The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  Castillo didn’t reply.

  “Tell me about Ambassador Montvale and his message,” Görner said.

  “I have no idea what’s in Montvale’s message, but if it was really important he would have gotten it to me.”

  “I don’t understand,” Frau Schröder said.

  “If I go to Berlin to get the message, I’m a cute little dachshund answering its master’s whistle. Which is what he wants.”

  “Oh,” she said, and then a moment later said, “But what if there is something important in the message?”

  “If something important happened, Dick Miller would know what it was and he would have gotten through to me. But just to be sure, as soon as we get the money straightened out, I’m going to give Dick a call.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” Görner asked. “About that money in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank?”

  “Mostly.”

  “What else?”

  “I want all your notes, all your reporters’ notes, on oil for food,” Castillo said. “They will go no further than me. I really don’t work for the CIA, Otto. Or anybody but the President.”

  Görner didn’t reply.

  “Am I crossing the line, Otto?” Castillo asked, softly.

  “Not with that,” Görner said, simply. “I think the Old Man would have given your Mr. Ignatz Glutz his reporter’s notes. I’ll reserve judgment about the money until I hear whatever you think you can tell me about it.”

  “I’ll tell you everything about it,” Castillo said. “We found out that Lorimer had it in three banks in Uruguay. It seems logical to assume that he stole it—the American phrase is ‘skimmed it’—from his payoff money. We also found out that it was not on deposit but rather in the form of on-demand notes issued by the bank, something like bearer bonds. We got the notes, and took the money. It’s going to be spent finding who killed Mr. Masterson and Sergeant Markham and for other noble purposes, including finding out who sent the men to murder Lorimer.”

  “You certainly found out about that quickly,” Görner said.

  “I was there, Otto. I was just about to tell Lorimer that he was about to be returned to the bosom of his family when somebody stuck a submachine gun through the window. They killed Lorimer and wounded a man with me. Other bad guys killed one of my sergeants by garroting him.”

  “Karlchen!” Frau Schröder exclaimed.

  “Who were they?” Görner asked.

  “I don’t know. I intend to find out. The only thing I know for sure was they were not Uruguayan bandits. Spetsnaz, possibly. Maybe Mossad. Maybe even French, from Le Première Régiment de Parachutistes d’Infanterie de Marine, known as Rip-em. There’s even been a suggestion that they might be from Die Kommando Spezialkräfte. Whoever they were, they were damned good.”

  “And, I suppose you realize, damned dangerous?” Görner asked.

  “That thought has run through my mind. Let me tell what I’d like to do about the money, then Frau Schröder can explain why that’s not possible.”

  Görner realized that although it was the last thing he wanted to do, he was smiling.

  Castillo said, “I have—that is, Lopez Fruit and Vegetables Mexico has—an account with the Banco Salamander Mexicano in Oaxaca.”

  “Say that again, slowly,” Frau Schröder said as she picked up Görner’s leather-covered legal pad and a pencil. “And you better spell it, too. I don’t speak Spanish.”

  “You don’t?” Castillo asked as if deeply shocked. “I thought everybody spoke Spanish.”

  Görner realized that he was smiling again at the look on Frau Schröder’s face before she realized she was being teased.

  Castillo went into his laptop case and took out a sheet of paper and handed it to her.

  “Everything’s on there,” he said, “including account numbers. Fernando tells me we run a lot of money through there.”

  “That’s the Bahias de Huatulco ranch?” Otto asked.

  “Used to be cattle, now it’s mostly grapefruit, “Castillo confirmed. “Anyway, a wire transfer of ten million dollars wouldn’t set off alarm bells, particularly if we spend most of it right away to buy an airplane.”

  “Excuse me?” Görner asked.

  Castillo went back to his briefcase and took out a photocopy of what Görner recognized after a moment as an aircraft specification sheet.

  “A twenty-three-year-old Gulfstream III,” Castillo said. “Just the sort of airplane that would be owned—or leased—by a successful Mexican farming operation trying to peddle its wares in Europe and Latin America. And a bargain, Fernando tells me, at seven million five, as it has new engines and all the maintenance is up-to-date. And its new glove-leather interior is sort of the cherry on the cake.”

  “Why do you need an airplane like that?” Frau Schröder asked.

  “We flew Fernando’s plane—the Bombardier/Learjet—over here, then to South America, and then from Buenos Aires to the States. Two things wrong with that. It’s not designed for long flights—over-the-ocean flights—like that. And, as a corollary, attracts attention when it does. And then when Ambassador Montvale kindly put the CIA’s private airlines at my disposal, I knew I had to have an airplane, the pilot of which is not going to make hourly reports of my location to the ambassador.”

  “You’re going to be doing a lot of that, flying across oceans?” Görner asked.

  “I’ll be going wherever I have to go and I want to do it quickly, safely, and as invisibly as possible.”

  “Can you just go out and buy an airplane like that? And who’s going to fly it?”

  “That’s a moot question until Frau Schröder tells me whether I can move the ten million to the account in Mexico.”

  He looked expectantly at Frau Schröder.

  “That can be done with a telephone call,” she said. “You can count on the money being available within the hour.”

