The Hostage Part 65

[FIVE].

Hotel de Crillon 10 Place de la Concorde Paris, France 0525 27 July 2005 Paris was just starting to wake up when they landed. There had been little traffic on the way in from Le Bourget, and the Place de la Concorde had been nearly empty of vehicles and pedestrians.

"I think the best thing to do is grab some sack time," Castillo announced as they registered. "What about leaving a call for half past ten?"

"Good idea," Torine said.

Castillo knew the problem was going to be jet lag. Their body clocks thought it was midnight, not half past five in the morning.

They weren't really tired, or even particularly sleepy, despite the time they had been up and the distances they had traveled since getting up almost twenty-four hours before at the Masterson plantation in Mississippi. For one thing, that had been only eighteen hours ago in real time. Paris time was six hours ahead of Mississippi.

For another, they'd shared the piloting between them, from Philadelphia to Gander, Newfoundland, and then to Shannon, Ireland, and finally Le Bourget. The "off-duty" pilot-a role each had played-had nothing to do but doze, and the Lear's seats in the main cabin, which folded back to near horizontal, had made dozing easy. It was as if they'd gotten up early and taken several naps before midnight.

The temptation was to take a quick shower, grab a quick breakfast, and then rouse the Paris CIA station chief from his bed and get to work finding Jean-Paul Lorimer. The smart thing to do was to take a quick shower and go to bed, sleeping as long as possible. When sleep proved impossible, with a little bit of luck, the body clock might be fooled, and it would be something like getting up fresh and ready to do a full day's work.

Castillo tipped the bellman and then looked around his suite. The heavy curtain across the windows of his bedroom was permitting a crack of light. He went to it and impulsively pushed it aside far enough to look out. He had a view of the Place de la Concorde and the bridge across the River Seine.

Then he pulled the curtain closed, took fresh linen from his bag, and started to undress. He was down to his Jockey shorts when the telephone rang.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Five minutes, in front of the hotel," Howard Kennedy said. "I'm in a black Mercedes."

"I expected no less of you," Castillo replied, even though halfway through the sentence he realized Kennedy had hung up.

Ten minutes later-having decided that his need for a shave and a shower was more important than jumping to obey Kennedy's curt orders-Castillo walked across the empty lobby and out onto the Place de la Concorde.

There was no Mercedes in sight.

Not to worry. Kennedy might be p.i.s.sed, but he wants to see me, and badly. He's not about to drive off, never to return.

Castillo turned right and walked toward the U.S. emba.s.sy. He had just reached the fence, where he was able to see the American flag flying in the courtyard, when he heard the squeal of tires.

He turned and saw a black Mercedes S600 sedan in front of the Crillon. The headlights flashed. Castillo walked-purposely slowly-back to it.

The front pa.s.senger window was down, but the door remained closed. Castillo leaned down, put his hands on the opening, and looked inside.

"h.e.l.lo, handsome," he said to Kennedy, who was sitting behind the wheel. "Looking for a little action?"

"G.o.dd.a.m.n you, Charley, get in the f.u.c.king car!"

Castillo opened the door and got in. Kennedy, with another squeal of tires, took off and then turned right onto the Champs-Elysees.

"Where are we going, Howard?"

"Unless you know someplace we can talk without being overheard, we're just going to drive around."

"You think my room in the Crillon is bugged?"

"I don't know for sure that it's not."

"Why all the concern?"

"How much do you know about Lorimer?"

"A little more than I knew when I first talked to you," Castillo replied. "There are people looking for him. They killed Masterson to make the point that they are willing to kill to find him."

"And do you know who these people are?"

"No. That's why I'm hunting Lorimer."

"Would it surprise you that some Russians are doing the same?"

"Nothing would surprise me."

"Or some Germans?"

"Same answer."

"Or some French? Or some former members of Saddam Hussein's regime? Or, for that matter, some people from Houston, Texas?"

"Get to the point, please, Howard. I'm not good at riddles."

"Your friend Lorimer was a bagman-maybe the head bagman-for that n.o.ble program called Oil for Food. Which means that he knows who got paid off. That's enough for any of the aforementioned people to take the appropriate steps to make him dead."

"Give me a minute to think that over."

A traffic cop stepped into the street and with a shrill burst from his whistle and an arrogant wave of his stiff arm stopped traffic. Kennedy, with a heavy foot, brought the Mercedes to a stop at the crosswalk. As Castillo watched the trickle of early-morning commuters making their way to cafes and then to work, he considered how Kennedy might-or might not-be trying to play him.

