The Hostage

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “McGrory,” Darby furnished.

  “. . . to tell him to, quote, put himself and whatever intelligence he has developed, end quote, at my disposal.”

  “She didn’t tell you what he’s doing?”

  “She’s in Singapore—or was—and believe it or not the secure voice links in both her airplane and the embassy were fucked up.”

  “You want to try to talk to her from the embassy?”

  “What I want to do is talk to Yung.”

  “Here or in Montevideo?”

  “Montevideo is where his files are going to be,” Castillo said. “I want a look at them. How’s the best way to get to Montevideo?”

  “Starting about now, there’s Austral flights from Jorge Newbery every hour or so. You want me to go with you?”

  “What I’d like for you to do is show Lorimer’s picture to everybody in the embassy—your people, the DEA, the military people—and see if it rings a bell. Don’t tell them why we’re looking.”

  “You have a picture?”

  The CIA guy in Paris gave me two. I have them in my briefcase,” Castillo said. “If I give you one, can you get me twenty copies of it?”

  “No problem,” Darby said.

  “Do you have a safe house?”

  “A safe apartment not far from here, and a safe house in Mayerling. That’s a country club out in Pilar.”

  “Mayerling?” Castillo asked.

  “Yeah. Mayerling. Upscale gated community where the guards at the gate have Uzis.”

  “Mayerling?” Castillo repeated.

  “Is there something I don’t know, Charley?” Darby asked.

  “My mind is flying off at a tangent,” Castillo said. “Let’s suppose you’re an Austrian, and you have some money you’re not supposed to have from Oil for Food, and you manage to get the money laundered here in Argentina, and you’re looking for an investment—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’ve got an envelope in my briefcase stuffed with names of Germans and Austrians who have—what’s the phrase?—‘ill-gotten gains’ from Oil for Food that they’ve moved here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “Are you going to give it to me?”

  “No. Sorry. I gave my word as an officer and a gentleman that I wouldn’t give it to anybody in the CIA or other agency of the U.S. government.

  “Now, let me finish what I was saying: So you’re an Austrian and looking for a sound investment for your now thoroughly washed ill-gotten gains. Where to put it? Eureka! I know. Real estate. I will build an upscale country club and sell expensive houses to rich people wanting to escape crowded Buenos Aires. All I need is a romantic name, with overtones of aristocratic class. So what will I call it? Mayerling! That’s what I’ll call it, Mayerling! Ain’t nothing no more classic than Mayerling! I’ll have everybody in Argentina who traces his ancestry back to the glorious days of Franz Josef and the Austro-Hungarian empire standing in line to throw money at me so they can say, ‘I live in Mayerling.’”

  “What the hell are you talking about? What the hell is Mayerling?”

  “Alex, for someone in your line of work, your ignorance of history is shocking,” Castillo said solemnly. “You don’t know about Mayerling?”

  “No, goddammit, I don’t.”

  “Once upon a time—in 1889—one version has it, Crown Prince Rudolph, who would on the death of his father, Franz Josef, become king and emperor of the Austro-Hungarian empire, was called in by Daddy and told to divest himself of his mistress.

  “Crown Prince Rudolph was thirty-one. His mistress was a sixteen-year-old tootsie, the Baroness Maria Vet-sera. The relationship was embarrassing to the throne and had to be ended, Daddy said.

  “Rudolph took Maria to his hunting lodge, which was called Mayerling, to break the bad news to her. After talking it over, they decided that since (a) Rudolph could not disobey his father the emperor and (b) that life was not worth living without each other, there was only one solution, and they took it. Rudolph popped Maria with his Steyr automatic and then popped himself in the temple.

  “He was given a state funeral, and the entire Austro-Hungarian empire went into an official state of mourning. Maria’s body was sent back to her village.