  “Well, let’s do that and then we’ll get on the horn to Dick Miller,” Castillo said. “The sooner we get the money into Salamander, the sooner I can—as an officer of Lopez Fruit and Vegetables Mexico—wire-transfer out of it to my account at the Riggs Bank in Washington. I already know how to do that.”

  “Couple of questions,” Frau Schröder said, now all business. “You want to put the Liechtensteinische Landesbank money in a special account or just deposit it?”

  “Just deposit it,” Castillo said. “Fernando’s going to report it as ordinary business receipts.”

  “Is that what they call ‘money laundering’?” Görner asked, drily.

  “This is in a good cause,” Castillo replied.

  Görner shook his head. Frau Schröder picked up the telephone.

  Three minutes later, she announced, “Ten million dollars will be available in the Lopez account within twenty minutes.”

  “Thank you, and now see if you can get Dick Miller on there, will you, please? And put it on the speakerphone, please.”

  “I think I should point out, Karl,” Görner said, “that it’s now about half past six in the morning in Washington.”

  “Until they take the bandages off his leg, Dick’s sleeping in the office,” Castillo replied. “He’ll be there.”

  Frau Schröder punched in numbers on one of Görner’s telephones and then pushed the button that activated the speaker.

  The phone rang twice and then Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., answered it.

  “Miller.”

  “Good news, sweetheart, we won’t have to sell the dogs and move in with your mother. The money’s in the bank.”

  “That was quick.”

  “They don’t call me Speedy Gonzales for nothing,” Castillo said. “Any word from Jake about the new toy?”

  “He and Fernando and the salesman brought it in here, to BWI, last night. Jake said it would have made waves taking it into Reagan. Jake says the bird’s okay and where do you want to keep it?”

  “Let me think about that. Ask Jake what he recommends. Transfer nine really big ones from Sa
lamander to my account in Riggs and then pay for it.”

  “That check’s not going to bounce, is it?”

  “Nope. I have Frau Schröder’s personal guarantee. Say, ‘Danke schön, Frau Schröder.’”

  “Danke shön, Frau Schröder,” Miller said.

  “How are you, Dick?” she replied.

  “Aside from having more gauze bandage on my leg than a mummy, I’m just fine. Say hello to Otto for me when you see him.”

  “How are you, Dick?” Görner said.

  “You weren’t listening in, were you, Otto? If so, did the colonel make you stand at attention?”

  “And click my heels,” Görner said.

  “God, he’s going to be hard to live with.”

  “He’s always been hard to live with.”

  “Jesus,” Miller suddenly said, “before I forget, Charley, remember that you were here all day yesterday.”

  “Why?” Castillo said.

  “Because yesterday, Colonel, Colonel Torine gave you a check ride in the C-20, which you passed, and which will be recorded on your FAA records this morning.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” Castillo said.

  “Anything else, Charley?”

  “Have you any idea why the ambassador would send me a message? To Berlin?”

  “No. But he was fascinated to hear that we have people looking into briefcases in suburban Philadelphia. He can’t imagine why you didn’t share that with him.”

  “Because, as far as we know, that’s fantasy. Did you tell him that?”

  “I did. He didn’t seem very impressed. What did the message say?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not going to Berlin to read it.”

  “You want to tell me where you are going?”

  “Paris was a waste of time. Lorimer’s apartment had been searched by the Deuxième Bureau and the UN before my friend there could get in. I had a look. Nothing useful. And I’m just about finished here. All I have left to do is go see Billy Kocian in Budapest. I don’t think that will take long…”

  He stopped when he saw Görner holding up his hand.

  “Hold it a second, Dick,” Castillo said and gestured for Görner to speak.

  “I don’t think going to see Billy Kocian right now is going to be profitable,” Görner said.

  “Why not?” Castillo asked.

  “He’s in the Telki Hospital with a broken ankle.”

  “What happened?”

  “He fell down the stairs in his apartment.”

  “How do you know he broke his ankle?”

  “He called and told me.”

  “He called and told you,” Castillo repeated, softly, and then, raising his voice slightly for the speakerphone, asked, “Dick, where’s Torine?”

  “In your place. He and Fernando.”

  “Get on another line and ask him if there’s any reason he can’t bring the G-III to Budapest right away.”

  “I can think of one,” Miller replied. “You don’t own it yet.”

  “Call Jake, and ask him if the airplane is ready to cross the Atlantic. I’ll hold.”

  Castillo felt Görner’s eyes on him.

  “You think something happened to Billy,” Görner said.

  “What I’m thinking is that it’s unlikely that Billy would call to tell you he fell down. More than likely, he called you to tell you that because He didn’t want you to know what really happened to him in case you heard he was in the hospital.”

  Görner’s eyebrows went up but he didn’t say anything.

  Miller’s voice came over the speaker.

  “I have Colonel Torine on the line for you, Colonel Castillo,” Miller’s more than a little sarcastic voice announced.

  “What’s up, Charley?” Torine’s voice came over the speaker.

  “If Dick gave the guy who came with the Gulfstream a cashier’s check for the airplane as soon as the Riggs Bank opens, how soon could you get it to Budapest?”

