The Hostage

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “You got it,” Britton said. Solez nodded.

  “There will be SIDE people with you, of course,” Munz said.

  Both Britton and Solez nodded.

  Castillo turned to the Marine corporal and looked closely at him for the first time. He was no more than five feet four or five and weighed no more than one-forty. He looked to be about seventeen years old.

  I thought Marines on embassy duty had to be five-eleven and one-eighty or better. Where did this little guy come from?

  Oh, yeah. Rule of War Thirteen B: “Every military organization with an authorized strength of two or more men will have a designated paper pusher.”

  This little guy is the Marine guard detachment clerk, pressed into duty as a driver.

  “You’re the driver, right, Corporal?”

  The corporal came to attention.

  “No, sir. The driver is with the car, sir. The gunny instructed me to tell you, sir, that an armored car was not immediately available, and to suggest you take appropriate precautions until one can be found for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “My name is Corporal Lester Bradley, sir. I am your bodyguard, sir.”

  For a moment there was silence, and then Jack Britton was suddenly overwhelmed with a coughing fit. Colonel Munz, his face turned red, and DEA Special Agent Solez became suddenly fascinated with the X-rays on display.

  Major C. G. Castillo—after covering his mouth with his hand so it would not be obvious he was biting his lip as hard as he could; one chuckle, the hint of a giggle, from him, or anyone else, would trigger something close to hysterics in everybody—finally decided he could trust his voice.

  “Well, I’m glad to have you, Corporal,” he said. “I know how reliable the Marines are.”

  “Semper fi, sir,” Corporal Lester Bradley said sincerely.

  Colonel Munz turned from his examination of the X-rays, and probably not trusting himself to speak, signaled with a nod of his head toward the door that he wanted a private word with Castillo.

  “Excuse me a minute, guys. I’ll be right back,” Castillo said, and followed Munz into the corridor.

  Munz put his hand on Castillo’s arm.

  “Now that you’re under the protection of the U.S. Corps of Marines, Karl, would you mind if I left you?”

  “Don’t underestimate the Marines, Alfredo. They’re nice people to have in your corner.”

  “Are they all like that boy?”

  “They are not often troubled with self-doubt,” Charley said.

  “And neither should you be, Karl,” Munz said seriously. “I’ve been practicing our trade for a while, and I have met very few people with your natural talent for it.”

  “I take that as a great compliment, Alfredo.”

  “It was meant as one. Listen to me, Karl. Don’t let what happened in there bother you. . . .”

  He means my almost taking a dive.

  “. . . There would be something wrong with a man who, looking at a bullet in the skull of the woman he loves—a bullet which, but for God’s mercy, would have taken her life—was not affected as you were.”

  Castillo met his eyes but said nothing.

  Munz squeezed his arm.

  “And pay attention to what your bodyguard said about your not having an armored car,” Munz said with a smile. “I presume you’ll be going to your embassy?”

  Why not? Dr. Santa Claus said Betty’ll be in there two hours. And I’m going to have to talk to Washington on a secure line.

  Castillo nodded. “I took that to heart.”

  “There will be a SIDE car with you,” Munz said, and then offered Castillo his hand. “Goodbye, Karl.”

  Goodbye? What does he mean by that?

  “Thanks for everything, Alfredo.”

  “I will pray for your lady, Karl,” Munz said, touched Castillo’s shoulder, then walked quickly down the corridor to the elevator.

  Charley went back in the office, told Britton and Solez he was going to the embassy and to call him if there was any word at all, and then—under the careful watch of Corporal Bradley, his bodyguard—went to the basement and got in the unarmored embassy car.

  On the way, his cellular went off, and he answered it with his heart in his throat. It was Ambassador Silvio, who told him that Mrs. Masterson wished to go ahead with the ceremony at the Catedral Metropolitana.

  “I’m on the way to the embassy, sir. To get on the horn to Washington. Would you like me to wait until you get there?”

  “Please, Charley. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  [THREE]

  The United States Embassy Avenida Colombia 4300 Buenos Aires, Argentina 2040 24 July 2005

  “White House.”

  “This is C. G. Castillo. I need to speak on a secure—”

  “We’ve been waiting for your call, sir. Hold one, please.”

  “Secretary Hall’s office. Mrs. Kensington speaking.”

  “We have Mr. Castillo for Secretary Hall, Mrs. Kensington. This line is secure.”

  Mrs. Kensington pushed her intercom button, said, “Pick up, boss. It’s Charley on a secure line,” then dialed another number on the secure phone.

  Charley listened as she said, “We have Secretary Hall and Mr. Castillo on a secure line for a conference call with Director Montvale.”

  Oh shit!

  Charles W. Montvale, former deputy secretary of state, former secretary of the treasury, and former ambassador to the European Union, was the recently appointed United States director of national intelligence. The press had immediately dubbed him the “intel czar.”

  “Charles Montvale.”

  Oh, shit, again! He sounds like he’s got his teeth clenched.

  “Are you okay, Charley?” Secretary Hall asked as he came on the line.

  “I’m well, thank you, Matt. And yourself?” Director Montvale said, a touch of condescending amusement in his voice.

