainly offend Argentine pride. It would be tantamount to saying we don’t trust their judicial system.”
“Did you tell the President what you had decided, Mr. Ambassador?”
“The conversation, Mr. Castillo, was rather one-sided,” Silvio said. “Is there anything else we should talk over before we go into the conference room, do you think?”
“I can’t think of anything, sir.”
[FIVE]
Everyone sitting at the long conference table stopped talking and rose to their feet as Ambassador Silvio and Castillo entered the room.
Alex Darby was at the foot of the table. Kenneth Lowery sat on his right, and Tony Santini on his left. The two FBI agents from Montevideo sat together. There were a dozen other men around the table. Castillo didn’t know any by name, but some of them, the DEA people, he recognized from the brainstorming session Masterson had organized the day before. There were three people in uniform: an Air Force colonel, an Army colonel, and a Marine gunnery sergeant.
Castillo pegged them as the defense attaché, the military mission commander, and the NCO in charge of the Marine guards. Everybody looked at Castillo with unabashed curiosity.
“Keep your seats, please, gentlemen,” Silvio ordered, as he walked to the head of the table. He put his hands on the back of the chair there.
“For those of you who haven’t had the opportunity to meet him, this gentleman is Mr. C. G. Castillo, who is in Argentina as the President’s agent. A short time ago, the President conveyed to me his decision to place Mr. Castillo in charge of dealing with all aspects of the unfortunate situation we find ourselves in vis-à-vis Chief of Mission J. Winslow Masterson and his family. The President further informed me that the secretary of state, the secretary of defense, and the directors of the Central Intelligence Agency and the Federal Bureau of Investigation have been informed of his decision.”
The ambassador looked at Castillo, said, “Mr. Castillo, you have the floor,” and sat in the first chair at the side of the table.
Castillo looked around the room.
There’s not a hell of a lot of friendly faces looking at me. As a matter of fact, none.
Well, here goes.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Castillo began. “Our priorities are these. First, the protection of Mrs. Masterson and her children. Second, the protection of all embassy personnel. Third, to cooperate with the Argentine authorities in their investigation of what has happened.
“In regard to the last, after consulting with Ambassador Silvio, I have decided that we will proceed on the assumption that the Argentine government will find out who committed these crimes, arrest the culprits, and subject them to trial in Argentine courts.”
“We’re not even going to try to extradite these scum-bags?” FBI agent Yung asked.
“That is what, after consultation with Ambassador Silvio, I have decided. And please don’t interrupt me again until I open the floor for comments and questions,” Castillo said.
There was some murmuring, but nothing more.
Well, I got away with that. Let’s see what else I can get away with.
“With regard to Priority One: Mr. Santini, who has had extensive experience with the Secret Service Presidential Protection Detail, will assume responsibility for the protection of the Masterson family until we can get them safely out of the country. An Air Force transport is already in the air on its way down here to transport Mr. Masterson’s body and his family to the United States.
“With regard to Priority Two: Mr. Lowery will put in place whatever heightened security measures he deems necessary for the protection of all other embassy personnel. I know the President has a deep interest in this, so I’d like, within the hour, a rough game plan from you, Mr. Lowery, so that after Ambassador Silvio approves it—or modifies it—I can send it to Washington.”
Castillo looked at Lowery, who said, “Yes, sir. Within the hour.”
Two down.
“With regard to Priority Three: Mr. Darby will handle all arrangements to cooperate with the Argentine authorities in their investigation of this situation, and, coordinatingwith Mr. Santini and Mr. Lowery, the incorporation of what security personnel the Argentine government provides into our own security arrangements.
“Further, the FBI is sending a team of investigators down here. They will report to Mr. Darby. Mr. . . . Yung, is it?”
“Yung,” he confirmed.
“You will be responsible for the logistic support of the FBI team. Find them someplace to live, to operate, automobiles, whatever they need, and also keep Ambassador Silvio, Mr. Darby, Mr. Lowery, Mr. Santini, and myself advised on a timely basis of whatever their investigation develops.
“The Secret Service is sending two special agents down here. One, Special Agent Schneider, will report to Mr. Santini to assist in the protection of the Masterson family. Special Agent Britton will monitor both the Argentine’s a
nd our investigation—including, of course, the FBI’s— and report to the ambassador and me what information he comes up with. I will, since both special agents will be working for me, handle their logistic requirements.”
