The Hostage Part 82

XIX.

[ONE].

Estancia Shangri-La Tacuarembo Province Republica Oriental del Uruguay 0855 30 July 2005

Jean-Paul Bertrand, patron of Estancia Shangri-La, naked under his silk Sulka dressing gown, his bare feet in soft brown unborn calfskin loafers, carefully pushed open the French door from his bedroom to the interior courtyard of his home.

He was carrying a cup of tea in his left hand, and when it was raining-as it was now-the d.a.m.ned door stuck and the tea would spill. It didn't matter if he slopped tea on the tile floors, of course, but getting tea on the light blue dressing gown was really distressful.

He had managed-not without a good deal of effort-to teach the laundress how he liked his shirts- lightly starched-and his linen, and how she should carefully wash his silk socks in cold water. But dry cleaning was an entirely different matter. There was no dry-cleaning establishment worthy of the name in Tacuarembo, which meant that all all his dry cleaning had to be taken to Punta del Este. The place there charged an arm and a leg to dry-clean something, but at least it was returned clean, in one piece, and usually of the same color. his dry cleaning had to be taken to Punta del Este. The place there charged an arm and a leg to dry-clean something, but at least it was returned clean, in one piece, and usually of the same color.

There were several problems with that, too, however. For one thing, he did not think it wise to go to his condominium in Punta del Este. People might be looking for him to show up there. And even if he could go-in, say, six months-the stains he got on anything here would by then be permanent.

Therefore, he opened the door very carefully, and was pleased with his foresight and care. The d.a.m.n door did stick, but he didn't spill any tea on his dressing gown.

He sighed. It was drizzling. And from the appearance of the sky, it was going to drizzle all day. That happened often in winter.

What it meant was that he would be a prisoner in the house at least for today and tomorrow, and probably longer than that. The paths in the interior courtyard garden were paved with tile, and if he wanted to, he could pace back and forth-like a prisoner being allowed to exercise-for as long as he wanted. But leaving the house was out of the question. Walking on the gra.s.s was like walking on a wet sponge. Jean-Paul had ruined more than one pair of shoes like that.

And where the gra.s.s ended, there was mud. The only way to move through the mud was to wear calf-high rubber boots. The rubber hurt his feet, ruined his silk socks, and made his feet smell. And too frequently the boots became stuck in the mud, which meant that when he tried to take a step, his foot came out of the boot and wound up in the mud past the ankle-if he didn't fall down on his face in the mud. Or worse, on his back.

Jean-Paul heard the helicopter a long time before he finally saw it. While helicopters were certainly not common, he seemed to see more and more of them, even way out here in the country. He had learned that some of them were owned by people who used them to commute between Montevideo-or even Buenos Aires-and their estancias. That was especially true in the winter, when the G.o.dd.a.m.n persistent drizzle turned the roads into impa.s.sable quagmires. And some were used to take hunters from Montevideo or Buenos Aires to the duck-shooting areas.

There was a lot of that, too. Well-to-do American and European hunters had discovered the wild fowl of Uruguay. He had even heard that the Vice President of the United States had shot Perdiz over dogs-whatever that meant-on an estancia owned by a Uruguayan lawyer not far from Shangri-La.

In the summer, there were frequent overflights of Shangri-La by helicopters taking people from Argentina and Brazil to Punta del Este. Jean-Paul had toyed with the idea of getting one for himself. Having one would solve the problem of getting back and forth to Punta del Este. It was a dreadfully long drive on narrow highways. And he now could easily afford one.

But a helicopter would draw attention to him, and it was a little too soon to be attracting attention. The helicopter, like a good many other things, would just have to wait until everyone forgot Jean-Paul Lorimer.

The sound of the helicopter grew louder and then- startling him-it suddenly appeared out of the drizzle, no more than several hundred feet in the air, and flashed overhead.

It was quickly gone, and then the sound of its engines and thrashing rotor blades grew dimmer and finally disappeared.

Jean-Paul Bertrand decided the pilot had somehow become lost and had flown close to the ground to find a road and reorient himself.

He tossed what was left of his tea onto a flower bed and went back into the house for a fresh cup.

[TWO].

