The Hostage

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “I feel like a kid caught with my hand in the cookie jar. What happens now?”

  “I’ve assured them that not only have I informed you of our efforts to get to the bottom of this situation, but also that I told you it would be unnecessary to register with the Ministry of Information. There is no longer a problem.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I have this for you, too.”

  He handed him a small, plastic-covered card. It read “Corps Diplomatique” and had his photograph and Gossinger’s name on it.

  “A diplomatic carnet, in case one of our ever-alert police would ask why you’re carrying a pistol.”

  “A pistol?”

  “Actually, it was my intention to loan you one, but I see under your suit coat that you’re already carrying one in the small of your back.”

  “The ambassador lent it to me.”

  “Karl—you don’t mind if I call you ‘Karl,’ do you?”

  “Herr Oberst, you may call me anything you wish.”

  “There are some very dangerous people here in Argentina, I’m afraid, and I’m not talking about our cottage kidnapping industry. I haven’t been able to come up with any connection between Herr Masterson and them—from what I have, he’s, in that charming North American phrase, ‘Mr. Clean’—but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one. And these people have proven that murder is just part of their game. I would be very sorry if they decided to eliminate you.”

  “You don’t think this is a kidnapping, do you?”

  “Do you?”

  “Well, they abducted her, so that’s a kidnapping. But it smells.”

  “Yes, it does. You have no ideas whatever?”

  “None.”

  “If you did, would you tell me?”

  Castillo met his eyes.

  “Yes, I would. Between us, what did you think when Mrs. Masterson was being . . . I guess the word is ‘interrogated’ by Darby and Lowery?”

  “I would not describe her responses as fully forthcoming.”

  “What do you think she’s hiding?”

  “There may be more to it than this, but the first thing that came to my mind was that they threatened her— probably her children—if she revealed anything she had learned about them.”

  “Why didn’t they kill her?”

  “They want something from her. Maybe Masterson didn’t bring the ransom with him. And they are threatening to kill the children if she doesn’t get it to them. I just don’t know.”

  “Tony Santini is an experienced Secret Service agent—”

  “I know. Did he really injure himself falling off the President’s limousine?”

  Castillo thought a moment before replying, “The Vice President’s limousine.”

  “How embarrassing for him!”

  “Anyway,” Charley said, ignoring the subject, “the ambassador’s going to introduce him as the Secret Service man assigned to protect her and the children, and he’s going to use that to see what he can get out of her.”

  “And is he going to tell her of your appointment as the generalissimo in charge?”

  “You heard about that, too, did you, Alfredo?”

  “Like yourself, Karl, I’m sure, I like to keep my ear to the grindstone.”

  “Nose to the grindstone, ear to the ground,” Castillo smilingly corrected him.

  “Thank you,” Munz said.

  “There’s a planeload of FBI agents on their way down here to assist in the investigation. And two Secret Service agents to assist me. One is a really bright female with a good deal of experience in intelligence. I’m going to put her on the protection detail, hoping she’ll be able to get to Mrs. Masterson. The other one is a very good, street-smart cop who worked under deep cover in really bad situations for years. I’m going to have him look at what the FBI comes up with, and I would be grateful if you would let him see what you’ve come up with.”

  “Certainly, but there’s not much.”

  “There’s also an Air Force transport on its way to transport Masterson’s body and his family home.”

  “Are you going with them?”

  Jesus, I never thought about that!

  “Maybe. But if I do, I have the feeling that I’ll be coming back.”

  Munz nodded, then put out his hand.

  “I’m glad we had this chance to chat, Karl.”

  “Thank you for everything, Alfredo.”

  [SEVEN]

  Mrs. Elizabeth Masterson was not in the intensive care room where she had first been placed, but Castillo had no trouble in finding the room to which she had been moved. There were four uniformed Policía Federal, under the command of a sergeant, and two men in civilian clothing—one of them Paul Sieno, the CIA agent— hovering around a door near the end of the corridor.

  Sieno nodded at Castillo, who then knocked on the door. A moment later, Ambassador Silvio opened it a crack, and then all the way.

  “Come in, Mr. Castillo,” he said, and as Castillo went through the door, the ambassador went on, “Betsy, here’s Mr. Castillo.”

  Mrs. Masterson was sitting up in a hospital bed. She was in a nightgown that had to be hers from home, and Castillo saw there were two other women in the room, almost certainly Darby’s wife and the ambassador’s. They were sitting in chairs along the wall, and Darby and Santini were leaning on the wall next to them.

  Castillo walked up to the bed.

  “The President has asked me to tell you how terribly sorry he is, Mrs. Masterson.”

  That little lie came quickly to my lips, didn’t it?

  Well, if the President had thought about it, he would have.

  “That’s very kind of him,” Mrs. Masterson said. She did not offer her hand and her smile was visibly an effort.

  “And if I may, I would like to offer my own condolences.”

  When there was no response to this except the frozen smile, Castillo went on, “My orders, ma’am, are first to absolutely guarantee your safety, and that of your children, and then to get you to the United States just as quickly and as safely as possible.”