  “The other version, according to Otto Göerner, who got it from my aunt Olga—she was actually my grandaunt—who was Hungarian and moved in high social circles, was that Franz Josef really didn’t give a damn who Rudolph was diddling—ol’ Franz Josef’s own mistress lived with him in Schönbrunn palace—but was really annoyed when he found out that Rudy was in serious conversations with some Hungarians vis-à-vis what we now call regime change. Rudy wanted to be king and emperor now, not when the old guy finally kicked off.

  “According to that version, Franz Josef had Rudolph popped while he was fooling around with Maria in his hunting lodge, which, if I didn’t happen to mention this before, was called Mayerling.

  “The result of Rudy’s sudden demise at Mayerling was that his cousin, Franz Josef’s nephew, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, became heir to the throne. On 28 June 1914, in Sarajevo, a Serbian anarchist tossed a bomb into his car, mortally wounding poor Franz Ferdinand.

  “Franz Josef simply couldn’t put up with having his heir whacked, so he declared war on Serbia, and World War One was off and running. And it all started in Mayerling. I’m really surprised you didn’t know this, Alex.”

  “Jesus, Charley, you’re amazing,” Darby said. “You’re not really suggesting there’s a connection with this country club and oil-for-food money?”

  “Far be it from me to suggest anything to an old spook like you, Alex, but if I were in your shoes, I’d have a good close look at it. Truth is stranger than fiction. There’s a reason they call your country club Mayerling. And you are looking for foreign-laundered money, right?”

  “The trouble with you, you sonofabitch, is when you come off the wall like this, half the time you’re right,” Darby said.

  “Actually, it’s closer to seventy-five percent of the time,” Castillo said. “Now tell me, do you think you can smuggle the stuff I had sent from Bragg past the Uziarmed guards at Mayerling?”

  “No problem,” Darby said.

  “How about moving it out there while I talk to Yung? You said something about airplanes to Montevideo every hour on the hour?”

  “Yeah, but if you don’t want me to go with you—”

  “I thought I’d take Jack. He’s an ex-cop.”

  “You and Britton had better take Tony with you.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “Because he has a diplomatic passport and is accredited both here and in Uruguay. They’re not going to search him for weapons.”

  Darby opened his briefcase and took out two Beretta 9mm semiautomatics, opened their actions, and handed them to Charley.

  “Thanks, Alex,” Castillo said.

  “Buenos Aires cellulars work in Montevideo—and some other places over there,” Darby said, and went back into his briefcase.

  “I’ve got two cellulars,” Tony Santini said. “And also a couple of Berettas.”

  “Spread them as far as they’ll go,” Castillo ordered. “And then, Alex, can you take care of those who need either a pistol or a phone or both?”

  Darby nodded. “You’re going to need wheels, too,” he said. “But to get them for you, Ambassador Silvio will have to know you’re here.”

  “I sent word that we were coming,” Castillo said. “But I’m not going to tell him any more than I have to about what we’re going to do. He’s a good guy, and I want him to be able to honestly say he knew nothing about it.”

  “ ‘It’ covers a lot of territory, Charley,” Darby said.

  “That’s because, right now, I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Castillo said. “How do we get to Jorge Newbery?”

  “I’ve got a car,” Santini said.

  “With CD tags?” Darby asked.

  Santi
ni shook his head.

  “Then take mine. That way you can park right in front.”

  [THREE]

  Aeropuerto Internacional General C. L. Berisso Carrasco, Montevideo República Oriental del Uruguay 0710 29 July 2005

  There had been a parking area for perhaps thirty cars reserved for the Corps Diplomatique against one wall of the Jorge Newbery passenger terminal and fifteen minutes after Santini parked Darby’s embassy BMW they were aboard Austral flight 311, Boeing 737 nonstop service to Montevideo.

  Immigration formalities for leaving the Republic of Argentina and entering the Republic of Uruguay had been simple. Castillo saw that Argentine and Uruguayan nationals simply had to show their national identity cards. He made a mental note to see if the friendly folks at Langley could make him one.

