The Hostage

by Griffin, W. E. B.

“General, Gossinger is on Argentine immigration records—”

  “Gossinger?” Montvale interrupted. “Who’s Gossinger?”

  This time the secretary of state came to Castillo’s aid.

  “Charles,” she said, “perhaps we could let Major Castillo finish at least one sentence before we start asking questions?”

  Montvale, for a second, glared at her. But then he apparently considered that Natalie Cohen, as secretary of state, was not only the most senior officer of the Presidential Cabinet—and thus the presiding officer of this ad hoc meeting of members of the cabinet—but a close personal friend of the President, and therefore was not to be crossed.

  “Pardon me, Major,” Montvale said. “Please continue.”

  “The Argentines have a record of Gossinger entering the country, Dr. Cohen,” Castillo said. “There was no immigration check as we left. Which was lucky for me, since I didn’t have to produce an American passport, which didn’t have an entry stamp, or the German passport, which would have blown that cover. So, according to the books, Gossinger is still in Argentina, and I’d like to get him out.”

  “I get the picture,” she said. “I suggest we issue you a new American passport, which will obviously have no immigration stamps in it at all, and then have the CIA put an exit stamp on your German passport. Their documents section is very good at that sort of thing.” She looked at Montvale. “Wouldn’t you agree, Charles?”

  “That would seem to be the solution,” Montvale said.

  “We’ll need a passport photo,” Dr. Cohen said.

  “There’s some in my desk in the Nebraska complex,” Castillo said.

  “Charley, if you’ll give me both passports before we leave here,” Secretary Hall said, “I’ll have Joel Isaacson pick up the passport photo, and then run everything through Foggy Bottom and Langley. He knows all the right people in both places.” He turned to Montvale. “That sound all right to you, Charles?”

  “Whatever is the most efficient means of accomplishing what has to be done, of course.”

  “Would you like me to call DCI Powell, Charles, and tell him what we need, or would you prefer to do that yourself?” Natalie Cohen asked.

  “I’ll call him,” Montvale said.

  “Anything else, Charley?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, one more thing. There’s an FBI agent attached to the embassy in Montevideo. David William Yung, Jr. He was sent to Buenos Aires when Mrs. Masterson was abducted as someone with kidnapping experience.”

  “What about him?” Montvale asked.

  “He seemed to be unusually interested in me, for one thing,” Castillo said.

  “I would be, too, if I were an FBI agent and a young Army major was placed in overall charge of a situation like that,” Montvale said.

  Castillo looked at both Cohen and Hall and saw in their eyes that they had taken his meaning.

  “And second,” Castillo went on, “a usually reliable source, a former senior FBI official, who knows Special Agent Yung, told me he doesn’t believe Yung is really doing what he says he’s doing, looking into money laundering.”

  “In my experience, the FBI does not confide in outsiders,” Montvale said. “Just who told you—”

  The door opened.

  Joel Isaacson put his head in.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “The President would like Mr. Castillo to join him.”

  “And I would like to know what Yung is really doing,” Charley said, very quickly.

  The secretary of state nodded at him. The secretary of Homeland Security gave him a thumbs-up.

  Castillo got up quickly and started for the door.

  “Charley,” Hall called. “Your source is your friend from Vienna, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, he has proven reliable in the past, hasn’t he?” Hall said.

  “Yes, sir, he has,” Castillo said, and went through the door.

  Isaacson pulled the door closed.

  “He didn’t answer my question, did he?” Montvale said.

  “The President sent for him, Charles,” Hall said.

  “I’m not accustomed to having junior officers not answering questions I put to them, and, frankly, I don’t like it,” Montvale said.

  “Charles,” the secretary of state said. “May I say something?”

  “Of course.”

  “The impression this meeting left on me is that the President made it clear that he places in Major Castillo a trust that you and I might not share—”

  “I picked up on that,” Montvale said, just a bit righteously sarcastic.

  “The impression this meeting left on me, Charles,” Secretary Hall said, “is that the President made it absolutelyclear that Charley Castillo is answerable only to him. Or did I get that wrong?”

  Montvale looked at the secretary of state for help. When it was not forthcoming, he stood up.

  “I’d like to freshen up before we go to the ceremony. God alone knows how long we’ll be standing out there in the heat and humidity for that.”

  [TWO]

  The Presidential Suite Aboard Air Force One Keesler Air Force Base Biloxi, Mississippi 2105 25 July 2005

  “Charley,” Supervisory Special Agent Isaacson said, as he put his hand on the door to the presidential suite, “Tom McGuire brought a bag for you.”

  “Containing, I desperately hope, some summer clothes.”

  “It does. And a .45. I had to clear the bag aboard, which meant I had to see what was in it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In there,” Isaacson said, pointing to a door next to the entrance to the presidential suite. “It’s the medical office. If the president lets you go in time, you could probably get out of those winter clothes. It’s going to be hot as hell in that hangar.”

  “You will get your reward in heaven, Joel Isaacson.”

  Isaacson smiled, then opened the door to the presidential suite.

