The Shooters

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Sorry. You don’t look like a Castillo.”

  “I’m in disguise. Say hello to another Texican, Tom McGuire of the Secret Service.”

  “If you’re…whatever he said…McGuire, then I’m a…”

  “Irish cop?” Castillo said, innocently.

  “He’s a real wiseass, isn’t he?” O’Day asked, smiling.

  “And he’s barely warmed up,” McGuire said.

  “People are waiting for you. How many are going?”

  “Five,” McGuire said.

  “I knew that. That’s why I called for another car,” O’Day said.

  He gestured for everyone to get off the Gulfstream.

  There were two cars, both solid black and brand-new, and looking like any other new Ford Crown Victoria except for little badges on the trunk reading POLICE INTERCEPTOR and, just visible behind the grille, blue and red lights.

  “You can ride in front with me, Colonel,” O’Day said. “I guess you’re senior.”

  “Actually, Captain, the skinny guy’s a full colonel,” Castillo said. “But only in the Air Force, so that doesn’t count.”

  “Go to hell, Costello,” Torine said.

  O’Day took a cellular telephone from his shirt pocket, pushed an autodial key, then after a moment said, “On the way. There’s five of them. Maybe twenty minutes.” He pressed the END key and put the phone back in his shirt pocket.

  “How far is police headquarters?” Castillo asked, several minutes later.

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t that where we’re going?”

  “No, it isn’t,” O’Day said, and changed the subject. “I’ll forget what you tell me in thirty seconds. But what’s the real chances of getting young Byron Timmons back from those bastards? And not hooked on something?”

  “You heard about that, huh?”

  “His father and I go back a long way,” O’Day said. “He showed me Junior’s letters. A good kid. I shouldn’t have said that. Young Byron’s a good man.”

  “All I can tell you is that we’re going to try like hell,” Castillo said. “With a little luck…”

  “Yeah. I get the picture,” O’Day said. “I was afraid of that. Thanks.”

  A few minutes later, Castillo realized they were not headed downtown. Instead, they were moving through a residential area, and he guessed from that that they were going to the Timmons home. Proof seemed to come several minutes after that, when they turned one more corner and then stopped before a simple brick house on a side street.

  There was a police patrol car parked half up on the sidewalk, and three more cars—unmarked but rather obviously police cars—parked in the driveway beside the house.

  “Here we are,” he said. “I don’t envy you, Colonel.”

  Castillo got out of the car and waited for the second car, which was carrying McGuire, Munz, and Lorimer. He wordlessly indicated that he and Lorimer would follow Captain O’Day up to the door and the others were to follow.

  Before the door chimes finished playing “Home Sweet Home,” the door was opened by a gray-haired, plump, middle-aged woman wearing a cotton dress and a pink sweater.

  She looked at Castillo and then at Lorimer.

  “You’re Eddie,” she said. “I’ve seen your pictures.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lorimer said.

  “Is it okay if I kiss you?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She hugged and kissed him.

  “Honey,” she called. “Junior’s buddy Eddie is here.”

  A large man in the uniform of a police captain walked up to them and put out his hand.

  “I’m Junior’s—Byron’s—dad.”

  “Yes, sir, I know,” Lorimer said. “I’ve seen your pictures, too.”

  Captain Byron Timmons, Sr., looked at Castillo.

  “Sir,” Lorimer said, “this is Colonel Castillo.”

  Timmons crushed Castillo’s hand in his massive hand.

  “Colonel, I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you,” he said. “The President told the mayor that if anybody can get my son back from those bastards, you’re him.”

  “I’m going to try very hard, sir,” Castillo said.

  “Well, just don’t stand there in the door,” Mrs. Timmons said. “Come in and meet the others. There’s coffee and cake.”

  Captain Timmons took Castillo’s arm in a firm grasp and led him through a short corridor to a living room. There were two women there, who looked like Mrs. Timmons, and half a dozen men, two in police uniform and four in casual clothes, who, Castillo decided, might as well have had POLICEMAN painted on their foreheads.