  As foreigners, Castillo and Britton had to go through formal procedures. These consisted of submitting their passports to an Argentine immigration officer, who exposed them to a computer reader. He then applied the EXIT stamp in the appropriate spot, and then handed the passport to the Uruguayan official sitting next to him. The passport was again exposed to a computer reader, stamped with an ENTER stamp, and then handed back to the traveler. There would be no immigration formalities when they actually got off the airplane in Uruguay.

  Airport security had come next. It consisted primarily of walking past two police officers, who didn’t show much interest in any of them. The carry-on baggage X-ray machine wasn’t even turned on.

  Even granting that Austral flight 311 really is a flying commuter bus, and that the possibility of Muslim terrorists taking over the aircraft and diving it into the, say, DaimlerChrysler building in downtown Buenos Aires is admittedly slim, Castillo thought, as a stewardess handed him a copy of La Nación, the airport security check of boarding passengers was still a little lax.

  The flight itself, from wheels-up to a somewhat hard landing, took about twenty-six minutes.

  Once in the terminal building, there were signs in Spanish and English offering travelers their choice of NOTHING TO DECLARE and PAY CUSTOMS CHARGES lanes. Castillo did not see officials of any kind in either lane.

  Special Agent David William Yung, Jr., of the FBI was waiting for them in the airport lobby.

  I’m going to have to remember I don’t like this sonofabitch.

  “Hello again, Yung,” Castillo greeted him. “It was good of you to meet us.”

  “Mr. Darby suggested it would be best,” Yung said, ignoring Castillo’s outstretched hand.

  Well, fuck you, Yung!

  “You remember Mr. Santini, I’m sure,” Castillo said. “I’m not sure about Mr. Britton.”

  “I saw him when I was in Buenos Aires,” Yung said.

  “Pleased to meet you, too,” Britton said cheerfully, with a broad smile. “It’s always a pleasure to work with the FBI.”

  Castillo and Santini smiled. Yung didn’t.

  “Where would you like to go, Mr. Castillo?” Yung asked.

  “Where are your files?”

  “I have some in my office in the embassy and some in my apartment,” Yung said. “I don’t know what you’re after.”

  “I’m looking for an American. He works for the UN. His name is Jean-Paul Lorimer.”

  Yung shook his head, indicating he’d never heard of him.

  Or doesn’t want to give me what he has.

  “Which is closer? Your apartment or the embassy?”

  “My apartment.”

  “Then why don’t we go there? After we stop someplace for breakfast?”

  “You didn’t eat before you came over?”

  “Yeah, sure I did. But it was so long a flight, I’m hungry again.”

  “My car’s out here,” Yung said, and walked out of the terminal.

  He walked so quickly he was soon out of earshot.

  “Charley,” Britton asked, “why do I think that guy doesn’t like you?”

  “You’re perceptive?”

  They found an open restaurant not far from the beach.

  “Why is the Atlantic Ocean so dirty?” Britton asked.

  “That’s not the Atlantic Ocean, that’s the Río de la Plata,” Castillo told him.

  “That’s a river?”

  “The mouth of the ‘River of Silver’ is a hundred-plus miles wide. The Blue Danube isn’t blue, and the River of Silver is muddy. The Atlantic starts about sixty miles north of here. There’s a resort there called Punta del Este. Point of the East. Pretty classy. The water there is blue.”

  “Very handy to launder money,” Santini said.

  “Yeah,” Castillo said, thoughtfully.

  “How do they do that, launder money?” Britton asked.

  “One way is through the casinos,” Santini said. “There’s a bunch of them there. Hell, there’s one right here in Carrasco, a Marriott, and a couple more downtown. The biggest one in Punta del Este is the Conrad, named after, and I think owned by, Hilton. The way it works is that you slip the casino a bunch of cash. Then they let you win, say, ninety percent of it. You declare your gambling winnings, pay taxes on it, and your money is now laundered.”

  “You’re telling me that Marriott and Hilton are laundering money?” Britton asked, incredulously.

  “Marriott and Hilton, no,” Santini said. “There’s generally at least one legal attaché—which is what they call FBI agents in the diplomatic world—on their premises. Marriott and Hilton are thus reminded of their patriotic duty not to launder money. The locally owned casinos are where it’s done. Isn’t that so, Yung?”

