The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Good point.”

  “Whatever he did, it made Poppa an important apparatchik. Important enough to get his son into law school at Leningrad State University and then into the KGB, where he promptly began to suppress the local dissidents. Then, he told another so-called journalist, he was next assigned to East Germany, to a minor administrative position.”

  “I wondered about that,” Castillo said.

  “Do you think, having learned how to suppress Russian dissidents, that the KGB might have had him doing the same thing in East Germany?”

  “Which, of course, he would like to keep quiet,” Castillo said. “In the interests of friendship between the Russian president and a now-reunited Germany.”

  “Think about it, Karl. After serving in a ‘minor administrative position’ in the KGB in East Germany, he went back to Leningrad State University, if we are to believe what he told these reporters, where he worked in the International Affairs section of the university, reporting to the vice rector. Do you suppose he got that job because he was such a good student the first time he was there? Or because—having been all the way to East Germany—he was an expert in international affairs? Or maybe because the KGB wanted somebody with experience in suppressing dissidence suppressing dissidence at the university?”

  “Where are you going with this, Eric?” Castillo asked, softly,

  Kocian held up a hand, signaling him to wait, and then went on: “After a year of that—in 1991, if memory serves, and it usually does—Putin was put in charge of the International Committee of the Leningrad Kommandatura—excuse me, Lenin no longer being an official saint of Russia, Leningrad was Saint Petersburg once again.

  “That made it the International Committee of Saint Petersburg Kommandatura. Where he handled international relations and foreign investments. To show that he had put all the evil of the Soviets behind him, Mr. Putin resigned from the KGB two months after getting that job. Correct me if you think I’m wrong, but if he resigned from the KGB in 1991 wouldn’t that suggest he was in the KGB until 1991? I mean, how can you resign from something you don’t belong to?”

  Castillo chuckled but didn’t reply.

  “Would you be cynical enough to think, Karl, that the man in charge of foreign investments in Saint Petersburg would be in a position to skim a little off the top and spread it around among what in the former regime had been deserving apparatchiks?”

  “That evil thought might occur to me,” Castillo said. “Okay, what else?”

  “Well, he did such a good job building foreign goodwill and attracting foreign investment that Putin suddenly found himself first deputy chairman of the whole city of Saint Petersburg, and, soon after that, he was summoned to Moscow, where he served in what he told the reporters who interviewed him were various positions under Boris Yeltsin. What they were was not mentioned. A cynical man might suspect this was because he might have been involved again with the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, otherwise known…”

  “As the KGB,” Castillo said and laughed.

  “Or the Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti…”

  “FSB,” Castillo said, still chuckling.

  “…The Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation,” Kocian finished, nodding, “which replaced the evil KGB, and of which Putin became head, and remained head, until he assumed his present role as an international statesman.”

  “You think he was personally involved in the oil-for-food scam, Eric?”

  “Up to his skinny little ass,” Kocian said, bitterly. “Both as a source of money for the FSB and personally.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  Kocian shook his head.

  “But I’m working on it. I think I may be getting close to getting something I can print.”

  “You think he knows that?”

  “We have more spies per square meter in Budapest than Vienna and Berlin did in their heyday. Of course he knows.”

  “And the people who tried to whack you? They were Spetsnaz sent by the FSB?”

  “Whack meaning ‘kidnap’? Or ‘assassinate’?”

  “Assassinate. Kidnap is ‘grab’ or simply ‘kidnap.’”

  Kocian nodded.

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so. They weren’t Russian. They were German, which makes me think they were sent by the KSB. The KSB is too smart to send Spetsnaz. They might be identified and Putin wouldn’t like that. More than likely, as we were discussing yesterday, former East German Stasi. What about the people who—what was that word you used, ‘whacked’? I like it—whacked Mr. Lorimer?”