Suite 735 Victoria Plaza Hotel 759 Plaza Independencia Montevideo, Uruguay 1125 30 July 2005 Suite 735 was cla.s.sified by the Radisson Victoria Plaza as a "hospitality" suite, intended for the use of businessmen who wished to entertain potential clients in privacy.

There was a bedroom with two king-sized beds, plus a large sitting room with a wet bar, a refrigerator, and a large table seating eight that was suitable for use as either a dining table or a conference table. An enormous Sony flat-screen television was mounted on one wall of the sitting room so that those sitting at the table could view sales presentations, HBO, or, for that matter, the x.x.x-RATED video dramas that were available for a nominal fee.

When Castillo walked into the hospitality suite with Munz and Yung, there were ten people in the room: Colonel Jacob Torine; Special Agents Jack Britton and Tony Santini of the Secret Service; Special Agent Ricardo Solez of the Drug Enforcement Administration; Mr. Alex Darby, the commercial attache of the U.S. emba.s.sy in Buenos Aires; Mr. Fernando Lopez; Sergeants First Cla.s.s Robert Kensington and Seymour Kranz of Delta Force; Corporal Lester Bradley of the United States Marine Corps; and someone-a mild-looking man in his early thirties-Castillo had never seen before.

Castillo walked directly to Darby, took him by the arm, led him into the bathroom, closed the door, and somewhat indelicately demanded, "What the f.u.c.k is Bradley doing here? And who the f.u.c.k is the other guy?"

Darby made a time-out gesture with his hands, then went and opened the door.

"Bob, will you come in here a moment, please?"

The mild-looking man came into the bathroom and closed the door after him.

"Bob, this is Mr. Castillo," Darby said. "Charley, Bob-Robert-Howell."

"How do you do?" Bob Howell extended his hand.

Castillo did not reply; instead he looked questioningly at Darby.

"Bob is the cultural attache of the U.S. emba.s.sy here in Montevideo," Darby said.

"The head spook, you mean?" Castillo asked.

Darby nodded. "Tell Mr. Castillo what you told me when you called yesterday, Bob."

Howell nodded.

"I received a telephone call on a secure line from Amba.s.sador Montvale. . . ."

What? Castillo thought. Castillo thought. Jesus Christ! Is that sonofab.i.t.c.h Montvale trying to micromanage me? Jesus Christ! Is that sonofab.i.t.c.h Montvale trying to micromanage me?

"He first informed me that what he was to tell me was cla.s.sified Top Secret-Presidential," Howell said, "and that no one in the emba.s.sy here was authorized access, including the amba.s.sador. Then he told me he had reason to believe you were in Buenos Aires. I was to make contact with you immediately-he suggested Mr. Darby would probably know how to do that-and place myself and my a.s.sets at your absolute disposal." He paused. "So I called Alex."

"What else did Montvale have to say?"

"That's it, sir."

"He didn't tell you to check back with him? Let him know how things were going?"

Howell shook his head. "Nothing like that."

"And how much did you tell Mr. Howell, Alex?" Castillo asked.

"Only that I would be here this morning, and we would need a secure, discreet place to meet with maybe a dozen people."

"So I arranged for this, Mr. Castillo," Howell said. "I've used it before. I came earlier and swept it."

"And I asked him to stay to see what you wanted to do," Darby said. "This is his country, Charley. He knows it."

Castillo nodded.

"And what about Corporal Bradley? Did Montvale call him, too?"

"Can Howell hear this?"

Castillo thought that over for a moment, then offered Howell his hand.

"Welcome to Castillo's traveling circus, Mr. Howell," Castillo said. "This operation is authorized by a Presidential Finding. The cla.s.sification is Top Secret- Presidential. What we're going to do is take a man, an American citizen named Jean-Paul Lorimer, who is here in Uruguay-more or less legally-as Jean-Paul Bertrand, on a Lebanese pa.s.sport, from his estancia in Tacuarembo Province to the States. Whether or not he's enthusiastic about being repatriated, and without going through the usual immigration departure procedures. Getting the picture?"

Howell nodded. "Can I ask what this guy's done?"

"He has been a very naughty boy," Castillo said. "There are people who would like to see him dead. So we have to do this before they get to him."

"Okay," Howell said.

Castillo turned to Darby. "Okay, Alex. What about Bradley? What's he doing here?"