  Castillo could see what was obviously the President’s private office. It contained an angled desk with a high-backed red leather chair bearing the presidential seal in gold facing aft, two armchairs facing the desk, and a credenza behind the desk.

  “Mr. President,” Isaacson called. “Major Castillo is here.”

  “Come on in, Charley,” the President called. “I’m in the bedroom. Straight through to the front.”

  When Charley made his way all the way forward, he found the President of the United States supporting himself with one hand on a chest of drawers as he fed his right leg through his trousers. There were two single beds in the small area, on one of which lay the suit the President had just taken off, and on the other, the jacket to the suit he was now putting on.

  “God, you’re going to be hot in that,” the President said, as he stuffed his shirt in his trousers.

  “Tom McGuire brought a summer suit for me, sir.”

  “Well, as soon as we’re finished here, you better put it on. Quickly. God and the presidential protection detail wait for no man, including the President.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This won’t take long. First, a quick question. What’s Mrs. Masterson like?”

  “Very tall and elegant. Very intelligent.”

  “Is she going to weep, maybe get hysterical?”

  “I doubt that very much, Mr. President.”

  “Thank God for that. Okay. What I didn’t say in the conference room was that in order to keep you out of the sight of the eyes in the White House, I want you to avoid going there as much as possible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I also told Matt Hall privately that he’ll be your conduit to me. A three-man loop, in other words. If he’s for some reason not available, the switchboard has been told to put you through to me, and there will be an any time, any area White House pass for you in the guard shack closest to the OEOB at all times. Just identify yourself, and they’ll pass you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Natalie Cohen isn’t happy
with the finding, but she’ll go along with it. The director of the FBI and the DCI are going to like it less than Natalie does, but I don’t think they’ll fight it. Charles Montvale loathes the finding. I understand why. I suspect that he will be searching for your failures, so that he can bring them to my attention. I’m going to speak privately to him. If he poses problems, tell Matt Hall. Or me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And how do you think General Naylor regards the finding?” the President asked.

  “Sir, I think his reaction is much like mine.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you have given a lot of responsibility and a lot of authority to a very junior officer.”

  “Not without a good deal of thought, Charley. Not without a good deal of thought. Now go change your clothes.”

  [THREE]

  Keesler Air Force Base Biloxi, Mississippi 2120 25 July 2005

  Jake Torine was waiting at the foot of the stairs to Air Force One when Charley Castillo came down them. They could see the Globemaster III was now backed up against the open doors of a huge hangar and that the hangar was really crowded.

  Outside the hangar, and just inside it, held back by rope barriers and lines of airmen facing them, was a huge crowd of spectators.

  Farther inside the hangar, what looked like a company of Air Force airmen was formed on one side of the cavernous space. Across from them was a U.S. Marine Corps band. A reviewing stand, with a lectern bearing the presidential seal, was in the rear of the hangar facing outward. The rear of the stand held maybe fifty American flags—of course there’re fifty; one for each state—on either side of the presidential flag.

  Next to the presidential flag were those of the secretary of state, the secretary of Homeland Security, and one that had to be the brand-new flag of the director of national intelligence. Flanking that were the flags of the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps, and Coast Guard, and maybe a dozen personal flags of the general and flag officers of the armed forces—the red one with four stars is Naylor’s—present for the ceremony, most of whom were already on the platform.

  Standing at Parade Rest in front of the reviewing stand was a ten-man squad of Marines in dress uniforms and a second squad composed of two men from each of the armed services, each under the command of a crisply uniformed lieutenant.

  And in front of the reviewing stand were two black-draped catafalques ready to receive the caskets.

  Well, that’s a nice touch. They’re going to put Markham beside Masterson.

  “Very impressive,” Torine said, as the Secret Service Yukon stopped beside the Globemaster.

  “The White House billed this as a major foreign policy speech,” the Secret Service agent driving the Yukon said.

  The proof of that was the unruly sea of television cameramen, still photographers, and what had become known as “print journalists” held back by barriers and more airmen on both sides of the reviewing stand.

  Castillo and Torine got out of the Yukon and found themselves facing four soldiers wearing green berets and armed with Car 4s.

  “I’m Colonel Torine, the aircraft commander—” Torine began.

  “You are armed, sir,” one of the Special Forces soldiers said to Castillo. It was an accusation.

  Well, so much for trying to conceal a .45 under a seersucker jacket.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You can pass him, Sergeant,” a voice behind them said. “Not only is he the man, he’s one of us.”

  Castillo turned to see a very short, totally bald man wearing a tweed jacket that didn’t come close to fitting around his barrel chest. He was cradling a Madsen submachine gun in his arm.

  “Hello, Vic,” Castillo said, offering his hand to CWO- 5 Victor D’Allessando, Special Forces, USA, Retired.

  “Just like old times, Charley,” D’Allessando said. “You get yourself in the deep doo-doo, and McNab sends me to haul you out.”

  “You’re running this?”

  D’Allessando motioned for Torine and Charley to step over to a spot in the shadow of the Globemaster’s wing where he could speak without being overheard. “Yeah, I am,” he said.

  “Boy, am I glad to hear that!” Castillo exclaimed. “What have you got?”