  “They were professionals,” Castillo said. “No identification on them. They had Swedish Madsen submachine guns. The CIA guys in Montevideo and Buenos Aires are trying to identify them. I don’t think we’re going to get lucky. They could be Stasi, or not.”

  “If you’re really not CIA, Karl, how do you know what the CIA is doing? Or, for that matter, that they’d tell you the truth about what they’re doing or have found out?”

  Castillo didn’t immediately reply, then he said, “I work for the President, Eric.”

  “Directly?”

  Castillo nodded.

  “And he’s ordered the agency—and everybody else in the intelligence community—to tell me anything I want to know and give me whatever I ask for.”

  Kocian met his eyes for a moment, then nodded, then pointed at Castillo’s laptop.

  “Either your encryption process is awfully slow or your machine is not working.”

  “It’s a little slow but very good.” He looked at the screen. “Ninety-one percent encrypted.”

  “Well, while we’re waiting I’ll get packed. It’s winter in Argentina now, right?”

  “Yeah, but don’t put on long underwear. We have to go to Equatorial Africa before we go to South America.”

  It was a little after twelve before all the errands had been run and they made their way to Ferihegy International Airport.

  Castillo didn’t think it would be likely that anyone would be looking for Billy Kocian at the airport or keeping the Gulfstream under observation, but he decided nevertheless that the smart way to get the old man on the airplane was to take him there in an unmarked van from the Tages Zeitung. With a little bit of luck, he and Sándor Tor could rush Kocian up the steps and get him and Max aboard unnoticed while the luggage and in flight rations were being loaded.

  Just before they went to the airport, Castillo had Kocian’s Mercedes brought to the loading dock in the basement of the Gellért. With one of the Tages Zeitung security men at the wheel and another behind the darkened windows in the backseat, the car took off for Vienna.

  There was no way of telling, of course, if the bastards who had tried to whack Kocian were surveilling the Gellért, but if they were they just might follow the Mercedes. They might also try something with the car once it was on the highway. Castillo almost hoped they would: He had given the security men the Madsens the Stasi—or whoever the hell the bastards were—had brought to the hotel to use on Kocian. And he hadn’t had to show them how to use them.

  As the Mercedes pulled away from the loading dock, they had shaken hands with Otto Görner, who was going to stay in Budapest for at least a day before returning to Fulda, and then gotten in the van.

  Billy Kocian, surprising Castillo, had not objected to traveling in the van, and surprised him again once they were aboard the Gulfstream by taking without question the air-sick pill Dr. Czerny had provided. Deceiving the old man had made Castillo feel a little ashamed.

  Jake Torine and Fernando Lopez, who had ridden to the airport in a taxi, came up the stair door two minutes after the van had driven off.

  “Everything okay, Charley?” Torine asked.

  “If you’ve filed the flight plan and remembered to get the weather, it is.”

  “There is one small problem,” Fernando said.

  “Which is?”

  “I know American Express boasts that there’s no spending limit,” Fernando said. “
But what happens if they err on the side of caution and call the office and ask if I really filled the tanks on this thing in Baltimore, Frankfurt, and then here? They’re used to charges for fueling the Lear, not a Gulfstream, and not in Europe. And not nearly as much fuel. They’re liable to suspect that somebody’s using my Amex numbers.”

  “Shit!” Castillo said. “Good point. Well, the damage is done. From here on, we’ll use my card and then when we get to Buenos Aires I’ll call Dick and have him write a check on the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund to your account at American Express.”

  “I think we ought to do something,” Fernando said.

  “Agreed,” Castillo said. “Jake, do you want me to sit in the right seat now and take over once we’re wheels-up?”

  “I want you to sit in the left seat now,” Torine said. “Preliminary flight instruction will begin immediately.”

  “Ferihegy Departure Control clears Gulfstream Three-Seven-Niner for takeoff. Climb to flight level thirty-one thousand on a course of two-three-five degrees. Contact Zagreb Area Control on two-three-three-point-five when passing through twenty thousand.”

