The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  As everyone had loaded into one of the Secret Service Yukons, Doña Alicia had handed Castillo an aluminum-foil-wrapped package of barbecued beef ribs.

  “For Ricardo, Carlos,” she said, making reference to Special Agent Ricardo Solez of the Drug Enforcement Administration. “Give him my love, and tell him he can warm them on low in a microwave, but they would be better if he could find a grill of some kind.”

  “I’m sure we can find a grill for him, Abuela,” Castillo had said.

  On the way to the airport, they passed a Sam’s Club. Probably because of the five-pound package of ribs in his lap, food was on Castillo’s mind.

  “Anyone got a Sam’s card?” he asked.

  Inspector Doherty confessed that He did.

  “Go back to that Sam’s Club, please,” Castillo said. “It’s already open.”

  A half hour later, Castillo came out of the Sam’s Club carrying two ten-pound sacks of pancake flour and a gallon jug of Vermont maple syrup, followed by Colonel Torine, who carried plastic packages of shorts and T-shirts, a two and-half-pound bag of Hershey’s assorted miniature chocolate bars, and a lined denim jacket.

  They had cleared customs and were off the ground at one minute past eight. Their first stop had been Quito, Ecuador, which was almost exactly midway between Midland and Buenos Aires. They landed there at 1335.

  During a very pleasant grilled-chicken luncheon, and, looking very pleased with himself, Special Agent Yung of the FBI turned to Inspector Doherty of the FBI and said, “Before we get to Buenos Aires, Inspector, you’d better give me your pistol.”

  “Why in the world would I want to do that?”

  “Because otherwise the Argentine customs will take it away from you.”

  “Doesn’t that apply to you, too?”

  “I have a diplomatic passport,” Yung said, smugly. “You don’t.”

  “Two-Gun Yung’s got you, Jack,” Edgar Delchamps said.

  “And what about you?” Doherty challenged.

  “I’ve already given him mine,” Delchamps said. “If he’s nice enough to sneak yours into Argentina, I guess we’ll have to start calling him Three-Gun Yung.”

  They were back in the air at 1510. Five hours and thirty-two minutes later, Castillo—trying very hard to make a perfect landing—touched down much too long and some what hard on the runway at Jose Newbery.

  “Because of the two-hour time difference,” Jake Torine told Castillo, “I will put it in the log that we landed at 1845 local time. Because I am a really fine fellow who would never hurt a junior officer’s delicate sensibilities, I will with-hold critical comment on that absolutely awful landing.”

  They were met, as they had been the last time, by Paul Sieno and Ricardo Solez, who had the same unmarked Mercedes-Benz Traffik van and who again pretended to be Argentines sent to transfer American tourists to an unnamed estancia.

  Once they were through the customs and immigration formalities and off the airfield, it was different. Sieno was obviously a great admirer of Edgar Delchamps and delighted to see him.

  [TWO]

  Nuestra Pequeña Casa

  Mayerling Country Club

  Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

  1925 13 August 2005

  As soon as he walked into the house, Delchamps got an equally warm reception from Susanna Sieno and an only slightly less enthusiastic one from Alex Darby.

  Castillo was not spared a welcome home. Max was so pleased to see him that he put his front paws on Castillo’s chest, knocked him down, and then to show there were no hard feelings enthusiastically licked his face.

  Castillo was still trying to regain his feet when Eric Kocian came down the stairs, paused halfway, and announced: “I see my jailer has arrived.”

  “Forgive me for trying to keep you alive, Uncle Billy,” Castillo said.

  “Any man who shamelessly steals the affection of another man’s dog is beneath contempt,” Kocian said.

  “Eric Kocian, Jack Doherty,” Castillo said. “I’m sure the two of you will become great buddies.”

  “This is the schoolteacher with the blackboards?” Kocian said. “I recognize the voice.”

  “And these two, Inspector Doherty,” Castillo continued, “are in—or were in—your line of work. Sándor Tor, formerly inspector of the Budapest police, and Colonel Alfredo Munz, former chief of Argentina’s SIDE, which is sort of the FBI and the CIA combined.”

