The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  “What incident on the Szabadság híd?” Sieno asked.

  “You’ve been to Budapest, too, Paul?” Castillo asked. “You do get around, don’t you? These bastards tried to snatch Billy on the Freedom Bridge—”

  “Franz Joséf Byücke, Karlchen,” Kocian interrupted.

  “…And when Sándor interrupted that, they shot Billy,” Castillo finished. He then said, “Please go on, Sándor.”

  “I suspected ex-Stasi made the attack on Úr Kocian. The one Max bit and allowed us to catch said that he was from Dresden. That attack was professional. The proof came with the attack on you.”

  “What proof?”

  “We took fingerprints from the bodies of the men you shot,” Tor said. “They did not match the fingerprints of former members of the AVH or AVO. And both of the men you had to deal with had garrotes. Only three services used the garrote—the Hungarian Allamvedelmi Osztaly and Allamvedelmi Hatosag and the Ministry for State Security of the German Democratic Republic. Since they weren’t ex-AVO or ex-AVH, only ex-Stasi is left. And who is running all three? The KSB.”

  Castillo started to say something but stopped when the door chimes went off.

  Sieno got up and walked to a wall-mounted telephone by the door.

  he said, “Sí, por favor,” hung the phone up, and turned to the others in the room.

  “There’s another nice Italian boy in the lobby. He says he has our supper. I told the doorman to send him up.”

  [THREE]

  Everyone was seated around the table in the Sieno dining room, ready for their meal from Rio Alba. When Jack Davidson—who was slicing individual portions from the enormous bife lomo with what looked like a huge dagger—sensed Sieno’s eyes on him, he looked up and said, “Nice knife, Paul.”

  “It’s a gaucho knife,” Sieno said. “I bought it to hang on the wall of my vine-covered retirement cottage by the side of the road. Then I started to use it.”

  “You Jewish, Davidson?” Santini asked.

  Davidson looked at him curiously. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Then you will be fascinated to learn that there are forty thousand Jewish cowboys —gauchos— here.”

  He stopped slicing. “You’re kidding!”

  “Absolutely not. Mostly East Europeans. When they got off the boat in the 1890s, what Argentina needed was cowboys, so off to the pampas they got shipped. They wear the boots and the baggy pants, and stick knives like that under their belts in the back, but when they take off their cowboy hats there’s the yarmulke.”

  “I have to see that.”

  “Keep slicing, Jack,” Castillo ordered. “Some of us are hungry.”

  Davidson made a mock bow. “I humbly beg the colonel’s pardon, sir.”

  Castillo’s cellular vibrated.

  “¿Hola?”

  “Congratulations,” Alex Darby announced, “you are now the proud lessee of a ten-room villa in Mayerling. They finally left, just now.”

  “Susanna Sieno and Bradley are in the shopping center in Pilar, buying sheets, blankets, and food.”

  “And lightbulbs,” Sieno said. “Don’t forget the lightbulbs.”

  “And lightbulbs,” Castillo said.

  “I told my maid to bring lightbulbs and food. I didn’t think about sheets and blankets.”

  “You’re bringing your maid out there?”

  “And her daughter,” Darby said. “This place will not run itself.”

  Castillo, remembering who Darby was, stopped himself just in time from asking if that was smart. Instead, he asked, “Can you call her cellular and tell her she can bring the stuff to the house?”

  “Yeah. I’ll do it, and I’ll call the gate and tell the guards to let them in. It might be a good idea if she spent the night here, Charley, to get things organized. Or would you rather that I stayed?”

  “No. I want you here, to pick your brain. If you hurry, there just may be a little steak from Rio Alba leftover.”

  “Remind Paul that a hungry boss is a difficult superior,” Darby said and the connection went dead.

  Before he could lay the cellular down by the charger again, it vibrated.

  “¿Hola?”

  “They’re on their way to the bus terminal,” Yung reported. “I’m sure they didn’t meet anyone they knew here.”

  “Good. They’re expected. Let me know when you get there.”

  “Got it,” Yung said and broke the connection.