  “Three-Seven-Niner understands number one to go,” Torine replied. “Climb to thirty-one thousand on two-three-five. Report to Zagreb Area Control on two-three-three-point-five when passing through twenty thousand.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Castillo pushed the throttles forward.

  “Three-Seven-Niner rolling,” Torine reported. “Thank you.”

  Then he switched to intercom. “Presuming you can steer it down the runway,” Torine’s voice came over Castillo’s earphones, “I’ll tell you when to rotate. And then when to get the gear up.”

  [SEVEN]

  Yoff International Airport

  Dakar, Senegal

  1835 7 August 2005

  Max stood beside Castillo as he opened the stair door and, the moment it had extended, pushed Castillo aside and bounded down the stairs, startling more than a little the Senegalese airport authorities who had come to meet the Gulfstream.

  Max took a quick look around, then headed for the nose gear, where he raised his leg and voided his bladder. It was an impressive performance, in terms of both volume and duration.

  Then he looked around again, saw where the setting sun had cast a shadow to one side of the aircraft, trotted to it, and vacated his bowels in another impressive performance. Then he returned to the stair door and looked up at it, his posture suggesting, Well, I’m finished. What are you waiting for?

  Billy Kocian came down the stairs both regally and carefully. He was wearing his wide-brimmed panama hat and a white linen suit. The jacket was draped rakishly over his shoulder and the arm he carried in a sling. His free hand held his cane like a swagger stick.

  He looked at the airport authorities, nodded, and said, in Hungarian, “Good God, it’s hot! How long do we have to stand here in the sun in whatever obscure developing country we find ourselves?”

  Castillo thought: Well, there’s now no question in the minds of the customs guys who owns this airplane.

  “We’re in Dakar, Senegal,” Castillo replied, in Hungarian. “Unless I’m mistaken, that bus will take us to the transient lounge.”

  He pointed to a Peugeot van.

  “Do you suppose it has air-conditioning or is that too much to expect?” Kocian asked and walked to the bus.

  Sándor Tor came down the stairs and followed Kocian. Max trotted after them.

  Jake Torine came down the stairs, carrying the aircraft’s documents, and then Fernando Lopez exited.

  “I hate to tell you this, Gringo,” Lopez said, “but that landing was a greaser.”

  “A greaser? For my very first touchdown, it was magnificent!”

  “You and I will fly across the drink, Fernando,” Torine said. “There is nothing more dangerous in the sky than a pilot who thinks he really knows how to fly.”

  [EIGHT]

  Carrasco International Airport

  Montevideo, República Oriental del Uruguay

  2030 7 August 2005

  “Legal Attaché” David W. Yung, Jr., was in a strange, good—almost euphoric—mood as the Policía Federal helicopter carrying him, “Cultural Attaché” Robert Howell, “Assistant Legal Attaché” Julio Artigas, and Chief Inspector José Ordóñez came in for a landing at the military side of the airport.

  It was an almost complete turnaround of feelings from when he’d gotten on the same ancient and battered Huey at eight that morning for the flight to Estancia Shangri-La in Tacuarembó Province.

  Then he had been very worried. He had just about convinced himself that the whole thing was going to blow up in his face and God only knew what that would mean, either to the mission ordered by the Presidential Finding or to David W. Yung, Jr., personally. And he hadn’t been the only one worrying that he was about to fuck up spectacularly. He could tell that Howell and Artigas were watching him almost as closely as was Ordóñez.

  That hadn’t happened. He hadn’t done anything stupid, even though on the flight to the estancia he had wallowed in the discomfiting thought that while he had conducted a great many interrogations himself, this was the first time he had been on—and all day would continue to be on—the receiving end of an interrogation conducted by an interrogator as skilled—perhaps, better skilled—in that art as he was.

  And since he was lying through his teeth—and had very little experience doing that—the odds were that he had already said something, had revealed something, that he shouldn’t have. And, if he hadn’t, that would happen before the day was over.