  “I know what it is,” Doherty said as they shook hands.

  “Carlos, I don’t suppose you saw my family?” Munz said.

  “Oh, yes,” Castillo said as he went into his briefcase for his laptop computer. “And I have to tell you they will probably want to stay in the States.”

  He turned on the computer, found what he was looking for, and held it out to Munz.

  “There’s a bunch of pictures,” he said. “Just push this key with the arrow for the next one.”

  Munz looked at the first picture, then showed it to Tor. It was of his daughters, decked out in chef’s whites, including enormous billowing hats, broiling steaks on a grill as Señora Munz and Doña Alicia, their arms around one another like sisters, smilingly watched.

  “That’s my abuela, Alfredo,” Castillo said.

  Munz went through the twenty-odd pictures one by one, then handed the computer back to Castillo.

  “I think I want to kiss you, Carlos,” Munz said, “and then kill Pevsner very slowly.”

  “Don’t do either, please,” Castillo said. “It would give Inspector Doherty the wrong idea and Pevsner may not be—probably isn’t—the villain.”

  Yung took Doherty’s and Delchamps’s pistols from his briefcase and gave them back, which caused Darby to suggest that carrying them might become a problem but one that could probably be dealt with by making an effort to travel in an embassy car, the diplomatic plates of which would guarantee immunity from spot roadside searches by the Policía Federal.

  Castillo—trailed by Max—took two bottles of beer from the refrigerator and went to the quincho; Susanna Sieno had told him Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, was out there on radio duty.

  As Castillo entered the quincho, Bradley leaped to his feet, popped to attention, and said, “Good evening, Colonel. I have the duty, sir.”

  “Stand at ease,” Castillo replied, trying to stifle a strong urge to smile. It didn’t work. He smiled, then handed Bradley a bottle of beer. “Have a beer, Les.”

  When he saw that Bradley was more than a little discomfited, Castillo went on: “You may wish to write this down, Corporal. When the senior officer in the area hands you a beer and orders you to consume same, you are then immunized against prosecution under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, 1948, for drinking on duty.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “What do we hear from the States, Les?” Castillo asked.

  “About an hour ago, sir, there was a message from Major Miller to be delivered to you on your arrival. I passed it to Sergeant Major Davidson, sir.”

  “Well, now that I’m here and Davidson isn’t, do you think you could give it to me?”

  “Yes, sir. Quote, the canary is really singing, end quote. Major Miller said you would understand what it meant, sir,” Bradley said.

  “Yeah, I do,” Castillo said. “Les, go get—discreetly—Mr. Sieno, Mr. Darby, Sergeant Major Davidson, Sergeant Kensington, and Mr. Solez. I’ll watch the radio.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bradley said and headed for the door. Then he stopped and carefully set his beer bottle on the floor. “I think it would be best if I left this here, sir. Sergeant Major Davidson might not understand that I have your permission to drink on duty.”

  “Good thinking, Corporal,” Lieutenant Colonel Castillo said.

  When they had all assembled, Castillo asked if anyone had seen anything that suggested an attack on the house or the waylaying of a car going to or from it.

  “Nothing, Colonel,” Davidson replied. “And we’ve looked. The only thing r
emotely suspicious was the driver of a laundry truck—a van, white, with ‘ECO’ on the panels—who seemed pretty interested in the house. The second time he drove by, Bradley and I followed him.”

  “The both of you?”

  “Lester chased him around the country club on a bicycle and I went just outside the gate and followed him in a Beamer. Lester said all he did inside here was deliver and pick up laundry and dry cleaning. And then I followed him when he came out. He went to the ECO place—near the Sheraton Hotel—and unloaded dirty clothes. And that’s it.”

  He looked around at the others and there was general agreement.

  “Well, I’ve got a gut feeling that they’re going to try to whack Billy Kocian,” Castillo said. “And the chances of that happening will multiply exponentially after I go see a man I have to go see.”

  They looked at him for clarification but he offered none.

  “I’ll need a weapon, Susanna,” he said. “Is that Micro Uzi I borrowed in Budapest still here?”