  Castillo reported the exchange to Munz, who nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “Paul, Susanna will spend the night out there,” Castillo said.

  Sieno nodded.

  “I was going to recommend that,” he said.

  Davidson handed Castillo a plate. It held thick, pink-in-the-middle slices of filet mignon, slices of vine-ripened tomato, and a stack of papas Provençal.

  “This isn’t the haute cuisine we got used to in Afghanistan, Charley, but maybe you can wash it down with enough wine to make it edible.”

  As a monitor showed Alex Darby parking his car in the basement garage, Yung called to report that everyone was safely at the terminal, had their tickets, and would soon be able to get on the bus.

  “Let me know when that happens,” Castillo ordered. “And when the bus leaves the parking lot.”

  “Got it,” Yung said and the connection went dead.

  “Alex,” Castillo said as Darby helped himself to slices of steak, “what we’re going to do now is I’m going to recap what we’ve been talking about and then you’re going to tell us what you think.”

  “Shoot,” Darby replied.

  Castillo had not quite finished when his cellular vibrated.

  “¿Hola?”

  “Christopher Columbus, Confucius, and the pilgrims have sailed for the New World,” Yung reported.

  “Give me a call when you get to Plymouth Rock.”

  He put the cellular in his pocket and gave Alfredo Munz a thumbs-up.

  Munz nodded and silently mouthed, “Mucho gracias.”

  “Two things, Charley,” Alex Darby began. “One, it’s a reasonable scenario. My gut feeling is that if you’re not right on the money, you’re not far off. Two, if number one is on the money then you’re in trouble. For one thing, you’re going up against the conventional wisdom at the agency and you know how popular you are in Langley. And for another…”

  Alex Darby gently shook Castillo’s shoulder.

  “Charley, why don’t you go to the Four Seasons and get some sleep?”

  “Jesus, what did I do, fall asleep?”

  “You were asleep with your eyes open for the last five minutes and then a minute ago you closed them.”

  “You’re right. All I’m doing here is spinning my wheels.” He tried to stifle a yawn. “Can we pick up where I dropped off in the morning? In Mayerling?”

  “I’ll pick you up at nine?”

  “Fine. How do Jake, Fernando, and I get to the hotel?”

  “The Cubans may be watching this building. If they are, they know our cars. So, instead, if you walked down the hill to Libertador and caught a cab, all they would learn—even if they followed it—was that three people left the building…”

  “Including the one whose dog took a dump on their sidewalk,” Castillo interrupted.

  “…and went to the Four Seasons,” Darby finished. “Let’s do it,” Castillo said and pushed himself away from the table.

  [FOUR]

  The Buquebus Terminal

  Montevideo, Uruguay

  0115 9 August 2005

  The Juan Patricio, one of the Buquebus ferries that ply the river Plate between downtown Buenos Aires and downtown Montevideo, is an enormous Australian-built aluminum catamaran with space on the lower deck for about one hundred automobiles and light trucks. The main deck can seat, in comfortable airliner-type seating, about two hundred fifty passengers. There also is a duty-free shop and a snack bar. The first-class deck, up an interior stairway from the tourist deck, offers larger seats and its own s
nack bar.

  There are bulkhead-mounted television sets in both classes that play motion picture DVDs. But on the late-night voyages, few people watch them, preferring to doze in their seats and wake up on arrival.

  The only communication between the Munz family and either Yung or Artigas on the Juan Patricio’s voyage to Montevideo—aside from Yung’s half-dozen smiles that he hoped would be reassuring—had been a fifteen-second encounter between Artigas and Señora Munz when the lights of Montevideo appeared.

  Standing at the snack bar, Artigas had caught Señora Munz’s eye and nodded toward the port leading to the ladies’ restrooms. She had joined him there a moment later.

  “When people start going to their cars, take the girls and go down the stairs to the car deck. Señor Yung will be waiting for you there, to take you to our car. It’s a dark blue BMW with diplomatic license plates.”