  “You mean handle the paperwork later?”

  “Right.”

  “If he goes along with the cashier’s check, it would take me maybe an hour and a half to go wheels-up at Baltimore. I can’t make it nonstop. I’d have to refuel someplace, maybe Rhine-Main—”

  “That’s now Frankfurt International. Hadn’t you heard? No more Rhine-Main.”

  “And didn’t that make you feel old?” Torine replied. “Figure nine hours total flight time, an hour to refuel. Figure twelve hours from the time Dick gives the owner’s guy the check, presuming he’s willing to go along. If he’s not?”

  “Give him the check anyway and don’t tell him where you’re going on your final test flight.”

  “One more problem. I’ll have to bring Fernando along to fly the right seat. He’s not going to like that.”

  “Do you really need someone in the right seat?”

  Torine hesitated before replying, “You know, I’ve never landed an airplane anywhere where someone counted the pilots. You have a reason you don’t want Fernando to come?”

  “I want Fernando to go home to Texas and keep the home fires burning.”

  “Okay, Charley. Not a problem.”

  Fernando’s voice came over the loudspeaker: “I’ll fly the goddamned airplane to Budapest, Gringo, and then go home.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Thanks,” Castillo said. “Both of you. I’ll get us rooms at the Gellért.”

  “See you in the wee hours tomorrow,” Torine said and hung up.

  “Anything else before I have my breakfast, Charley?” Miller asked.

  “You ever get the avionics for the Ranger?”

  “They’re on their way to Buenos Aires.”

  “Okay. Great. I’ll be in touch, Dick.”

  “Do I tell the ambassador where you’re going?”

  “You might as well. He’ll know anyway.”

  “Run that past me again?”

  “I’m going to use his aerial taxi to get me there,” Castillo said. “He’ll know.”

  “I don’t quite understand that, but, what the hell. I probably don’t have the Need to Know. Watch your back, buddy.”

  Castillo switched off the telephone and went back into his computer case, retrieved a business card, and held it in his hand as he punched in numbers on the telephone.

  “Now what?” Otto Görner asked.

  “I’m calling an aerial taxi to take me to Budapest.”

  “You sure you can get one? And is the Tages Zeitung going to have to pay for it?”

  “I’m sure I can get one. The CIA owns the taxi service and Ambassador Montvale told them I go to the head of the line. And, no, the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund will pay for it.”

  “Get two seats,” Otto said.

  Castillo looked at him curiously.

  “You’re right. Eric’s story was a little too detailed,” Görner said. “He said he fell over his dog going down the stairs. If he had fallen over that goddamned dog, he wouldn’t have told me. In fact, if he’d fallen down, period, he wouldn’t have told me. Now I really want to know what’s going on.”

  “This is Colonel Castillo,” Charley said to the telephone. “I’m in Fulda, Germany, and I—and one other—have to get to Budapest as soon as possible. How’s the best way to do that?”

  Thirty seconds later, he put down the phone.

  “Our taxi will be at Leipzig-Halle in ninety minutes,” he said.

  [TWO]

  Office of the Ambassador

  The Embassy of the United States of America

  Lauro Miller 1776

  Montevideo, República Oriental del Uruguay

  1005 6 August 2005

  “There’s something going on around here, Robert,” Ambassador McGrory said to Robert Howell, “that has the smell of rotten eggs and you and I are going to get to the bottom of it.”

  “I’m not sure that I know what you mean, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “I really would have thought, Robert,
that someone in your line of business would be curious about Mr. Yung. His being suddenly called to the States and then coming back here to handle the Lorimer matter.”

  “I admit I wondered about that,” Howell said.

  “It could, of course, have just happened. But I don’t think so.”

  “What do you think it is, Mr. Ambassador?”

  “That, I don’t know. That is what you and I are going to find out,” McGrory said.

  “What is it you would like me to do, sir?”

  “So long as he’s here, I want you to keep a very close eye on him. I want to know where he goes, who he talks to, etcetera. I suspect he has some connection with what happened at that estancia and I want to know what that connection is.”

  “Is there some reason you think he has…‘some connection’…with what happened at Estancia Shangri-La?”

  “Intuition,” McGrory said. “When you have been in this game as long as I have, you develop an intuition.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “So I want you to watch him very closely.”

  Howell nodded. I think I have just become the fox placed in charge of the chicken coop.

  “Yung will be here in few minutes,” McGrory said. “I want you to be here when I talk to him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Yung just came onto the compound, Mr. Ambassador,” Señora Susanna Obregon reported from Ambassador McGrory’s office door.

  “When he gets up here, make him wait five minutes and then show him in,” McGrory replied, and then added: “And don’t give him any coffee.”

  He looked significantly at Howell.

  “Making Special Agent Yung twiddle his thumbs for a while, Robert, will make the point that his being on the personal staff of the secretary or not, I am the senior officer of the United States government here.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Fifteen minutes later, when Yung had not appeared, McGrory was about to reach for his telephone to find out where the hell he was when Señora Obregon stepped into his office, closed the door behind her, and asked, “Mr. Yung just came in. What shall I do with him?”