The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  U.S. Highway 90 (“The Magic Mile”)

  Biloxi, Mississippi

  0835 2 August 2005

  Vic D’Allessando, smiling and shaking his head, pointed to Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, who was sitting sound asleep in an armchair.

  Castillo smiled and then motioned for D’Allessando to go into the bedroom. He followed him in and closed the door.

  “Jesus Christ, he’s just a kid,” D’Allessando said. “You going to tell me what he’s doing here?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do with him,” Castillo said.

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s seen too much, he’s heard too much, he’s done too much. He’s either eighteen or nineteen and I wonder if he can keep his mouth shut.”

  “Oh,” D’Allessando said.

  “I couldn’t leave him in Buenos Aires,” Castillo went on. “He’s in the Marine Guard detachment at the embassy. I think he was the clerk. The detachment is run by a gunnery sergeant—good guy—but a gunnery sergeant who’s going to ask, the moment he sees him, ‘Lester, my boy, where have you been and what have you been doing?’”

  “Yeah,” D’Allessando agreed.

  “As a rule of thumb, Marine corporals, when a gunny asks a question, answer it,” Castillo said.

  “Even if some Army major has told them to keep their mouth shut,” D’Allessando said. “And since you can’t have the gunny knowing what went down…. You have a problem, Charley.”

  “Yeah, compounded by the fact that Bradley not only saved my bacon but I really like him.”

  “Isn’t his gunny going to wonder where the hell he is?”

  “I told Alex Darby to tell the ambassador I exfiltrated Bradley with us. That’ll hold off the gunny for a couple of days, but even if the ambassador and Darby tell the gunny not to get curious he will.”

  “So get him out from under the gunny. Get him transferred out. Can you do that?”

  “Get him transferred where? ‘Welcome to Camp Lejeune, Corporal Bradley. Where have you been, what have you been doing, and why have you suddenly been transferred here? What do you mean you can’t tell me, it’s classified Top Secret Presidential’?”

  “Yeah,” D’Allessando agreed again, chuckling. “Okay, stash him at Bragg. Call McNab and tell him the problem.”

  “A Marine corporal would stand out like a sore thumb at the Special Warfare Center.”

  “Not necessarily,” D’Allessando said. “There’s been some talk about taking some Marines—a lot of Marines, two or three thousand—into Special Operations. Another of Schoomaker’s brainstorms, I think.”

  General Peter J. Schoomaker was chief of staff of the U.S. Army.

  “Schoomaker’s one of us, Vic,” Castillo said.

  “Yeah, I know. I knew him then, too. I was the armorer on his A-Team. Good guy. I wasn’t saying it’s a bad idea, just where I think it came from. Anyway, what they’re doing right now is running some Marines—mostly from their Force Recon—through the Q course. So they can tell us what we’re doing wrong, I guess. Anyway, we can stash the kid with them.”

  “Where Corporal Bradley would stand out like a sore thumb among the hardy warriors of Marine Force Recon,” Castillo said. He chuckled. “Most of them have gone through that SEAL body building course on the West Coast and look like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

  “That’s my best shot, Charley. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it. I’ll call General McNab.”

  “I’ll deal with McNab. Just leave the kid here with me. There will be a Special Ops King Air here around noon. I’ll put him on it and it’ll take him to Bragg.”

  “Thanks, Vic.”

  As they were walking out of the bedroom, there was a melodious chime and Vic D’Allessando walked to the door and pulled it open.

  “Good morning, Mr. Masterson,” he said. “Come on in.”

  “I’m sorry to be late,” J. Winslow Masterson said. “It was unavoidable.”

  He was a very tall, very black sharp-featured man wearing a crisp, beautifully tailored off-white linen suit. He held a panama hat in his hand.

  Castillo smiled as what his grandfather had said about linen suits—or, rather, about seersucker suits—popped into his memory: The reason I wear seersucker suits is, they come from the tailor mussed and people expect that. When I put on a linen suit, it’s mussed in ten minutes and people come up to me sure that I know where they can find dope or whores or both.

