"What else did my friend with the big mouth tell you about me?"
"That you're Texas oil money."
"I'm from Texas and I can afford to live in the Mayflower. Can we leave it at that?"
"Okay."
"There's also some sort of a law," Castillo said, "that when you take ten thousand, or more, in cash from a bank, the bank has to tell somebody. I don't know who, maybe the IRS, but somebody. And I don't know what I'm talking about here, but I think there's another law that says you have to declare it if you're taking ten thousand-maybe five thousand-in cash out of the country."
"I'll ask Tony. He'd know. Or one of those FBI guys from Montevideo. They would know…"
There was the buzzing of a cellular phone. Both men took theirs out.
"Hey, Charley," Howard Kennedy's voice came somewhat metallically over Castillo's cellular. "How's things going?"
Darby put his cellular away and looked with interest at Castillo.
"What's new, Howard?" Castillo asked.
"A mutual friend would like to see you."
"Really?"
"He's quite anxious you meet."
Why do I find that menacing?
"That's very flattering. Why?"
"I have no idea. What are you doing now? Where are you?"
"I'm drinking a cup of coffee in a restaurant in San Isidro."
"It would just take a couple of hours, Charley. Can I pick you up? What restaurant?"
"Hold one, Howard," Castillo said, and took the cellular from his ear.
Painful experience had taught him that cellular microphones were very sensitive. He hit a series of keys with his thumb to select the MUTE function, then, for insurance, raised his right buttock, shoved the cellular under, and sat on it. His buttocks was the only object he knew for sure would effectively cover the cellular's mic.
Darby had apparently come to the same conclusion, because he smiled understandingly. Castillo smiled back.
"This is a guy I really should see," Castillo explained.
"I was hoping it was Tony saying they'd heard something."
"Me, too," Castillo said. "Is there some reason you think I should go back to the embassy?"
Darby shook his head. "But I have to get back. I told Jack I'd go with him to pick up his kids at school. You'll be all right to get to your hotel?"
"I'll be fine."
Castillo lifted his rump, reclaimed the phone, and keyed UNMUTE.
"You still there, Howard?"
"What the hell was that all about?"
"I'm in the Kansas restaurant, on Libertador."
"I know where it is. I'll be there in ten, fifteen minutes. Same car. Can I get you to wait on the street?"
"Why don't you go into the parking lot? That will make it easier for the FBI."
"That's not funny, goddammit!"
"Just pulling your chain, Howard."
"Ten minutes, out in front," Kennedy said, and the connection went dead.
Darby looked at him curiously.
"Private joke," Castillo explained. "Somebody else the FBI doesn't like."
Darby nodded. "There's a lot of people like that. Why don't we put our numbers in each other's cellular?"
"If you're going to tell Lowery-or Masterson or the ambassador-what I'm doing down here, that would be a waste of time."
"Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But I'm not going to say anything tonight, and then not until I give you warning. And who knows what's liable to happen tonight?"
"Thanks," Castillo said, and handed him his cellular for Darby to punch in his number. [TWO] The black Mercedes-Benz S500 appeared in the flow of westbound traffic on Avenida Libertador, and Castillo stepped off the curb so they would see him. The car pulled to the curb and the rear door was opened from the inside. He saw Kennedy inside.
"Get in, Charley," Kennedy said.
The car started the moment Castillo had pulled the door closed.
"Gruss Gott," Castillo said, speaking the Viennese greeting in as thick an accent as he could muster.
"Gruss Gott, Herr Gossinger," Frederic replied from behind the wheel.
That's not a Viennese accent. Not even Czech. Good ol' Frederic's probably a Hungarian.
Why did I do that? Why do I care?
The Mercedes made the next left turn. They were moving through a residential area, looking much, Castillo thought, like one of the better neighborhoods of San Antonio, except that all the houses here were behind walls-some of them topped with razor wire-and almost all of them had bars on the windows.
Kennedy touched his arm and handed him something. It looked like a black velvet bag.
"What's this?"
"It's a velvet bag," Kennedy said. "It goes over your head."
Now I know why I felt menaced. They call it "intuition."
"You're kidding, right?"
"Not at all. You know my boss. He pays a good deal of consideration to his privacy."
"Fuck you, Howard, and fuck your boss!" Castillo said evenly. Then he raised his voice for the benefit of Frederic. "Stop the car!"
"Jesus Christ, Charley, there's nothing personal in this!"
"Stop the car before I have to hurt you, Howard."
"Take us back to the restaurant," Kennedy ordered in German, and then added, to Castillo, "You know he's not going to like this."
"Make sure you tell him I said, 'Go fuck yourself, Alex.' Now stop the goddamn car."
Kennedy hesitated a moment, then ordered Frederic to pull to the curb.
Castillo got out, slammed the door, and started to walk toward Avenida Libertador. He heard the Mercedes drive off.
It was a three-block-long walk to Libertador, and he was half a block away when he saw the Mercedes. It was stopped at the curb, facing him, and Kennedy was standing on the sidewalk beside it. He was holding something in his left hand.
I don't think he's stupid enough to pull a gun and force me into the car, but there's no telling.
When Castillo got closer, he saw that what Kennedy had in his hand was a cell phone.
"You have a call, Herr Gossinger," Kennedy said jokingly. He was wearing an uncomfortable smile.
"If Frederic looks like he's even thinking of getting out of the car, you're going to either the hospital or the morgue," Castillo said.
Kennedy handed Castillo the telephone, and then took three steps backward and raised his open hands to show he had no intention of doing anything.
Castillo, maintaining eye contact, said into the phone, "Hello?"
"If Howard offended you in any way, my friend," Alex Pevsner said in Russian, "you have my apology."
"Howard was doing what you told him to do. And don't call me your friend," Castillo replied in Russian. "Where I come from, friends trust friends; friends don't ask friends to put bags over their heads."
"When you get here, my friend, you will understand why I was trying to be a little more cautious than I usuallyam. And you will understand that I really consider you a trustworthy friend."
"Why should I go anywhere?"
"Because I am asking you as a friend."
"I don't want to have to hurt Howard."
"There will be no need to even consider something like that. Please give me just a few hours of your time."
Whatever this is about, it's important to him. He doesn't ask people to do things; he tells them, and, it is credibly alleged, has them killed if they don't do what he says.
"Okay," Castillo said, after a just perceptible hesitation.
"Thank you, Charley," Pevsner said, and there was a click as the connection was broken.
Castillo looked at Kennedy and then tossed the phone to him.
"Get in the car, Howard, and put the bag over your head," Castillo said.
He took pity on Kennedy when he saw the look on his face.
"Just pulling your chain, Howard." [THREE] Their route took them through the residential district of San Isidro, and then past a long line of interesting-looking restaurants facing the San Isidro Jockey Club. He thought he more or less knew where he was. His grandfather had taken him and Charley's cousin Fernando here a half dozen or more times when they were in high school.
Then quickly they were on a wide superhighway-six lanes in each direction-and although this was new to him, Castillo was pretty sure that it was the old Pan Americana Highway. The Argentines had been expanding it for years, and they had apparently finally finished what they called an autopista.