The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  “And how’s the knee?”

  “Time will tell,” Miller said, disgustedly, then asked, “Well, how did it go with the President?”

  “Well, I don’t think we’ll all wind up in Alaska counting snowballs,” Castillo announced.

  “You really didn’t think something like that was going to happen, did you, Charley?” Torine asked.

  “Actually, I bear a message from the commander in chief,” Castillo said. “Quote, Good job. Thank you, End quote.”

  “What did you expect, Charley?” Torine pursued.

  “We lost Kranz and they blew Lorimer away before we could talk to him,” Castillo said. “How does that add up to a ‘good job’?”

  “You found the sonofabitch,” Miller said. “And, in doing so, removed the threat to the Mastersons. That’s a good job, Charley. In my book or anybody else’s.”

  “Can Britton and I go home now, Gringo?” Fernando asked. “To try to salvage what we can from the ashes of our marriages?”

  “Is that all the President had to say?” Torine asked.

  “Montvale was there,” Castillo said.

  “And?”

  “Hall and Natalie Cohen,” Castillo said.

  “How effusive was the ambassador in his praise for our little undertaking?” Torine said.

  Castillo chuckled. “Actually, he called you—us—‘the major and his small, valiant band of men.’”

  “No kidding?” Torine said. “Well, I can live with that.”

  “He actually tried to take us—the Office of Organizational Analysis—over.”

  “Oh, shit!” Torine said.

  “He didn’t get away with it,” Castillo said. “The President cut him off in midsentence.”

  “Leaving us where?” Miller asked.

  “We’re still in business,” Castillo said. “The President was very clear about that.” He looked at Miller. “Colonel Torine’s brought you up to speed on everything, right, Dick?”

  Miller nodded.

  “David, we have something with Lorimer’s signature on it, don’t we?” Castillo asked.

  Yung nodded.

  “Well, as soon as possible, take it over to Langley,” Castillo said. “That means right now. Something with Lorimer’s signature on it, and the bearer bonds or whatever the hell they’re called.”

  “Why?” Yung asked.

  “So the agency’s finest forgers can put Lorimer’s signature on the bearer bonds and we can grab the money. It’s now our operating budget.”

  “Lovely idea,” Torine said. “Fifteen-point-seven million is a nice little operating budget. But what are you going to do when Montvale finds out about it? And he will.”

  “Actually, it was his idea,” Castillo said. “Admittedly while he was still thinking he could bring us under his benevolent wing.”

  “Where am I supposed to put it?” Yung said.

  “Good question,” Castillo said.

  “I’ve got an account in the Cayman Islands,” Yung said. “At the Liechtensteinische Landesbank.”

  “You’ve got what?” Castillo asked, incredulously. “A pillar of the FBI, an expert in uncovering money laundering, and you’re hiding your own money from the IRS in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank in the Cayman Islands?”

  Yung was not amused.

  “It was an investigative tool, Major,” he said. “I opened the account both to see how that could be done and so that I could be kept abreast of any changes in their banking laws. As a depositor, I could ask questions that I could not ask otherwise.”

  “That’s even better,” Castillo said, delightedly. “The FBI has money in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank in the Caymans. Is nothing sacred anymore?”

  “What the hell is that?” Britton asked. “Lickten-what?”

  “Liechtenstein is a little country—run by a prince—about twenty miles long and five miles wide between Switzerland and Austria,” Castillo said. “Landesbank means ‘state bank.’ The Liechtensteiners make their money growing cows and banking other people’s money.”

  “Actually, the funds in the bank are mine,” Yung said. “Using my own money to open the account was easier than trying to get permission—and, of course, the money itself—from the FBI.”

  “And how much of your own money are you sequestering in your Liechtensteinische Landesbank account?”

  “Twenty-five hundred dollars.”

  “How hard is it to open an account?” Castillo asked.

  “Actually, it’s quite simple. All they ask is a reference from your home banker and a cashier’s check or a wire deposit. They won’t take cash deposits,” Yung answered.

