The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Please tell him I consider myself in his debt and if there is anything I can ever do for him…”

  “Tell him yourself, Alek,” Castillo said. “He’ll be in the Traffik with us and János.” He paused, chuckled, and went on: “But as a shooter, he has pretty much given up his medical career.”

  “Similarly, my friend Charley, I am deeply in your debt. And not solely for saving my life.”

  “You can pay that debt by staying out of my way while I’m running down our great mutual friend Howard Kennedy. I want him, Alek.”

  “If I knew where he was, I’d tell you.”

  “I want him without a beauty hole in his forehead, you understand that?”

  “With great difficulty,” Pevsner said, nodding slowly. “There is only one suitable punishment for a man who enters your life dishonestly and gains your confidence and affection…”

  “Got a little egg on your face, do you, Alek?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Aleksandr Pevsner, that great judge of character, trusted the wrong guy and mistrusted the good guy. Good guys, plural.”

  “I’m not familiar with the expression.”

  “You know what I mean, Alek.”

  “I am where I am today because I…”

  “By where you are today, I guess you mean hiding under your Mercedes from your good friends in the FSB while they tried to whack you?”

  Pevsner’s face tightened.

  “If that was the case…”

  “No ‘if’ about it, Alek. Edgar Delchamps knew one of the guys in the laundry truck. Lieutenant Colonel Yevgeny Komogorov, deputy to Colonel Pyotr Sunev, director of the FSB’s Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight Against Terrorism.”

  Pevsner glared at him.

  “That’s a mouthful, isn’t it?” Castillo asked. “‘Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight Against Terrorism’? And I guess they define ‘terrorist’ as anyone who might be able to identify former Lieutenant Colonel Putin of the KGB as just one more maggot in the oil-for-food scam.”

  “If Putin was involved in that, I don’t know about it.”

  “Sunev and the late Colonel Komogorov must have thought you did. Otherwise, why did they try to whack you?”

  Pevsner didn’t reply.

  “And to whack you, Sunev didn’t send some second-rate Cuban—he sent Komogorov.”

  Pevsner stared icily at Castillo for a long moment.

  “Howard Kennedy is not stupid,” Pevsner said, finally. “He knew that you were sooner or later going to suspect him of ties—or find ties, as you did in fact—with the FSB, and that if you did, you would probably tell me. I think it’s entirely possible that he told Sunev that we were becoming too close, exchanging information…”

  “And after all, Kennedy had been really working for Sunev all along, hadn’t he? Getting paid—better paid, obviously—to provide just that sort of information?”

  “I paid Howard well, but nothing like nearly sixteen million dollars,” Pevsner said. “The first suspicion I had of Howard—and, of course, I felt guilty about having it—was when he was so upset about those bank drafts you took from Lorimer’s safe. He acted almost as if you had stolen the money from him.”

  “I really hope I did,” Castillo said.

  “I think he had a deal with the Cuban. The Cuban would shut Lorimer’s mouth, take the bank drafts, give them to Howard, and they would split the proceeds. And you ruined this plan for him, Charley.”

  “I want him, Alek.”

  “What will happen to him after you interrogate him?”

  “I’ve given that some thought. The first one I had was to have him sent to a really terrible prison in Colorado where the prisoners spend twenty-three hours a day in solitary cells with no contact with other prisoners. But then an FBI friend of mine said that all we could convict him of is stealing FBI investigation reports. That would put him away for five-to-ten, maybe. He’d be out in a couple of years.”

  “So you’ll just…”

  “I would like to, but we don’t operate that way. What I think I’ll try to arrange for him is to be sent to a medium-security prison where he would be in what they call ‘the general population.’ Unpleasant things happen to former FBI agents in the general population. There’re even rumors that they get raped. Regularly.”

  There was a shrill whistle and they looked toward the house where Edgar Delchamps was standing in the door to the living room. He was signaling that the convoy was ready.