  That hadn’t happened, either.

  There had been three police vehicles—two cars and a small van—parked in front of the estancia and, as the helicopter approached, a half dozen policemen came out from under the shielded veranda of the house to watch the helo land.

  And there was another man, a burly, middle-aged Uruguayan wearing a suit jacket and tie and gaucho pants stuffed into red rubber boots. He knew that had to be Ricardo Montez, the manager of the estancia.

  Early in the assault, Montez had been tied, blindfolded, and “tranquilized” by one of Castillo’s Green Berets, but there was still a very good chance that he would somehow recognize Yung, or at least eye him suspiciously, which, of course, would immediately be picked up by Ordóñez.

  That hadn’t happened. When Ordóñez introduced them to Montez and the police as “representatives of the U.S. embassy” and said they had come to have a look at the crime site and to begin the process of protecting the late Señor Lorimer’s property, there had been not even a glimmer of recognition.

  Ordóñez gave them a guided tour of the crime scene, beginning by showing the Americans the chalk body outlines indicating where two of what everyone was now calling the Ninja had fallen on the veranda.

  Next, Ordóñez showed them the chalk body outline of the Ninja who had fallen just inside the front door. Yung had been more than a little surprised at his reaction to that one—virtually none—although he’d killed that Ninja himself, taking him down with two quick shots as he had been trained to do at the FBI school at Quantico. It was the first time since he’d been in the FBI that he’d ever taken his pistol from its holster with any prospect at all of having to use it.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Am I a cold-blooded killer?

  Remembering suddenly that he was still carrying his pistol had caused another moment of anxiety.

  I haven’t even cleaned it. Not smart, Yung!

  Christ, if Ordóñez gets his hands on my pistol they can match it to the slugs in the Ninja I took down. Proof that not only was I involved in this but that I killed that man!

  The anxiety hadn’t lasted long: Calm down! You have diplomatic immunity. Ordóñez can’t even ask for the pistol.

  Next came the chalk body outline in Lorimer’s office, showing where Lorimer had fallen.

  That produced virtually no reaction, either, although it did trigger a sharp and very unplea
sant memory of Lorimer’s body in the morgue refrigerator in the British Hospital in Montevideo the previous afternoon.

  A Uruguayan pathologist who spoke English like the queen had pulled Lorimer’s naked body from its shelf in the cooler and unceremoniously pulled the sheet from it.

  “Just going through the motions, you know,” the pathologist had said, conversationally. “Either of the bullets in the poor chap’s brain would have killed him instantly. But the chief inspector said he wanted a full autopsy, so I did one.”

  He had gestured at the corpse. A full autopsy had apparently required that a large incision—sort of a flap—be made in the body from the upper chest to the groin. It had been sewn shut, some what crudely. So had the incisions made in Lorimer’s face and skull. The bullets in his head had made large exit wounds and the skull was deformed.

  Ordóñez next showed them where the other three Ninja had fallen outside the house. Two of them, Ordóñez said, to bursts of 5.56mm rifle fire, probably from an M-16 firing on full automatic close up. One of the bodies had five wounds; the other, three. The third had died of a 9mm bullet to the forehead. That body, Ordóñez said, also had stab wounds, suggesting there had been hand-to-hand combat before he was killed by a bullet.

  Yung, who had searched all the bodies and then photographed and finger-printed them right after the firefight, could only hope he was making the right facial expressions and asking the right kind of questions as he “learned this for the first time.”

  By the time Ordóñez—watching all of them closely to see their reactions—had finished his guided tour of the main house and the grounds immediately outside and the field where he’d found the skid marks of the Bell Ranger, Yung felt a good deal less nervous. He felt that he’d handled himself well.

  A four-hour search of the house had turned up nothing useful, which was not surprising, since immediately after the firefight Castillo had quickly gathered up everything he thought might be useful—including the entire contents of the safe—and loaded it on the Ranger.