The Shooters

by W. E. B Griffin

  Pevsner looked at him for a long moment.

  “You’re serious,” Pevsner said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “And other interesting lethal devices,” Castillo continued. “Said force backed up by a hundred or so gendarmes argentinos who want not only to get back two of their number also kidnapped by these people, but also to seek righteous vengeance for two of their number who were murdered.”

  Pevsner looked at him intently.

  Castillo nodded knowingly and went on: “And their orders will be—I know, because their commanding officer told me, and I believe him—to leave as many bodies scattered over the terrain as possible and then to blow everything up.”

  Pevsner looked at him curiously but didn’t say anything.

  Castillo answered the unspoken question.

  “He wants to send the message that kidnapping or murdering members of the gendarmería is unacceptable behavior and is punished accordingly.”

  “Your president is going to do all this over one drug enforcement agent?”

  “A lot of people, Alek, and I unequivocally count myself among them,” Castillo said evenly, “believe in the work of these drug enforcement agents and do not consider them expendable.”

  “You’re a soldier, friend Charley. You know men die in wars.”

  “We don’t shoot our own men in the back. Or write them off when they’re captured.”

  “My God, there’s no way something like this could happen without it getting out.”

  “And that is why I was hoping you would pass the message through your mutual acquaintances to these bastards that I would much prefer that Timmons miraculously reappear unharmed instead of me having to come after him.”

  “That is wishful thinking. I am surprised you even suggested it.”

  “All they can say is ‘no.’ Give it a shot, please.”

  “I will not be talking to mutual acquaintances about this man,” Pevsner said. “It would not only be a waste of my breath, but—and I’m surprised you didn’t think of this, too—it would warn them that action is contemplated.”

  Castillo shrugged, hoping it suggested Pevsner’s refusal didn’t matter.

  He instead was thinking, Now what the hell do I do?

  Pevsner took a moment to drain his glass and think.

  “You couldn’t possibly get four helicopters and all the men you say you have into Argentina without at least the tacit approval of the Argentine government,” Pevsner went on.

  “The Argentine government knows nothing about this,” Castillo said, “and if I can work it, never will. And, yes, I can. I already have most of the shooters in country; the rest will be here in a day or two; and so will the helicopters. I’m going to get Agent Timmons back. I hope I can do it without the Evil Leprechaun carrying out the bloodbath he wants, but if that happens…”

  “‘The Evil Leprechaun’?”

  “Reminding you that you’re still bound by the Boy Scout’s oath of secrecy, his name is Liam Duffy. He’s a comandante in the Gendarmería Nacional. You know him?”

  Pevsner shook his head.

  “I think I’ll have another drink, friend Charley. You?”

  Castillo emptied his glass and held it out. “Please.”

  As Pevsner made the drinks, Castillo heard him say, as if he was thinking aloud, “I almost wish I had given you a beauty mark in Vienna.”

  “Oh, Alek, you don’t mean that! You love me!”

  A moment later, Pevsner turned and handed Castillo the drink.

  “Unfortunately, I do,” he said, sincerely. “But I never dreamed how expensive that would be.”

  “There’s no reason you have to be involved in this,” Castillo said, seriously.

  Pevsner snorted.

  “You had better pray your Evil Leprechaun does what he says he wants to do,” he said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that’s the only way your noble rescue mission can succeed without bringing yourself down—and me down with you.”

  “You’re going to explain that, right?”

  Pevsner raised his glass toward Castillo’s and touched rims.

  “Oh, God, friend Charley. You do cause me problems.”

  “That’s what friends are for, right?”

  Pevsner shook his head and exhaled audibly.

  “You’re sure that the Argentine government is not involved? Either with you? Or that they’re not winking at this man Duffy?”

  “The Argentine government has no idea what I plan. And I don’t think they know what Duffy plans,” Castillo said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “When I got here, he had men waiting for me. He knew I was coming, which means he has someone in the U.S. embassy in Asunción.”

  “Someone in your embassy knew you were coming?”

  “That’s another whole story.”

  “I should know it, if I’m to help,” Pevsner said.

  That’s really none of his business.

  But why not tell him?

  Maybe he can fill in the blanks.

  “As I understand it, Alek, the drugs are moved to the United States with fresh meat shipped from Ezeiza by air to Jamaica—maybe on your airplanes, although I don’t expect you to fess up about that.”

  “My airplanes make a number of such flights, sometimes every other day,” Pevsner said, somewhat indignantly. “But the pilots will not take off until they have in their hand documents from Argentine customs stating that the sealed and locked containers they are carrying have passed customs inspection. There may well be drugs in those containers, but I don’t know about it, and neither does anyone who works for me. And my people know what happens to people who do what I have told them not to do.”

  “Okay. I believe you”—Strangely enough, I do, especially the part about what happens to people who do what you’ve told them not to—“but in Jamaica, they are loaded aboard cruise ships and smuggled into the United States from the cruise ships. The CIA station chief in the Asunción embassy, and maybe the head man from the DEA, has been setting up an operation to seize the cruise ships under international law, which permits the seizure of ships whose owners collude in the shipment of drugs—”

  “You believe this story?” Pevsner interrupted.