  “Well, then, that’s what we’ll do. But I want to get that money out of Uruguay before they find out Lorimer is dead.”

  “Bertrand,” Yung corrected him. “The funds are in Bertrand’s name.”

  “Okay. Bertrand,” Castillo said. “Are any questions going to be asked when your secret little account suddenly grows by fifteen-point-seven million?”

  “I’m not sure I want to do that,” Yung said.

  “Answer the question,” Castillo said. “Is that going to make waves?”

  “No questions are ever asked and they have stricter bank secrecy laws than even Switzerland. But, for the obvious reasons, I am uncomfortable transferring Bertrand’s funds into my account.”

  “Then why did you tell us about your account?” Torine asked with a tone of impatience in his voice.

  “I was going to suggest that you look into opening an account there. What Castillo’s asking me to do is commit a felony. I’m an FBI agent, dammit!”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Torine said. “FBI rule number one: Always cover your ass. Right?”

  “What I’m ordering you to do is carry out an order of the President of the United States,” Castillo said.

  “I don’t believe you have the legal authority to give me an order. I’m in the FBI. I don’t work for you.”

  Torine started to say something, then changed his mind and looked at Castillo.

  Castillo said, “I suppose that’s true, that you don’t work for me. Right now, I guess your status is volunteer.”

  “Major, I thought—still think—you were doing the right thing when you staged that operation to kidnap Lorimer from Estancia Shangri-La. That’s why I went with you. But that’s not going to go over well at the J. Edgar Hoover Building when they hear about it. The FBI is supposed to investigate kidnappings, not participate in them.”

  “And you don’t want to endanger your FBI career any more than you already have?” Torine asked, sarcastically.

  Yung considered that and then nodded.

  “Yung,” Torine said, evenly, “if you’re even thinking of running over to the J. Edgar Hoover Building and repeating even one word of this conversation or one detail of the operation we have just been on into some sympathetic FBI inspector’s ear, I suggest you think again. That would constitute the divulgence of material classified Top Secret Presidential to persons not authorized access to such material. And that is a felony.”

  Castillo added, “And that includes telling anybody you bumped into Howard Kennedy in Buenos Aires.”

  Yung looked at him coldly.

  “Let me be brutal,” Castillo said. “Supposing you went to the FBI and confessed all and it was decided for a number of reasons not to try you for unauthorized disclosure, are you really naïve enough to think you’d be welcomed back like the prodigal son? Or is it more likely that you’d spend the rest of your FBI career investigating parking ticket corruption in Sioux Falls, South Dakota?”

  The look on Yung’s face showed that Castillo had struck home.

  “Right now, the question seems to be that you don’t think I have the authority to give you orders. Is that right?”

  “I don’t believe you have that legal authority,” Yung said.

  “What if I got it? Would that change things?”

  “How could you do that?”

  Castillo sat
down on the couch next to Corporal Lester Bradley and picked up the telephone. He punched in a number from memory.

  “This is C. G. Castillo,” he announced a moment later. “Is Secretary Hall still with the President?

  “Can you get him for me, please?

  “Charley, sir. Sorry to interrupt.

  “Yung would feel more comfortable dealing with that banking business we discussed earlier if he was assigned to the Office of Organizational Analysis and therefore under my orders. Is that going to be a problem?

  “The sooner the better, sir. By the time the banks open in the morning. Tonight would be even better.

  “He’ll be with Miller. Here in my apartment, sir.

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was a sixty-second period of silence.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.

  “No, sir. I’m going to go to Philadelphia and then to Biloxi. Maybe still tonight if there’s a way to get from Philadelphia to Biloxi. In any event, as soon as I can, sir.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll let you and Secretary Cohen know how that went as soon as I can.

  “Yes, sir, I will. Thank you very much, sir.”

  Castillo put the handset back in the cradle and looked at Yung.

