The Hostage Part 84

There were some marvelous chefs in Uruguay, but not in Tacuarembo. And, of course, he had to stay in Tacuarembo for the time being. Jean-Paul had come to believe that the northern Italian kitchen-which is what the good restaurants in Montevideo and Punta del Este served-was, in fact, as hard as this was to accept, actually a bit superior to that of the French.

Tonight, with Anna-Maria, the cook, watching-and, he dared hope, perhaps learning-he had prepared Chateaubriand. First, after putting on a chef's ap.r.o.n, he had gotten a knife really sharp and then trimmed all the fat and sinew from a lomo lomo. A lomo lomo was the entire tenderloin of beef. A tenderloin that would cost forty-or more-euros in Paris was available here as a was the entire tenderloin of beef. A tenderloin that would cost forty-or more-euros in Paris was available here as a lomo lomo for the equivalent of nine or ten. And it was magnificent beef. Then he first cut a ten-inch section from it and set it aside. for the equivalent of nine or ten. And it was magnificent beef. Then he first cut a ten-inch section from it and set it aside.

The remainder of the tenderloin he carefully cut into bite-sized pieces. Tomorrow, or the day after, he would make boeuf bourguignonne boeuf bourguignonne with the remaining meat. with the remaining meat.

He rubbed the ten-inch length of tenderloin with a garlic clove, salt, and pepper, and set it aside while he prepared the vegetables. The green beans were marvelous as is, but the carrots were the size of his wrist and he had to slice them into finger-sized pieces before he could use them. He put the steamer on so that he could steam the beans, the potatoes, a half dozen stalks of celery, and a dozen large white mushrooms.

He told Anna-Maria to open a bottle of the cabernet sauvignon. Just open it. Not decant it. And leave it here in the kitchen for the time being.

Then he sliced another dozen and a half white mushrooms very thin, vertically, and then sauteed them in a pan until they were about half cooked. Then he added a tablespoon of flour and stirred it into the mushrooms until it was no longer visible. Next came a cup of the very good local merlot. With the gas as low as it would go, he stirred patiently until the sauce formed. Only then did he add a touch of garlic and basil and salt and pepper.

He went to the parrilla parrilla outside the kitchen and carefully arranged the coals under the grill, testing to see if he had the proper heat with his hand. When he was satisfied, he laid the tenderloin on the hot steel grid. outside the kitchen and carefully arranged the coals under the grill, testing to see if he had the proper heat with his hand. When he was satisfied, he laid the tenderloin on the hot steel grid.

When he went back in the kitchen, the cabernet sauvignon was on the table, with a gla.s.s. He poured and took an appreciative sip.

Maria came into the kitchen from the outside. Jean-Paul could tell from the young face of his current companion in the bed that she was afraid he was angry with her. He had told her he wanted to read while dining, and she should find something to eat by herself. The truth was, not only did her manners leave a good deal to be desired, but setting a fine meal before her made him think of the phrase, "Casting pearls before swine." If it wasn't charred black on the outside and raw inside, Maria eyed it with great suspicion and only ate whatever it was to please him.

Maria and Anna-Maria watched as he examined the mushroom mixture, and then added a half cup more of the merlot, and loaded the vegetables into the steamer. He had then gone back to the parrilla parrilla and turned the tenderloin. and turned the tenderloin.

Then he went back into the kitchen, had another sip of the cabernet, and told Anna-Maria to set the table for one, with the candles in the candelabra lit. Then he told Maria to go to his bedroom and to bring his reading gla.s.ses and the book with the red jacket that was on the bedside table, and put both on the dining room table.

Then he went back to the parrilla parrilla again, turned the tenderloin again-it was browning nicely-and went back into the kitchen. The sauce was now again, turned the tenderloin again-it was browning nicely-and went back into the kitchen. The sauce was now almost almost of the right consistency-the merlot had been reduced just enough-so he turned off the gas under it. of the right consistency-the merlot had been reduced just enough-so he turned off the gas under it.

Then he tested the vegetables in the steamer with a fork, and with the same result. Another five minutes and everything would be done at just about the same time. He looked at his watch, then sipped the cabernet until the five minutes had pa.s.sed.

Then he took a meat thermometer from a drawer and went to the parrilla. parrilla. He turned the tenderloin again, then inserted the meat thermometer into it. The dial showed 140 degrees Fahrenheit. He turned the tenderloin again, then inserted the meat thermometer into it. The dial showed 140 degrees Fahrenheit.

He then removed the tenderloin from the grill to a plate and took it back in the kitchen. There he rolled it onto a large oblong platter, and then placed the first plate over it.

He tested the mushroom sauce one last time, added a touch of salt, and then closed the lid again.

Then he went to the steamer and carefully removed half of the vegetables, arranging them neatly to one side of the platter.

He ran the knife against the steel again until it felt right, then took the tenderloin and put it on a cutting board. He sliced the entire piece into pinkie-finger-thick slices, and then skillfully lifted them all at once and laid them in the center of the platter.

He used the knife blade to carefully push the vegetables already on the platter against the tenderloin. Then he arranged the vegetables remaining in the steamer against the other side of the tenderloin. When that was done, he placed the knife blade on the tenderloin and pushed, so that the slices were displaced and lying on one another.

Then he went to the mushroom sauce pan, picked it up, and dribbled an inch-wide path of sauce on top of the slices.

"Anna-Maria," he announced. "This is called a Chateaubriand."

"Si, senor."

"Put this sauce in a sauce bowl," he said. "And then serve the Chateaubriand. I will take the wine and gla.s.s with me."

"Si, senor."

"Do you want me to come sit with you?" Maria asked.

"No, dear. Thank you just the same. Why don't you have a bath? I'll be in shortly."

