The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  Hell, better safe than sorry. Davidson did the right thing.

  When they turned into the hotel’s driveway two hundred yards later, Castillo saw that the outside parking lot Pevsner had mentioned was to the left of the main entrance to the atrium lobby. To the right was another entrance that looked deserted.

  That one, Castillo decided after a moment, was obviously the convention entrance to the Hotel and Convention Center. There was a small sign with an arrow pointing to the underground garage.

  There was a rather steep down ramp. When Solez took a time-stamped parking ticket from a machine at the bottom, a fragile-looking barrier pole rose, giving them access.

  That barrier wouldn’t keep anybody out of here, but it probably sets off an alarm if somebody goes through it.

  The low-ceilinged garage was not crowded, maybe fifty, sixty vehicles. There was room for at least twice that many cars.

  Strange. It’s the dinner hour. It should be nearly full. Answer: This garage was designed to handle convention traffic. Obviously, there is no convention tonight.

  “Circle it once, Ricardo,” Castillo ordered. “And then park over there.”

  He pointed to a spot which would give them quick access to the exit ramp. Another frail-looking barrier pole guarded that.

  Obviously, Ricardo is going to pay that ticket the machine gave him or have it stamped, or whatever, to get that barrier pole to rise.

  If we have to leave here in a hurry, so long barrier pole and off goes the alarm!

  There was, near one end of the garage, another white ECO laundry and dry-cleaning truck backed up to what was probably a service elevator. Large, white cloth-sided wheeled baskets were clustered around the truck.

  This place is nice, but it’s not the MGM Grand in Las Vegas with—what did I hear?—some five thousand rooms? It probably makes more economic sense for the hotel to have the local laundry do the sheets and towels as necessary rather than running its own laundry.

  When Solez had backed the Traffik into the spot Castillo had picked, he saw that it had been a lucky choice. It gave him a pretty good view of most of the garage. He could see the down ramp and the opening of a passageway with signs and an arrow pointing to the elevator.

  “Now we wait,” Delchamps said. “This is the part I love best about this job.”

  “You think he’s going to come?” Castillo asked.

  “Come, yeah,” Delchamps said. “But with who and with what purpose in mind?”

  “Ricardo, I don’t suppose you have a leash?”

  “A what?”

  “For Max. I think he needs to take a leak. Walk him up the exit ramp and then, when you come back, walk him around the garage before you come back to the van. Let’s see what he smells.”

  Solez didn’t reply.

  “I’d do it myself, Ricardo, but these people might know me, or at least have a description of me, and you’re an unknown quantity.”

  “I’ll have to use my belt,” Solez said.

  “Max, go with Ricardo,” Castillo ordered.

  Five minutes later, Solez and Max got back in the van.

  “When we walked past the laundry truck,” Solez reported, “Max got real antsy. It was all I could do to hold him.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like the smell of dirty laundry,” Delchamps said.

  “And maybe he smelled guns. He doesn’t like that smell. When the Bimmer gets here, I’ll give Davidson a heads-up.”

  “Why don’t you do that now, Ace?” Delchamps said.

  “Because Jack Davidson is a devout believer in the preemptive strike.”

  “Well, tell him to behave. You’re a colonel. You can do that.”

  Castillo pushed an autodial button on his cellular.

  “We’re about two minutes out, Colonel,” Davidson answered. “Lester missed the turn.”

  “There’s an ECO laundry truck down here. It may be picking up laundry, but Max smelled something he didn’t like. Just be aware it’s there. No, repeat, no preemptive strike, Jack. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two minutes later, the big dark blue BMW rolled off the down ramp.

  Delchamps and Castillo readied their weapons. There had not been another Uzi available, so Darby had provided a Car-4.

  Two of them, Castillo thought, as Solez picked one from the floor of the van and worked the action.

  The BMW circled the parking garage and backed into a space across from them.

  Nothing happened.

  Castillo called Bradley on his cellular and hit the SPEAKERPHONE button.