  “Secretary Hall tells me the President has put in a call to the director of the FBI. When he gets him, or his deputy, he will order that you be placed on duty with the Office of Organizational Analysis. Either the director or his deputy will call you here and tell you that. That will place you under my orders. Any questions?”

  Yung shook his head.

  “Let me take this opportunity to welcome you to the Office of Organizational Analysis, Mr. Yung,” Castillo said, mock portentously. “We hope your career with us will last as long as the organization itself—in other words, maybe for the next two or three weeks.”

  Torine laughed. Others chuckled.

  A smile—small but unmistakable—crossed Yung’s lips.

  “Just as soon as I can—within a day or two—I will open another account in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank,” Castillo said. “We’ll get the money out of your account as soon as possible.”

  Yung nodded.

  “You ever been to Langley, Yung?” Miller asked.

  Yung shook his head.

  “I’ll take you over there,” Miller said and then had a second thought: “Better yet, Charley, Tom McGuire knows his way around there better than I do.”

  “You know where to find him?”

  Miller nodded.

  “Ask him to do that, please,” Castillo said. “How hard is it going to be to get Vic D’Allessando on the horn?”

  Miller held out a cellular telephone. Castillo went and took it from him.

  “Autodial seven,” Miller said.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be able to get to Biloxi,” Castillo explained. “But I want to see Vic before I see the Mastersons.”

  “It’ll probably be in the very wee hours when we get there,” Fernando said. “But if you go with me, I’ll bet you’ll get there sooner than if you went commercial.”

  “I want to go to Philadelphia first,” Castillo said.

  “So does Jack,” Fernando said. “Jack’s wife is with her mother in Philly. The planned itinerary is Reagan to Philly. Then, after you see your lady friend, Philly to Charleston, where we drop the colonel off. Then Charleston to San Antone. No problem to drop you off in Biloxi.”

  “You’re going to Charleston by way of Philadelphia?” Castillo asked Torine. “You can’t catch a plane from here?”

  “The oldest member of this small, valiant band of men,” Torine said, “having just returned from a tour of the world, is in no condition to pass through airport security, especially in possession of an Uzi and a case of untaxed brandy that I don’t want to have to try to explain.”

  Castillo chuckled. “Untaxed brandy?”

  “Fernando told me you had bought your grandmother a case of Argentine brandy at twelve bucks a bottle. I figured if it was good enough for your grandmother, it would be a suitable expression of my affection for my wife.”

  “It’s really good brandy,” Castillo said. “And, best of all, it’s not French.”

  “It’s a sad world, Charley, where boycotting the products of those who have screwed you interferes with your drinking habits, but that’s the way it is.”

  Castillo chuckled.

  “Okay, let’s get this show on the road. While I call D’Allessando, somebody call the doorman and have him get us a couple of cabs.”

  “There’s a big Yukon stationed at the National Geographic exit,” Miller said. “And since I’m not going anywhere, you can use that.”

  “Great,” Castillo said.

  “Sir, what about me?” Corporal Lester Bradley asked. Castillo looked at him a long moment before replying. “You better come with me, Bradley,” he said, finally. “Sir, may I ask what I’m going to be doing?”

  “You can ask, but I can’t tell you because I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  [THREE]

  The Belle Vista Casino and Resort

  U.S. Highway 90 (“The Magic Mile”)

  Biloxi, Mississippi

  0405 2 August 2005

  Inside the resort, as C. G. Castillo and Lester Bradley, in civilian clothing, approached the main entrance of the casino, a burly “host” came out from behind a small stand-up desk and not very politely asked Bradley how old he was and then, when told, shook his head and said he couldn’t go in.

  “Wait right here, Bradley,” Castillo ordered. “I’ll be right out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Castillo entered the casino and walked past rows of slot machines, at which maybe a quarter of them sat gamblers, most of them middle-aged and elderly women. Beyond the slot machines was an arch with a flashing GAMING sign on it. Castillo walked under it and found himself in a huge area filled with tables for the playing of blackjack, craps, and roulette.