"Well, you wanted two hundred gallons of fuel for the helicopter," Darby said. "The question-this is before I got the call from Bob, you understand-was where to get it without having questions asked. That meant I'd have to get it in Argentina. Getting the fuel was no problem; getting it over here was. I knew you didn't want questions raised around the emba.s.sy, either. The emba.s.sy routinely trucks stuff over here, but I thought there might be questions asked if I tried to get on the Busquebus with four fifty-five-gallon barrels of jet fuel- plus the other stuff-in the back of a pickup truck.

"So that meant it would have to be driven over here. That's a long drive, all the way up to Gualeguaychu, across the bridge over the Rio Uruguay into Uruguay, and then all the way down here. But I didn't think there would be many questions asked at the border if there were CD plates on the truck.

"Better yet, on a Yukon being driven by a Marine guard. They often make freight runs over here by road, so I knew they had a Yukon. So I called the gunny and told him you needed a quiet favor. I needed to take four drums of fuel and some other stuff to you in Uruguay. Would it fit in his Yukon and would he loan it-and a driver-to you?

"For some reason-maybe your charming personality-the gunny likes you. So he said, 'Sure, and for a driver, guess who's standing right here in my office, just back from the States?'"

"Corporal Lester Bradley, my stalwart Marine bodyguard," Castillo said, shaking his head.

"Who had already heard more than he should," Darby said. "I figured it was better to use him than go through the ha.s.sle-"

"Yeah, and what the h.e.l.l, I just might need a bodyguard," Castillo said. "Okay, let's go look at the home movies."

Sergeant Seymour Kranz was sitting at one side of the table. A laptop computer was in front of him. There was a rat's nest of cables attaching the computer to a small video camera, to a small color inkjet printer, and to the control panel of the Sony television on the wall.

"Please don't tell me that the Minicam batteries were dead, or that Yung forgot to take the cover off the lens," Castillo said.

"No, sir," Sergeant Seymour Kranz replied. "It worked better than I would have thought."

"And we're set up, right, so I can push the right b.u.t.ton-which you will show me-and can make stills as we watch it?"

"Yes, sir," Kranz said, handing Castillo the control as Castillo sat down beside him. "And it's already loaded into the computer, so you can send it to Washington or Bragg if you want to."

"Let's hold off on that," Castillo said, and then: "Okay, guys. Here's the tape we shot of the target this morning. I could only make one low-level pa.s.s over the house itself, so I'm sure I missed something important. Make a note of what else you would like to see. When I drop Kranz off up there this afternoon, I'll have another shot at it." He paused. "Are we going to have to turn the lights off to see this? Well, let's find out."

The huge television screen began to show the Uruguayan countryside, and then approached a city.

"That's the town of Tacuarembo. Not much of a town. The road to the estancia is at the top right of the picture. A quarter of a mile or so out of town, the paving stops. The roads, according to the maps, are 'improved,' which means anything from paved with stone to mud. We better count on mud; this is the rainy season."

"Now there's Estancia Shangri-La itself. Shot through the soup from about twenty-five hundred feet. I think- I hope-the stuff Yung shot when I made the low-level pa.s.s will give us a h.e.l.l of a lot more detail. But you can see the house. Notice the interior courtyard, and the outbuildings."

"Now this is the road leading away from Shangri-La. In other words, farther away from Tacuarembo. What I was looking for was a place where we could set up Kranz's radio today. And tomorrow, where we could form up, and where I can leave the chopper while we're making the s.n.a.t.c.h. I went five miles or so in this direction and didn't find one. It all looked like swamp-maybe because of the rain-or it was full of rocks or trees, or both."

"So I went over here. Much Much closer to where we're going. You can't tell it from the air, but the maps show that it's a hundred or so feet higher than the buildings at the estancia.I'm sure I can get in there without being seen, and I don't think anyone will be able to tell the difference between a chopper flying overhead and me landing. And . . . where the h.e.l.l is it? There it is. A field without rocks or trees, and it looks as if it drains pretty well." closer to where we're going. You can't tell it from the air, but the maps show that it's a hundred or so feet higher than the buildings at the estancia.I'm sure I can get in there without being seen, and I don't think anyone will be able to tell the difference between a chopper flying overhead and me landing. And . . . where the h.e.l.l is it? There it is. A field without rocks or trees, and it looks as if it drains pretty well."