  “Lester,” he said, quietly, “go into the hotel, take a look around the corner and see if you see Pevsner or his gorilla or anybody interesting at the bar.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, if I may say so, that will also serve to suggest to the person in the cashier’s office that I am notifying someone their car is available and alleviate any suspicion of my sitting here.”

  “Very good, Lester. You’re absolutely right.”

  Castillo hit the cellular’s END button, then chuckled and shook his head.

  “Don’t be smug, Ace,” Delchamps said. “The kid is right.”

  “He usually is,” Castillo said. “I didn’t even think about the cashier.”

  Nothing happened in the next four minutes, which seemed like much longer.

  “Lester’s back,” Solez said, pointing as Bradley walked back toward the BMW.

  “And there’s Pevsner and János the Gorilla,” Delchamps said, nodding toward the Mercedes-Benz on the down ramp. “So he did show.”

  “Give them a chance to park the car and get out of it and then we’ll join them,” Castillo said. “‘Hey there, Alek! Small world, isn’t it?’”

  The big black Mercedes circled the garage. The heavily darkened windows of the BMW would permit him to see only Lester, which he would expect to do. But the same was true of the Mercedes. When it rolled past the Traffik, Castillo could see only János, not into the rear seat. János showed no interest in the Traffik.

  Well, what does that mean? Maybe János is the stalking horse and Pevsner’s not in the backseat?

  János backed the Mercedes into a spot close to the parking garage cashier’s office and the tunnel to the hotel. He got out, walked around to the right side of the car, and opened the rear door. Aleksandr Pevsner got out and started walking toward the tunnel, with János three steps behind.

  There was suddenly the sound of submachine gunfire, very loud in the low-ceilinged garage. Castillo saw where it was coming from. There were orange flashes from three, maybe four muzzles beside the white ECO laundry truck.

  “Oh, shit!” Castillo said as he jumped out of the Traffik.

  He saw that Pevsner was down, sprawled flat on the floor, and that János was sitting down, pistol in hand, bleeding from at least one wound in his side and looking dazed.

  Castillo emptied the Micro Uzi in two bursts directed in the general direction of the ECO truck and reached for a second magazine.

  Then came fire from the other side of the ECO laundry van, the peculiar, familiar sound of a Car-4 being fired in short controlled bursts of three to five rounds each.

  Who the hell is that? Davidson or Kensington? One of them must’ve got out of the car to cover the laundry truck.

  Then immediately—before Alfredo Munz, carrying a pistol, could get out of the Traffik—there came the sound of more short bursts from a Car-4 in the vicinity of the BMW and then the familiar report of a 1911A1 Colt .45 semiautomatic. The .45 was being fired steadily but some what slowly, suggesting aimed fire from a skilled pistoleer.

  “All down!” a voice that only after a moment Castillo recognized as that of Sergeant Major Jack Davidson called out. “Hold fire!”

  As Castillo, his ears ringing madly, ran to see what had happened to Pevsner, he saw Davidson running—carefully—toward the ECO van with his Car-4 at the ready.

  János, still sitting holding his pistol, looked at Castillo without comprehension—
then fell over. Castillo dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse. There was one.

  Where the hell is Pevsner?

  Max answered the question. The big dog was growling deep in his throat and trying unsuccessfully to get under the Mercedes.

  “Come out of there with your hands up!” a very sincere—if some what youthful—voice ordered from behind Castillo.

  Castillo turned to see Corporal Lester Bradley holding a 1911A1 Colt .45 in both hands aimed at the underside of the Mercedes.

  Well, now I know who that skilled, timed-firing pistoleer was.

  “Okay, Max,” Castillo ordered, in Hungarian. “Sit!”

  Max, visibly reluctant to do so, sat but did not stop growling. His lips were drawn tight against a very impressive row of massive teeth.

  “Come out, Alek,” Castillo called.

  When Max saw movement, he stood up.

  “Goddamn it, Max, sit!”

  Aleksandr Pevsner appeared.

