The Hostage Part 16

"That wasn't me who told you that," Hall said after a long pause. "That was the President."

"Charley, do you know how close you came to having this guy take you out?" Joel Isaacson asked.

"Yeah, I do, Joel. He said he was glad he didn't have to give me an 'Indian beauty spot'-a small-caliber bullet in the forehead-and I believed that, too."

[FOUR].

Pevsner led Castillo into the house, through a two-story entrance foyer to a sitting room. With the exception of what was probably an antique samovar sitting on a table, the furnis.h.i.+ngs of the sitting room gave it a British feeling. Two walls were lined with books and oil paintings, and there was a red-leather couch with matching armchairs.

The windows offered a view of a large swimming pool under a curved plastic roof, something like a Quonset hut. Vapor rose from the pool.

Well, they don't have many heated swimming pools in Merry Old England, but this place still feels English.

A middle-aged woman in a maid's uniform came into the sitting room from a side door as the three men entered.

"Would you please ask Madam Pevsner if it is convenient for her and the children to join us?" Pevsner ordered in Russian.

The woman, unsmiling, nodded but didn't say anything. She left the sitting room by the door Pevsner, Kennedy, and Castillo had come in.

"Howard, see if you can find someone in the kitchen who can bring wine, and so forth," Pevsner ordered in English.

"Red, right, Charley?" Kennedy asked. "A cabernet?"

"Please," Castillo said, as he walked to the samovar for a closer look. He had just decided that it was a bona fide antique Russian kettle when Pevsner said in Russian, "Ah, Anna, come and welcome Charley to our home!"

Castillo turned and saw the wife and kiddies from the Clairol commercial walking into the room. They were all almost startlingly blond and fair-skinned. The mother looked to be in her late twenties, but Charley decided she had to be older than that to be the mother of the girl, who was thirteen or fourteen. There were two boys, one who Charley guessed was ten or so, and another about six. Everyone was wearing a thick white terry cloth robe.

Madam Pevsner smiled and put out her hand to Castillo and said in Russian, "I'm happy to meet you. My husband has told me so much about you."

The maid was now in the room.

"Olga, would you bring some wine?" Madam Pevsner ordered, and the maid walked to what was apparently the kitchen door.

"Howard's getting the wine," Pevsner said in Russian, and then switched to English. "Greet our guest in English," he said to the children. "Charley, this is Elena. Darling, this is Mr. Castillo."

Elena, shyly, almost blus.h.i.+ng, curtsied and said, "How do you do, Mr. Castillo?" in a p.r.o.nounced British accent.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Elena."

The ten-year-old was even more shy. The six-year-old was not. He walked past his brother, put out his hand, and announced, "I am Sergei and I am happy to make your acquaintance, sir."

"And I'm pleased to meet you."

"Aleksandr!" Pevsner said, propelling the ten-year-old into action.

The ten-year-old, squirming, finally offered his hand and mumbled something unintelligible.

Pevsner beamed proudly.

"You'll have to excuse the robes, Mr. Castillo," Anna Pevsner said. "But my husband said he wasn't sure if you could come, and the children like to have a swim when they come from school."

"Well, I certainly don't want to interfere with that," Castillo said.

The six-year-old, Sergei, beamed at Castillo.

"I really hate to leave them alone in the pool," Anna said.

"Howard can watch them for a few minutes, darling," Pevsner said.

Kennedy came into the room.

"Howard, would you mind watching the children in the pool for a few minutes?"

"Not at all."

Howard is being banished from the conversation I'm about to have with Pevsner and his wife. What's going on?

The older two children, trailed by Kennedy, went out of the sitting room. Sergei marched up to Castillo, shook his hand, and ran after them.

"Nice kids, Alex," Castillo said.

"Thank you, Charley," Pevsner said, and then, as a younger maid-this one looked Argentine-came in with a tray holding gla.s.ses, a bottle of wine, and a large chrome corkscrew, said, "Ah, finally, the wine!"

"Why don't we sit down?" Anna asked, gesturing at the red-leather couch and armchairs.

Castillo sat in one of the armchairs. Anna sat on the couch, and Pevsner, after gesturing for the maid to put the tray on the coffee table, sat beside her and reached for the wine and corkscrew.

"Local wine," Pevsner said, "from a bodega near Mendoza, in the foothills of the Andes. Ever been to Mendoza, Charley?"

"Uh-huh. We have some friends there."

Pevsner poured the wine into enormous crystal gla.s.ses, handed one first to his wife, then one to Charley. Then he tapped his gla.s.s against Charley's.

"Welcome to our home, Charley," he said.

"Thank you."

Charley took a sip, and expressed his appreciation with a smile.

"Why do I think, Charley, that your curiosity is about to bubble over? 'What in h.e.l.l is Alex doing here?'"

"Maybe you're reading my mind again," Castillo said.

"What we're doing, Charley, is hiding in the open," Pevsner said. "Aleksandr Pevsner, a Hungarian whose estates were seized by the communists, got everything back when freedom came, and then, having enough of both Hungarian winters and oppressive governments, sold everything and came to the New World to start life again. He invested his money in land and vineyards. Including this one, as a matter of fact." He tapped the wine bottle.

"Very clever," Castillo said.

"There's a tradition of that, you know, of people running from what's going on in Europe to find peace in Argentina. There's a bona fide grand duke of the Austro-Hungarian empire-actually, his grandson, but he has taken the t.i.tle and is pleased when I call him 'Your Grace'-in a little town called Maschwitz near here. He teases me that I have the same name as an infamous Russian scoundrel."

"Very clever," Castillo repeated.