Now how the hell are you going to do that?
“Finally, to ensure everyone’s working on the same page, and to ensure that someone sitting behind a desk in Washington doesn’t start to try to micromanage what we’re going to do here, there will be no communication by any means—radio, e-mail, or telephone—with any agency in Washington unless it has been first vetted by the ambassador or myself.”
“You’re telling me, sir, that I’m forbidden to communicate with the bureau?” Yung demanded.
“Thank you for the opportunity to make myself perfectly clear, Agent Yung, as apparently my request to finish without interruption also went unheard,” Castillo said icily. “You are forbidden to communicate with the bureau—or anyone else—absent the approval of the ambassador or myself in every instance. Got it?”
There was a moment’s hesitation. Then a cold, “I’ve got it.”
“Now, are there any questions or comments?”
There were far fewer questions and comments than Castillo expected.
There is, however, a sullen, bubbling resentment toward Presidential Agent Castillo that can be cut with a knife.
But I think trying to be a nice guy would have made things even worse.
“Well, if that’s it, gentlemen, thank you for your time and attention. Now let’s get to work. Mr. Darby and Mr. Santini, will you remain behind, please?”
“Will you be needing me for anything else, Mr. Castillo?” Ambassador Silvio asked, when everyone but Darby and Santini had left the room.
“If you would, sir. Give me another minute.”
“Of course.”
“Tony, Alex, that commo block doesn’t apply to either of you. But I couldn’t keep just the FBI off the horn. And I really didn’t want some hotshot second-guessing what we’re going to try to do here.” He looked at Darby. “Remember the Langley hotshots with access to a satellite phone in Afghanistan, Alex?”
“Painfully,” Darby chuckled.
“Joel said you were really a hardnose,” Santini said. “You did very well in here just now, Ace.”
“I wish I thought so.”
“I thought so, too,” Ambassador Silvio said. “I did wonder, however, why you claimed my decision not to go for extradition as your own?”
“We had a saying in Afghanistan, sir, when we did something we suspected might get us in hot water. ‘Screw it. What are they going to do, send me to Afghanistan?’”
Silvio chuckled.
“There’s also an expression, ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.’ But that was gracious of you, Mr. Castillo. I’m grateful.”
“Sir, do you think you could bring yourself to call me ‘Charley’?”
“Of course. Thank you. My first name is Juan. My friends usually call me John.”
“My real first name is Carlos, sir, and with your permission, I will continue to call you ‘sir’ and ‘Mr. Ambassador. ’”
“Charley, who are these two agents they’re sending down?” Santini asked.
“They’re both ex-Philadelphia cops. We worked with them when we were looking for the 727. The lady was a sergeant in intelligence, and the guy worked deep cover for years for counterterrorism. Hall was impressed with both of them, and told Joel to recruit them. Joel just got them out of the training academy early to work in Hall’s office. So they were available.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
Well, as far as the sergeant is concerned, I am going to look passionately into her beautiful eyes and get as much cabernet sauvignon down her lovely throat as possible.
“This is why I asked you to stay, Mr. Ambassador,” Castillo said. “Alex, I was at the hospital when you and Lowery were talking with her—”
“Munz told me you were there,” Darby interrupted.
“—and I had the feeling, Alex, that you weren’t getting the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.”
Darby’s eyes first registered surprise, and then hardened.
“Charley, she was coming out of the drug; she didn’t know what she was saying.”
“She knew enough to be very concerned about her kids,” Castillo said. “But when it came to any detail of her abduction, she drew a blank. Not a partial blank, Alex, a blanket blank.”
“That was not the feeling I had,” Darby said.
“Well, what we’re going to do now is go over to the hospital so that you—and if you can spare the time, Mr. Ambassador, you, too—can introduce her to Tony and me. At which time, Tony will ask her what happened, and what she remembers.”
Darby shook his head.
“Why would she lie? About what?” he asked.
“I think Mr. Cast—Charley—is suggesting that her abductors told her to tell you—us—as little as possible, and threatened her,” Silvio said.
“Yes, sir,” Castillo said. “And we need all the information we can get.”
