The Hostage Part 59

"My name is Lopez, sir. Fernando Lopez."

"And you're a Westerner, Mr. Lopez. May I say I admire your boots?"

"Thank you, sir. Texan. San Antonio," Fernando said.

Masterson drained his drink and made another.

"Mr. Castillo tells me you're cousins," Masterson said.

"Yes, sir."

"Years ago," Masterson offered, "I had some business dealings with a delightful chap in San Antonio, who had your Christian name, Mr. Lopez, and your surname, Mr. Castillo. I don't suppose . . ."

"You may be talking about my-our-grandfather, sir," Charley said.

"Did your grandfather have a magnificent Santa Gertruda bull named 'Lyndon J.'?"

"Grandpa was not an admirer of President Johnson," Fernando said, "and Lyndon J., even as a calf, produced amazing amounts of droppings, so when it came to naming the calf for registering . . ."

"So your grandfather told me," Masterson chuckled. "What is it they say about a small world?"

He's making small talk, Charley thought. Charley thought. He's delaying hearing what he knows he won't like to hear. He's delaying hearing what he knows he won't like to hear.

What do I do? Bring him back to earth, so I can go out to his farm?

No. f.u.c.k it. Vic's out there. The Mastersons are safe.

We just brought his son home in a flag-draped casket.

Let him do whatever he wants to do.

"I was distressed to learn he had pa.s.sed," Masterson said. "My deepest condolences to you and your family."

Then he turned and walked to the plate-gla.s.s windows and looked out at the twinkling lights on the gulf.

A very long moment later, with his back to them, Masterson said, "Gambling has been going on here on this coast for centuries. Did you know that?"

"No, sir," Charley said, "I didn't."

"No, sir," Fernando added.

"The very first gamblers were the freebooters, the pirates,who plied their profession here," Masterson went on. "They had the custom of raffling off the more comely of the females they had removed, together with other valuable property, from vessels they intercepted entering or leaving the Mississippi River."

"I didn't know that," Fernando said.

"It is, I suspect, why my wife is a bit vague when discussing our ancestors. It is one thing to take some pride in them having been free men of color in New Orleans, before the war of cessation, and quite something else to acknowledge how they achieved that status."

"Excuse me?" Fernando asked.

Masterson took a long sip of his drink, and continued: "After the Battle of New Orleans, Jean Laffite was pardoned for his services. As were his officers and men. Most of them stayed in Louisiana, but some of them, including a notorious scoundrel, Captain Alois Hamele, and his son, Captain Francois Hamele, originally from Haiti, and before that of course from Africa, came here, where the land was cheaper and there were a number of bays and coves where ships not wishing to pa.s.s their cargoes through customs could unload.

"Captain-they used the French term, maitre, maitre, in those days-Hamele and his son-commonly known as the in those days-Hamele and his son-commonly known as the fils de le Maitre fils de le Maitre-decided, upon hearing that Jean Laffite had returned to his sinful ways, and knowing that the authorities would almost surely come looking for other pardoned freebooters, that a change of name was probably-"

"I know where you're going," Charley said. "Son of the Master, right? Masterson?"

Winslow Masterson slowly turned from the window, smiled, and nodded.

"Over the years," he went on, "the Masterson family acquired rather extensive land holdings in this area. Some of it was splendid farmland; some was in timber, and some, like the land on which this splendiferous gambling h.e.l.l is built, was essentially useless swamp."

"And now," Fernando said, smiling, "I think I know where you're going."

"Perhaps," Masterson said, smiling.

"About fifteen years ago, some gentlemen from Las Vegas came to see me about acquiring this property. I suspect, perhaps unkindly, that they were disappointed when they found that I was not plowing my land walking barefoot behind a mule."

Castillo and Fernando chuckled.

"And I know they were disappointed when I told them I wasn't interested in selling the property. I didn't tell them that not only do I dislike selling property, but in this case my wife had also weighed in. She truly believes that proprietors of gambling h.e.l.ls grow rich on the poor.

"But it is true, I suppose, that everyone has their price, and in this case, the Las Vegas people finally met mine. An absurd, from my standpoint, amount of money. And this apartment, in perpetuity, together with what they term 'full maintenance,' which means I never am billed for anything. I suspect they still entertain hope I will come here, have too much of this stuff"-he raised his gla.s.s-"and go downstairs and lose it all back to them shooting dice."

Castillo and Lopez laughed.

"Primarily, I use it to house people who come to see me who I would rather not have in my home," Masterson said, and took a sip of his scotch. After a moment, he added, "My wife has never been in the building."

Masterson looked between them for a moment, then drained his gla.s.s. He put the gla.s.s carefully on the bar and turned to face Castillo.

"Very well," he said. "Enough of that. Please tell me, Mr. Castillo, who abducted my daughter-in-law and murdered my son, and why. And what I can do to avenge his death."