  “Castillo, are you on?” Hall asked. There was a touch of impatience in his voice.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you all right, Charley?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m fine.”

  “And the girl?”

  “She’s in surgery now at the German Hospital. She took three hits—”

  “Am I correct in assuming the third party to this call is Major Castillo?” Director Montvale interrupted. He still sounded amused.

  “Yes, sir,” Castillo said.

  “I am Charles Montvale, Major. Do you know who I am?” Now his voice was serious.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The President has asked me to take your call, Major. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This call is being recorded. You may proceed.”

  “Hold off, Charley,” Matt Hall said icily. “Mr. Montvale, let’s get some things clear between us before anyone says another word.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Several, I’m afraid. For one thing, I don’t like being informed that my call is being recorded. You said nothing about that when you told my executive assistant you wanted to listen to this call.”

  “Actually, it was my executive assistant who spoke with your executive assistant,” Montvale said. “And recording my calls—especially calls of this nature—is standard procedure.”

  “It’s not my standard procedure. I would like your assurance that the recording device has been turned off, that what has been recorded so far will be erased, and that there is no one privy to this call but the three of us.”

  “I intend to have the tape of this conversation available should the President ask for it when I report this telecom to him.”

  “Do I understand I don’t have your assurance the recorder is being turned off?”

  “I frankly don’t understand your attitude, Secretary Hall.”

  “Is that a yes or a no, Mr. Montvale?”

  “Jo-Anne, turn off the recorder,” Montvale said after a moment.

  “And erase anything that’s
been recorded,” Hall insisted.

  “Erase what has been recorded so far, please, Jo-Anne.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You said there were several problems, Secretary Hall?”

  “Major Castillo works for me. I will tell him when to proceed or when not to. Is that clear?”

  “May I point out, Mr. Secretary, that we all work for the President? And that it is at the President’s order that I am taking the call?”

  “Major Castillo,” Hall said. “You understand that you take your orders from either the President or me? And only the President and me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I will, of course, seek clarification of this from the President,” Montvale said.

  “We both will, Mr. Montvale,” Hall said, and then, when there was no response from Montvale, went on: “Okay, Charley, go on.”

  “Sir, Ambassador Silvio is with me. We’re in his office in the embassy. The call is on the speakerphone.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Ambassador,” Hall said. “You’ve heard what’s been said so far?”

  “Yes, I have, Mr. Secretary,” Silvio said.

  “Do you know the director of national intelligence, Mr. Montvale?”

  “Yes, sir. I know the ambassador. Good evening, sir.”

  “How are you, Silvio?”

  “Very well, sir. Thank you.”

  “I attempted to call you, Silvio, earlier, when the President brought me in on this. You were not available.”

  “When was that, sir?”

  “Forty-five minutes ago, an hour. I’m curious why you weren’t available.”

  “I was with Mrs. Masterson at that time, sir.”

  “And they didn’t tell you I was calling?”

  “I left instructions that I was not to be disturbed when I was with her, Mr. Montvale.”

  “Even for a call from me?”

  “From anyone, sir. It was my intention, sir, to return your call when Mr. Castillo had completed his call to Secretary Hall.”

  “I must say that’s an odd priority. But why don’t you tell me about Mrs. Masterson? The President is deeply concerned.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Montvale,” Hall said. “May I respectfully suggest that you telephone Ambassador Silvio when Major Castillo has finished his report to me?”

  “You don’t seem to understand, do you, Hall, that I am acting at the orders of the President?”

  “From the tone of your voice, Charles, and if I didn’t know better, I might think that two of my most senior staff are having a little tiff over turf,” the President of the United States said. “You fellows don’t mind if I join the conversation, do you?”

  “Of course not, Mr. President,” Montvale said.

  “Good evening, sir,” Hall said.

  “You on here, Charley?” the President asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Castillo replied. “And so is Ambassador Silvio, sir.”

  “How much did I miss? I hate to make you go over it all again, but I just couldn’t get the goddamn . . . get my distinguished visitor to leave.”

  “I was just about to start, Mr. President.”

  “Start with the condition of the female agent,” the President said.

  “Yes, sir. Special Agent Schneider is in surgery. She suffered three gunshot wounds from a nine-millimeter Madsen submachine gun. . . .”

  It took Castillo perhaps five minutes to report what had happened, and what was planned. The President had interrupted him three times, once to ask where the Argentine police were when the embassy car had been attacked, a second time to ask what Castillo thought about the quality of the medical treatment Special Agent Schneider was getting, and a third time to ask what had been done about notifying Schneider’s family, and that of Sergeant Roger Markham.

  “That’s about it, sir,” Castillo concluded.

  There was a ten-second silence, and then the President said: “You haven’t had much to say, Mr. Ambassador.Can I take that to mean you and Charley are on the same page?”

  “Yes, sir,” Silvio said, simply. “We pretty much see things the same way.”

  “And would you tell me if you didn’t?”

  “Yes, sir, I would,” Silvio said.