"And here, a half mile, give or take, from the field is another 'improved' road. You have to go all the way back to Tacuarembo to get on it. But that's what, Bradley, you're going to have to take to get to it. You'll take Ricardo Solez with you. I don't know what the h.e.l.l to do about the d.a.m.ned CD plates on the Yukon. . . ."

He stopped the video and looked at Darby.

"The Yukon now has Argentine plates on it, Charley," Alex Darby said. "And Argentine doc.u.ments in the glove compartment."

"How less suspicious will the Argentine plates make it-?" Castillo heard a whirring noise, and realized the printer was already printing the stills.

"Not as unsuspicious as Uruguayan plates," Darby admitted. "But I just couldn't put my hands on Uruguayan plates on such short notice. And anyway, Uruguayan plates have the province on them. You can't tell where an Argentine vehicle is from from the plates."

"Okay," Castillo said. "Bradley, keep your mouth shut if you get stopped or anything. Ricardo's Texican, speaks pretty good porteno porteno Spanish, can probably pa.s.s for a Uruguayan, and probably can get away with explaining you as his anemic cousin." Spanish, can probably pa.s.s for a Uruguayan, and probably can get away with explaining you as his anemic cousin."

"Yes, sir."

"The way we're going to do this is that you're going to drive the Yukon to Tacuarembo as soon as this meeting breaks up. It's about two hundred twenty miles, so figure five hours, six if the roads are bad, but it's a real highway as far as Tacuarembo-I flew up it this morning-so we may get lucky. If you leave here by twelve-thirty, that should put you in the city by six-thirty at the latest. There will still be some light until about half past five. The priority, obviously, is to get the fuel and weapons up there safely, even if that takes you until midnight. Having said that, the sooner you get there, the better. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Corporal Bradley said. "Highest road speed consistent with safety."

"And share the driving," Castillo ordered, and thought, At least Ricardo will be driving half the time. At least Ricardo will be driving half the time. "Change over every hour." "Change over every hour."

"Yes, sir," Bradley almost barked.

You're being unfair. He may look like an escapee from the high school cheerleading squad, but he did get the Yukon here, didn't he? And the fuel and weapons past the border guards?

"In the best of all possible worlds," Castillo continued, "you would get to Tacuarembo at, say, quarter to five, even a little earlier. That would give you time to find the right road out of town, and then to find the field. You'll have a map. Getting from the road to the field is the problem. Reconnoiter it on foot, make sure, operative word sure sure, that you won't get the truck stuck in the mud. If we get really lucky and you can drive to the field, dump the fuel barrels and the pump. Not the weapons. Just the fuel and the pump. And then go find the Hotel Carlos Gardel in Tacuarembo. It shouldn't be hard; it's the only one. Decide for yourself if you want to take the chance of leaving the weapons in the Yukon or taking them and the other stuff into the hotel."

"You don't want us to just stay in the field overnight?" Solez asked.

"If some gaucho rides up on the fuel, he might figure someone left it there to fuel a tractor or something. He would get curious to find two guys in a Yukon."

"Okay."

"If you can't get the Yukon in there, we'll just have to land the chopper on the road in the morning and refuel it there."

"Why do you have to refuel it at all?" Britton asked. "I mean, you went up there and back-"

"Because I'm going directly to Jorge Newbery from Shangri-La," Castillo explained. "To do that I'm going to need a full load of fuel. Torine and Fernando are going to stay here-the Lear is-until they get word that we have Lorimer in the bag. We should know whether that worked by, say, twenty-one hundred tomorrow night. When-if-they get the word, they immediately go wheels-up to Jorge Newbery.

"The next morning-I'm going to have to wait until it's light to take off-I'm going to fly nap of the earth, under, I devoutly hope, any radar. I don't want to try that in the dark with the equipment on the Ranger."

He looked at Munz.

"Tell Alex that whoever sold him the avionics on that chopper screwed him. And that, in the spirit of friendship, I'll send him a list of what he should have."

"Somebody cheated Alex?" Munz said. "That wasn't smart, was it?"

"Who's Alex?" Darby asked.

"You don't want to know," Castillo said.