Hunters pa-3

by W. E. B Griffin

  Castillo shook the hand but didn't reply.

  Ordonez turned to Torine.

  "You're the pilot?"

  Torine nodded.

  "Operations is right over there," Ordonez said, pointing. "I suggest that you file to Porto Alegre, Brazil. That will attract far less attention than a destination farther north."

  Torine shrugged, then looked at Castillo, his facing asking, Why not?

  Castillo nodded.

  "And I further suggest that the sooner you get off the ground, the better," Ordonez said.

  Torine went down the stairs and, passing a fuel truck that had just pulled up alongside the portside wing, walked quickly to the Base Operations building.

  Ordonez turned to Yung. "You will help me with the picnic lunch, David?"

  Yung nodded.

  Ordonez looked at the women, who were now all sitting on the couch.

  "You are in good hands. I will look after Alfredo.?Via con Dios!"

  Then he went down the stairs and started to climb onto the truck.

  Yung handed Castillo a folded sheet of typewriter paper.

  "Everything I know is on here," he said and went down the stairs.

  Castillo started to unfold the sheet of paper, but before he had finished he heard Yung call his name. He went to the door. Yung was extending an insulated container to him. Castillo went halfway down the stairs and took it from him. He some what awkwardly turned and set the container on the floor of the passenger compartment.

  When he turned again, Yung was holding another identical container. By the time he got that into the airplane and turned again, he saw that Ordonez was hauling Yung into the Airport Gourmet truck.

  "Call the office and leave a number where I can reach you!" Castillo called out.

  Yung nodded as the truck doors swung closed. A moment later, the truck pulled away.

  Castillo smiled.

  "Call the office and leave a number where I can reach you," said the aluminum-siding sales manager to one of his problematic sales counselors.

  Jesus H. Christ!

  He sensed the eyes of the women on him. He walked into the cabin.

  "I'm Carlos Castillo, a friend of your father," he said to the youngest daughter.

  She smiled shyly at him.

  "You speak Spanish very well for a Norteamericano," the girl said.

  "Thank you very much," Castillo said.

  "Here comes Jake!" Lopez called from the cockpit.

  Five minutes later, after Torine dealt with the fuel crew and did his walk-around inspection of the aircraft, he came up the stairs and pulled the door shut behind him.

  "Wind it up, Fernando," he called and turned to Castillo.

  "We can take off local and change to Porto Alegre in the air," he said.

  Torine looked at the women and addressed the youngest girl.

  "Do you speak English?"

  "Si, senor. A little."

  Torine smiled. "I'm the pilot. If the flight attendant here doesn't give you everything you want, you just let me know. I have to tell you, he's one of our worst."

  She smiled at him and then at Castillo.

  There came the whine of an engine starting.

  Sixty seconds later, the Gulfstream started to move.

  Castillo had unfolded the sheet of typewriter paper and was reading it before they reached the threshold of the active runway. Colonel- I wasn't sure if we would have time to talk. This is written before we go to the airport, of course, where we all may be led off in handcuffs. Ordonez is one smart cop. Luckily for us, he's a good friend of Munz. He knows a lot-too much, but not everything-about the estancia. He knows the Russian mafiosa's helicopter was there. He suspects his involvement. He knows what happened has nothing to do with Lorimer being a drug dealer. He knows it has to do with the oil-for-food business. I'm afraid I may have confirmed this for him. He knows that we grabbed the money. No proof, but he knows, and I know he's good at finding proof of what he suspects. He has positively identified (by fingerprints) one of the Ninjas as Major Alejandro Vincenzo of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia, who he met when Castro was in Montevideo and Vincenzo was in charge of his security. I think as soon as we can get on a secure line we should talk. If I have screwed things up, I'm really sorry. Yung

  Castillo read the note twice, then folded it and put it in his shirt pocket.

  When the Gulfstream was at altitude, he went to the cockpit and showed it to Torine and Lopez. [FOUR] San Antonio International Airport San Antonio, Texas 0350 10 August 2005 Castillo woke up when Lopez shook his shoulder. He had been sleeping uncomfortably most of the way from Quito in one of the chairs next to the forward bulkhead of the passenger compartment, his feet on the facing chair.