  “Hands up, goddamn it!” Bradley ordered.

  Pevsner got to his knees, then to his feet, and raised both hands in the air.

  There is fear on ol’ Alek’s face. But what’s scaring him? Max? Or the boy with the .45 pointed at his forehead? So far, he’s managed not to get shot…

  “He’s okay, Bradley,” Castillo said, then saw the dog moving again. “Max! Sit!”

  “Can you control that animal so I can go to János?” Pevsner asked.

  “Go ahead,” Castillo said, pointing a finger at Max and mouthing Stay!

  “Is he dead?” Pevsner asked as he dropped to his knees beside János.

  “Not as of thirty seconds ago,” Castillo said.

  Davidson came running up.

  “All down, Colonel. Five of them,” Davidson reported. “I knew goddamned well that goddamned ECO laundry truck was dirty. Now what?”

  “Now you help me get this guy in the Traffik,” Castillo ordered, “and then you get Kensington in the BMW and get the hell out of here. I’ll take János to the safe house.”

  He looked across the garage, intending to signal Solez to get in the truck, and saw that the truck was already in motion but headed for the ECO van, not them.

  “Help me get János in the car,” Pevsner pleaded. “I’ve got to get him to a hospital. Please.”

  “Take a look at it, Alek, the Mercedes isn’t going anywhere,” Castillo said. “And we can’t take him to a hospital with bullet wounds.”

  The Mercedes was apparently only lightly armored. While the cabin was mostly intact, the headlights and hood were bullet-riddled, two tires—clearly not run-flat models—were punctured and flattened, there was the smell of gasoline, and the front windshield and left side windows were crazed.

  “What’s going on down there?” Davidson asked, nodding in the direction of the ECO van.

  “I think Delchamps is taking pictures and collecting DNA samples and whatever else he can find that looks useful.”

  “Look what I found,” Davidson said, holding up a blued-steel garrote.

  Castillo shook his head slowly at the sight.

  Alfredo Munz came up.

  “I need to talk to you, Alfredo,” Pevsner said.

  “Doesn’t this speak for itself?” Munz said. “You’ve been betrayed, Alek, and you know by who.”

  “I had my suspicions,” Pevsner said. “I didn’t want to accept them.”

  “Would you have believed me if I told you?” Munz asked, almost sadly.

  “Bradley, go tell Solez I need the Traffik right here right now,” Castillo ordered.

  At that moment, the Traffik started toward them.

  “What we are going to do is load János in the Traffik and get him and us the hell out of here,” Castillo said. “I’m surprised the cops aren’t here already.”

  “The garage is soundproofed,” Munz said, professionally. “And the poor girl in the cashier’s office is going to cower in her little cubicle and do nothing whatever until she is sure we are gone and the police are here. And she will tell them that she saw nothing for fear we’ll be back. We have another minute, perhaps, until someone finishes dinner and comes for their car.”

  Sergeant Robert Kensington came running up and dropped to his knees beside János.

  “What’s he doing?” Pevsner asked.

  “Whatever he can to keep János alive,” Munz said. “He’s a medical soldier.”

  “János needs a hospital, a surgical doctor,” Pevsner pursued.

  “Who will ask questions,” Munz said. “Kensington can treat him, Alek. He took a bullet from my shoulder.”

  “Your call, Alek,” Castillo said, evenly. “You can stay here and wring your hands over János and deal with the cops or you can help us get him in the van. In thirty seconds, we’re out of here.”

  Pevsner met Castillo’s eyes for a moment, then moved to János, putting him in an erect position so that it would be easier to pick him up.

  Thirty seconds later, János was stretched across the rear row of seats. Sergeant Kensington was applying a pressure dressing to János’s side.

  “Watch your feet,” Delchamps called. “I grabbed two Madsens and they’re still loaded.”

  Ten seconds after Castillo and Max got in the front seat and closed the door, Solez drove the Traffik to the exit ramp and took out the fragile barrier as he went up. Castillo heard an alarm bell start ringing.

