"I heard that," Britton said. "What the fuck is going on, Charley?"
"I have no goddamn idea," Castillo confessed, and extended his hands for the Madsen. "Let me have that. I'll show you how it works."
Britton handed Castillo the submachine gun. He removed the magazine and checked to see that there was no cartridge left in the mechanism.
"Pay attention, Jack. You may have to use this," Castillo said.
"I'm all ears," Britton said.
"This is a Madsen M53," Castillo began, "caliber nine-millimeter Parabellum. This has a curved thirty-roundmagazine; the earlier models have a stick. It fires from an open chamber; in other words, to fire it, you pull the operating lever on the top to the rear…"
He demonstrated by pulling the operating lever back. It caught in place with a firm click.
"The first thing you do is take the safety off. In other words, move this thing to 'F'…"
He demonstrated the functioning of the safety control.
"Then you select auto or single-shot mode. This is the selector lever for that; 'A' stands for automatic…"
He demonstrated the function of the selector switch.
"Then you pull the trigger."
He pulled the trigger. The bolt slammed into the battery position.
"If there had been a loaded magazine in there, the bolt would have stripped off the top cartridge, shoved it in the action, and it would have gone bang. Then the bolt would return to the rear position. If you were in single-shot mode, to fire again, you would have to release your finger on the trigger and then pull it again. If you were in auto mode-your finger still holding the trigger to the rear-it would go bang-bang-bang at a rate of six hundred and fifty rounds per minute until you ran out of ammo. We try to teach people to try to get off three-shot bursts-it takes some practice-because otherwise, as when firing any other submachine gun, the muscles of the shooter tend to involuntarily contract, raising the muzzle, and you miss what you wanted to shoot."
He looked at Britton. "I hope you took notes. There will be a quiz."
"When you said 'we try to teach people,' you meant Special Forces, didn't you?"
Castillo nodded. "You've fired submachine guns, right?"
"Yeah. But not this one."
"A lot of people like the Madsen," Castillo said.
He handed the weapon back to Britton.
"The bolt is forward," he said. "Put the safety lever on 'S' and the rate of fire selector on 'A,' " he said, and when Britton looked at him, added, "Yeah, now, please, Jack."
Britton did as he was told.
"Okay. It is now safe to load the magazine." He handed it to him, watched as Britton inserted it, and then went on. "Okay, all you have to do now is pull the action lever back, take off the safety, and pull the trigger."
"Got it," Britton said.
"Good," Castillo said. "Now, carefully lay it down on that shelf. I don't think you're going to need it in here right now, and I want to eat my sandwich. Are you hungry, Jack?"
"No. Thanks."
"You sure? These look good," Castillo said and reached for one. Castillo was finishing a generous slice of incredibly good apfelstrudel-why I am surprised? This is the German Hospital-when there was a knock on the office door. A large man in civilian clothing came in and offered Colonel Munz a small, resealable plastic bag.
"And, mi coronel, there are Americans here for Senor Castillo."
Munz didn't reply directly. He held up the bag. Castillo saw that it held two fired cartridge cases.
"There are others, right? We won't need these in court?"
"There are twenty-four in all, mi coronel. We are still looking. It is possible that some spectators took some others as souvenirs."
Munz opened the bag and took out a brass cartridge case, examined it carefully, and then handed it to Castillo.
"Israeli," he said. "Same year stamp as the ones we found on Avenida Tomas Edison in the taxicab."
Castillo took the case and handed it to Britton.
"We now have conclusive proof that in 1999 Israel made nine-millimeter ammunition," he said.
Munz smiled at him.
"Don't smile," Castillo said. "I can't think of anything else we have conclusive proof of." He looked at Britton. "Just to satisfy my curiosity, what's in the embassy Madsen?"
Britton took a curved magazine from his pocket, thumbed a cartridge loose, and examined its base.
"Israeli, 1992," he said.
"And conclusive proof that the bad guys have fresher ammo than the good guys," Castillo said. "Not that it matters, as I'm beginning to wonder if we'll ever get a chance to shoot back."
"You want these?" Munz nodded.
"Yes, thank you," Castillo said, and took the plastic bag, put the cartridge Britton held out to him in it, zipped it shut, and dropped it in his pocket.
"Americans for me?" he asked Munz's man.
"Si, senor."
Castillo gestured for them to be brought in.
A civilian-Castillo recognized his face from the brainstorming session but couldn't come up with a name-and a Marine. The man, in his middle twenties, was olive-skinned, and Castillo decided he was probably one of the Drug Enforcement Administration agents. He was carrying an M-16 rifle.
The Marine, who was in greens and had a Beretta in a field holster hanging from a web belt, was a corporal.
"I'm Castillo. You're looking for me?"
"Solez, Mr. Castillo. DEA. I was told to report to you and do whatever you told me to do."
"Do you speak Spanish, Mr. Solez?" Castillo said in Spanish.
"I spoke it before I learned to speak English," Solez replied in Spanish.
Castillo picked up on the accent.
"And where are you from in Texas?" Castillo asked, still in Spanish.
"San Antone, senor."
"Me, too."
"Yes, sir, I know."
"How do you know?"
"My father is Antonio Solez, sir. I think you know him."
Antonio Solez had been one of Castillo's grandfather's cronies, a familiar face around both the offices and the ranches, and a pallbearer at the funeral of Don Juan Fernando Castillo. A mental image of him, a large swarthy man, standing across the open grave with his chest heaving and tears running unashamedly down his cheeks, leaped into Castillo's mind.
"Indeed I do. How is he?"
"Still taking care of Don Fernando," Solez said, with a smile. It took a moment for Charley to take his meaning. He smiled back.
"When did my fat and ugly cousin start calling himself 'Don Fernando'?"
"People started calling him that after Don Fernando passed. I think he likes it. Dona Alicia does, I know."
"You're Ricardo, right? The last I heard you were at College Station."
"Si, senor. I graduated in 2001, and went right into the DEA."
"You don't have to call me 'sir.' And please don't."
Solez nodded.
"Why didn't you say something when we were at that brainstorming thing?" Castillo asked.
Solez shrugged. "I wasn't sure you would remember me."
"I should have recognized you. I'm sorry."
Solez shrugged again. "No problem. You had other things on your mind. We're both a long way from San Antonio."
"I'm really happy to see you, Ricardo," Castillo said. "You heard what happened?"
Solez nodded.
"She's in the operating room now," Castillo said. "She'll be in there for probably another two hours. From the moment she gets off the elevator until I get out of here, I want you or Special Agent Britton-you know each other?"
"We met."
"Since you're talking about me, I wish you'd do it in English, Charley," Britton said.
"Sorry," Charley said, now in English. "It seems that Special Agent Solez is not only a fellow Texican, but his family and mine have been friends for generations."
"My dad is chief engineer for Castillo Properties," Solez said with pride. "Everything but the petroleum side."
Britton looked at him and nodded.
"Okay," Castillo went on, "from the time Special Agent Schneider gets out of the operating room until I can get her the hell out of here, I want one or the other, preferably both, sitting on her."