"Yes, sir," Castillo said. "I'll tell you what I know, which isn't very much. When the President heard that Mrs. Masterson was missing in what appeared to be a kidnapping, he sent me to Buenos Aires. . . ."

"And you have no idea whatsoever who these people are?" Masterson asked, when Castillo had finished.

"No, sir. I do not. Obviously, it has something to do with Mr. Lorimer. So I'm going to start by trying to find him. If there's anything, anything at all, you can tell me that you think might help . . ."

Masterson nodded thoughtfully.

"There is a subculture here, Mr. Castillo, of affluent Negroes who can trace their ancestry back to the free men of color. It is simply a matter of our being more comfortable with each other than we are with other people."

"We Texicans have something like that in San Antonio," Fernando said.

Masterson considered that, and said, "Yes, I daresay you would. Your grandfather mentioned in pa.s.sing that he had ancestors on both sides who died at the Alamo fighting the Mexicans. I don't know about Texas, but here ours is a rather small community. We're primarily Roman Catholic. We send our daughters to the nuns in New Orleans for their high school education, and our sons to the brothers at Saint Stanislaus here in Mississippi for theirs.

"My son went to Saint Stanislaus as I did, and my father did, and my grandfather. So did Jean-Paul Lorimer, as did his father, and-I believe-his grandfather. Jack's mother and Jean-Paul's mother had known each other in the Blessed Heart of Jesus School in New Orleans, and then gone to Spring Hill College in Mobile. It was thus inevitable that Jack would meet Betsy and that they became sweethearts when they were in their teens.

"Surprising most of us, the romance continued after Jack went off to Notre Dame on a basketball scholarship. They were married, against the wishes of both families, two weeks after Jack graduated. Our sole objections were that Betsy had not completed her degree-she's a year younger than Jack-and that they were too young. Their argument, to which we finally acquiesced, was they would be separated again by his professional athletic career."

He paused and smiled. "Betsy, I strongly suspect, was fully aware of the tales of the off-court activities of the Celtics, and was determined that she would not lose Jack to some adoring-what's the phrase?-'basketball groupie.' If Jack was going to Boston, so was she."

Fernando and Castillo chuckled.

"And then, of course, Jack's career ended prematurely when he was struck by the beer truck. I hoped he would come home to work the plantation. He said he would the day I announced my retirement, and not before.

"The amba.s.sador suggested he take the entrance examination for the foreign service, and we all thought this was a splendid idea. The world, as they say, is growing smaller every day, and by the time I was ready to retire, Jack would be fluent in more languages than French and English, and the fruits of their union would have been exposed to experiences they would not have if they went to the nuns and brothers here.

"And, with one exception, until this outrage occurred, their lives were going as well as my wife and I, and Amba.s.sador and Mrs. Lorimer, could have wished. That exception was the unpleasantness that developed between Jack and Jean-Paul Lorimer."

Castillo, about to take a sip of his drink, stopped. "Over what?" he asked.

"At first, we thought it was differing political views, but on second thought, we realized that it almost certainly was more than that. It went back to their days at Saint Stanislaus, and had other causes." Masterson paused. "What I'm doing is what my wife would call 'airing the dirty family linen.' But you said 'anything at all.' Should I continue?"

"Yes, sir, please," Castillo said.

"Shortly after Jack joined the foreign service, he was posted to Paris. My wife and I went to see them. They had an apartment on the Quai Anatole France. . . . Do you know Paris, Mr. Castillo?"

"Yes, sir."

"I can find my way from the Arch of Triumph to the Place de la Concorde without a guide," Fernando said.

"Facing the River Seine from the Place de la Concorde," Masterson said, "just across the river is a row of apartment buildings on the Quai Anatole France. Do you know where I mean?"

"Yes, sir," Fernando said.

"The high-rent district," Castillo said.

Masterson nodded. "And Jack and Betsy-who was very pregnant-were ensconced in an upper-floor apartment in one of the more expensive buildings on the Quai Anatole France. He was so junior in the foreign service that government quarters were not made available to him; they paid a rental allowance instead, and you were supposed to find yourself someplace to live.

"What Jack and Betsy found was a lovely apartment, from which one could see the Bateaux-Mouches on the Seine, the Place de la Concorde . . . and it was priced accordingly.

"I questioned Jack about the wisdom of his flaunting his affluence. His response was that everyone knew of that incredible settlement he'd been given, and that it would be hypocrisy to pretend they were not extremely well-off. Later in his career he became more discreet.

"In any event, he and Betsy gave a party for us. Jean-Paul Lorimer was also in Paris. He had resigned from the State Department some months before-later I learned that was shortly after he learned Jack would be sent to Paris-and joined the UN. When my wife learned that he had not been invited to the party becausehe and Jack had had words, my wife prevailed upon Betsy to include him.