  “If you say so,” Special Agent Yung said. He turned to Castillo. “When do you want to see Ambassador McGrory?”

  “I don’t need to see him,” Castillo said.

  “He wants to see you.”

  “I don’t need to see him, at least not today.”

  “He wants to see you.”

  “So you said.”

  “You are aware, aren’t you, Mr. Castillo, that the ambassador is the man in charge of all U.S. government activities in the country to which he is accredited?”

  “So I’ve heard,” Castillo said. “We’ll talk about this when we have some privacy.”

  Yung didn’t reply.

  Yung had a spacious, top-floor apartment in a three-story building on the Rambla, the waterfront highway between Carrasco and Montevideo, to the south.

  Yung waved them, not very graciously, into chairs in the living room.

  “All right, Mr. Castillo, what can I do for you? I’m sure you’ll understand that I am obliged to report to Ambassador McGrory what may be discussed.”

  “Special Agent Yung,” Castillo said icily, “I am now going to show you my credentials identifying me as a supervisory agent of the United States Secret Service.”

  He got out of his chair and held his credentials in front of Yung, who examined them and then nodded.

  “Are you satisfied that I am Supervisory Special Agent Carlos G. Castillo of the United States Secret Service, Special Agent Yung?”

  “I’m satisfied,” Yung said.

  “These gentlemen, Special Agents Anthony J. Santini and John M. Britton of the Secret Service, will now show you their credentials. When you are satisfied they are who I am telling you they are, please say so.”

  Santini and then Britton got out of their chairs, walked to Yung, showed him their credentials, waited until he nodded, and then went back to their chairs.

  “Are you satisfied, Special Agent Yung, that we are all who I am telling you we are?”

  “I’m satisfied. Are you going to tell me what—”

  “Gentlemen,” Castillo interrupted him. “I want you to make note that at zero-eight-one-zero hours, local time, 29 July 2005, in his residence in Carrasco, Uruguay, we identified ourselves to Special Agent Yung as members of the U.S. Secret Service by showing him our credentials, and he acknowledged their validity.”

  Santini and Britton nodded.

  “Special Agent Yung, what I am about to tell you is cla
ssified as Top Secret-Presidential. The unauthorized disclosure of any of this information to any person not authorized by the President, or myself, to have access to this material, and that specifically includes Ambassador McGrory, is a felony under the United States Code. Do you understand all that I have said?”

  “You’re telling me I can’t report this to Ambassador McGrory? Frankly, Castillo, I don’t believe you have that authority.”

  “In the vernacular, Special Agent Yung, I don’t give a flying fuck what you believe or don’t believe. The question was whether or not you understood what I said to you.”

  “I understood it.”

  “Good. I now inform you that I am the chief of the Office of Organizational Analysis—”

  “The what?”

  “. . . which is a covert and clandestine organization set up in a Presidential Finding within the Department of Homeland Security and is charged with locating the assassins of J. Winslow Masterson and Sergeant Roger Markham, USMC, and rendering them harmless. Do you understand that?”

  “That sounds as if you plan to . . . kill them.”

  “The question was, do you understand what I have just said?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my hearing.”

  “To carry out this mission, it is necessary for us to find one Jean-Paul Lorimer, an American citizen employed by the UN, who I have reason to believe is somewhere in this area.”

  “I told you before, I never heard of him.”

  “Aware of my mission, the secretary of state, for whom you work, has relayed through either or both Ambassadors McGrory and Silvio her orders to you to place yourself and whatever information you may have at my disposal. You have received those orders, have you not?”

  “Ambassador McGrory told me that you were going to come to me, and that I was to cooperate with you as much as possible,” Yung said. “And that if you came to me directly, instead of through the embassy, I was to tell you he wanted to see you. Immediately.”

  “With the implication that you didn’t have to cooperate with me unless he knew what this is about? And until he gave his permission?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Castillo, he’s the ambassador.”