  “One last time, Alek,” Castillo said. “Don’t get in my way.”

  “If I find him before you do, I’ll tell you where he is. Somehow the notion of Howard being regularly traded as a sexual commodity seems a fitting consequence for his actions.”

  They started walking toward the house.

  [SIX]

  Nuestra Pequeña Casa

  Mayerling Country Club

  Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

  1005 14 August 2005

  What Castillo thought of as the Philosophers, as opposed to the Shooters, were gathered in the quincho, the main room of which looked very much like a schoolroom complete to blackboards, a teacher, and nine overage eighth-graders raising their hands for permission to offer the teacher their deep thoughts.

  The teacher was FBI Inspector Jack Doherty. The Philosophers were Special Agent Yung, Eric Kocian, Alex Darby, Colonel Alfredo Munz, and Mr. and Mr. Paul Sieno. Also present was Colonel Jake Torine, who was included not so much for his knowledge of the situation but for his brains. Castillo and Delchamps sat in, although both regarded themselves far more as Shooters than Philosophers. And there was the class pet, who lay asleep with his head on Castillo’s shoe and from time to time made strange, pleased sounds, which Castillo thought might be because he was dreaming of a shapely Bouvier des Flandres of the opposite gender.

  Corporal Lester Bradley, technically a Shooter, was manning the radio with instructions to tell anyone who called from Washington that Colonel Castillo was momentarily unavailable but would get back to them as soon as possible.

  There were still a lot of pieces to fit together and Castillo didn’t want to interrupt that process.

  The Shooters—Sergeant Major Davidson, Sergeant Kensington, Sándor Tor, and Ricardo Solez—were on perimeter guard duty, no less efficient because they were seated comfortably in strategically placed upholstered chairs.

  Edgar Delchamps not only approved the perimeter guard but suggested that Castillo recruit more Shooters for it. He said that he trusted Aleksandr Pevsner about half as far as he could throw him vis-à-vis not revealing the location of the safe house and pointing out that Pevsner was now aware that just about everybody with knowledge was gathered in one place, which made it one hell of a rich target for somebody who wanted mouths shut permanently.

  Delchamps also volunteered the hope that Castillo was not holding his breath waiting for Pevsner to tell him anything about the location of Howard Kennedy. The race was on—and in high goddamned gear—if Castillo wanted to get the sonofabitch before Pevsner did.

  Castillo was of two minds.

  Professionally, he agreed with Delchamps—and just about everybody else—that Pevsner couldn’t be trusted and wouldn’t hesitate to have them all killed to protect himself—or, perhaps more important, to reduce or remove a threat to his family.

  Personally, Castillo trusted Pevsner, at least to a degree.

  But, obviously, he had to go with his professional judgment.

  When his cellular went off, he had just about decided that school was going to be in session for a week—or longer—and to tell Bradley to get Dick Miller at the Nebraska Avenue Complex on the horn and to tell Miller to call either General Bruce J. McNab or Vic D’Allessando at Bragg and tell them to get a ten-man A-Team on the next flight out of Miami—put ’em in civvies and tell ’em to make like they’re soccer players—and, yeah, we have weapons here.

  “¿Hol
a?” Castillo said to his phone.

  “You, on the other hand, sound like a Porteno,” his caller said.

  “So how’s the skiing?”

  “Very nice, thank you. Our friend is in 1808 at the Conrad in Punta del Este.”

  “You’re sure?” Castillo said, but after a moment he realized he was talking to a broken connection.

  Delchamps looked at him with a question in his eyes.

  “O ye of little faith!” Castillo said, and turned to Yung. “What’s the Conrad in Punta del Este?”

  “Fancy hotel. Fanciest. With a casino.”

  “Is there an airport there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jake, could we take the Gulfstream from here to wherever Punta del Este is in Uruguay…”

  “On the Atlantic, about a hundred kilometers from Montevideo,” Yung furnished.

  “…and then to Quito without refueling?”

  “No problem. What do you plan to do about immigration?”