He picked up the bottle of cabernet sauvignon and his gla.s.s and went into the dining room and sat down at the table.

Anna-Maria came in with the platter.

"I will need some bread, please. The hard-crusted rolls. And b.u.t.ter. And, of course, salt and pepper. And don't forget the sauce."

When Anna-Maria had delivered everything, he checked to see that everything he needed was present.

"Thank you, Anna-Maria," he said. "You may go. I do not wish to be disturbed."

"Si, senor," Anna-Maria said, and left the dining room. Anna-Maria said, and left the dining room.

Three minutes later, she was back.

Jean-Paul was annoyed. He had told her he did not wish to be disturbed, and he had had just barely time enough to move a couple of slices of the beef-and it looked and smelled marvelous-to his plate, and here she was, back.

"I told you, Anna-Maria, that I didn't wish to be disturbed."

"Excuse me, senor. But there are two men here . . . officials."

"Officials? What kind of officials?"

"Officials, senor. From the government. They have badges."

What the h.e.l.l?

"And they wish to see you, senor."

Jean-Paul rose angrily from the table, threw his napkin on it, and marched to the front door.

Two men were standing there.

"May I help you, gentlemen?"

"Are you Senor Jean-Paul Bertrand?"

"Yes, I am. And who are you?"

"I am a.s.sistant Chief Inspector Muller of the Immigration Service," the larger of the two said. "And this is Inspector O'Fallon."

He held out his credentials.

"We are very sorry to trouble you, senor," Chief Inspector Muller said. "And at this hour of the night. And we do apologize, sir."

"What is it?"

"Do you have your pa.s.sport, Senor Bertrand?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"You're sure, senor?"

"Yes, of course I'm sure. Why do you ask?"

"Senor Bertrand, as you may know, our immigration records are now computerized."

"So I've heard."

"This afternoon, Senor Bertrand, according to the computer, you attempted to enter Uruguay on a Varig flight from Rio de Janeiro."

"That's absurd!"

"The computer also says that you entered Uruguay some time ago, and have never left."

"That's true."

"What we suspect, Senor Bertrand, is that the other Senor Bertrand, who is being held in custody, is not really who he says he is. That his pa.s.sport is either a forgery, or that he has somehow come into possession of your pa.s.sport."

a.s.sistant Chief Inspector Muller gave Jean-Paul Bertrand time to think this over, and then went on. "One or the other is true, Senor Bertrand. And the question can be simply answered. If you have your pa.s.sport, then the other is a forgery. And the other Senor Bertrand will be dealt with accordingly. On the other hand, if your pa.s.sport has somehow been . . . misplaced . . . It happens, senor. If it has been misplaced into the hands of the other Senor Bertrand, then he will be dealt with accordingly. I cannot believe that a gentleman of your reputation and standing would loan his pa.s.sport-"

"I certainly would not!" Jean-Paul proclaimed righteously. "My pa.s.sport is-or should be-in my safe. I'll get it for you."

"Thank you very much, senor."

"May I offer you a cup of coffee, something to drink, while I get it?"

"No, thank you, senor," Inspector O'Fallon said. "We're on duty."

"I'll be right with you," Jean-Paul Bertrand said. "My safe is in my office, in the rear of the house."

"Thank you, senor," a.s.sistant Chief Inspector Muller said.

"The sitting room is in here," Jean Paul said. "If you'll wait there? Are you sure I cannot offer you anything?"

"Thank you just the same, senor," Muller said.

The safe was bolted both to an interior wall and to the floor. Jean-Paul had learned that when he was looking for something in it, it was much easier just to sit on the floor than to bend over and try to look inside. He had done so now.

He had a h.e.l.l of a time finding the d.a.m.ned pa.s.sport, but finally did.

A forged pa.s.sport, I understand. But one with my name on it? What's that all about?

Oh, of course. In case someone checks, there is a valid pa.s.sport in the name of Jean-Paul Bertrand.

Oh, G.o.d, is this incident going to be in the newspapers?

He heard a sound, and looked over his shoulder.

The younger one, Inspector O'Fallon, was standing behind him.

What the h.e.l.l is he doing in here?

"Inspector O'Fallon, isn't it?" Jean-Paul asked.

"No, not really," Castillo said, in English.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know how it is, Lorimer. Sometimes people use other names. Will you hand me the pa.s.sport and stand up, please?"

"What's going on here?"

Castillo s.n.a.t.c.hed the pa.s.sport from Lorimer's hand as he stepped over him and pushed the safe door open more widely.

Jean-Paul scurried backward on the floor and ran into a set of legs.

Then he felt himself being hauled to his feet.

"Put your hands behind you, please," the man who had said he was a.s.sistant Chief Inspector Muller ordered.

Jean-Paul did as he was told.

He looked around his office.

Muller was doing something with his wrists.

Jean-Paul took a closer look at the face of the man who had said he was Inspector O'Fallon but had just now called him Lorimer, in American English.

But then something else caught his eye.

There was a face at the window, and it looked as if whoever stood there was trying to break the window with something.

The last thing Jean-Paul Lorimer, Ph.D., saw in this world, before two 9mm bullets struck him in the mouth and forehead, was the breaking gla.s.s of the window and an orange flash.

Castillo reacted to the sound of the breaking gla.s.s and the burst of submachine fire instinctively. He dropped to the ground, scurried behind the desk, and reached for the Beretta he was carrying in the small of his back.

What the f.u.c.k?

This desk is going to be about as much protection against a 9mm as a Kleenex.

There was the sound of more firing outside. He recognized the characteristic chatter of a Car 4. More than one Car 4. And then the sharper crack of a 7.62.

Didn't I hear a 7.62 just before the G.o.dd.a.m.n submachine gun went off?

He saw a cord running across the floor to the desk.

If they can't see you, they can't shoot you.