He hadn't. He was in a duty-free store, and a young woman-Jesus, I like that; long legs, dark eyes, and a splendid bosom-handed him a flyer announcing both that day's bargains and that he could take three hundred U.S. dollars' worth of goods duty-free into Argentina in addition to what was already permitted.
The duty-free store people have solved their problem of getting travelers into their emporium by making it impossible to get to Immigration and Customs without passing through the store; they've built it on both sides of the corridor.
Clever.
But screw them. I don't need anything.
When he got to the Immigration window, a large bag containing a double-box of Famous Grouse scotch, a half-pound bag of M amp;M's, and two eight-ounce cans of cashews was hanging from the handle of the wheeled briefcase.
My intentions were noble. I thought I would see if they had any of Abuela's Reserva San Juan Extra Anejo, so that I would be sure to remember to bring her some. They didn't, but they did have a damned good price on the Famous Grouse. And the cashews and M amp;M's were certainly a hell of a lot cheaper than the ten-bucks-a-can cashews and five-dollar one-ounce packages of nuts Hyatt offers in their minibars.
You're rationalizing again, Charley. The truth is you have no strength of character. If the duty-free-store spending spree isn't enough proof of that, note the way you lusted after the senorita passing out the flyers. You promised yourself you would be faithful to your Secret Service trainee-is that what they're calling her? Maybe cadet?-Betty Schneider, even though she professes not to want to get to know you better than she does now, which is to say, hardly at all. And absolutely not at all in the biblical sense. "And are you in Argentina on business or pleasure, Senor Gossinger?"
"Business and pleasure."
"What's the nature of your business?"
"I'm a journalist, here on a story."
"You understand that as a journalist, you will have to register with the Ministry of Information?"
"I'm only going to be here for a few days. Just to do a story on the survivors of the Graf Spee."
"The law is the law, senor."
This guy never heard of the Graf Spee.
"I certainly understand, and I'll register just as soon as I can. Probably later today."
That was pretty stupid, Inspector Clouseau. You didn't have to tell him you were a journalist. You could have told him you were a used-car salesman on vacation.
How come James Bond never gets asked what he's doing when he goes through Immigration?
Customs didn't give him any trouble. The customs officers pushed a button for each traveler, which randomly flashed a red and a green light. If it came up red, your bags went through the X-ray machine. If it came up green, they waved you through. Castillo won the push of the button.
He pushed through the doors to the arrival lobby.
There was a stocky man holding a crudely lettered sign with GOSSINGER on it.
"My name is Gossinger."
A balding, short, heavyset man in his forties standing next to the man with the sign put out his hand.
"Mr. Gossinger, my name is Santini. Mr. Isaacson asked me to meet you. Welcome to Argentina."
Castillo picked up on the "Mr. Isaacson." Not Joel. Not Agent. And responded accordingly.
"That was very kind of him. And kind of you. How do you do?"
"Some of the taxi drivers here at the airport tend to take advantage of unwary visitors."
"That happens at a lot of airports," Charley replied. "La Guardia comes immediately to mind."
Santini smiled, and then said: "We have a remise- you know what a remise is?"
Charley nodded.
"… with an honest driver," Santini finished, then gestured toward the doors. "Shall we go?"
When the man with the sign got two steps ahead of him, Santini quickly gestured-his index finger across his lips-for Castillo to say nothing important in the presence of the driver. Castillo quickly nodded his head.
They stood for a couple of minutes on the curb while the driver went for the car. Santini didn't say a word. Castillo, feeling colder by the second in his summer suit, silently hoped the driver hurried.
The car was a large, black Volkswagen with heavily tinted glass. As the driver bent to put Castillo's luggage in the trunk, Castillo saw that he had a pistol-it looked like a Beretta 9mm-in a belt holster.
Santini opened the rear door and motioned for Castillo to get in. When he had, Santini slid in beside him. When the driver got behind the wheel, Santini asked, "You don't speak Spanish, do you?"
Castillo asked with a raised eyebrow how he should reply. Santini, just perceptibly, shook his head.
"I'm afraid not," Castillo said.
"Pity," Santini said. "Mr. Isaacson didn't say where you would be staying."
"The Hyatt."
"It's now the Four Seasons, formerly Hyatt Park. They sold it."
"I guess nobody told my travel agent," Castillo said.
"You heard that, Antonio?" Santini asked. "The Four Seasons?"
"Si, senor."
The Volkswagen started off. It was a thirty-minute drive from the airport to the hotel. First down the crowded but nonetheless high-speed autopista toll road, and then onto Avenida 9 Julio, which Castillo remembered was supposed to be the widest avenue in the world.
As they came close to the Four Seasons, formerly Hyatt Park, Castillo saw that it was next to the French embassy, an enormous turn-of-the-century mansion. He'd forgotten that.
A top-hatted doorman welcomed him to the Four Seasons and blew a whistle, which caused a bellman to appear.
"Find somewhere to park," Santini ordered Antonio. "I'll see that Senor Gossinger gets settled." Room 1550 in the Four Seasons was a small suite, a comfortable sitting room and a large bedroom, both facing toward the Main Railroad Station-which Castillo remembered was called "El Retiro"-and the docks and the River Plate beyond. There was something faint on the far horizon.
Castillo wondered aloud if they were high enough so that he was looking at the shore of Uruguay.
"Clear day," Santini replied. "Could be. Why don't we go out on the balcony and have a good look?"
"Why not?"
When they were out on the small balcony, Santini took a small, flat metal box from his pocket and ran it over the walls, then over the tiny table and two chairs, and finally over the floor.
"Clean," he announced. "But it never hurts to check."
Castillo smiled at him.
"Joel tells me there's a warrant out for you in Costa Rica," Santini said with a smile. "Grand Theft, Airplane."
"Joel's mistaken. The name on the warrant is 'Party or Parties Unknown.'"
Santini chuckled, then asked, "What's going on with you here?"
"I was sent to find out about our diplomat's wife who got herself kidnapped."
"When did kidnapping start to interest Special Forces?"
"Joel told you about that, too, huh? To look at him, you wouldn't think he talks too much."
"Your shameful secret is safe with me, Herr Gossinger."
"I guess you know I'm on loan from the Army to Matt Hall?" Santini nodded. "The President told him to send me down here to, quote, find out what happened and how it happened before anybody down there has time to write a cover-his-ass report, end quote."
Santini nodded, then offered:
"Mrs. Elizabeth Masterson, nice lady, wife of J. Winslow Masterson, our chief of mission. Nice guy. She was apparently snatched from the parking lot of a restaurant called Kansas, nice place, in San Isidro, which is an upscale suburb. So far, no communication from the kidnappers. I'm thinking that they may have been very disappointed to find the lady has a diplomatic passport; I wouldn't be surprised if they turn her loose. On the other hand, they may decide that a dead woman can't identify anybody."
"You give it good odds that they'd kill her?"
"They kidnapped a kid not so long ago-not a kid. He was twenty-three. In San Isidro, where they grabbed Mrs. Masterson. He was the son of a rich businessman. They cut off his fingers, one at a time, and sent them to Poppa, together with rising demands for ransom. Poppa finally paid, three hundred thousand American. That's roughly nine hundred thousand pesos, a fortune in a poor country. And shortly thereafter, they found the kid's body, shot in the head."