  “You’re smiling, Charley,” Masterson said, crossing the room with large strides to put out his hand. “There must be good news.”

  Castillo was finally able to get off the couch.

  “Actually, sir, when I saw that beautiful suit I thought of something my grandfather said.”

  “I’d love to hear it,” Masterson said.

  Charley repeated his grandfather’s trenchant comment.

  Masterson laughed.

  “Your grandfather had a way with words,” he said. “Did you ever tell Mr. D’Allessando about Lyndon Johnson?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Mr. Castillo had a magnificent bull registered as Lyndon Johnson. The animal, from the time it was a calf, had eaten heartily and therefore had droppings far above average….”

  “No kidding?” D’Allessando said, laughing. “I didn’t know you knew Charley’s grandfather.”

  “Not as well as I would have liked,” Masterson said. He looked expectantly at Castillo.

  “Yes, sir. I have news. Whether it’s good or not is a tough call.”

  “May I help myself to your coffee?” Masterson asked.

  “Oh, hell, excuse me,” D’Allessando said. “Let me get it for you.”

  “I’m old but I can still pour my own coffee, thank you just the same.”

  As he walked to the wet bar, Masterson saw Corporal Lester Bradley for the first time. Bradley was dozing in an armchair. Masterson looked curiously at Castillo.

  “That’s Corporal Bradley of the Marine Corps, sir,” Castillo said.

  That woke Bradley up. He erupted from the armchair, saw Masterson, and quickly came to attention.

  D’Allessando smiled and shook his head.

  “At ease, Corporal,” Castillo said. “This is Mr. Masterson’s father, Bradley.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bradley said.

  “Bradley was involved in the protection of the family in Buenos Aires,” Castillo said.

  “How do you do, Corporal?” Masterson said, advancing on Bradley with his hand extended. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  God, he’s really a gentleman, Castillo thought. You’d never know from his face that’s he’s wondering what this boy could possibly have been doing on a protection detail. What he’s doing is putting him at ease. That’s class.

  “How do you do, sir?” Bradley said.

  “Please, sit down,” Masterson said.

  Bradley looked at Castillo, who signaled for him to sit down.

  Castillo waited until Masterson had poured the coffee.

  “Sir,” he began, “the President has authorized me to tell you and Mr. Masterson anything I think I should. I’ll tell you what I know and you can tell me how much I should tell her.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “And I have to tell you, sir, that this is highly classified and is to go no further than yourself and Mr. Masterson.”

  “There are two ladies so identified,” Masterson said.

  “I will trust your judgment with regard to both. And as far as that goes, with regard to Ambassador and Mr. Lorimer.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Jean-Paul Lorimer,” Castillo reported, “was shot to death by parties unknown at approximately 9:20 p.m. local time, 31 July, in Tacuarembó, Uruguay.”

  Masterson’s eyebrows rose.

  “You’re sure of this?” Masterson said.

  “Yes, sir, I was there,” Castillo said. “As was Corporal Bradley. Bradley took out the men who killed Mr. Lorimer.”

  Tha
t got Masterson’s attention. He looked first in uncontrollable surprise at Bradley and then shifted his curious look to Castillo. There was a question in his eyes. It hung in the air but was not asked.

  “Mr. Masterson,” Castillo said, carefully, “once I located Mr. Lorimer, it was my intention to repatriate him—willingly or otherwise. I had just identified myself to him when he was shot.”

  “I have two questions,” Masterson said. “Who shot him? And what was he doing in Uruguay?”

  “I have no idea who shot him. Every one of them—there were six men in the group who attacked us—were killed by my people. As to what he was doing in Uruguay, I believe he was trying to establish a new identity. Actually, he had established one. He had a Lebanese passport in the name of Jean-Paul Bertrand. He was legally—as Bertrand—a resident in Uruguay, where people believed he was a successful antiquities dealer.”

  “Antiquities dealer? Can you tell me—I have the feeling you know—why he was doing something like that?”

