"I can't prove it, but I got the same look from the CIA station chief, a guy named Darby-he's as sharp as a tack, too-and I know he knew who I was. Am."
"How do you know that?"
"After the brainstorming session-which came up with nothing-he offered to show me the restaurant, and when we got in his car, he told me the last time he'd seen me was in Zaranj, Afghanistan-he was station chief there-and that he'd put two and two together and concluded I was the guy involved in getting the 727 back."
"So is he going to tell the ambassador? Or anyone else?"
"For auld lang syne he said he would wait until tomorrow morning, but that he would have to tell him. About two hours ago, I told him to go ahead and tell him. I wanted to get on a secure line, rather than screw around with e-mails. So he knows. As I was coming into town, Darby relayed a very polite request from the ambassador that I come to his office at half past nine in the morning."
"What about the ambassador?"
"Both Santini and Darby think he's first class. Anyway, after having a very nice lunch in the Kansas which really made me feel guilty, I went nosing around by myself, and came up with zilch, except the possibility that the kidnappers are American. When I passed this on to Darby, he said the Argentine cops had already- 'delicately,' he said-offered this possibility. Outside this phone booth, the FBI-including Yung, the FBI guy I think has made me-is sending the names of all Americans who've come down here in the past thirty days to the NCIC."
"What about the local authorities?"
"From everything I've been able to pick up, they're really doing their best, and with the same result, zilch. So what everybody is doing is waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"And that's about it?"
"Yes, sir. I feel about as useless as teats on a boar hog. Jesus, I wish the President hadn't come up with the nutty idea that I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'd really like to help, and I'm in way over my head."
"Hold one, Charley."
"Sherlock, this is the President."
"Jesus Christ!" Castillo blurted.
"No. Just the President," the President chuckled. "And I'm glad I did, Sherlock. I could not have asked for a more succinct and comprehensive report, and I know that any report that came close to being as good as the one you just gave Secretary Hall would have taken a lot more time to reach me."
"Sir, I'm sorry-"
"No need to be, Charley. I have just one question."
"Sir?"
"What about Mr. Masterson? Is he-and their children-being protected?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Darby-he and Mr. Masterson are close-told me that he's having some of his people sit on Mr. Masterson, hopefully without his being aware that this is going on. And there's Argentine cops and SIDE people all over, too."
"Their FBI?"
"Yes, sir. Much like it. Both Mr. Santini and Mr. Darby tell me they're good at what they do."
"When you see Ambassador Silvio in the morning, you might tell him of my concern."
"Yes, sir, I will."
"Well, I guess that's it," the President said. "You're doing what I sent you down there to do, Charley, and doing it well."
"Thank you, sir."
"Mrs. Hall wants me to pass on her regards, and I'm sure my wife would like to add hers."
"Yes, sir."
"Goodnight, Charley," the President said. "Interesting guy," the President observed.
"And a very nice one," Mrs. Janice Hall said. "You could hear his concern for that poor woman and the family in his voice."
"Until she actually met him, Janice could not stand men to whom women are drawn like moths to a candle."
"You can go to hell, Matt," Mrs. Hall said.
"I think sending him down there was one of my better ideas," the President said, and then added, "As was leaving him with Matt."
"Excuse me?" the first lady asked.
"When he got that airplane back, my first thought was to bring him into the White House. Then I realized that wouldn't be smart. Can you imagine what pressure would be on him if he worked here? Everybody in this building would be trying to (a) control him, and (b) keep him off my phone and out of the Oval Office. Having him working for Matt fixes all of that." [SEVEN] Room 1550 The Four Seasons Hotel Cerrito 1433 Buenos Aires, Argentina 0625 23 July 2005 Castillo had left a call for seven-which would give him two hours to get dressed, have breakfast, and get to the embassy by half past nine-and when he glanced at his watch as he reached for the ringing telephone and saw what time it was, he felt a chill. It was too much to hope this call was going to be good news.
"?Hola?"
"Castillo?" It was Darby's voice, not at all charming.
"Yes."
"You didn't answer your cellular," Darby accused.
"What's up?"
"There will be a car waiting for you by the time you can get downstairs."
"What's up?"
"Well, I'll tell you it's not good news," Darby said, and hung up.
V
[ONE] Avenida Tomas Edison Buenos Aires, Argentina 0640 23 July 2005 There had been a small gray Alfa Romeo-as far as Castillo could tell, they were identical to Fiats, except for the nameplates-with Argentine civilian license plates waiting on the drive outside the Four Seasons hotel when Castillo pushed through the revolving door.
As Castillo looked at it, wondering if it was meant for him, the driver pushed open the passenger door. "Senor Castillo?"
Castillo walked quickly to the car and got in. The car took off with a squeal of its tires before Castillo had time to fasten the seat belt.
"You speak Spanish, Mr. Castillo?" the driver asked in American English.
Castillo took a good look at him. He was an olive-skinned, dark-haired man in his thirties in a business suit who could, Castillo decided, easily pass for a porteno, a native of Buenos Aires.
"Si," Castillo said.
"Say hello to Colonel Alfredo Munz of SIDE," the driver said, in fluent porteno Spanish.
The windows of the Alfa Romeo were heavily darkened; Castillo had not seen anyone in the backseat. He turned on his seat and saw a stocky blond man in his forties. Castillo put out his hand.
"Mucho gusto, mi coronel."
Munz's grip was firm.
"Mucho gusto," he replied, adding, "Senor Darby has told me about you, senor."
I wonder what he told you?
The car was now passing the French embassy, its horn blowing steadily in short beeps. The driver ran the red light and nearly got clipped by a Fiat delivery truck going up Avenida 9 Julio. The Alfa Romeo made a squealing left turn onto 9 Julio, and then raced down the autopista in the extreme right lane, reserved for emergency vehicles.
"What's happened?" Castillo asked. "Where are we going?"
"The cocksuckers shot Masterson," the driver said.
What did he say? They shot her? Oh, Jesus H. Christ!
But that sounded as if he meant him.
"Mrs. Masterson, you mean?"
"No. Masterson."
What the hell?
"I thought Darby had somebody sitting on him."
"Yeah, he did. Me. I fucked up big time."
They came to a row of tollbooths. Without slowing, still blowing the horn, the driver went through the right lane, despite the furious arm-waving of a policeman who saw him coming. The policeman jumped out of the way at the last minute and reached for his pistol.
"SIDE! SIDE! SIDE!" Colonel Munz shouted out his open window.
Christ, I hope that cop believes him!
There was no shot.
At least none that I can hear.
They came to a T in the road. Running another red light, the driver turned left, dodging between two enormous over-the-road tractor-trailers and then rapidly accelerating.
Castillo saw they were now on Avenida Presidente Castillo.
This is not a very elegant street to be named after a Castillo, El Presidente, or even one from San Antonio.
It was apparently the main route to the docks, and the roadway showed the effects of heavy-most probably grossly overloaded-trucks. The Alfa bottomed out every thirty seconds or so.
It was too noisy in the car to ask questions, and it would not have been wise to distract the driver's attention from the traffic.