  “What I know is that a CIA guy heard I was being sent down here to grab Timmons and looked me up to tell me—Timmons be damned—that he would be unhappy if my operation interfered with his.”

  “And you were sent down here anyway? One drug agent is worth more than seizing a cruise ship?”

  “To answer the second question first, yeah, Alek, in my book one drug agent is worth more than a cruise ship. And, what’s really interesting here, the director of the CIA and his deputy don’t know anything about the ship-seizing operation.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I believe that. But that operation smells somehow.”

  “You don’t have any idea what’s going on?”

  “No. But to get back to the Evil Leprechaun: I told you the only way that he could have known I was coming down here was that he has somebody in the Asunción embassy close to either the CIA station chief or the head of the DEA there. There’s no question in my mind that the CIA guy who came to me in Washington—after I told him I didn’t care about his operation; I was going to get Timmons back—warned the CIA guy in Asunción that I was coming.”

  “With the Delta Force people and the helicopters?”

  Castillo shook his head. “He didn’t know that. And I don’t think he’s found out. But the Evil Leprechaun told me he had word that there were people intent on whacking me and the people with me. I believe him.”

  “You don’t mean your own CIA people?”

  Castillo shrugged, meaning he didn’t know.

  “Duffy tried to bluff me,” Castillo went on, “to get back to your original, original question. He threatened to have me kicked out of the country within twenty-four hours unless I put myself and m
y assets under his command.”

  “He knew about the helicopters and—what did you call them?—‘the shooters’?”

  Castillo nodded as he sipped his single-malt.

  “He didn’t then,” he explained. “I told him this morning, after I called his bluff. He backed down. I don’t think he would have backed down from his threat if the government—hell, even his boss in the gendarmería—knew about the massacre he’s planning.”

  “Why did you tell him anything?”

  “Because I need his help in getting the helicopters up there around Asunción where I can stage them, and to find out where these people have Timmons.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Not very much. But as long as he thinks I’m on board to get his men back and I’m willing to go along with his plan to shoot everybody in sight and let the Lord sort them out, I don’t think he’s going to cause me any problems. I left him with one of the A-Team commanders, who’ll warn me if he’s about to go out of control.”

  “What have you got against letting him do what he wants to do?”

  “I’m an Army officer, Alek, for one thing, not the avenging hand of God. For another, if I let him do that, and this operation blows up in my face, they call that murder.”

  “Letting him do what he wants is the only chance you have to get away with this, friend Charley.”

  “Unless you can get these people to let Timmons go.”

  “I’ve told you that that is not going to happen. These people are making a point. They can kidnap people. They’re not going to turn this fellow loose because you threaten them. And if you just drop in and get him, leaving their men alive—and their refining facility and warehouse full of drugs intact—they would have to send another message. On the other hand, if you—or this fellow Duffy—leave bodies all over the terrain, to use your phrase, and blow up their warehouse and refinery, what do you think will happen?”

  “I think you’re about to tell me.”

  “There’s no way that could be kept a secret. The word will get out—Duffy’s gendarmes will talk. More important, Duffy will want it to get out, to take credit; he got the people who killed and kidnapped his gendarmes. And that will leave the Argentine government with the choice of trying Duffy for murder or saying, ‘Congratulations, Comandante, for dealing so effectively with these criminals. It is to be regretted, of course, that so many of them died, but those who live by the sword, etcetera, etcetera….”

  “What about my involvement?”

  “Who’s going to believe the United States government sent Delta Force shooters and helicopters to carry them down here to rescue one ordinary drug agent? I find that hard to believe myself, even coming from you, friend Charley.”

  Castillo looked at him with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  “All you have to do is get out of wherever they’re holding your man as soon as you have him,” Pevsner said, then added, as if he had read Castillo’s mind, “You know I’m right, friend Charley.”

  Castillo still didn’t reply.

  “And Colonel Primakov is wise enough to take his losses; he’s too smart to attempt retribution against what he will believe is the Argentine government. He’ll lay low for a while, and then start up again. He may even call off the people he sent looking for you. After all, you’ll no longer be here, will you?”

  “Shit,” Castillo said.

  “What’s next for you?” Pevsner asked, the question implying that a discussion had been held and a conclusion drawn.

  “I’m going to Asunción in the morning,” Castillo said. “To see what I can find out about who in the embassy ordered me whacked. And I want to see what I can find out about this scheme to seize cruise ships. There’s something about it that smells.”

  “Is there an expression in English to the effect that wise men leave sleeping dogs lie? That’s really none of your business, is it, friend Charley?”

  Castillo looked at him and thought, And he’s right about that, too.

  “No, it isn’t any of my business. Neither, I suppose, is finding out who in the embassy wants me whacked. Unless, of course, they succeed before I can get out of here.”