  “Apparently, he was involved with the Iraqi oil-for-food scandal. Specifically, I believe, as the paymaster. He knew who got how much money, and when and what for. That could have been the reason he was killed. Additionally, I believe he skimmed some of the payoff money. He had almost sixteen million dollars in several bank accounts in Uruguay. He may have been killed as punishment for stealing the money.”

  “One is not supposed to speak ill of the dead,” Masterson said, “but that explains a good deal. Greed would motivate Jean-Paul. Coupled with the delusion that he was smarter than those from whom he was stealing, that would give him motivation sufficient to overcome his natural timidity.”

  “I can’t argue with that, sir, but I just don’t know why he did what He did.”

  “How did you find him? And so quickly?”

  “Good question, Charley,” D’Allessando said.

  Castillo flashed him a dirty look, then said, “I don’t mean to sound flippant, but I got lucky.”

  “And the money? What happens to that money? Sixteen million, you said?”

  “Yes, sir. We have it.”

  “Does anyone—everyone—know you have it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What are you going to do with it? Jesus! Sixteen million!” D’Allessando said, earning him another dirty look from Castillo.

  “Mr. Masterson, do you remember me telling you the day we came here that the President had ordered Ambassador Montvale, and the attorney general, and the secretaries of state and Homeland Security—everybody—to give me whatever I needed to track down Mr. Masterson’s murderers?”

  Masterson nodded.

  “That was the truth, but it wasn’t the whole truth. In fact—and this carries the security classification of Top Secret Presidential, and, if I somehow can, I’d rather not make Mr. Masterson privy to this—”

  “I understand,” Masterson interjected.

  “In fact, there has been a Presidential Finding, in which the President set up a covert and clandestine organization charged with locating and rendering harmless those people responsible for the murders of Mr. Masterson and Sergeant Markham.”

  “‘Rendering harmless’? Is that something like the ‘terminating with extreme prejudice’ of the Vietnam era?”

  “Just about,” D’Allessando said.

  “I would rather not answer that, sir,” Castillo said.

  “I understand. And who—if you can’t answer, I’ll understand—is running this ‘covert and clandestine’ organization? Ambassador Montvale? The CIA?”

  “I am, sir. And that’s something else I would rather not tell Mr. Masterson.”

  Masterson nodded and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  “The money will be used to fund that activity, sir,” Castillo said.

  “Is that what they call poetic justice?” Masterson said. “A moment ago, I was worried about Ambassador Lorimer….”

  “Sir?”

  “Jean-Paul’s only blood kin are his parents and Betsy. That means unless he left a will bequeathing his earthly possessions to some Parisian tootsie, which I don’t think is likely, they are his heirs. The ambassador would know there was no way Jean-Paul could have honestly accrued that much money. That would have been difficult for him. And God knows Betsy doesn’t need it—and, of course, would not want it.”

  “Sir, Mr. Lorimer owned—and I don’t think it was mortgaged—a large estancia—a farm—in Uruguay. And he owned—I know he owned—a nice apartment on rue Monsieur in the VII Arrondisement in Paris.”

  “Well, he lived in Paris, therefore he needed a place to live. Many people take insurance to pay off the mortgage on their apartments on their death. The same argument could be presented to the ambassador vis-à-vis the farm in Uruguay, which Jean-Paul could have acquired in anticipation of his ultimate retirement. The question is, how do we explain to the ambassador the circumstances of Jean-Paul’s death?”

  “That’s what they call a multiple-part question,” Castillo said. “Let me try to explain what we have. By now the local police in Tacuarembó have found out what happened. The question is, what have they found out?”

  He let that sink in, then continued:

  “We plastic-cuffed and blindfolded the servants that were in the house.” He paused. “One of these was a young Uruguayan girl with whom Mr. Lorimer apparently had a close relationship.”

  He waited until he saw understanding and what could have been contempt in Masterson’s eyes and then went on.

  “We put her—and the estancia manager and his wife—to sleep. A safe narcotic, administered by someone who knew what he was doing.

  “Now, everybody saw who did the cuffing: Spanish-speaking masked men wearing balaclava masks. You remember when the Alcohol, Firearms and Tobacco agents ‘rescued’ the Cuban boy in Miami? Their black ski masks?”