"I don't think Jean-Paul had been in the apartment ten minutes before he said something that Jack construed as anti-American. It quickly became ugly, very ugly. Betsy was in tears. Cutting that short, Jack threw him-literally threw him-out of the apartment. As far as I know, that's the last time they ever saw one another.

"At first we thought it was a question of their political differences-Jack's mother always said that Jack was more chauvinistically patriotic than Patrick Henry-but on reflection, we realized that it went back as far as Saint Stanislaus."

"I don't think I follow you, sir," Castillo said.

"The green-eyed monster, Mr. Castillo. Jealousy," Masterson said. "Jean-Paul is three years older than Jack. Saint Stanislaus's football team leaves something to be desired, but they have always had a first-rate basketball team. Jean-Paul didn't earn a place on the team until he was a senior. Jack made it as a ninth-grader. They played together, in other words. Jack immediately became the star. The Celtics-and others-made their first offers to him when he was still at Saint Stanislaus, and they were not doing so as their contribution to affirmative action.

"And then came the scholarship to Notre Dame. Jean-Paul went to Spring Hill, where he didn't attempt varsity sports, and where his academic career was unspectacular. Jack's skill on the basketball court, on the other hand, gave a new meaning to the term 'Black Irish,' and academically he did well enough to earn a Phi Beta Kappa key.

"Then came his contract for all that money from the Celtics, and shortly thereafter he was struck by the beer truck. The enormous settlement he received from that exacerbated, my wife and I came to realize, the resentment Jean-Paul-but not, I hasten to add, his father and mother-harbored for our being far better off than the Lorimers.

"Jean-Paul followed his father into the foreign service. His initial a.s.signment was to Liberia. When Jack went into the foreign service, his first a.s.signment was Paris. I later learned that he believed I had something to do with that. I did not, if I have to say so.

"Jean-Paul resigned from the foreign service and joined the United Nations and was a.s.signed to Paris. Where he found Jack and Betsy in the apartment on the Quai Anatole France."

"Wow!" Castillo said.

"That said, Mr. Castillo," Masterson went on, "I cannot believe that Jean-Paul could possibly have anything to do with Jack's murder. Nor can I imagine Jean-Paul being involved in anything illegal. He is one of those people who go through life trying to bend the rules to their advantage, but who simply don't have the courage, if that's the word, to break them."

"Maybe drugs are involved?" Fernando said. "That's a murderous business."

"I find that impossible to accept, even as a remote possibility, Mr. Lopez," Masterson said. "Might it have something to do with our involvement in Iraq?"

"I don't think that's likely, sir," Castillo said.

"Giving my imagination free rein," Masterson asked, "could it be that Jean-Paul has somehow annoyed the Israelis? Their intelligence agency . . . Mossad? Something like that?"

"Mossad," Castillo confirmed. "Formally, the Inst.i.tute for Intelligence and Special Tasks."

"Mossad has a certain reputation for ruthlessness," Masterson finished.

"Maybe," Castillo blurted. He collected his thoughts. "All the shooters-of Mr. Masterson, Sergeant Markham, and Special Agent Schneider-were firing Israeli-manufactured nine-millimeter ammunition."

He heard himself. Jesus, motormouth, why did you say that? Jesus, motormouth, why did you say that?

"I shouldn't have said that," he said quickly. "My brain isn't functioning. All that proves is that Israel manufactures a lot of ammunition. It's unlikely that Mossad Special Task shooters would use traceable ammunition on a job like this."

"Probably not," Masterson agreed. "But now that I think about it, I don't think that Israeli involvement in this should be dismissed out of hand."

"On the other hand," Castillo went on thoughtfully, "since so much Israeli ammo is around, so readily available, maybe Mossad would use it. Why not?"

"Which appears to point right back to Jean-Paul Lorimer and his connections with the French," Masterson said, "as the key to this."

"Yes, sir, it looks that way. With a little bit of luck, I should be in Paris before our emba.s.sy closes tomorrow. Not that the emba.s.sy being closed matters. The CIA station chief will just have to give up his cinq a sept cinq a sept."

Masterson chuckled. "You have been in Paris, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"What the h.e.l.l is a sank . . . whatever you said?" Fernando asked.

"You could call it 'recreation on the way home from the office,'" Castillo said, and Masterson chuckled again. "It means five to seven. five to seven. Something like a noonie in the United States." Something like a noonie in the United States."

Fernando shook his head. Masterson chuckled again.

"How well did you know my son, Mr. Castillo?"

"Not well," Castillo said. "But I liked what I saw."

"And that explains your enthusiasm to find these people?"

"That's part of it, sir. The other part is personal. I also really want to find the people who shot Special Agent Schneider and Sergeant Markham."

"Do you think the rest of the government is going to share your enthusiasm? Or will this just fade into memory?"