  There was another long pause, and then the President said, “You ever hear that story about the people who went to President Lincoln to tell him General Grant was a drunk? Lincoln was pretty fed up with people around him bickering, and history tells us he had one hell of a temper. But this time he kept it in check. What President Lincoln said was, ‘Well, find out what General Grant is drinking and I’ll see that my other generals get some of it.’ ”

  The President paused. “Now, Mr. Ambassador, changing the subject, I wonder if you would be good enough to send me, via Major Castillo, a bottle of whatever you two have been drinking? I’ll share it with Secretary Hall and Director Montvale.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Mr. President,” Silvio said, a smile in his voice.

  “Just idle curiosity,” the President asked, “what will it be?”

  “Major Castillo, sir, shares my appreciation of a local wine, a cabernet sauvignon from the Sentenir bodega in Mendoza.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” the President said. “Maybe two bottles would be better than one. Better yet, make it a case.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One more thing,” the President said. “Charley, are you watching your back?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I guess what I really meant to ask is who’s helping you watch your back?”

  “Sir, as we speak, my Marine bodyguard is standing outside the ambassador’s door.”

  “Well, do what he says, Charley. Too many people are getting shot down there.”

  “Yes, sir, I will.”

  “Unless someone has something else, that would seem to be it.”

  No one said anything.

  “Okay. I’ll see you sometime late tomorrow, Charley. And, Charles, I think it would be a good idea if you went down to Mississippi with us, too.”

  “Of course, Mr. President,” Director of National Intelligence Montvale said.

  [FOUR]

  As Castillo came out of Ambassador Silvio’s office, Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, popped to attention and said, “There are two Air Force officers to see you, sir. I asked them to wait in the outer office.”

  “Thank you, Corporal,” Castillo said and went into the outer office, where he found Colonel Jake Torine and the light bird pilot of the Gulfstream—if he had ever heard his name, Castillo couldn’t remember it now— sitting in the row of chairs against the wall. Both were in civilian clothing: sports jackets and slacks.

  “I was just about to call you,” Castillo said, shaking Torine’s hand.

  “We heard what happened,” Torine said. “How’s that female Secret Service agent doing? Betty?”

  “Betty took three hits. She’s in surgery now.”

  “Nice girl,” Torine said. “Is she going to be all right?”

  “Jesus Christ, I hope so,” Castillo said. “I’m going to the German Hospital from here.”

  “Any change in the plan for tomorrow?”

  “No. Mrs. Masterson has decided she’s going ahead with the whole dog-and-pony show. Jake, just now I remembered, or think I did, something about an ambulance configuration for the Gulfstream.”

  Torine shrugged, indicating he didn’t know either, and then asked, “Walter?”

  “Yes, there is an emergency ambulance configuration for the C-37,” the lieutenant colonel confirmed.

  “Installed on the one you’re flying, Colonel?” Charley asked.

  “Yes, there is.”

  “Tell me about it, please.”

  “May I ask why you’re asking?”

  “What, is it classified or something, Walter?” Torine asked, sarcastically.

  “Yes, sir, as a matter of fact it is. The configuration of all Eighty-ninth Presidential Airlift Group aircraft is classifie
d—”

  “Jesus Christ!” Torine exploded. “And you’re worried Castillo doesn’t have the proper clearance—or maybe it’s me?”

  For a moment, Charley thought the light bird was goingto say just that. But then, as Castillo studied him, he thought, This chicken-shit light bird has only now decided that a full bird colonel sent on Presidential Orders as pilot in command of a Globemaster more than likely has the proper security clearances, and since he was senior, if he said it was all right to describe the configuration of the Gulfstream, any breach of security would fall on his shoulders.

  “Three of the seats on the left side of the cabin can be placed in a horizontal position,” the light bird began. “There is a mattress and sheets—rubber and the ordinary kind—stored behind the galley. Behind the paneling by the sheets is some other medical equipment. A blood pressure device, things like that. And an oxygen feed, connected to the aircraft’s main oxygen supply.”

  “What’s on your mind, Charley?” Torine asked.

  Castillo didn’t reply directly.

  “Colonel, you came direct from Washington,” Castillo said. “Can I extrapolate that to mean you can go direct Jorge Newbery-Philadelphia?”

  “Are you a pilot, Major Castillo?”

  Aha! Somebody’s tipped him—and I think I know who—that he’s dealing with a lowly major. That’s why he doesn’t want me to know the secrets of the Gulfstream.

  “Yes, I am,” Castillo said.

  “With some experience in long-distance, jet-long-distance, flight?”

  “I know for a fact that he flew the right seat of a 727 from Costa Rica to MacDill, and worked the radios and everything,” Torine said, smiling at Charley. “What’s with all the questions, Walter?”

  “Sir, it would be easier if the major were conversant with the problems involved in a flight of that distance.”

  “Can your fancy little bird make it from here to Philadelphia nonstop, or not, Walter? Jesus Christ!” Torine exploded.

  “Theoretically, yes. But it would be prudent to think of somewhere to refuel if fuel consumption turned out to be greater for one reason or another than planned for.”

  “Worst fuel-consumption scenario, Colonel. Can you make it from here to Miami?”

  “Very probably. There are never any guarantees.”