  [THREE]

  La Casa el Bosque

  San Carlos de Bariloche

  Río Negro Province, Argentina

  0730 11 September 2005

  Castillo, Munz, János, and Pevsner were standing on the steps of the house smoking cigars and holding mugs of coffee steaming in the morning cold. Max was gnawing on an enormous bone.

  They had begun smoking the cigars at the breakfast table but had been ordered out of the house by Anna’s raised eyebrow when Sergei, the youngest boy, had sneezed.

  “He and Aleksandr both have colds, poor things,” she had said, and then raised her eyebrow directly at her husband.

  “Gentlemen, why don’t we have our coffee on the verandah?” Pevsner had suggested.

  Once there, he had said, not bitterly, “There is a price one must pay for children. It generally has to do with giving up something one is fond of. True, friend Charley?”

  “Absolutely,” Castillo agreed.

  I think.

  I have been a father about a week, and I’m still not familiar with the price…or the rules.

  He heard a cry, a strange one, of a bird and looked around to find the bird. He didn’t see the bird, but as he looked up he saw a legend carved into the marble above the massive doors.

  “I’ll be a sonofabitch,” he said, and read it aloud: “House in the Woods.”

  “That’s what Schmidt called it,” Pevsner said.

  “It’s what our family calls the house in Germany, Haus im Wald,” Castillo said.

  “Where you grew up?”

  Castillo nodded.

  “Don’t tell me it looks like Carinhall.”

  “No, it looks like a factory,” Castillo said. “Or maybe a funeral home.”

  “Bad memories?”

  “Quite the contrary. Good memories, except when my grandfather and uncle killed themselves on the autobahn, and then my mother developed pancreatic cancer a couple of months later. Haus im Wald was—is—ugly, but it’s comfortable. And interesting. From the dining room window, I could look out and see the Volkspolitzei—and every once in a while, a real Russian soldier—running up and down the far side of the fence that cut across our property, and the stalwart troops of the 14th Armored Cavalry Regiment running up and down on our side of the fence. I decided right off that I would rather be an American.”

  “You didn’t know you were an American?” Pevsner asked, confused.

  “Not until I was twelve. I had a number of surprises in my twelfth year.”

  “But your son doesn’t live there? You said something about his living with his mother.”

  “I didn’t know I had a son until last week, Alek.”

  Castillo met Munz’s eyes.

  There’s more than idle curiosity in those eyes.

  Jesus, did he make the connection with the pictures? Does he know?

  He can’t know, but he damned sure suspects.

  After a perceptible pause, Pevsner said, “And you’d rather not talk about it?”

  “I didn’t know I had a son until one of my men gave me the picture I showed you last night. The boy doesn’t know about me, about our connection.”

  “A youthful indiscretion, friend Charley?”

  “That’s what they call a massive understatement,” Castillo said. “His mother—five days before she married a West Point classmate of mine—had so much to drink that what began as a deep-seated feeling of revulsion toward me was converted to irresistible lust.”

  “But she must know…”

  “I don’t know if she does or not. I’m sure her husband doesn’t, and I’m certain Randy, the boy, doesn’t. The problem is her father does, I’m sure. He flew with my father in the Vietnam War—was flying with my father when he was killed. Randy looks just like my father.”

  “He has your eyes,” P
evsner said. “The photo was clear.”

  Castillo nodded. “Worse, I’m sure my grandmother knows. For the same reason. The eyes. She took one look at my eyes in a picture—and I was then a twelve-year-old, blue-eyed, blond-headed Aryan—and announced that I was my father’s son. Subsequently confirmed by science, of course, but she knew when she saw my eyes.”

  “Karl,” Munz said. “This is none of my business…”

  “But?”

  “There is a picture of the boy at the Double-Bar-C. On a table next to your grandmother’s chair in the living room. With pictures of your father and your cousin and you, all as boys. The boy looks like your father as a boy. I asked who he was, and she said that he was General Wilson’s grandson and told me who General Wilson was, and then she said, ‘He’s an adorable child. I often wish he was my grandson.’ And there were tears in her eyes, Karl.” He paused. “She knows.”

  Castillo shook his head.

  “How terrible for you!” Pevsner said. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t have a fucking clue, Alek.”

  Pevsner gripped Castillo’s shoulder firmly in what Castillo recognized as genuine sympathy.

  The left of the double doors to the house opened and Corporal Lester Bradley came out. He held the radio handset.

  “Saved by the Marine Corps once again,” Castillo said.

  “Sir?”

  “What have you got, Lester?”

  “Colonel Torine, sir. He’s on the Gipper.”

  Castillo gestured for him to give him the handset. The legend on the small screen flashed: COL TORINE ENCRYPTION ENABLED.

  “And how are things on the high seas, Jake?” Castillo said into the handset.

  “You wouldn’t believe how big this mobile airfield is, Charley.”

  “And how are you getting along with the admiral?”

  “I’m going to have breakfast with him shortly. He’s a little confused.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He somehow had the idea that I was bringing a letter to him from Ambassador Montvale, for whom I work.”