“After they blew Jack away,” Darby pursued, “it seems to me she would want to tell us anything we wanted to know.”
“Unless they threatened her children,” Castillo said. “If they were willing to blow her husband away, she knew they’d be willing to hurt the kids. Kill the kids. Or maybe her family. Her father and the brother.”
“I think you’re really reaching, Charley,” Darby said.
“What brother?” Santini asked.
“He works for the UN,” Castillo said. “That’s about all I know, except what Alex told me about his not getting along with Masterson.”
“I met him once, years ago,” Silvio said. “He has some sort of liaison, coordination-of-agencies job in Paris. I was thinking of perhaps trying to get in touch with him, so that he could break this news to his father, who has some sort of heart problem.”
“Sir—Alex, do you know his name?”
“Lorimer,” Alex said. “Jean-Pierre, Jean-Paul, something like that. French. The ambassador’s—Betsy’s father’s—first name is Philippe.”
“They’re French?”
“Maybe way back, way way back, like Jack’s family,” Darby said. “Jack used to delight in telling people who hated the South that there were three Mastersons—‘free men of color’—who were Confederate officers, two in the navy and one in the army. If he was really pulling their chain, he’d say the family had made its money in the slave trade.”
Silvio chuckled.
“Was there money, Alex?” Castillo asked. “Before he was run over by the beer truck?”
“Not that kind of money, but yeah. Both families are more than—what’s the word?—‘comfortable.’ Sugar, I think, and cotton. Growing it and dealing in it.”
“Mr. Ambassador,” Charley said, “I was going to suggest that you get in touch with the State Department and see if we can get a location, maybe even a telephone number, on the brother. In case we can’t get that information from Mrs. Masterson.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Silvio said, “and if you’d like, I’ll go to the German Hospital with you and introduce you and Tony to Mrs. Masterson.”
“Thank you, sir. That will be very helpful.”
[SIX]
The German Hospital Avenida Pueyrredón Buenos Aires, Argentina 1305 23 July 2005
El Coronel Alfredo Munz of SIDE walked up to them as they entered the lobby of the hospital.
“Your Excellency, gentlemen,” he said in Spanish. “What a fortunate happenstance. I was about to call Señor Castillo and ask if he could spare me a moment of his time.”
“Fortunate happenstance,” my ass. Munz wasn’t surprised at all to see us. He was waiting for us, which means he knew we were coming here.
How did he do that?
He’s got somebody inside the embassy, more than likely, to keep an eye on things generally and the ambassador in particular. So
mebody who heard the ambassador call for his car to bring us here, or someone listening to that allegedly encrypted radio in his car, or Darby’s, or maybe hearing the Marine guard calling Lowery to update him on the ambassador’s location.
Why am I surprised? Both Darby and Santini told me SIDE’s good, and with this business going on, they’ve got their act in high gear.
But what does he want with me?
“Mi coronel, I am at your disposal,” Castillo said, and then, to the ambassador, “Sir, why don’t you go up to Mrs. Masterson’s room? I know where it is and I can catch up with you.”
Munz led Castillo to a corner of the lobby.
“You have at once greatly disappointed several important people in the Ministry of Information, Herr Gossinger,” Munz said in German, “and added a little excitement to what I’m sure you and I would both regard as their rather boring and mundane lives.”
Oh, shit. He found out I entered the country as Gossinger.
And I never went to the Ministry of Information to register as a journalist.
Castillo smiled at him.
“How is that, Herr Oberst?” he replied in German.
Munz handed him a sheet of paper. It was a copy of the immigration form Castillo had filled out on the airplane and handed to the immigration officer at the airport. It also had his photograph, obviously taken by a good and unobtrusive camera as he stood at the immigration booth.
“They so wanted to explain to a prominent German journalist how concerned the Argentine government is with this sad situation, and then, when you failed to show up at the Ministry of Information, as you promised to do, they thought that perhaps this German fellow had something to do with the villains we’re looking for.”
“Actually, my name is Gossinger,” Charley began.
“I know. I took the trouble to find out. The German embassy told me you are not only a distinguished foreign correspondent for the Tages Zeitung, but the great-great-grandson of the founder. What a wonderful cover! A second persona that is real.”
The Hostage Page 20