  The smile remained fixed, and she said nothing.

  “Has Ambassador Silvio told you that Mr. Santini has many years’ experience on the Secret Service Presidential Protection Detail?”

  “Yes, he has.”

  “And the Argentine authorities have provided us with some of their very best men to help Mr. Santini.”

  “So the ambassador has told me.”

  “We hope to have word very soon about the arrival of the aircraft the President has sent down here. One of them is a transport, which will carry you and your family to the United States just as soon as you feel up to it, and the other is bringing both a team of FBI experts to assist in the investigation, and two Secret Service agents for your protection detail. One of them is a female agent.”

  Mrs. Masterson nodded.

  “I’m very much aware, Mrs. Masterson, that this is a difficult time for you . . .”

  Mrs. Masterson snorted.

  “. . . but I hope you’ll understand that certain plans have to be made.”

  “Such as?”

  “Where in the United States would you like to go?”

  “Keesler,” she said. “Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi is closest to Jack’s parents’ home. In Pass Christian.”

  “Pass Chris-tee-ann”? That’s the French pronunciation. And while I’m on that subject . . . what about her brother, who’s supposed to be in France?

  “Is there someone there, in Pass Christian, who we can contact? Your father?”

  “My father lives in Metairie—New Orleans. And he has a heart condition. My father-in-law lives in Pass Christian. I really think he’d be the man to break this to my father. I was just talking about that, frankly, with Mrs. Silvio when you came in, Mr. Castillo. She’s going to call Jack’s father, or the ambassador is, just as soon as they can get to a phone. I hope they can get through to him before he sees it on CNN or Fox. And then I’ll call him,
of course, when they let me out of here.”

  “Have they told you when that’s going to be?”

  “They want to keep me overnight for observation,” she said, then turned to the ambassador. “Juan, can’t you do something about that? I want to be with the children.”

  “I understand,” Silvio said. “But they really want to look for signs of whatever that drug might have done to you. If you’d like, we can bring the kids here to see you.”

  “No. I don’t want them to see me like this. They’re better off with Julia.”

  Julia, presumably, is Darby’s wife.

  “They’re in school now?” Castillo asked.

  “Their father has just been murdered,” she snapped. “Of course they’re not in school.”

  “Forgive me,” Castillo said.

  Then the other woman is Lowery’s wife; Darby’s wife— Julia, the old friend of the family—is with the kids.

  “Is there anyone else, ma’am, that we should contact?”

  “No. I’ll notify everyone just as soon as I’m out of here.”

  That “no” came really quick. Wouldn’t she want to tell her brother, even if he didn’t get along with her husband?

  “Mrs. Masterson, I won’t intrude on your grief anymore. If there’s anything you need, all you’ll have to do is tell Mr. Santini.”

  “Thank you.”

  Castillo nodded at the people in the room and walked out.

  He had taken half a dozen steps to the elevator when Ambassador Silvio caught up with him. Santini was on the ambassador’s heels.

  “I’m forced to agree with you, Mr. Cas—Charley,” Silvio said. “She’s concealing something.”

  “I got nowhere with her, either,” Santini said.

  “Mr. Ambassador, she didn’t even mention her brother,” Castillo said. “Would you be willing to try to get him on the telephone?”

  “I thought that was odd, too,” Silvio agreed. “I’ll put a call in to him just as soon as I get back to the embassy. Where will you be?”

  “At the embassy, sir. I want to get the ETAs of the airplanes.”

  “Then I’ll see you there.”

  [EIGHT]

  The United States Embassy Avenida Colombia 4300 Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina 1450 23 July 2005

  It was a frustrating forty-five minutes on the telephone.

  Even getting the number of the United Nations European directorate of interagency coordination was frustrating. The Buenos Aires international operator had trouble first connecting to and then communicating with the Paris information operator.

  Silvio gave up on that and called the American embassy in Paris. The political attaché had somewhat reluctantly—and only after Silvio had proven to him who he was—provided a listing for the directorate, but said he had neither an address nor a number for a Jean-Paul Lorimer.

  A somewhat nasal-voiced French woman at the directorate told Silvio—whose French was fluent—that M’sieu Lorimer was out of the office, that she had no number at which he could be reached, and that any further inquiries should be directed to the director of information. She was unmoved by Silvio’s announcement that he was the United States ambassador to Argentina, and was trying to contact Lorimer because there had been a death in the family.

  The only address and telephone number the State Department in Washington and the United States Mission to the United Nations in New York City had for Lorimer was his office.

  “Let me see what the Secret Service can do, sir,” Castillo said, finally, and started to punch in Isaacson’s number in Washington on his cell phone.

  “You don’t want to get a secure line?”

  “What’s classified?” Castillo said, and immediately added, “I didn’t mean to sound flip, sir. Sorry.”

  “I didn’t think you were being flip,” Silvio said. “It was a dumb question.”

  “Isaacson.”

  “Charley, Joel.”

  “I see we’re being telepathic again,” Isaacson replied. “I was just about to call you about the FBI plane—on which, I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to hear, Casanova, is the beauteous Agent Schneider—and the C-17.”