  Masterson nodded. His face showed his contempt for that act.

  “And everybody was wearing what are essentially black coveralls. That description will be reported to the police. When the police arrive—and by now they almost certainly have—they will have found six men in dark blue, nearly black coveralls. But no masks. Which poses a problem….”

  “Six dead men in coveralls,” Masterson said.

  “Yes, sir. Plus Mr. Lorimer, who they will have found lying on his office floor next to his safe. There are no valuables in the safe. The best possible scenario is that they will suspect a robbery by the same people who cuffed and needled the servants.”

  “But they’re now dead?” Masterson said.

  “Shot treacherously by one or more of their number so that whatever was stolen would not have to be split in so many shares,” Castillo said.

  “The local police won’t know—or suspect—that someone else—you and your people—were there?”

  “Well, we hope not,” Castillo said. “There is a history of that kind of robbery—of isolated estancias—in Uruguay and Argentina. And Mr. Lorimer/Bertrand, a wealthy businessman, meets the profile of the sort of people robbed.”

  “You…left nothing behind that can place you there?”

  “The only thing we know of—which is not saying I didn’t screw up somewhere and they’ll find something else—is blood.”

  “I don’t understand,” Masterson said.

  “When we were bushwhacked by these people, we took casualties,” Castillo said. “One was one of my men, who was garroted, and the other was an Argentine who was helping us. He lived, but he bled a lot.”

  “The guy the bastards got was a sergeant first class named Seymour Kranz,” D’Allessando said. “Good guy. No amateur. Which makes me really wonder who these bad guys are.”

  “I’ll get to that later, Vic,” Castillo said.

  “Do I correctly infer that the sergeant did not live?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear that. What happened to his body?”

  “We exfiltrated it with us,” Castillo said. “Now here the scenario gets very
hopeful. If American police were investigating a crime like this, they would subject the blood to a number of tests. They would match blood to bodies, among other things. I’m hoping the police in rural Uruguay are not going to be so thorough; that they won’t come up with a blood sample, or samples, that don’t match the bodies.”

  “My God, seven bodies is a massacre. They won’t ask for help from—what?—the Uruguayan equivalent of the FBI? A police organization that will be thorough?”

  “I’m counting on that, sir. That’s how it will be learned that Mr. Bertrand is really Mr. Lorimer.”

  “How will that happen?”

  “Mr. Lorimer had a photo album, sir. One of the photographs was of Mr. Masterson’s wedding. The wedding party is standing in front of a church—”

  “Cathedral,” Masterson corrected him. “Saint Louis Cathedral, on Jackson Square in New Orleans. Jack and Betsy were married there.”

  “The whole family—including Mr. Lorimer—is in the photo, sir. I’m almost sure that a senior police officer from Montevideo will recognize Mr. Masterson. Maybe even one of the local cops will. Mr. Masterson’s murder was big news down there. It’s what the police call a ‘lead.’ I can’t believe they won’t follow it up, and that will result in the identification of Mr. Bertrand. If they somehow get the photo to the embassy in Buenos Aires, a man there—actually, the CIA station chief who was in on the operation—is prepared to identify the man in the photo as Mr. Lorimer. He knew him in Paris.”

  “If the police are as inept as you suggest—and you’re probably right—what makes you think they’ll find, much less leaf through, Jean-Paul’s photo album?”

  “Because I left it open on Mr. Lorimer’s desk, sir.”

  “You’re very good at this sort of thing, aren’t you?” Masterson said.

  “No, sir, I’m not. There is a vulgar saying in the Army that really applies.”

  “And that is?”

  Castillo hesitated a moment, then said: “‘I’m up way over my ears in the deep shit and I don’t know how to swim.’”

  “Oh, horseshit, Charley,” D’Allessando said. “You and I go back a long way. I know better.”

  “I agree that it’s vulgar,” Masterson said. “But I don’t agree at all that it applies. You seem to have been born for duties like these and Mr. D’Allessando obviously agrees with me.”