  The younger Munz girl was in the chair across the aisle. Senora Munz and the older girl had taken the two couches. When he opened his eyes, Castillo saw that they were now sitting up, and that the eyes of the younger girl, now sitting tensely in her chair, showed concern, maybe even fear.

  And then he saw why.

  There were four other people in the passenger compartment. One of them was nattily dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant of the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. The other three were heavily armed and dressed in black jumpsuits, on the breasts of which were badges of officers of the U.S. Customs and Border Protection service.

  One of the Customs officers, an enormous, swarthy man, held an Uzi in the position that caused Castillo to speak rudely to him.

  "Point that goddamned muzzle at the floor!" Castillo barked, in English.

  "Gringo," Lopez said, cautiously.

  The officer moved the Uzi toward Castillo.

  "You don't speak English?" Castillo snapped, in Spanish. "Don't point that thing at me!"

  "Take it easy, sir," the Citizenship and Immigration Services lieutenant said.

  The lieutenant looked at the big guy holding the Uzi and ordered, "Lower that muzzle."

  "Better…" Castillo said, still furious.

  "Carlos," Lopez said, "these gentlemen wish to search the aircraft and our luggage. Torine thought you might wish to discuss that with them."

  "We are going to search the aircraft, understand that!" the enormous swarthy man announced, not at all pleasantly.

  Castillo locked eyes with him. "Then might I, sir, with all respect and humility, suggest that you begin your thorough inspection of our luggage with my briefcase?" he asked, sarcastically. "It's right there on the floor."

  "What's in the briefcase?" the enormous man asked.

  "My credentials," Castillo said. "I'm Supervisory Special Agent Castillo of the Secret Service."

  The swarthy man considered that a moment, then said, "Get it." "That's what he is all right," the swarthy man said, visibly cowed by the credentials. But that didn't last long. "We are still going to search your luggage and the aircraft. That's regulations!"

  "Search away," Castillo said. "I simply wanted to identify myself before you saw the weapons we have aboard." He turned to the immigration lieutenant. "How do we get through immigration?"

  "There's a van outside that'll carry you to the commercial side of the airport."

  "And bring us back?"

  The lieutenant nodded.

  "Ladies," Castillo said, "leave everything on board but your purses. We have to go through the immigration process. On behalf of the United States of America, I apologize for this rude reception." "Thanks for everything, Fernando," Castillo said when they were back at the Gulfstream. "When you get home, blame everything on me."

  "Maria will do that anyway," Lopez said.

  He picked Castillo off the ground in a bear hug.

  "If you need me for anything, forget it," Lopez said.

  "You got it."

  "I didn't mean that, Gringo, and you know it."

  "What I want you to do is make sure Abuela doesn't go anywhere near Midland."

  "I will. Believe me."

  "I'll find someplace else for the Munzes ju
st as soon as I can."

  Lopez nodded, shook hands with Torine, kissed the cheeks of the Munz women, then turned and climbed back in the van.

  As the others went aboard the Gulfstream, Castillo watched it drive away until It was out of sight, and then, not remembering if he had seen Torinedo it or not, did the walk-around inspection of the plane, then went up the stairs into it.

  He smiled at the younger Munz girl.

  "Colonel Torine has said I can ride up in front if I promise not to touch anything."

  She smiled back at him.

  When he stepped into the cockpit, he saw that Jake Torine was strapping himself into the copilot's seat.

  "I'm pleased to see that you remembered it's the pilot in command's duty to do the walk-around," Torine said. "Has anything important fallen off?" [FIVE] Double-Bar-C Ranch Near Midland, Texas 0555 10 August 2005 As Castillo applied the thrust reversers, he saw that there were two black GMC Yukon XLs parked next to the hangar. And a silver Jaguar.

  Well, the Secret Service is here.

  And the Jaguar, which is almost certainly Abuela's, is here because so was she when the heat got to her. She had the Lear pick her up.

  When he had taxied the Gulfstream back to the hangar from the end of the runway and stopped, Torine said, "I'll shut it down, Charley. You tend to our passengers."