  “This is Colonel Castillo,” Captain Timmons announced. “The man the President says can get Junior back. The lieutenant is Eddie Lorimer, Junior’s pal down there in Paraguay. I don’t know who the others are. Colonel, what about identifying the others, and then I’ll introduce everybody?”

  “Yes, sir,” Castillo said. “This is Colonel Jake Torine, U.S. Air Force, that’s Tom McGui—”

  “They’ve got their own Gulfstream airplane,” Captain O’Day furnished.

  “I wondered how they got here so quick,” one of the cops said.

  “…Tom McGuire,” Castillo went on, “who’s a Supervisory Special Agent of the Secret Service, and this gentleman is Colonel Alfredo Munz, who before his retirement was Chief of SIDE in Argentina. SIDE is sort of our CIA and FBI rolled into one. Munz now works with us.”

  “I thought Junior was in Paraguay,” one of the cops said.

  “Paraguay and Argentina share a border, sir,” Castillo said.

  “Okay, now it’s my turn,” Captain Timmons said, motioning for Castillo to follow him to the people sitting on a couch, two matching armchairs, and two chairs obviously borrowed from the dining room.

  “This is Captain, retired, Frank Timmons, Junior’s grandfather, known as Big Frank.”

  “And I’m the goddamned fool, Colonel, God forgive me, who told Junior to go federal.”

  Castillo shook Big Frank’s hand, then Lorimer and McGuire and Munz followed suit.

  “And this is Sergeant Charley Mullroney, Junior’s sister Ellen’s husband—that’s her over there. Charley works Narcotics on the job.”

  Castillo shook Mullroney’s hand, then smiled and nodded at Mrs. Mullroney across the room.

  “And this is Stan Wyskowski, of the DEA, Charley’s pal.”

  “And I’m the guy who got Junior in the DEA, Colonel.”

  Castillo shook Wyskowski’s hand.

  Wyskowski, I admire your balls for being here. That has to be tough.

  “And this is the mayor,” Captain Timmons said.

  Jesus H. Christ! I thought he was another cop-relative.

  “The President speaks very highly of you, Colonel,” the mayor said as he shook Castillo’s hand. “I’m happy to meet you, and that you are here.”

  “An honor, sir,” Castillo said. “I’m sorry I have to be here under these circumstances.”

  “Well, Colonel, I’ve always found the way to deal with a problem is get it out in the open and then start working on it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Castillo said.

  “And this,” Captain Timmons said, moving to the third man on the couch. “is…”

  Castillo shook that man’s hand, but his name—or those of the others—failed to register in his memory.

  His mind was busy thinking of something else….

  The mayor, who the President has made perfectly clear is to get whatever he wants from me, is not just doing a friend of the family a favor.

  He’s part of this family.

  “And that’s about it, I guess,” Lorimer said when he had finished telling everybody what he knew of the situation.

  He did that about as well as it could be done, Castillo thought.

  “Would it be all right if I called you ‘Eddie’?” Captain Timmons asked.

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “That was a good job, Eddie,” Captain Ti
mmons said. “I don’t have any questions. Anybody else?”

  “I got a couple,” Big Frank said.

  “Sir?” Lorimer asked politely.

  “That Irish Argentine cop, Duffy, Junior was on his way to see when these slimeballs grabbed him. Are there a lot of Irish cops down there? And is this one of the good ones? And what’s the Gendarmería Nacional?”

  Lorimer glanced at Castillo, who nodded just perceptibly.

  “I know Byron trusted Comandante Duffy, sir,” Lorimer said. “But maybe Colonel Munz can speak to that?”

  “I know Comandante Duffy,” Munz said. “Not well, but well enough to know that he’s a good man. I haven’t spoken to him since this happened, but he’s about the first man I’m going to talk to when we get down there. I’m sure he’s almost as upset about Agent Timmons as you are.”

  Big Frank nodded.