"In addition to his knowing too much, Charley, there are those who think he skimmed the payoff money. To the tune of some-depending on who you talk to- twelve to sixteen million dollars."

"Jesus!"

"Yeah, Jesus. And one more little item. This gets uncomfortably close to Alex."

"How Alex?"

"How do you think you move that kind of money around? By wire transfer? By UPS?"

"You tell me."

"One hundred thousand U.S. dollars fresh from the mint comes in a neatly wrapped plastic package about so big," Kennedy said, taking his hands off the wheel to demonstrate the size. He could have been mimicking a stubby shoe box.

The traffic cop blew another burst of his whistle and waved traffic forward.

"And Alex moves freight, right?" Castillo said. "No questions asked?"

"You don't really expect me to answer that, do you?"

"So why are you telling me what you did?"

"Alex thinks you're a lot smarter than I do," Kennedy said. "He thinks it's possible you'll find this sonofab.i.t.c.h before anybody else does, and that you'll share that information with him."

"Tell Alex, sorry, no. I want this sonofab.i.t.c.h alive, not with a beauty mark in the center of his forehead."

"Why? So he can tell you who's after him?"

"Exactly."

"You really are a virgin, aren't you? These people are untouchable. Believe me."

"The answer is no, Howard. Tell Alex that."

"I told him that's what you would probably decide," Kennedy said.

They were now almost to the Arc de Triomphe de L'etoile. Kennedy made an abrupt left turn onto Rue Pierre Charron and stopped.

"Get out, Charley. Conversation over."

Without another word, Castillo got out of the car. Kennedy drove quickly off.

Castillo walked back to the Champs-Elysees, and then down it, toward the Crillon.

XV.

[ONE].

Suite 301 Hotel de Crillon 10 Place de la Concorde Paris, France 0730 27 July 2005

There was a knock at the door, and Castillo, still chewing on a piece of toast, stood up from the breakfast table and went to open the door.

A nondescript man in his late fifties-maybe a little older-was standing there in a somewhat rumpled suit.

"Mr. Castillo?"

"Right. You're Mr. Delchamps?"

The man nodded.

"Come on in. Would you like some breakfast?"

"No, thanks."

"Maybe some coffee?"

Delchamps shook his head, and looked at Fernando and Torine.

"I wasn't told about anybody else," Delchamps said.

"This is Colonel Torine and Mr. Lopez," Castillo said. "And this is Mr. Edgar Delchamps, the CIA station chief."

"Not only wasn't I told about anyone else, but, Mr. Castillo, as you may or may not know, the ident.i.ty of the CIA station chief, whoever that might be, is cla.s.sified."

"Not a problem, Mr. Delchamps. Both the colonel and Mr. Lopez have the necessary clearances."

"How do I know that?"

"Someone from the office of the director of national intelligence was supposed to have given you a heads-up about what we're doing here."

"Someone did. But only your name was mentioned."

"It looks to me that there is some sort of a communications problem," Castillo said. "Before we go any further with this, why don't we go next door to the emba.s.sy, get on a secure line to the director of national intelligence, and clear this up?"

"It's half past one in the morning in Was.h.i.+ngton," Delchamps said.

"I know. But I don't have time to waste playing the cla.s.sified game with you, Mr. Delchamps."

"Maybe later," Delchamps said. "I was told you were interested in a man named Jean-Paul Lorimer. What do you want to know about him?"

"Everything you know about him."

"The phrase used was 'tell him anything you think you should,'" Delchamps said.

"Then there is a communications problem between Amba.s.sador Montvale and whoever you spoke with," Castillo said. "What he was supposed to tell you was to tell me whatever I wanted to know, and what I want to know is everything."

"It was Montvale who called me," Delchamps said.

"And the phraseology he used was you were to tell me what 'you think you should'?"

"That's what he said."

"In that case, Mr. Delchamps, when we go next door and get on the secure phone, we're going to talk to the President, and you are going to tell him what Amba.s.sador Montvale told you."

Delchamps didn't reply.

"For what it's worth, Mr. Delchamps," Colonel Torine said, "I was with Mr. Castillo-on Air Force One-when the President told Amba.s.sador Montvale that Mr. Castillo was to have anything he asked for."

"Why should I believe that?" Delchamps asked.

"No reason," Torine said. "Except it's the truth."