  Castillo unstrapped himself and went to the passenger compartment, where he tripped the DOOR OPEN switch. The door began to move and a dry heat started to blow in. It had a familiar feel and smell.

  Senora Munz and the younger girl, smiling, were on their feet and looking down at the older sister, who was sound asleep on one of the couches.

  Well, they say a perfect landing is one that (a) you can walk away from and (b) doesn't wake the passengers.

  He smiled at the younger girl.

  "I'll get some ice water," he said. "You can pour it in her ear. That'll wake her up."

  "Carlos, that's an awful thing to say!" a familiar voice said from the open doorway behind him, in English.

  Then the voice switched to Spanish.

  "I'm Alicia Castillo. This terrible young man is my grandson. Welcome to our home!"

  Castillo turned. As his grandmother pushed past him to get at the Munz family, he saw a heavyset man, obviously a Secret Service agent, standing just inside the door.

  The heavyset man shrugged and held up both hands.

  The meaning was clear: I didn't know how to stop her.

  XIII

  [ONE] Lehigh Valley International Airport Allentown, Pennsylvania 1035 10 August 2005 As he taxied the Gulfstream to the Lehigh Valley Aviation Services' tarmac, Castillo saw United States Secret Service Special Agent John M. Britton-brightly attired in a pink seersucker jacket, a yellow polo shirt, light blue trousers, and highly polished tassel loafers-leaning against the front fender of one of two black Yukons whose darkened windows identified them to Castillo as almost certainly Secret Service vehicles.

  With Britton were three men-more sedately dressed-who Castillo thought were probably the local Secret Service.

  Castillo parked the aircraft.

  "You go deal with the welcoming committee," Torine said. "I'll do the paperwork and get us some fuel. Speaking of which, you want to give me your credit card?"

  Castillo unstrapped himself, worked his way out of the pilot's seat, gave Torine an American Express card, then went into the empty passenger compartment and opened the door and went down the stairs.

  "Nice airplane," Britton greeted him. "This is the first time I've seen it."

  "How are you, Jack?" Castillo said as they shook hands.

  Britton made the introductions: "These are special agents Harry Larsen and Bob Davis, and their boss, Supervisory Special Agent Fred Swanson. They're out of Philadelphia."

  "I'm an old pal of Isaacson and McGuire," Swanson said as they shook hands.

  "Then I guess you heard that my Secret Service credentials are a little questionable?"

  "Yeah, and I also heard getting them for you was Joel's idea," Swanson said. "So you're among friends, Colonel."

  "Call me Charley," Castillo said. "I made light colonel so recently that when someone says it, I look around to see who they're talking to."

  Swanson chuckled.

  "And you know that Jack can hardly be called a grizzled veteran of the Secret Service?" Castillo went on.

  "He told me. He also told me Joel recruited him, which makes him okay in my book-I know what Jack did in Philly, too. Isaacson told me that just when he was going to see if he would fit in the protection detail you grabbed him for whatever it is you do."

  "What did he-or anybody-tell you about that?"

  "Joel was pretty vague. Britton has been a clam. And when I asked McGuire, he said you were the only guy who could decide we had the Need to Know."

  Castillo considered that, then nodded. "Okay. You do. The classification is Top Secret Presidential. But let's wait until we're out of here."

  "Where are we headed? The farm? There's not much to see," Britton said.

  "I better see what there is," Castillo said. "But first, Jake and I need a shower and a shave. And then breakfast. It's been a long flight."

  "Where'd you come from?" Swanson asked.

  "Buenos Aires and that's classified."

  Swanson's eyebrows went up, but he didn't say anything.

  "We're in the Hotel Bethlehem in Bethlehem," Britton said. "It's not the Four Seasons-no marble walls in the bathrooms-but there's plenty of hot water and towels, and a nice restaurant, and it's near where we're going."

  "Fine."

  "I suppose this is also classified," Britton said. "Yung called Miller from Washington, and Miller called me. Yung was in Miami about to load Lorimer's body on a plane to New Orleans. He's really anxious to talk to you."

  "And vice versa," Castillo said.

  "'Lorimer's body'?" Swanson parroted. "Can I ask who Yung is?"