  Munz went on: “So far as Irish people in Argentina, the ethnic mix in Argentina—and Uruguay and Chile, but not Paraguay—is much like that in the States. My family came from Germany, for example. There are more people from Italy than from Spain. And many Irish. There are many Irish police, especially in the Gendarmería Nacional.”

  “Which is what?” Big Frank said.

  “A police force with authority all over Argentina,” Munz said. “They are a paramilitary force, more heavily armed than the Federal Police. They wear brown rather than blue uniforms, and enjoy the trust of the Argentine people.”

  “What does that mean?” Big Frank asked. “The other cops aren’t trusted?”

  “Can we agree, Captain, that dishonest police are an international problem?” Munz asked reasonably. “And that the problem is made worse by all the cash available to drug people? Or, for that matter, the criminal community generally?”

  “I’d have to agree with that,” the mayor said.

  “Let me put it this way,” Munz said. “When the Jewish Community Center was blown up in Buenos Aires several years ago—”

  “Blown up?” Captain Timmons asked. “By who?”

  “Most of us believe the Iranians had something to do with it,” Munz said. “But the point I was trying to make was, when it became obvious that protection of synagogues, etcetera, was going to be necessary, the Jewish community—there are more Jews in Argentina than any place but New York—demanded, and got, the Gendarmería Nacional as their protectors.”

  “Meaning they didn’t trust the other cops?” Captain Timmons asked.

  “Meaning they trusted the Gendarmería more,” Munz said.

  “You’re slick, Colonel,” Big Frank said. “Take that as a compliment.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What was it you said you did for Colonel Castillo?”

  “Whatever he asks me to do, Captain.”

  “Slick, Colonel,” Big Frank said, smiling.

  “Well, these bastards were waiting for Junior when he went to the airport, which means somebody told them he was going to the airport,” Captain O’Day said.

  “Or they set up their roadblock in the reasonable belief that some American agent was probably going to be on the Buenos Aires flight,” Munz said. “It may have had nothing to do with Agent Timmons going to see Comandante Duffy.”

  “And your gut feeling?” Big Frank asked softly.

  “That Agent Timmons was specifically targeted.”

  Big Frank nodded in agreement. Special Agent Timmons’s mother inhaled audibly.

  “Well, these bastards don’t seem to mind whacking people,” Wyskowski said. “They didn’t have to kill Junior’s driver, for Christ’s sake.”

  This is going to drag on for a long time, Castillo thought, and probably turn into a disaster.

  “They were sending a goddamn message, Stan—” one of the others, whose name Castillo had forgotten, began but was interrupted by His Honor the Mayor, who apparently was thinking the same thing Castillo was.

  “Well, I think we’ve learned everything that’s known,” the mayor said. “My question is what happens next, Colonel Castillo? You’re going right down there?”

  “There are some things we have to do here first,” Castillo said. “Ambassador Montvale, the DNI—”

  “The what?” Sergeant Mullroney asked.

  “The director of National Intelligence,” Castillo replied. “He’s going to have all the experts in this area—from the various intelligence agencies—waiting for us when we get back to Washington.”

  “Well, that should be helpful,” the mayor said. “And with help in mind, Colonel, I thought Sergeant Mullroney, with his experience in Narcotics, might be useful to you, and I asked the commissioner to put him on temporary duty with you.”

  Oh, Jesus!

  What’s he going to be useful doing is keeping the family aware of how we’re stumbling around in the dark!

  His Honor apparently saw something in Castillo’s face.

  “I thought of that immediately after I last spoke with the President,” the mayor said. “Do you have the authority to take him with you, or would it be better for you if I suggested this to the President?”

  Talk about slick! No wonder he’s the mayor for life.

  “Welcome aboard, Sergeant Mullroney,” Castillo said. “Glad to have you.”

  “I sort of thought that you’d have the authority,” the mayor said. “The President told me that he places his absolute trust in you. So I told Charley to pack a bag—and his passport—before coming over here. So you’re going right back to Washington?”

  “No, sir. We’ve got to make a couple of stops first.”

  The mayor stood up, obviously to leave.

