The Hostage Part 18

Then he marched back to the oven with the maid holding the pizza on a paddle trailing him, gestured to the young man to raise the door, and then gestured for the maid to slide the pizza into the oven, and finally for the young man to close the door.

Charley had a hard time keeping a smile off his face.

So far, he hasn't touched the pizza he's personally preparing for me with so much as his pinkie!

"I will now prepare another," Pevsner announced and marched back to the table, where he repeated the process twice more. This time, however, the prepared but unbaked pizzas on paddles were laid on the table.

"I can usually trust them," Pevsner said, "once I've made sure the temperature is right, to put them into the oven and take them out, but I like to prepare them myself."

"If you want something done right, do it yourself," Charley heard himself saying solemnly.

"Exactly," Pevsner said.

It's not fair of me to make fun of him. What's the matter with me? He's being nice, this whole thing is nice, the little kid, Sergei, handing me an empanada empanada is nice. The whole family thing is nice. It reminds me of Grandpa dodging is nice. The whole family thing is nice. It reminds me of Grandpa dodging Abuela Abuela to slip Fernando and me a couple of slugs of wine at the ranch in Midland while he was roasting a pig over an open fire for the family. Except, of course, that Grandpa did everything but butcher the pig and crank the spit. to slip Fernando and me a couple of slugs of wine at the ranch in Midland while he was roasting a pig over an open fire for the family. Except, of course, that Grandpa did everything but butcher the pig and crank the spit.

This is family. This is nice.

I think Betty Schneider would like this. Not the guy with the shotgun in his golf cart, but Anna and the three kids, and proud Papa preparing a pizza for everybody with his own unsullied hands.

I wonder what the Masterson kids are going to have for supper tonight?

I wonder what that poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d has told them, is telling them?

Is he pretending everything is going to be all right?

Preparing them for the worst?

Jesus, when you hear somebody's been s.n.a.t.c.hed, you never think of the kids! What a rotten f.u.c.king way to make an easy buck, grabbing a kid's mother!

And here I am making nice watching Alex looking into his pizza oven.

There's nothing I could do in Buenos Aires, so why am I feeling guilty?

"Lost in thought, Charley?"

Castillo turned to see Howard Kennedy holding a gla.s.s of wine.

He had disappeared from the swimming pool when Castillo and Anna Pevsner had gone out to it, and he hadn't been around since.

"I was wondering what the Masterson kids are having for supper tonight," Castillo said.

"The kids of the wom . . . ?"

Castillo nodded.

"Alex is working on it," Kennedy said. "There should be something soon."

"Jesus, I hope so. What's the penalty for kidnapping here? Do you know?"

"Not for sure, but I do know there's no death penalty period, and the average sentence for murder is fifteen years, which means they're on the street in seven-to-ten."

The Russian-speaking maid marched into the quincho quincho with the now-baked pizza, and Alex Pevsner supervised her slicing of it with an enormous butcher knife. with the now-baked pizza, and Alex Pevsner supervised her slicing of it with an enormous butcher knife.

Pevsner was called to the telephone three times as they ate their supper-the pizza was followed by steaks and foil-wrapped potatoes from the parrilla; parrilla; Castillo was stuffed-each time taking the call in a small closet with a small window through which Castillo could see him talking. Castillo was stuffed-each time taking the call in a small closet with a small window through which Castillo could see him talking.

It reminded Charley of the "phone booth" off General Naylor's conference room at CentCom headquarters in Tampa, where the secure telephone was located.

Pevsner returned to the table without saying anything the first two times, but when he came out of the closet the third time, he signaled for Charley to come with him.

They walked thirty feet or so away from the quincho. quincho.

"I don't have anything for you, Charley, I'm sorry. This last call was from someone who knows the important people at SIDE . . . you know SIDE?"

Charley nodded.

"And if anybody knew anything, SIDE would. And they're looking hard. The pressure is on them."

"Well, thanks for the effort," Charley said.

"I'll keep trying," Pevsner said, then, "All of my sources believe this is not an ordinary kidnapping. My source with connections to the Policia Federal and the Gendarmeria said that they've hauled in for questioning everybody even suspected of being involved in kidnappings, and they came up with nothing." He paused and then asked, "Did this fellow actually get fifty million dollars after a truck ran over him?"

"Sixty million," Charley said.

"The kidnappers may not be Argentine. They might even be American."

"Yeah," Charley agreed, thoughtfully.

I'll put that thought in my e-mail to Hall. It's the only wild idea about this that didn't come up in that brainstorming session at the emba.s.sy.

Why e-mail? I'll be up all night if I start swapping e-mails with Hall. And Darby made it clear that he's going to blow my cover to the amba.s.sador tomorrow anyway. It'd be better to get on the horn.