  Perhaps a third of them were in use. He saw Vic D’Allessando’s totally bald head at one of the blackjack tables deep in the room. He walked toward the table and stopped six feet from it.

  There was a sign on the table indicating the minimum bet was ten dollars. There were five stacks of chips in front of D’Allessando. He tapped them steadily with the fingers of his left hand as he watched the dealer deal.

  Even if they were all ten-dollar chips—and they’re obviously not, since each stack is a different color, which means they’re worth even more—Vic is into this game big-time.

  He watched a little longer, saw that Vic was playing two cards at a time, and then walked up behind him. D’Allessando sensed his presence and turned to see who was behind him. He gave no sign of recognition.

  The dealer busted and passed out chips to both of the cards D’Allessando was playing.

  “That’ll do it,” D’Allessando said, then slid a tip of two chips to the dealer and started to gather up the remainder of his chips. The dealer slid a rack to him.

  “Thanks,” D’Allessando said and put the chips in the rack.

  “Oh, goody,” Castillo said. “I brought you luck.”

  D’Allessando snorted. He arranged the chips in the rack and stood up. He was a short man whose barrel chest and upper arms strained his shirt.

  “Cashier’s over there,” D’Allessando said, indicating the direction with a nod of his head.

  On his retirement from twenty-four years of service—twenty-two of it in Special Forces—CWO5 Victor D’Allessando had gone to work for the Special Operations Command as a Department of the Army civilian. Theoretically, he was a technical advisor to the commanding general of the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg. What he actually did for the Special Operations Command was classified.

  At the cashier’s window, a peroxide blonde in her fifties counted the chips, then asked if D’Allessando wanted his winnings as a check.

  “Cash will do nicely, thank you,” D’Allessando said.

  Th
e peroxide blonde began to lay crisp new one-hundred-dollar bills in stacks, ten bills to a stack. There were four stacks. Then she started a fifth stack with fifties, twenties, a ten, and, finally, a five.

  “Jesus Christ, Vic!” Castillo said. “You had a good night.”

  D’Allessando grunted again, stuffed the money in the inside pocket of his lemon-colored sports coat, and started for the door. Castillo followed him.

  D’Allessando made a Give it to me gesture to the host, who had refused to let Bradley into the casino. The host unlocked a small drawer in the stand-up desk and tried to discreetly hand D’Allessando a Colt General Officers model .45 ACP semiautomatic pistol. The discretion failed. D’Allessando hoisted the skirt of his sports coat and slipped the pistol into a skeleton holster over his right hip pocket.

  “They won’t let you carry a weapon in there,” D’Allessando said. “I guess losers have been known to pop the dealers.”

  Castillo chuckled. The host was not amused.

  “Elevator’s over there,” D’Allessando said, again nodding to show the direction.

  “I know.”

  “Oh, yeah. Masterson said you’d been here.”

  “You get to talk to him?” Castillo asked as they walked and Bradley followed.

  “He’ll be here at eight for breakfast.”

  When they reached the bank of elevators, D’Allessando took a plastic card key from his jacket pocket and swiped it through a reader. The elevator door opened. D’Allessando waved Castillo into it. Bradley started to get on.

  “Sorry, my friend,” D’Allessando said, “this elevator is reserved for big-time losers.”

  “He’s with me,” Castillo said.

  D’Allessando shrugged and stepped out of the way.

  When the door closed, Castillo said, “Bradley, this is Mr. D’Allessando. Vic, this is Corporal Lester Bradley. He’s a Marine.”

  “You’re in bad company, kid,” D’Allessando said. “Watch yourself.”

  “He’s a friend of mine, Vic.”

  “Even worse.”

  The elevator stopped and D’Allessando swiped the plastic key again. The door opened.

  “Welcome to Penthouse C,” D’Allessando said.

  “Wow!” Bradley exclaimed.