  Fifteen seconds later, they were in the one-hundred-thirty-kilometer-per-hour lane of Route 8 headed south.

  Castillo turned to look out the rear window. The BMW was following them.

  He looked at Delchamps.

  “What else did you find at the laundry van?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Delchamps said. “If, as seems highly likely, we shortly find ourselves chatting with half a dozen of Pilar’s finest law enforcement officers, it will be better if you don’t know.”

  [FIVE]

  Nuestra Pequeña Casa

  Mayerling Country Club

  Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

  2155 13 August 2005

  Castillo, Pevsner, and Delchamps leaned against the wall of one of the down-stairs bedrooms, watching as U.S. Army Special Forces medic Sergeant Robert Kensington finished bandaging János. The bed had been raised three feet off the floor on concrete blocks to make a perfectly serviceable operating table.

  “Bullets are like booze,” Kensington observed, professionally. “The larger the body—unless, of course, the bullets hit something important—the less effect they have. And we have here a very large body.”

  János, feeling the effects of three of Kensington’s happy pills, agreed cheerfully. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I am much larger than most men.”

  “Perhaps not as smart but indeed larger,” Pevsner said, fondly.

  Castillo and Delchamps chuckled.

  Pevsner’s cellular buzzed. He looked at its screen to see who was calling and then pointed to the French doors leading from the room to the backyard.

  “May I?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Castillo said.

  Pevsner left the room and walked to the center of the backyard with the cellular to his ear. The floodlights which normally illuminated the backyard had been turned off but there was still enough light from the house and the quincho so that he could be seen clearly. Castillo and Delchamps left the bedroom and stood on the tile-paved patio.

  When Pevsner took the cellular from his ear, they walked to Pevsner.

  “Anna and the children are pleased that I am impulsively taking them to our place in San Carlos de Bariloche for a little skiing,” Pevsner said. “Anna is concerned that they will lose a few days in school, but under the circumstances…”

  “I understand,” Castillo said.

  “They are en route to the Jorge Newbery airfield by car,” Pevsner went on. “I have arranged for a Lear to fly us to Bariloche. Now, if I can further impose on your hospitality, there is something else I’d like you to do for me.”

 
“Which is?” Castillo asked.

  “I don’t want Anna and the children to see János in his present condition, of course, and János—despite his present very good humor—is really not in shape to fly halfway across Argentina. There is a place not very far from here that is both safe and where he can recuperate in peace. What I would like to do is have the Ranger pick us up…”

  “Not here,” Castillo interrupted. “Sorry.”

  “Of course not,” Pevsner said. “Please let me continue, my friend.”

  “Okay. Continue.”

  “There are eight polo fields at the Argentine Polo Association on the north of Pilar. Do you know where I mean?”

  Castillo shook his head.

  “Right off Route 8,” Pevsner said. “I would like to rendezvous with the Ranger there on the most remote of the polo fields, take János to the place I mentioned, then have the Ranger take me to Jorge Newbery to meet my family. Would you carry us to the Polo Association?”

  “When?”

  “Right now, if that would be possible.”

  Castillo exhaled audibly.

  Then he said: “Set it up, please, Edgar. Lead car, Traffik, trail car. Shooters in everything. I’ll ride with Alek and János in the Traffik.”

  Delchamps nodded and walked toward the house.

  “Thank you, friend Charley,” Pevsner said. “I am greatly in your debt.”

  Castillo shrugged.

  “Can I give him some money?” Aleksandr Pevsner asked.

  Castillo looked at him and saw that he was looking toward the house where Kensington was leaning against the wall outside his “operating room,” puffing on a cigar.

  “You mean Sergeant Kensington?” Castillo asked.

  “Your doctor. I am very grateful for what he did for János. I would like to show my appreciation.”

  “Giving Sergeant Kensington money—how do I put this?—would be like slipping your priest a few bucks for granting you absolution. Except that if you tried, Kensington would probably rearrange your face so you would remember not to make that particular faux pas again.”