  “Worry about that when we get to the States,” Castillo said.

  He stuck out his tongue at Delchamps, made a loud humming sound, then said: “You can interpret that—it’s the best I can do—as sounding ‘Boots and Saddles.’ Kennedy is in room 1808 of the Conrad and we’re going to go get him.”

  “Who we?” Delchamps asked.

  “You, Munz, me, and Two-Gun,” Castillo said. “Alex, can you get on a secure line and tell the CIA guy in Montevideo…what’s his name?”

  “Robert Howell,” Darby replied. “Bob Howell.”

  “…to meet us with a car—better yet, a Yukon, or at least a van, something big—at the Punta del Este airport? And that we’re leaving right now?”

  “Do I tell him why?”

  “No, just that it’s important.”

  Max happily trotted after Castillo as he headed for the quincho door.

  “Not this time, pal,” Castillo said.

  He could hear Max barking and whining even after he’d entered the big house and headed for the driveway.

  [SEVEN]

  Punta del Este Airport

  Punta del Este, República Oriental del Uruguay

  1335 14 August 2005

  Robert Howell, the “cultural attaché” of the U.S. embassy, was waiting for them at the small but well-equipped airport with a blue Yukon displaying diplomatic tags.

  Castillo introduced Delchamps to him—Howell knew who Delchamps was but had never met him—then explained what he intended to do: Grab Howard Kennedy, bring him back to the airport, and fly him to the States, with only a fuel stop in Quito.

  “I’d like to have you in on this, but if it would make things awkward for you just give us the truck and come back in two hours. If we’re lucky, I’ll leave the key under the mat.”

  Howell said, “I’m in. We may need my diplomatic carnet. If there’s trouble, all they can do is expel me as persona non grata.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How do we get him out of the hotel and into the truck?”

  “Let’s make sure he’s there first, then worry about that,” Delchamps said. “Our noble leader is placing a lot of faith where I’m not at all sure it belongs.”

  Castillo ignored him.

  “How come this place looks so deserted?” Castillo asked. “There’s nothing here but a couple of light twins and some Cessna 172s.”

  “It’s winter,” Howell said. “Punta del Este is just about closed in the winter. Wait till we get downtown.”

  Ten minutes later, Castillo could see a long line of high-rise apartment buildings overlooking a wide, nice-looking beach. When they came close to the apartments, however, he was surprised at what he found: The blinds were drawn behind almost all of the apartment windows, there were few cars on the street (and even fewer in the parking lots under the high-rise buildings), and only a very few people on the streets.

  This is almost surreal, Castillo thought.

  Five minutes after that, the Conrad came into view, an imposing structure Castillo guessed was twenty stories high.

  “They keep this open for the gamblers,” Howell said. “But I’d say it’s not even one-quarter full.”

  He turned off the road and drove up the driveway.

  “Well, there’s activity here,” Delchamps said. “Why does that make me feel uneasy?”

  The parking area in front of the main door of the resort was crowded with vehicles. With the exception of two stretch limousines and a Volkswagen bug, they were all police vehicles of one description or another.

  “Why do I think going back to the airport would be a good idea?” Delchamps asked.

  “Oh, let’s go play the slots!” Castillo said. “I feel lucky.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s remotely possible that somebody tried to knock off the casino and the entire Uruguayan police force has responded,” Delchamps said and opened his door.

  They walked up a wide flight of marble stairs and were halfway across the lobby when a voice called, “Alfredo!”

  Everybody stopped. A man was quickly walking toward them.

  “I am not as happy to see you, my friend,” Chief Inspector José Ordóñez said as he wrapped Munz in a bear hug and kissed his cheek, “as I would be if you were alone.”

  He looked at the others. “And my friend David Yung and Mr. Howell, of the culture department of the American embassy. How nice to see you both again.”

  He turned to Castillo and Delchamps and put his hand out to Delchamps.