  She nodded.

  Davidson asked, “Where we going, Charley?”

  “We’re not going anywhere. I’m going to see a guy—Delchamps and I are.”

  Susanna Sieno said, “Colonel, you heard what Alex said. If you’re going to take that Micro Uzi, you better take one of the embassy cars with CD plates. And somebody to drive it.”

  “I happen to be a very good Beamer driver, in case anyone cares,” Sergeant Major Davidson said.

  Castillo’s eyebrow went up.

  “For everyone’s edification,” he said, “it’s Bimmer.”

  Davidson looked at him in a rare moment of confusion. “It’s what?”

  Castillo shrugged and said, “Not that it really matters, but a BMW motorcycle—the thingee with two wheels?—that’s called a Beamer, or Beemer with two es. The four-wheel BMW is a Bimmer. Like I said, not that it matters, but that’s that.”

  Davenport nodded and, without any conviction, replied, “Right. Tomato, tow-maw-toe. Got it.”

  Castillo smiled.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “I need you to hold the fort here, Jack.”

  Castillo turned to Bradley.

  “Think you can handle a BMW, Lester?”

  “Sir, I am certified to drive any wheeled or tracked vehicle including the M1A1 Abrams tank and the corresponding vehicle-retrieval vehicles as well,” Corporal Bradley announced.

  “The question, Corporal, was can you handle a Bimmer?”

  “I am confident that I can handle a Bimmer and a Beamer, sir.”

  Castillo smiled.

  “Okay, Lester. Go with Mr. Sieno and—discreetly—get the Micro Uzi from her and put it in the backseat of the car she shows you. And there’s two sacks of pancake flour and a gallon of maple syrup in the Traffik. Put that in the Bimmer, too. I’ll be out in a minute with Mr. Delchamps.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Corporal Bradley said. “And how many magazines, sir?”

  “There’s only two,” Castillo replied.

  “Extra boxed ammunition, sir?”

  “I think the two magazines will be sufficient. Make sure they’re charged.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  When they were out of earshot, Davidson said, “You can’t help laughing at him, but, when you do, you feel like you’ve just kicked a puppy.”

  “Yeah,” Sergeant Kensington said.

  “As for me, I have a very soft spot in my heart for people who have saved my ass,” Castillo said.

  “Curiosity overwhelms me, Charley,” Alex Darby said. “What’s with the pancake flour and the maple syrup?”

  “Aleksandr Pevsner, Junior,” Castillo said, “who is ten, has acquired a taste for pancakes and maple syrup from an American classmate. It’s hard to get here in Argentina so I brought him some from the States.”

  “And just told Bradley to put it in the car,” Darby said.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Can I put that together to mean you’re on your way to see this pancake loving kid’s daddy? He’s here?”

  “I hope, later today, that I’ll be able to put it all together for you, Alex. But right now, Pevsner has my word that I won’t tell anybody where he lives. That depends on Pevsner. Wish me luck.”

  “And taking Delchamps with you?” Darby asked.

  “I want Edgar to tell him something I don’t think he’d believe coming from me.”

  “I don’t really know what’s going on, Charley. Is that on purpose?”

  “While I’m gone, Yung and Doherty can bring you—everybody—up to speed,” Castillo said. “I don’t think I’ll be gone long.”

  He took what he now thought of as “the Argentine cellular” from his briefcase, pushed an autodial button, and put the phone to his ear.

  “¿Hola?” a voice said.

  “There you go in that heavily Russian-accented Spanish again,” Castillo said, in Russian.

  “What do you want, Castillo?”

  “Call the gate, Alek, and tell them to pass me in. I’m almost there, and I’m bringing pancake flour, maple syrup—a gallon of it—and an old friend to see you,” Castillo said and hung up.

  Edgar Delchamps was already in the backseat of a dark blue BMW 720L with heavily darkened windows when Castillo came around the side of the house. Bradley was holding the door open for Castillo.

  Castillo had forgotten that Max had been following him around until the dog decided the door was being held open for him and bounded into the backseat.

  “Get this goddamned dog out of here,” Delchamps said.