"Think about it, Charley. Where could we live? In Russia? Russia is now not far from where it was before the 1917 revolution. Crime and corruption are rampant, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if communism-under another name, of course-came back. Anywhere in a Muslim country? I do business there, of course, but can you imagine Anna in an environment like that, not even allowed to drive a car? Living in constant fear that some Muslim fanatic will machine-gun her car because she's obviously an infidel? And while this may surprise you, there are people in Prague and Vienna and Budapest and Bucharest who don't like me."

"I'm shocked," Castillo said.

"There is corruption here, of course. And crime. The newspapers are full of stories of robbery and kidnapping. The result of that has been the development of what I call the country club culture. The upper cla.s.ses live in places like this, and when they go to Buenos Aires, they frequently are accompanied by bodyguards-called 'security'-which raises no eyebrows whatever."

"I saw the guy in the golf cart with the shotgun," Castillo said.

"I have a few of my own people, of course, but most of my security is Argentine. There is golf here. . . . Do you play, Charley?"

Castillo shook his head.

"And polo. I don't play, but Aleksandr and Sergei are taking lessons, and Anna and Elena are taking courses in horse riding . . . what's that called?"

"Equestrianism," Anna furnished.

". . . equestrianism at the stables here. And, of course, the schools are good. The better ones, like Saint Agnes in the Hills, are a British legacy." at the stables here. And, of course, the schools are good. The better ones, like Saint Agnes in the Hills, are a British legacy."

"Your kids go to a school called 'Saint Agnes in the Hills'?" Castillo asked, smiling.

Pevsner smiled back. "Which has an Anglican priest for a headmaster. There being no Russian Orthodox church to speak of in Argentina, and since the Anglicans and the Russian Orthodox recognize each other's priesthood and liturgy, Elena was last year confirmed into the Anglican church."

"Well, you seem to have everything under control, Alex," Castillo said. "Good for you."

"I thought so, Charley, until Howard came here this morning and asked me, 'Guess who got onto my elevator in the Four Seasons just now?'"

"At the risk of repeating myself, I had no idea until today that either you or Howard had ever been near Argentina. And if you're worried that I'm going to tell anyone we b.u.mped into each other, don't."

"You said something about a kidnapping?"

"The wife of the chief of mission at the American emba.s.sy is missing under circ.u.mstances that suggest kidnapping," Castillo said.

"Kidnapping is common here," Pevsner said. "Didn't she have security?"

"Why would anyone kidnap a diplomat's wife?" Anna asked. "Does he have money?"

"A lot of money," Charley said.

"I didn't see anything in the paper," Pevsner said, as he leaned forward to pour wine into Charley's gla.s.s.

"They're trying to keep it quiet. They hope that maybe when the kidnappers find out she's a diplomat's wife, they'll turn her loose."

"That's not what they're liable to do," Pevsner said. "I can make a couple of calls for you, if you'd like."

"All contributions gratefully received," Castillo said. "So far there's been no contact. I really feel sorry for the husband. They have three kids, and they want to know when Mother's coming home."

"Oh, G.o.d!" Anna said. "How awful!"

"Yeah," Castillo said.

"Where did they take her?" Anna asked. "Not from their home?"

"From the parking lot of the Kansas restaurant in San Isidro."

"Alex and I eat there often," Anna said, then, a touch of horror in her voice: "Not right in front of her children?"

Castillo shook his head. "She was waiting for her husband to pick her up after work. The kids were at home."

"And the President sent you down here to do what?" Pevsner asked.

"Find out what happened and report to him."

"Speaking of the President, and before I make those calls, did you ever have a chance to mention to him that I was helpful in getting that airplane back for you?"

"Yes, I did."

The President's diary for that weekend read, in part: Friday 17 June 2005 7:55 PM: Arrival at President's Residence.

Sat.u.r.day 18 June 2005 through Sunday 19 June 2005 8:25 PM: No official events or guests or visitors.

Sunday 19 June 2005 8:25 PM: Departure for The White House.

That was not exactly the truth. The President believed both that what he did in the privacy of his home was n.o.body's business but his own, and furthermore, that he had the right to decree what was an official event and what was not.

The diaries of the secretary of Homeland Security, the director of Central Intelligence, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the commander in chief of U.S. Central Command for the same period, however, all reported they had spent periods of from two to five hours on Sat.u.r.day 18 June at a location variously described as the "Carolina White House"; the "Presidential Residence"; or "Hilton Head."

All but Secretary Hall of Homeland Security were sitting in upholstered white wicker armchairs drinking beer with the President when the first of the helicopters, a glistening blue twin-engine Air Force Huey, made its approach to the lawn between the house and the Atlantic Ocean and fluttered down.

John Powell, the DCI, and Mark Schmidt, the director of the FBI, were in business suits, and General Allan Naylor, C-in-C Central Command, was in uniform. The Presidentwas wearing a white s.h.i.+rt with the cuffs turned up, a necktie pulled down, khaki trousers, and loafers.

An Air Force colonel in a summer-weight uniform got out of the helicopter, reached back inside to pick up a small soft-sided suitcase, and then followed one of the Secret Service Presidential Detail agents to the awning-shaded verandah of the house.

The President shook the hand of Colonel Jacob D. Torine, USAF, then handed him a bottle of beer. Then they watched as another Huey-this one a single-engine Army helicopter painted a dull olive drab-made its approach over the sea and landed.

A large man in a business suit and an Army officer, a major in a summer-weight uniform, got out and followed another Secret Service agent to the verandah.

"Better late than never, right, Tom?" the President greeted Secretary Hall.

"Mr. President, we're ten minutes early," Hall said.

"How are you, Charley?" the President said to Major (Promotable) C. G. Castillo, Special Forces, USA, offering him his hand.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President," Castillo said.