  "David Yung is an FBI agent who now works for me," Castillo said. "Jean-Paul Lorimer-an American, a UN diplomat, up to his eyeballs in the Iraq oil-for-food scam-was whacked by parties unknown at his estancia in Uruguay."

  "This is starting to get interesting," Swanson said.

  "The Secret Service is involved," Castillo said. "I asked Tom McGuire to send people to watch the Lorimer family, the funeral home, the funeral, etcetera, to see if they can make any of the mourners. And to keep an eye on Yung. These bastards have already tried to kidnap and/or whack him."

  "Really interesting," Swanson said. "Neither Tom or Joel mentioned anything about that, either."

  "I told you they couldn't," Castillo said. "And what I said just now about parties unknown wasn't entirely accurate." He looked at Britton. "Jack, we now know who one of the Ninjas was. He was positively identified-fingerprints-by a Uruguayan cop as Major Alejandro Vincenzo of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia."

  "No shit?" Britton said, in great surprise.

  "I suppose you realize, Colonel, that you're really whetting my curiosity?" Swanson said.

  "Let's get in one of the Yukons," Castillo said. "We can start clueing you in while Torine's dealing with the airplane. I don't think we can finish, but we can start." Fifteen minutes later, Jake Torine handed Castillo's American Express card to the Lehigh Aviation Services' fuel truck driver, who took it without question, ran it through his machine, then handed it back with the sales slip for his signature. Torine signed the slip-using his own signature, but it would have taken the expert eye of a forensic document examiner to determine that the scribble read "Torine" and not "Castillo"-then walked across the blazing-hot tarmac to the black Yukon that Castillo and the others had climbed in.

  Special Agent Bob Davis of the Secret Service had to get out of the truck, fold down the middle-row seat he had been occupying, and get in the back, third row of seats so Torine could get in.

  "If you weren't such a paragon of virtue and honesty, Charley," Torine said, after the introductions were made and as h
e handed Castillo his credit card, "you probably wouldn't have to pay for the fuel and the landing fee. I signed the bill 'Abraham Lincoln.'"

  When Torine didn't get the laugh he expected, he added: "Somehow I sense I'm interrupting something."

  "I have been regaling these gentlemen with the plot of the mystery," Castillo said.

  "How far did you get?"

  "Dropping the Munzes at the ranch in Midland," Castillo said. "I told them everything, Jake. We need all the help we can get."

  "Any of this make any sense to you, Mr. Swanson?" Torine asked.

  "No, Colonel, it doesn't. And I am about to be overwhelmed with curiosity as to how these Rambo operations of yours are connected with these home-grown Muslims we're watching 'as a highest priority.'"

  "Tell them, Jack," Castillo ordered.

  "Okay," Britton said, and took a moment to form his thoughts. "You know, Fred, that when I was on the Philly cops, I was undercover for a long time in the Aari-Teg mosque."

  "That must have been fun," Special Agent Davis commented from the backseat. "How long did you get away with that before they made you?"

  "Three and a half years-and they never made me."

  "I'm impressed," Davis said in genuine admiration.

  "Yeah, me, too," Castillo said.

  "Right after we came back from Uruguay," Britton said, "I heard that another undercover cop in the Aari-Teg mosque, a pal of mine named Sy Fillmore, had gone over the edge-the cops found him wandering around babbling in North Philly. Once they learned, several days later, he was a fellow cop, they had him put in the loony tunes ward in Friends Hospital. So I went to see him.

  "And he told me that AALs had bought a hundred-twenty-acre farm in Bucks County on which-or in which-were some pre-Revolutionary War iron mines that they were stocking with food and water, and in which they are going to take cover when a briefcase-sized nuclear bomb is detonated in Philly."

  "Jesus Christ!" Special Agent Davis exclaimed.

  "And you're taking this seriously?" Swanson asked, his tone serious. "It sounds incredible."

  "Yes, it does," Britton said. "And that's what Chief Inspector Dutch Kramer decided when he heard it. First of all, it came from Fillmore, who slides back and forth between making sense and babbling, and is indeed incredible on its face value. Kramer didn't even tell the FBI. But when I told Charley, both he and McGuire, and I suppose Isaacson, too, decided I should look into it. That's when you got involved."