He took his cellular out and pressed an autodial number. He had the phone to his ear before he considered the genuine possibility that there might not be cellular service out here in the country.

"Darby."

"Charley Castillo. I want to get on a secure line to Washington. Can you do that for me?"

"I can, but there's the problem of you being just a Secret Service agent, and there would be questions."

"Go ahead and tell the amba.s.sador. Why not?"

"Okay. I think that's probably the best thing to do. I'll set up things at the emba.s.sy. Where are you?"

Castillo was aware that Pevsner was trying to make sense of his call.

"Ever hear of a little town called Maschwitz?"

"Yeah. I won't ask what the h.e.l.l you're doing way out there."

"Don't. There's one more thing, Alex. It was suggested to me that the kidnappers might not be Argentine, that they might even be American."

"That was very delicately suggested to the FBI by the Policia Federal. If you notice a lot of activity in the commo center, it's the transmission of the names of every American who's come to Argentina in the past thirty days to the NCIC-the National Crime Information Center-to see if they come up with a hit."

"Well, somebody's done this, Alex."

"Some sonsofb.i.t.c.hes."

"One more thing, Alex. Lowery took my Secret Service credentials to get me a visitor's badge, and we left the emba.s.sy before I got them back."

"I'll take care of it," Darby said. "We'll be in touch."

The connection was broken.

"Thank you," Pevsner said.

"For what?"

"For Maschwitz."

"If I think anyone is unusually curious about where I've been, or with whom, I'll drop your Austro-Hungarian grand duke into the conversation," Castillo said. "That'll lead them on an interesting expedition."

Pevsner smiled.

"Alex, I have to get back to Buenos Aires."

"I understand. You want me to send Howard with you?"

"That's not necessary. I just need a ride to the emba.s.sy."

Charley's cellular buzzed as they approached Buenos Aires.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Mr. Castillo?"

Castillo recognized Darby's voice.

"Alexander Darby here, Mr. Castillo."

"What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Castillo, Amba.s.sador Silvio wonders if you would be free to come to his office at nine-thirty tomorrow morning."

"I'll be there."

"Thank you. I'll see you then."

The connection was broken.

It didn't take you long to tell the amba.s.sador about me, did it, Alex?

And why do I suspect you made that call in his presence?

And that you told him simply that I had identified myself to you, and not that we knew each other in Afghanistan?

An American who did not identify himself in any way- making Castillo reasonably confident that he was a CIA agent who worked for Darby-was waiting just outside the fence at the employee entrance to the emba.s.sy grounds with Castillo's visitor's pa.s.s and Secret Service credentials.

"If you'll come with me, please, Mr. Castillo?"

[SIX].

The Communications Center The United States Emba.s.sy Avenida Colombia 4300 Buenos Aires, Argentina 2230 22 July 2005 There was a "phone booth" in the emba.s.sy communications room, too. As the man Castillo now thought of as "Darby's guy" led him to it, most of the eight or ten people in the room looked at him with frank curiosity. One of them was the Oriental FBI agent, Yung.

The guy who looked at me in the brainstorming center with what I thought was a little too much interest. He's either fascinated with my good looks and manly charm, or the Secret Service, or he knows something about me. Or suspects something.

Oh, Jesus! Has there been an FBI back-channel, no copies, burn before reading, "Let us know if a guy named Castillo shows up anywhere and what he's doing. He has embarra.s.sed the director and we would really like to burn his a.s.s"?

Castillo closed the door of the phone booth and sat down before a tiny desk, more of a shelf built into the wall, on which sat the secure telephone. It looked- except for the much thicker than usual cords to the wall, and from the base to the handset-like an ordinary phone. There was also a lined notepad, which had a sheet of aluminum under the top page to keep whatever was written from making an impression on the pages beneath, two sharpened pencils in a water gla.s.s, and a red-striped Burn Bag hanging from the wall.

Castillo picked up the telephone.

"Operator," a male voice said.

He sounds young. Probably a soldier.

"My name is Castillo. I need a verified secure line."

"Yes, sir. You have been cleared. The number, please?"

It's a little after ten-thirty here; half past nine in Washington. Hall may or may not be in the office. I'll let the switchboard find him.

Castillo gave the White House switchboard number to the operator.

"Sir, that's the White House," the operator said.

"Yeah, I know."

"Sir, you're not cleared to call the White House."

"Who has to clear me?" Castillo asked, and at the last split second added, "Sergeant."

"Either the amba.s.sador or Mr. Masterson, sir."

Well, he took the Sergeant Sergeant without any reaction. That may be helpful. without any reaction. That may be helpful.