  “Twenty-four shooters, mostly Delta, and a few guys from Gray Fox.”

  “I saw Sergeant Orson,” Castillo said. “Actually, Colonel Torine saw him. Oh, hell, excuse me. Colonel, this is an old buddy of mine, Vic D’Allessando. I thought you’d know each other.”

  “Why do I think you’re not wearing your green beret, Vic?” Torine said with a smile.

  “I hung the fucker up, Colonel, after twenty-seven years. They medically retired me as a CWO-5. Now I’m a goddamn double-dipping civilian. GS-15, assimilated full fucking bird colonel.”

  “Who runs the stockade at Fort Bragg,” Castillo said.

  “I know it well,” Torine said, smiling.

  “Now I know who you are, Colonel,” D’Allessando said. “You’re the Air Commando who we used to fly our 727—”

  “Almost correct,” Torine replied. “Former Air Commando. When they made me a full fucking colonel, they paroled me from the stockade and put me behind a desk.”

  “. . . from which McNab rescued you when Charley was looking for that stolen 727. You went with Charley to Costa Rica and flew it back to the States after Charley and some of my guys stole it back from the bad guys.”

  “Guilty,” Torine said.

  “And he’s in on this operation, Vic,” Castillo said.

  “Welcome aboard,” D’Allessando said, smiling and offering his hand.

  “What have you got going, Vic?”

  “In detail? Or just the highlights?”

  “In detail.”

  “Okay. Naylor called McNab and told him that your boss, Hall, had called him and said the President wanted either Delta or Gray Fox or both to make sure nothing else happened to the Mastersons when they got here. I almost had to tie McNab down to keep him from coming here himself.”

  Castillo and Torine chuckled.

  “So we saddled up. Like I said, twenty-four shooters, mostly Delta but with four guys from Gray Fox. We got two Black Hawks and two Little Birds from the 160th. Both Little Birds are gunships—we can move everybody on the Black Hawks, but you never know when you’re going to have to pop somebody. Then we came here.

  “The guy running things is Masterson’s father. Big tall drink of water. The widow’s father—they call him ‘the ambassador,’ which I guess he was—is a little guy who almost went out with a heart attack. So they’re trying to keep him in the dark as much as possible.

  “Masterson’s father has a great big farm not far from here. No airstrip, but no problem with the choppers. They’re going to bury Masterson in a cemetery on the farm, after a mass in a little Catholic church in a little dorf called De Lisle, right outside the farm property. They wanted to have a big deal with the funeral, but the old man—Masterson’s father—told them no way.

  “What’s going to happen here, after the President does his thing, is take the body out to the farm in a hearse. Funeral’s by invitation only, but they expect maybe three hundred people at the cemetery.”

  “Can you handle that many people?”

  “I’m not going to have to. The old man mobilized the Mississippi State Police. There’s about fifty of them, under a lieutenant colonel. And the head man, a colonel—tough bastard—is here as a friend of the family. So’s the governor. Plus of course the sheriff and all his deputies.”

  “You don’t see any problems in protecting the family?”

  “No,” D’Allessando said flatly. “But it would help, Charley, if I knew who popped Masterson and why, and why they may try to pop the widow and the family.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know, Vic. It’s not much. I have no idea who these people are. None. All I know is that it has something to do with Mrs. Masterson’s brother. She—just now, after we landed here—told me that the people who g
rabbed her in Buenos Aires want her to tell them where her brother is, and promised to kill her children and family.”

  “And she didn’t tell them?”

  “She doesn’t know where he is. He works for the UN in Paris, but we can’t find him.”

  “Interesting.”

  “She said they killed Masterson to make the point that they meant what they said.”

  “And you have no idea why they want the brother?”

  “No. All I know is they shot Masterson with Israeli-made nine-millimeter cartridges, and killed the Marine sergeant driving my car—and wounded a female Secret Service agent in the car—by sticking one of those through the window and emptying the magazine, also loaded with Israeli-made nine-millimeters.”

  “With a Madsen?”

  Castillo nodded.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I think Sergeant Markham saw it coming, and as he tried to move out of the way, pushed the window-up button. It was automatic, and caught the Madsen. It was still in the window when I got there.”

  “That’s interesting, too. There’s not too many Madsens around. And that’s all you know?”

  “And I just now learned, in a sixty-second conversation with Mrs. Masterson, about Masterson getting whacked to make the point that they want the brother at any cost.”

  “Somebody’s going to have to talk to her some more,” D’Allessando said.

  “I know. I don’t know how much time there will be now, but that’s why I’m here.”

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “I am.”

  “I mean, now that they’re in the States. And after the funeral?”

  “I am, Vic.”

  “No shit?”

  “The President just told me.”

  “That’s stretching your envelope some, isn’t it, Charley?”

  “Understatement of the year,” Castillo replied. “I’d like to introduce you to Mrs. Masterson, Vic. See if you can reassure her that she’s safe now.”

  “I want to meet her, too,” D’Allessando said. “Now?”

  Castillo nodded.

  D’Allessando spoke to a lapel microphone Castillo had not noticed.

  “Three coming through the side door,” he announced.