  “You didn’t say something allegedly witty to her, did you, Joel?”

  “No, but I was sorely tempted. She really is a delight to the eyes, and I felt duty-bound to warn her about you.”

  “Tell me about the airplanes.”

  “She and Jack Britton are on a Gulfstream Five, which left here at eleven-oh-five local time. They make about four hundred sixty knots, and it’s about fifty-two hundred miles from here to there, so you figure it out.”

  Without asking permission, Castillo snatched a pencil from a mug on Silvio’s desk. Silvio quickly handed him a yellow lined pad.

  “The call sign is Air Force Zero-Four-Seven-Seven. They’re bound for an airport called Jorge Newbery, which I presume is somewhere near Buenos Aires. Also on the plane are six somewhat annoyed FBI agents, pissed not only because they were told to report to you—as Secret Service, not Presidential Hotshot—but because two of their number got bumped because Schneider and Britton got on.”

  “Jorge Newbery is the downtown airport in Buenos Aires.”

  “The C-17—tail number Air Force Zero-Three-Eight-One—left Charleston Air Force Base, South Carolina, an hour earlier, but it’s going to—probably already has—made a stop at Hurlburt, where it picked up a dozen Air Commandos ready to go to war, and a ten-man spit-and-polish detail from the Old Guard under a lieutenant for the burial party, who were conveniently in Florida burying some retired general.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I think you can guess where that order originated,” Isaacson added. “Anyway, the C-17 will be landing at an airfield called Ezeiza—”

  “That’s the main international field.”

  “I guess they couldn’t get that big airplane into the little airport.”

  “You can sit a Globemaster down in your backyard, Joel.”

  “No kidding. Well, for some reason, that’s where it’s going. And it will take however long after it leaves Hurlburt to go forty-two hundred nautical miles at four hundred fifty knots.”

  Castillo scribbled down those numbers.

  “Okay. Got it. Now I need something from you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The widow’s brother, Jean-Paul Lorimer, works for the UN in Paris. The ambassador has been trying for forty-five minutes to get him on the phone without any luck. Have we got anybody in Paris who can help?”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Call the embassy here and leave the numbers and address with the ambassador’s secretary.”

  “Done. You got anything else you want me to tell the boss?”

  “I put Tony Santini in charge of the Mastersons’ security. She came out of the drug they gave her all right, but they’re keeping her in the hospital overnight. I don’t know when she’ll want to leave here, but when she does, she wants to go to Keesler Air Force Base in Mississippi, near where he lived.”

  “She wants to bury him there?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I know the President was thinking of Arlington . . .”

  “I think she wants the family plot in Mississippi, Joel.”

  “That’s going to pose a little problem. I also know the President wants Walter Reed to do the autopsy.”

  “The Argentines are already doing the autopsy. And they’re going to prosecute these bastards, presuming we can catch them, in Argentine courts.”

  “Who decided that?”

  “I did,” Charley said. He met Silvio’s eyes, and added, “The ambassador concurs.”

  “I think that may cause more than a little pique at the highest level, Charley.”

  “There was considerable doubt that we could extradite the doers. And the crime occurred here. And it’s a done deed. The ambassador has already told the Foreign Ministry.”

  “I think the boss will more than likely want to talk to you about t
hat, Charley. Or maybe his boss will.”

  “I thought that might happen.”

  “We’ll be in touch, Charley. Watch your back.”

  Castillo pushed the disconnect button, and then did the calculation of the arrival times.

  “Both planes will probably arrive here between eleven and midnight tonight,” he announced to Ambassador Silvio, “the Gulfstream to Jorge Newbery, and the C-17 at Ezeiza. There’s an honor guard from the Third Infantry Regiment—‘the Old Guard’—on the Globemaster, plus a detail of Air Commandos.”

  “As a suggestion, if you want to meet your agents and the FBI, I can have the defense attaché meet the transport.”

  “Thank you.”

  “He’ll have to arrange transportation for them, and a place to live. I think the best thing to do with the military personnel is move them in with the Marines. And you told that FBI agent Yung to arrange to take care of the FBI. What about your agents?”

  “I’ll take care of them. But I am going to need wheels. Can I rent cars for them?”

  “You could, but the rentals here are generally small and not always reliable. And they don’t have radios. I’ll have Ken Lowery deal with it. How many are you going to need?”

  “If I can keep the one I have, one more. I really don’t need a driver.”

  “You never know,” the ambassador said. “I’ll tell Ken to get you another car and a driver. Tonight?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “And what are you going to do now?”

  “Sir?”

  “What are your immediate plans? For the next forty-five minutes or an hour?”

  “I don’t have any, sir. I thought I might go have a look at the Masterson house.”

  “Have you had breakfast?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Neither have I, and it’s now after three. Fortunately, right around the corner from here is a restaurant—the Rio Alba—that serves what I believe are the finest steaks in the world. Why don’t we go have one while we wait to hear from your friend in the Secret Service?”

  “I think that’s a splendid idea, sir.”

  VII