The Hostage Part 15

"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. 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. 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."

"f.u.c.k you, Howard, and f.u.c.k 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 f.u.c.k yourself, Alex.' Now stop the G.o.dd.a.m.n 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, "h.e.l.lo?"

"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. autopista.

After six or seven kilometers at what Castillo decided was at least twenty klicks above the posted 130-kilometers-per-hour speed limit-meaning they were going ninety-plus miles per hour-the road split, and Frederic took the left fork. Signs said that the right fork was the highway to Uruguay and that they were now headed for Pilar.

They went through a tollbooth without stopping, just slowing enough for a machine to read a device that opened the barrier, and then Frederic quickly accelerated back to their way-above-the-speed-limit velocity.

On the left was a large factory, a long rectangular building three stories high and three hundred meters long, connected to four enormous round concrete silos with a rat's nest of conveyors.

LUCCETTI, LA PASTA DE MAMA was lettered in thirty-foot-tall letters across the silos.

Castillo chuckled. Kennedy looked at him.

"Mama's family obviously eats a lot of pasta," Charley said.

Kennedy smiled and said, "There are more Italians here than Spanish."

The autopista here was narrower-three lanes in each direction-but the speed limit was still 130 kph, and Frederic was still driving much faster than that.

Outside the autopista fence there were now large, attractive restaurants and what looked like recently constructed showrooms for Audi, BMW, and other European and j.a.panese automobiles. Charley saw only a Ford showroom to represent American manufacturers, and wondered idly where Mercedes-Benz had their showroom.

He had been out this way as a kid, too, but then there had been only a two-lane highway leading from Buenos Aires to the estancias in the country.

The area around Pilar was obviously now an upscale residential area-somebody had to be buying the Audis and BMWs-but there were no houses visible from the highway, just businesses catering to people with money.

Frederic took an exit ramp off the highway, and there was the missing Mercedes showroom, a typically elegant affair across the road from a large shopping center anch.o.r.ed by a Jumbo supermarket.

And then they were in the country again.

Three klicks or so down a two-lane highway-which slowed Frederic down to no more than, say, sixty-five or seventy mph-the car braked suddenly and turned off the road and slowed as they approached a two-story red-tiled-roof gatehouse.

A sign carved from wood read BUENA VISTA COUNTRY CLUB.

There were four uniformed guards at the gatehouse, two of whom looked into the Mercedes carefully before a heavy, red-and-white steel barrier pole was raised. All the guards were armed, and inside the gatehouse Charley saw a rack holding a half-dozen riot guns. They looked like American Ithaca pump shotguns.

Now this, Castillo thought, Castillo thought, is what you call a "gated community." is what you call a "gated community."

Once inside the property, there were signs announcing a thirty-kph speed limit, and these were reinforced with speed b.u.mps on the macadam road every two hundred meters or so. Frederic now obeyed the speed limit.

And then, far enough into the property so they would not be visible from the road outside, the first houses came into view.

The Mercedes rolled slowly down a curving road past long rows of upscale houses set on well-manicured hectare lots. There were no barred windows, as there had been on the upscale houses in San Isidro. They pa.s.sed a polo field-lined with the same quality houses-and then another, and then came to several greens and then the clubhouse of a well-maintained golf course. There were thirty or so cars in the parking lot.

And then more houses on the winding road. The houses and the lots in this area were larger. Some- perhaps most-of them were ringed with shrubbery, tall enough so that only the upper floors of the houses were visible. Castillo saw that the shrubbery also concealed fences.

Frederic turned off the road and stopped before a ten-foot-high gate. After a moment, the gate rolled open to the right. Charley saw a workman at what was probably the gate control. He had a pistol under his loose denim jacket. Once they were inside, Charley saw a man in a golf cart rolling along the perimeter of the property. There was a golf bag mounted on the cart that did not completely conceal the b.u.t.t stock of a shotgun.

This is obviously a double-gated community, a gated community within a gated community, as opposed to a double-gaited community, which is one whose inhabitants are a little vague about their s.e.xual preferences.

He saw first a Bell Ranger helicopter sitting on what looked like a putting green, and then the house, an English-looking near mansion of red brick with cas.e.m.e.nt windows. As they approached, the main door of the house opened and a tall man who appeared to be in his late thirties walked out and down a shallow flight of steps to the cobblestone driveway.