  “Really?” he asked.

  The translation of that is “And where are you going to waste time instead of getting to work on this immediately, as I expect you to?”

  Oh, what the hell. When in doubt, tell the truth.

  “Las Vegas, Mr. Mayor. The airplane needs some maintenance, and we’re having radios installed that will permit us to communicate—securely—with the White House no matter where we are.”

  The mayor examined him carefully, then smiled.

  “Just like Air Force One, huh?”

  “Almost, Mr. Mayor.”

  “When my plane is in for work, it takes them forever and a day,” the mayor said. “I suppose for you things go a little quicker, don’t they?”

  The translation of that is “And how long is that going to take?”

  “They expect us, sir. They’ll work through the night to get us out as quickly as they can.”

  The mayor nodded, then went through the room, shaking all the men’s hands and kissing the women on the cheek. Then he walked out of the living room with Captain O’Day following closely.

  Mrs. Timmons kissed Lorimer, then grabbed Castillo by both arms.

  “I’ll pray for you, Colonel, to get my son back soon. Before…before anything happens to him.”

  “Thank you. We’ll do our best.”

  Then everybody shook hands with everybody else.

  The mayor was standing on the sidewalk—surprising Castillo—when he and the others came down the stairs.

  Castillo then thought he understood why when a black Lincoln limousine turned the corner.

  “Oh, there it is,” the mayor said, and turned to Castillo. “If there’s anything you need, Colonel, give me a call. Sometimes—I’m not without influence—I can be helpful.”

  “Thank you very much, sir.”

  Captain O’Day opened the door of the limousine.

  “You’ll have to use the jump seats,” the mayor said. “And someone will have to ride up front, but there’ll be room for all of you.” He nodded at the others. “It’s been a real pleasure to meet all of you.”

  Then the mayor of Chicago got in the front seat of one of the black Crown Victoria Police Interceptors, and Captain O’Day drove him away.

  [FOUR]

  Pilots’ Lounge

  Atlantic Aviation Services Operations

  Midway Internati
onal Airport

  Chicago, Illinois

  1635 2 September 2005

  Castillo motioned to Munz to come with him. They walked out of earshot of the others.

  “I’ve just had more proof that I’m stupid, Alfredo,” Castillo said.

  Munz looked curiously at him but didn’t reply.

  “Would you really rather be with your family at the Double-Bar-C, or with us standing around a hangar in Las Vegas?”

  “Wherever I would be most useful, Karl,” Munz said in German.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “With my family.”

  “And not in Vegas?”

  Munz nodded.

  “That’s what I thought. And I should have thought of it right away. That’s what I meant by proof of stupidity.”

  “You have nothing else on your mind, of course,” Munz said.

  “So what we’ll do is just drop you at the ranch and worry about getting together later. I wish you had one of our cellulars.”

  Munz reached into his jacket pocket and held up a cellular telephone.

  “Miller gave me this,” he said, “and this.” He held up a thin sheaf of one-hundred-dollar bills held together with a Riggs National Bank band. “He said he’s working on the credit cards.”

  “Make sure you get receipts for everything you spend,” Castillo said. “Agnes flips her lid if you don’t.” He reached for the cellular. “Let me put your number in mine.”

  After he had done that, he started to push an autodial button on his cellular. He stopped and looked at Munz.

  “And now for proof that I am an unprincipled sonofabitch, watch as I lie to my grandmother.”

  He pushed the autodial button.

  “This is Carlos, Juanita,” he said in Spanish a moment later. “Is Doña Alicia available?”

  He turned to Munz. “She is, damn it.”

  “Abuela,” he said a moment later. “You remember that story you told me about George Washington and the cherry tree?

  “Well, neither can I.

  “We’re in Chicago. Alfredo Munz is with us.

  “Yesterday.

  “We’re going to drop him off at the Double-Bar-C. And I can’t do anything more than just that. I really can’t. That’s the George Washington So Help Me God Boy Scout’s Honor Truth. I have to be somewhere else as soon as I can get there.