  Señora Munz had nodded her understanding, then gone into the ladies’ room. Artigas saw Yung get out of his chair and walk to the stairwell. Then Artigas returned to his seat.

  As Yung had discreetly followed the Munz family as they walked onto the ferry, Artigas had driven the embassy BMW onto the ferry’s car deck. But then Artigas had forgotten to tell Yung where he had parked it. Luckily, Yung had had only a little trouble finding it halfway back on the starboard side.

  To explain his early presence on the car deck, once he had found the BMW and unlocked it, Yung popped the hood and looked intently at the engine, as if expecting some sign of some impending mechanical difficulty.

  Only when he had been standing there for ninety seconds did it occur to him that it was possible—if unlikely—someone had been watching them all along, and, as soon as Artigas had left the car deck, that someone had hooked up a primer and a couple pounds of plastic explosive to the BMW’s ignition.

  Unlikely but not impossible.

  The bastards are capable of anything—including using C-4.

  The first few drivers who came down to the car deck to claim their vehicles looked wonderingly at the nicely dressed Chinese man flat on his back, studying the undercarriage of the BMW that had Corps Diplomatique license plates.

  Yung finished in time to be standing at the foot of the stairway when the Munz family came down.

  He had ushered them into the car and was in the front seat by the time Artigas walked up.

  By then, the ferry was nudging into the pier.

  Cars began driving off the ferry a minute or two later. Immigration formalities had been accomplished in Buenos Aires. At one counter in the terminal there, Argentine officials had run passports and National Identity Cards through a computer reader, then handed them to Uruguayan immigration officers sitting at the next counter. The passports and National Identity Cards were then run through a Uruguayan computer reader, then handed back to the travelers, who, even though physically in Buenos Aires, were now legally inside the borders of the República Oriental del Uruguay.

  Uruguayan customs officials, however, were waiting for the cars streaming off the ferry.

  Artigas rolled down the window and extended his diplomat’s carnet, a plastic card not unlike a driver’s license.

  The customs officer looked at it a moment, peered into the car, and said, “Welcome back to Uruguay, Señor Artigas.”

  “Thank you,” Artigas said.

  “Diplomaticos Norteamericanos,” the customs officer called to uniformed officers a few feet away. They saluted as the BMW rolled past.

  “Welcome to Uruguay, señora y senoritas,” Yung said.

  “Gracias,” Señora Munz said, emotionally.

  Artigas turned right on leaving the port gate and headed for Carrasco on the Rambla.

  Yung took out his cellular and punched Castillo’s autodial number.

  After the first ring, Yung heard, “¿Hola?”

  “The pilgrims just stepped off Plymouth Rock,” Yung announced.

  “What?” a voice asked, in English.

  “Who is this?” Yung demanded.

  “Yung?” the voice said.

  “Yes.”

  “Torine. What’s up?”

  “Where’s the boss?”

  “Crashed. He fell asleep right after dinner. Everything go all right or do I have to wake him?”

  “As smooth as glass. We’re on our way to the airport to pick up Artigas’s car, then to the Belmont House. We’ll take turns sitting on the nest.”

  “How’s the battery in your cellular?”

  “I’ll make sure it’s charged”—he corrected himself—“they’re charged.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Torine said and broke the connection.

  Artigas stopped the BMW outside the parking lot at the Carrasco airfield and got out. Yung stepped out of the passenger’s door, walked around the BMW, and slid in behind the steering wheel.

  When Artigas, now at the wheel of his Chrysler PT Cruiser, came out of the parking lot two minutes later, he waited until Yung had backed the BMW away from the parking lot, then followed him at a discreet distance into Carrasco.

  [FIVE]

  The Belmont House Hotel

  Avenida Rivera 7512

  Carrasco, Montevideo, Uruguay

  0225 9 August 2005

  Yung’s apartment on Avenida Bernardo Barrán in Carrasco was two blocks away from the small, five-star luxury hotel and their route took them past it.

  That naturally triggered in Yung’s mind the memory of the sound of the cop’s riot shotgun going off and of the double-aught buckshot pellets that riddled Yung’s Chevy Blazer.