Aleksandr Pevsner-also known as Vasily Respin and Alex Dondiemo and a half dozen other names, an international dealer in arms and, it was often and credibly alleged, head of at least a dozen other enterprises of very questionable legality, and for whom arrest warrants had been issued at one time or another by at least thirteen governments-was wearing gray flannel slacks, a white b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt (in the open neck of which, in the Argentine manner, was a silk scarf held in place by a sterling silver ring), a powder blue pullover sweater, and highly polished brown shoes with thick rubber cus.h.i.+on soles.

He folded his arms over his chest, smiled, and waited for the Mercedes to stop and for Frederic to quickly run around the front of the car to open the rear door.

"Ah, Charley," Pevsner called in Russian as Castillo got out. "Thank you for coming. It's a delight to see you."

"Frankly, I didn't think much of the first invitation, Alex," Castillo replied, also in Russian, offering Pevsner his hand.

"For which I have already apologized, and will apologize again now, if you wish."

"Once is enough, Alex," Castillo said, adding, "Nice house."

Pevsner broke the handshake and put his hands firmly on Castillo's upper arms and looked into his eyes. Pevsner's eyes were large and blue and extraordinarily bright. The first time Charley had met him, he had unkindly wondered if Pevsner had been inhaling controlled substances through his nose.

"I must ask you two questions, my friend," Pevsner said. "In a moment, you will understand why."

"Ask."

"What are you doing in Argentina? Why are you here?"

This is one of those times when telling the truth and only the truth is the smart thing to do. Charley immediately answered, "The wife of the chief of mission at our emba.s.sy here has disappeared under circ.u.mstances which look like kidnapping. The President sent me down here to see what's going on." Charley immediately answered, "The wife of the chief of mission at our emba.s.sy here has disappeared under circ.u.mstances which look like kidnapping. The President sent me down here to see what's going on."

Castillo saw that his answer surprised Pevsner, but he didn't pursue it directly.

"Your being here has nothing to do with me?"

Castillo shook his head.

"Not a thing. I had no idea you-or Howard-were anywhere near Argentina."

Pevsner looked into Castillo's eyes for a long moment.

Alex, I don't care how long you look for signs of me lying. You won't find any. And if I have any luck at all, you won't see signs indicating that I'm more than a little afraid of you.

Pevsner finally squeezed Castillo's arms in a friendly gesture and let him go.

"Thank you for your honesty, my friend," he said. "Now, why don't we go in the house, have a gla.s.s of wine, and let me introduce you to my family?"

"Your family?" Castillo blurted.

"Yes. My family. My wife and children."

I'll be G.o.dd.a.m.ned! Well, that explains all the concern. But what the h.e.l.l are they doing here?

Castillo, after meeting Aleksandr Pevsner for the first time in Vienna, had reported to Secretary of Homeland Security Matt Hall that Pevsner had told him the missing 727 had been stolen by Somalian terrorists who intended to crash it into the Liberty Bell. Pevsner had said he would do whatever he could to help locate it because he was against Muslim terrorists for many reasons, the primary one being he was a family man who adored his wife and three children. He didn't want them hurt by Muslim fanatics. Pevsner had then produced a photograph of him with what he said was his family: a very attractive blond wife and three blond children who looked straight from a Clairol advertis.e.m.e.nt. Castillo knew it sounded incredible, and that Hall was going to have a hard time believing any of it.

He was not prepared, however, for the look of unabashed incredulity on Hall's face-and on Joel Isaacson's and Tom McGuire's. Clearly, they not only believed zero, zilch, nada of what he was telling them, but were also-worse-now questioning his reputation as a hard-a.s.s special operator for wasting his and their time relating it.

"Charley, I've seen his dossier," Isaacson said. "It's this thick." He held his hands eighteen inches apart. "There's a lot in there about murder, extortion, bribery, smuggling, arms-dealing, you name it, but not one line about his being a devoted husband and loving daddy."

"I believed him," Castillo had replied.

"About what part?" Hall asked.

"Most of it," Charley said. "The family photograph looked too cozy not to have been staged."

"You actually think the airplane was stolen by Somalians? Who plan to crash it into the Liberty Bell? Because of what this international thug told you?" Hall asked, more sadly than angrily.

"Sir, you told me that one of the major problems in intelligence is with people at my level telling their superiors what they think the superiors want to hear, instead of what they believe. What I told you just now is what I believe."