The shooters pa-4

by W. E. B Griffin

  "He was about to ruin mine. You know what to tell Jake, right?"

  "He just took off from MacDill. That's next."

  "Thanks a hell of a lot, Dick," Castillo said, then signaled to Lester to break the connection.

  Castillo looked at Pevsner.

  "Now that that's done, you want to tell me about the pistol?" Castillo said.

  "People are trying to kill you, friend Charley."

  "You mean right here and now? Or can we go finish our dinner?"

  "We will talk after dinner," Pevsner said.

  Castillo picked up the Argentine.45, slipped it into the waistband at the small of his back, and gestured for Pevsner to precede him out of the room.

  XII

  [ONE]

  The Llao Llao Resort Hotel

  San Carlos de Bariloche

  Rio Negro Province, Argentina 2035 10 September 2005 They all crowded into the elevator and rode to the lobby floor. When the door opened, Pevsner touched Castillo's arm and motioned everyone else out.

  "I need a moment with my friend Charley," he announced, waving toward the dining room. "The rest of you go in."

  Everyone obeyed but Max, who simply sat down and looked to Castillo for instructions. The others made their way around him, and when they all had left the car, Pevsner pushed one of the upper-floor buttons. The door closed and the elevator started to rise.

  Pevsner somehow managed to stop the elevator as it ascended; Castillo wondered if an alarm bell was about to go off.

  "I don't want to scare Anna and the children," Pevsner said, "so don't say anything at the table."

  "What's going on, Alek?"

  Pevsner didn't respond directly.

  "I will arrange for your baggage to be taken to the boat," he said. "You can spend the night at the house. Among other things, that'll give us the opportunity to talk."

  "I can't get far from the communicator," Castillo said, thinking aloud.

  "And the boy who operates it?"

  Castillo nodded, then said, "He's the communicator, and he's young, Alek, but don't think of him as a boy."

  Again, Pevsner didn't respond directly. After a moment, he said, "All right, everybody goes. That'll take a little longer to arrange." He smiled. "That's probably better anyway. A gun battle would disturb the guests."

  "There's a possibility of that?"

  Pevsner nodded.

  "What's going on, Alek?"

  "About an hour and a half ago," Pevsner said, "Gellini called and said you were back in Argentina-"

  "Gellini?" Castillo wondered aloud, then made the connection: "The SIDE guy?"

  Pevsner nodded.

  "The man who replaced Alfredo when he was relieved," he confirmed.

  "And who now works for you?" Castillo asked.

  Pevsner seemed unable to answer that directly, too.

  "He admires you, friend Charley. The way you stood up for Alfredo when he was relieved."

  Alfredo Munz had been chief of SIDE when J. Winslow Masterson was murdered. He had been retired-in fact, fired-in order to be the Argentine government's scapegoat. Castillo, who had found Munz not only unusually competent and dedicated, thought that the Argentine government's action was inexcusable and had told his replacement, Coronel Alejandro Gellini, so much in less than tactful terms.

  "Alfredo was screwed, Alek, and you know it. I told Gellini what I thought of it. And him."

  "Gellini could not protect Alfredo from the foreign minister, and neither could I. But there was a silver lining to that cloud: Alfredo now works for you, and Gellini admires you."

  "And what did my admirer have to say besides telling you that I was back down here?"

  "That people are trying to kill you."

  "A lot of people have been telling me that lately. He didn't happen to say who?"

  "This is serious business, friend Charley," Pevsner said, smiling and shaking his head in exasperation.

  "Gellini didn't happen to say who?" Castillo asked again.

  "What is that word you use? 'Bounty'? Gellini said there is a bounty on you."

  "I think he probably meant 'contract,'" Castillo said. "Meaning: whoever would whack me would get paid."

  Pevsner nodded. "What is a 'bounty'?"

  "A price the good guys put on the head of a bad guy," Castillo explained. "Or on some bad guy who jumps bail. Who put out the contract on me?"

  "Gellini knows only that the gangsters know about the contract; he didn't know who issued it. It could be something the FSB has done in addition to their own plans for you, but I don't know. They usually like to do that sort of thing themselves."