  “Colonel Castillo, I’m Chief Inspector José Ordóñez of the Federal Police and I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  “My name is Smith,” Delchamps said. “No hable Español.”

  Ordóñez smiled at him and shook his hand.

  “I’m Castillo,” Castillo said.

  “Jose Ordóñez, Colonel,” Ordóñez replied, offering his hand. “If I may say so, you’re very young to have done all the things people say you have done.”

  “I try to live clean,” Castillo said. “What did we do, walk in on a police convention?”

  “I suppose it does look like a convention, doesn’t it?” Ordóñez said. “But, sadly, no. We are all here on duty. One of your countrymen has run into some difficulty.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I was just about to call your embassy and tell them, but since Mr. Howell and Mr. Yung are here I can dispense with that. I’ll show them the problem. If it’s all right with them, the rest of you may come along.”

  He gestured toward the elevator bank and they all got in.

  The door from the corridor opened into the living room of suite 1808. One wall was mostly glass and offered a view of the Punta del Este downtown sky-line and the Atlantic Ocean.

  There were two men sitting in high-backed upholstered chairs. One of them, who looked as if he had slipped down in the chair, had his mouth open. The back of the chair behind him was matted with blood and brain tissue.

  The other man was Howard Kennedy.

  He had been strapped into his chair with duct tape. There was something in his mouth, either a red ball or a ball of another color, now covered with blood. His eyes were wide-open.

  His body seemed strangely limp and, after a moment, when he saw Kennedy’s hands, Castillo understood.

  “It would seem,” Ordóñez said, matter-of-factly, “that Mr. Kennedy was beaten to death, not with a baseball bat or something like that but with a piece of angle iron. They started with his toes, then his feet, then his shins, and then changed to his fingers, hands, wrists, etcetera. You can tell by the blood pattern. It must have taken some time for them to finish. We believe this man to be Howard Kennedy.”

  “That’s Howard Kennedy,” Castillo said. “Was Howard Kennedy.”

  “We’re not sure who the other man is,” Ordóñez said.

  “That’s Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Zhdankov,” Delchamps furnished, “of the FSB’s Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight Against Terrorism.”
/>
  “That’s not what his passport says, Señor Smith,” Ordóñez said. “It says he’s a Czech businessman.”

  “Then I’m obviously wrong,” Delchamps said.

  “I really hope so,” Ordóñez said. “What we have here is bad enough, an American businessman and a Czech businessman murdered during a robbery. Even if that robbery, as has been suggested, was part of a drug deal that went wrong, that would pose far fewer problems for me—and, indeed, for Uruguay—if I had to start investigating the murders of a senior KSB officer and a man known to have close ties to an international outlaw by the name of Aleksandr Pevsner. You understand?”

  “I think so,” Delchamps said.

  “I am really sorry to have subjected you to this. I fully understand that it ruined your holiday and has caused you to feel that you have to leave Uruguay immediately and not to return until this terrible memory has had time to fade.”

  “The man has a point, Ace,” Delchamps said.

  “Chief Inspector Ordóñez,” Castillo said, offering his hand, “may I ask you one question before I leave?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I read something in the papers about some bodies—six, I recall—being found on an estancia somewhere here in Uruguay. What was that all about?”

  “Our investigation concluded that was another drug deal that went wrong. Such an ugly business yet so common. The estancia owner apparently led a dual life as a drug dealer. I frankly doubt if we’ll ever be able to make an arrest. The case is closed, for all practical purposes.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Not at all,” he said, pumping Castillo’s hand. “Perhaps we’ll meet again under happier circumstances. Any friends of my dear friend Alfredo, so to speak, are friends of mine.”

  “I’d like that,” Castillo said.

  [EIGHT]

  The Restaurant Kansas

  Avenida Libertador

  San Isidro

  Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

  2025 14 August 2005

  Castillo waved the waiter over and called for the check.

  “Why don’t you let me take care of that?” Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio said. “I can charge it to my representation allowance.”