  When I go to the States with Lorimer’s casket, what happens to the Blazer?

  I won’t be coming back here, certainly not permanently. Which means I’ll have to get rid of the Blazer.

  How the hell can I sell it with a dozen holes in it?

  How am I going to get it fixed from long distance?

  Jesus, what’s the matter with me? I’m supposed to be concentrating on the Munzes, not worrying about my damned Blazer!

  At the Belmont House Hotel, after Yung drove the BMW into the circular drive in front of the hotel, Artigas pulled to the curb and shut off his headlights.

  A doorman and a bellman immediately appeared at the BMW. Señora Munz and her daughters, all appearing very sleepy, got of the car and walked into the hotel.

  Yung checked to see where Artigas was.

  If the cops see him parked there, they’ll be curious, but with the CD plates on the car they can’t ask him what he’s doing.

  What they’ll probably decide is that he’s waiting for a pal who is inside the hotel and not yet ready to leave the arms of love.

  Yung walked into the hotel as Señora Munz was registering. The desk clerk obviously knew her.

  That’s convenient. Their appearance this late after midnight will not raise questions.

  “If there’s nothing else I can do for you, ladies, I’ll leave you and see you in the morning. You know how to reach me.”

  “Thank you very much,” Señora Munz said. “You are very gracious.”

  Yung smiled at the girls again, then walked out of the hotel. He got in the BMW and drove to his apartment.

  I don’t have the clicker to open the goddamned garage door. I’ll have to leave the car on the street.

  He pulled to the curb and started to get out of the car, but changed his mind as he took the keys from the ignition. Instead, he took out his cellular.

  Jake Torine answered on the second ring.

  “They’re in the nest. And Julio is sitting outside,” Yung announced.

  “Don’t forget to make sure your phones work,” Torine replied. “We don’t want to have to send out a search party for you tomorrow…I mean, later today.”

  “I told you I’d do it,” Yung said, some what snappishly, and broke the connection.

  He immediately realized, Dammit! He’s right. That’s an important little detail, and the truth is, I didn’t think about a dead cellular battery.

  There�
�re two chargers in the apartment, one that fits into a cigarette lighter. I’ll get it and walk down the street and give it to Artigas. Then I’ll charge mine.

  He opened the door of the BMW some what awkwardly with his left hand, got out, then started to lock the car.

  “Buenos noches, Señor Yung,” a voice said behind him. “I guess it’s really buenos dias, isn’t it?”

  Yung felt a chill.

  Jesus, the hair on my neck actually curled. I thought that was just a figure of speech.

  “You scared hell out of me, Ordóñez!” Yung said.

  “Sorry,” Chief Inspector José Ordóñez said. His smile revealed he was more amused than regretful.

  Yung glared at him.

  “You’re not going to ask me what I’m doing walking the streets of Carrasco at this hour?” Ordóñez said.

  “I really don’t give a damn,” Yung said.

  “We have to talk, Señor Yung.”

  “Some other time, perhaps. I’ve had a busy day and want to go to bed.”

  “I really think it’s necessary,” Ordóñez insisted.

  “Am I going to have to hide behind the shield of diplomatic immunity to get some sleep?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I think we really have to talk. If at all possible, I’d like to keep our little problem from getting involved with the often sticky business of diplomatic immunity.”

  Oh, shit! Now what?

  “Let me rephrase my request,” Ordóñez said. “I would really like to talk to you. Unofficially, on my word. All you have to do is listen. You don’t have to say anything, unless, of course, you wantto.”

  Yung looked at him but didn’t reply.

  “What have you got to lose, Señor Yung?” Ordóñez pursued. “A few minutes of your time? And perhaps a small glass of whiskey?”

  “Okay,” Yung said. “Come on in my apartment. With the understanding that the next time I suggest you go home so I can get my sleep, you accept it.”

  “You are muy amiable, Señor Yung.”

  “Charming apartment,” Ordóñez said as Yung snapped on the lights in his living room.

  “Thank you. What kind of small glass of whiskey would you like?”