  "What're the FSB's plans for me?"

  "What do you think, friend Charley? First you took out the Cuban, Vincenzo-"

  "Major Vincenzo was shooting at me at the time."

  "-and then Komogorov of the FSB."

  "Colonel Komogorov was shooting at you at the time. And I didn't take him out, Lester did."

  Pevsner shook his head in exasperation again.

  "As you well know, when something like that happens, what the FSB wants to hear-what Putin himself wants to hear-is not some excuse or explanation. They want confirmation that whoever has killed one of them has himself been killed."

  "I know an Argentine cop who has much the same philosophy of life."

  Pevsner looked at him curiously.

  "I don't understand," he said, finally.

  "It's too long a story to be told in an elevator. It will have to wait until after dinner."

  This time Pevsner expressed his exasperation by exhaling audibly. He pushed a button on the control panel and the elevator began to descend.

  [TWO] The dinner was first class, which did not surprise Castillo. But he was surprised at how hungry he was and how much he ate, including all of an enormous slice of cheesecake topped with a strawberry sauce he thought was probably a hundred calories a spoonful.

  Afterward, Pevsner led the group back to the elevator bank and they filled both elevators. This time, the elevators went down and the doors opened on a corridor in the basement.

  At the end of the corridor, a door opened to the outside, where a Peugeot van and three men-obviously armed-waited for them. They climbed into the van and were driven maybe a kilometer to a wharf on the lakeshore.

  This has to be Lake Moreno, Castillo decided.

  Munz said, "Pevsner's place is on the other side of the lake-Moreno."

  Floodlights came on as they stepped onto the wharf. Castillo saw a cabin cruiser, what looked like a thirty-five-or forty-foot Bertram sportfisherman tied to the pier, and had a mental image of the boat being hauled along some narrow provincial road on a trailer, dazzling the natives.

  There were no lights on the boat, but as they approached the vessel he heard its exhaust burbling. As soon as they were on the boat, in the cockpit aft, the floodlights on the pier went on and the cabin lights on the boat illuminated.

  Pevsner asked with a gesture whether Castillo wanted to go into the cabin or up to the flying bridge. Castillo opted for the flying bridge, despite the fact that the air was chilly. These were the Andes Mountains, and springtime would not come to Argentina for several weeks. But Castillo-perhaps as a reflex response-wanted to see what could be seen and began climbing the ladder fashioned of heavy-gauge aluminum tubing toward the flying bridge.

  Max barked his protest at not being able to follow him up the ladder. Elena appeared at the cabin door and called to him. He looked to Castillo for guidance.

  "Go with Elena," Castillo ordered, and after a moment's thought Max walked into the cabin.

  The man who had been with Pevsner when Castillo had first seen them was at the helm, his hands on the controls. As soon as Pevsner was on the flying bridge, the boat began to move.

  Set into the panel were radar and GPS screens, and the man used the latter to navigate.

  Meaning, of course, that he's pretty sure nothing is out there, on the surface or below.

  Wrong. I hear other e
ngines.

  A moment later, as Castillo's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw first the wake of a boat ahead of them and then the boat itself, a twenty-odd-foot inboard. The three men who had been waiting for them outside the Llao Llao were in it.

  The small inboard boat picked up speed and began to turn, obviously intending to circle the sportfisherman.

  "Nice boat, Alek," Castillo said, raising his voice over the sound of wind and the rumble of twin diesels. "How did you get it here?"

  "By truck," Pevsner replied. "The first try was a disaster. They went off the road and turned over."

  "Jesus!" Castillo said, sympathetically.

  "Always look for the silver lining, friend Charley. It took another month to get another boat from Miami-this wouldn't fit in any of my airplanes-but I now have spare parts for everything but the hull."

  Twenty minutes later, a light appeared almost dead ahead. The radar screen showed something that had to be a pier extending into the lake from the shore. The engines slowed. A minute later, floodlights on a pier came on and the inboard boat came out of the darkness and tied up. A twin of the Peugeot van at the Llao Llao was backed up onto the pier.