  “You tell him, Edgar,” Castillo said. “You have a forceful personality. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

  He gestured for Bradley to get behind the wheel, then opened the front passenger’s door and got in.

  “Go to that shopping center off Route 8,” Castillo ordered Bradley. “The one with the Jumbo supermarket. I’ll give you directions from there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Castillo put his arm on the back of the seat and turned to the passengers in the rear.

  “Give that nice man a kiss, Max,” he said, in German. “He’s ugly and old and needs a little affection.”

  Purely by coincidence, of course, Max took that moment to take a closer look at his fellow passenger and, apparently liking what he saw, or perhaps what he smelled, leaned over and licked his face.

  “I’ll get you for that, Castillo,” Delchamps said.

  [THREE]

  Buena Vista Country Club

  Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

  2045 13 August 2005

  “Turn in here, Lester, and put your window down,” Castillo ordered. “They’re determined to keep out the riffraff.”

  The BMW and its occupants were inspected at the guardhouse barrier not only by two well-armed members of the security staff but also by János, Pevsner’s massive bodyguard, who stuck his head into the car and peered into the rear seat.

  Surprise—and more than a little concern—registered on János’s face when Max showed his teeth and growled menacingly.

  Then surprise showed on Castillo’s face when Delchamps greeted János in Hungarian: “János, my old friend, how in God’s blessed name are you?”

  János, his head already out of the car, nodded but didn’t reply. He signaled to the security guards that they could raise the barrier pole and then waved the big BMW through.

  Castillo turned to speak to Delchamps.

  “Is there some reason you didn’t want to tell me you knew János?” Castillo asked.

  “I thought you had enough on your mind, Ace, and didn’t want to confuse you further.”

  “What about Pevsner? You know him, too?”

  Delchamps nodded.

  “I meet a lot of people in my line of work,” Delchamps said.

  They were halfway to Pevsner’s house when János caught up with them in Pevsner’s black Mercedes-Benz S600, then passed them.

  Aleksandr Pevsner, looking a member of the British landed gen
try—he was wearing a Barbour rainproof jacket, corduroy pants, a checkered shirt, and a plaid woolen hat—stood waiting for them under the light over his front door. János stood behind him.

  “Go open the door for me, Lester,” Castillo said. “I want him to think you’re an embassy driver.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get the pancake flour and maple syrup from the trunk.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “¡Hola, Alek!” Castillo called in Spanish as he got out of the car. “Been out in the rain, have you?”

  “I was at the stable,” Pevsner said.

  “Hey, Mr. Respin,” Delchamps called cheerfully, in Russian. “I knew when I saw János that you’d probably be somewhere around. It’s been a longtime.”

  “Nine years,” Pevsner replied after a long moment. “So long I forget what name you were using then.”

  “As a matter of fact, so do I,” Delchamps replied. “Saffery, maybe?”

  “I don’t think that was it,” Pevsner said. “What name are you using these days?”

  “Delchamps. Edgar Delchamps. And what about you, Vasily?”

  “Well, Mr. Delchamps, while I’m pleased to see you after all those years you’re not the old friend I expected our mutual acquaintance to have with him.”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Alek,” Castillo said, “but that old friend isn’t at all sure you’re really a friend of his.”

  “Why does ol’ Charley here keep calling you Alek, Vasily?”

  “Because that’s my name!” Pevsner snapped.

  “Where would you like me to put this stuff, sir?” Lester Bradley asked as he walked up with the maple syrup and pancake flour.

  Pevsner looked at what Bradley was carrying.

  “I just happened to be passing a Sam’s Club,” Castillo said. “And I remembered how much Sergei and Aleksandr like their pancakes and I figured, what the hell.”

  “Give it to János,” Pevsner ordered.

  “Hell, I’ll carry it,” Castillo said. “If János takes it, he’ll have to take his hand off his pistol and I know how much he hates to do that.” He took the flour and the gallon jug from Bradley. “That’ll be all for now, Bradley,” he said, then turned to Pevsner. “You are going to ask us in, aren’t you, Alek?”