  Three minutes later, they had tied up to the wharf and were in the van, which started down the pier. As soon as the vehicle reached the foot of the pier, the floodlights went off.

  It was a five-minute drive along a steep, curving, gravel road, and then they passed through a gate in a ten-foot-tall stone wall and came to a stop before an imposing house.

  Pevsner led them all inside.

  Anna and the boys and the girl-Elena, who is almost exactly as old as my son-said a polite good night.

  Castillo looked around. There was an enormous room off the entrance foyer. A crystal chandelier hung from what was probably a thirty-foot-high ceiling, illuminating a wall on which hung probably fifty stuffed deer and stag heads. On either side of a desk, two stuffed, snarling pumas faced each other.

  This is familiar.

  Why do I recognize it?

  The memory bank produced an image of a large, fat, jowly man standing at the entrance to the room, dressed in lederhosen and a Bavarian hat with a pheasant tail feather stuck in it, and holding a bow and arrow.

  I'll be goddamned!

  Pevsner said in Russian: "My people will take care of your bags, friend Charley. Does the boy-your communicator-have to be present while we talk?"

  "No, but he has to be close," Castillo answered in Russian. "And he'll need some place to set up his radio."

  "Will he require help?"

  Castillo shook his head.

  "Then let's go in there," Pevsner said, pointing to the enormous room and taking Castillo's arm.

  Castillo switched to German and asked, "Are you sure it will be all right with the Reichsforst und Jagermeister?"

  "You are amazing," Pevsner said in Russian. "How are you familiar with that, with Carinhall?"

  Castillo continued to speak German: "My grandfather had a book-a large, leather-bound book-that Goring gave him when he was a guest. I used to look at it when I was a kid."

  "Your grandfather was a Nazi?"

  "He was an Army officer who was badly wounded at Stalingrad and evacuated just before it fell. With Billy Kocian, incidentally. He told me Goring used to receive busloads of wounded senior officers at the place, and everyone got a book. The first picture inside, so help me God, was of Goring in lederhosen holding a bow and arrow.

  "But, no, to answer your question, my grandfather was not a Nazi. My mother told me-when she knew she was dying; she said she thought I should know-that he was on the SS's list of those officers known to be associated with Claus von Stauffenberg in the bomb plot, and they were looking for him until the end of the war."

  "What kind of a senior officer, Karl?" Pevsner said, now speaking German.

  "Infantry, detailed to Intelligence. He was a lieutenant colonel at Stalingrad; they promoted him to colonel while he was recuperating."

  "And now the German senior officer's grandson is an American senior officer detailed to Intelligence, and the descendants of the SS, now in the employ of the Russians, are looking for him in order to kill him. Blood really does run deep, doesn't it, friend Charley?"

  Castillo realized that Pevsner's observation made him uncomfortable and wondered why.

  "I think you mean, 'History does repeat itself, doesn't it?'" Castillo said, then went on quickly before Pevsner could reply: "I had a couple of days off one time in Berlin and went to see Carinhall. It's in Brandenburg, in the Schorfheide Forest-was there; Goring had the place blown up to keep the Russians from getting it. They did a good job. The gates are still there, but aside from that not much else is left."

  A maid rolled a cart loaded with spirits and the necessary accoutrements into the room, cutting off the conversation. After she had positioned the cart, she looked at Pevsner.

  "That will be all, thank you," Pevsner said, and waited to continue speaking until she had left them alone.

  "Would you have me serve you, friend Charley? Or…?"

  "Wait on me, please. I find that flattering. Some of that Famous Grouse single-malt will do nicely, thank you very much."

  Pevsner shook his head and turned to making the drinks.

  Pevsner began: "The fellow who built this place-I bought it from his grandson-was German. Nothing much is known about him before he came here-and I have inquired and have had friends inquire. There is no record of a Heinrich Schmidt having ever lived in Dresden, which is where his Argentine Document of National Identity says he was born.

  "Of course, the records may have been destroyed when Dresden was firebombed. What's interesting is that there is no record of his having immigrated to Argentina, or having been issued a DNI. Or of Herr Schmidt becoming an Argentine citizen. What I did learn was he bought this place-it was then four hundred sixteen hectares of forestland-and began construction of the house two months after it was alleged that a German submarine laden with cash and jewelry and gold had discharged its cargo near Mar del Plata and then scuttled itself at sea."

  Pevsner handed Charley a glass, held his own up, and tapped rims.

  "To friends you can really trust, friend Charley."

  "Amen, brother. May their tribe increase."

  "Unlikely, but a nice thought," Pevsner replied, took a sip, then went on: "Such a submarine was found eighteen months ago off Mar del Plata, incidentally. Probably just a coincidence."

  "I know that story. There were three of them loaded with loot. One was known to have been sunk in the English Channel. The second is known to have made it here. I thought the third one just disappeared."

  "It did. But-from what I have learned-only after it unloaded its cargo here in Argentina. Anyway, Herr Schmidt lived very quietly-one might say secretly-here with his family-a wife, a daughter, and a son-until his wife died. Then he passed on. Under Argentine law, property passes equally to children. The son-no one seems to know where he got the cash-bought out his sister's share, and she went to live in Buenos Aires, where she met and married an American, and subsequently moved to the United States.

  "The son married an Argentine, and aside from shopping trips to Buenos Aires and Santiago, Chile-never to Europe, which I found interesting-lived here with his wife and their only son-the fellow from whom I bought the place-much as his father had done. I understand that the father-and, later, the son-were silent partners in a number of business enterprises here.

  "When the son passed on, the widow did not want to live here alone, so she moved to Buenos Aires. The property sat unused for some years, until at her death it was finally put on the market and I bought it. Interestingly, they reduced the asking price considerably on condition I pay cash. More specifically, in gold. And that payment take place in the United Arab Emirates."

  "What are you suggesting, Alek? That the guy who built this place was a Nazi?"

  "I'm suggesting nothing, friend Charley. But I, too, noticed the architectural similarity to the r
eception hall at Carinhall, and went to some lengths to check that out. Between you and me, friend Charley, if Hermann Goring walked in the front door, he would think he was in Carinhall. I wouldn't be surprised if Herr Schmidt used the same architect. For that matter, the same drawings.

  "That led me to look into which business associates of Goring-not party members or people like that-had gone missing during and after the war. No luck in making a connection with Herr Schmidt."

  "What you are suggesting is that some Nazi big shot did in fact get away with running off to here."

  "That has happened, you know. Just a year or so ago, they found that the owner of a hotel here in Bariloche, a man named Pribke, had been an SS officer deeply involved in the massacre at the Ardeatine Caves outside Rome. He was extradited to Italy. And actually, friend Charley, there is an interesting legend that one of the founders of this area was an American, from Texas, who was here because the authorities were looking for him at home."

  "Butch Cassidy? The Sundance Kid?" Castillo asked, sarcastically.

  Pevsner shook his head. "They were in Bolivia."

  "I didn't know you were such a history buff, Alek."

  Pevsner looked into Castillo's eyes for a long moment.

  "What I am, friend Charley, is a man who would like to build a future for his children that would be unconnected with their father's past. I am more than a little jealous of Herr Schmidt."

  Castillo looked at him but didn't reply.

  Jesus Christ, he's serious.

  Where's he going with this?

  "You're a father, you will understand," Pevsner went on.

  Actually, Alek, I'm having a hard time accepting that I am a father.

  But, yeah. I understand.

  "I think so," Castillo said.

  "I never thought-I am a pragmatist-that I could do what Herr Schmidt did. These are different times. But I did think that I could perhaps do something like it. Did you see The Godfather?"

  Now what?

  Castillo nodded.

  "I thought I could do something like young Michael Corleone wanted to do: Go completely legitimate. You remember that part?"

  Castillo nodded again.

  "I reasoned that if I gave up the more profitable aspects of my businesses-really gave them up-and maintained what you would call a low profile here-"