Working for Castillo-the Office of Organizational Analysis-now that I think about it, won't be as bad as I originally thought.
It would seem, really, that I have a talent for that sort of thing. I would have given odds that I would have broken out in a cold sweat when I saw where I dropped that Ninja. I didn't.
The sonofabitch had a submachine gun he would have used on me if I hadn't blown him away. Why should I feel guilty about taking him down?
Castillo may not be thrilled about having me. Okay. But he's stuck with me. All I'll have to do is play my cards right and eventually he'll accept me. I can do a lot for OOA. They need somebody like me. And they know when something goes down, I can hold my own. I proved it.
Fuck the FBI! "You want to get a drink somewhere?" Artigas asked as they walked from the helicopter to their cars.
All of their cars were parked nose up against the Policia Federal hangar. Howell had picked up Artigas that morning and driven him to the airport. Both lived in apartments not far from the embassy on the Rambla. Ordonez had met them at the airport. Yung had driven to the airport in his own car from his apartment in Carrasco.
"My ass is dragging," Yung replied. "I'm going to get in a shower and then go to bed. I'll see you at the embassy about nine, okay?"
"Your call. Goodnight, Dave," Artigas said, touched Yung's shoulder, and opened the passenger's door of Howell's car.
"Thanks for everything, Ordonez," Yung said. "I really appreciate all you've done."
"Di nada, mi amigo," Ordonez said. "I'll probably see you tomorrow."
"Absolutely."
And you won't learn anything more tomorrow than you did today.
Yung put the Louis Vuitton suitcase in the backseat of his Chevy Blazer and got behind the wheel.
It was a ten-minute drive from the airport to Yung's apartment.
He lived in a three-story building, two apartments to a floor, on Avenida Bernardo Barran. All the apartments had balconies overlooking the beach. He thought his-the right-hand apartment on the third floor-had the best view, and he thought that he would probably miss the apartment when he was back living in D.C., where the rents were astronomical and he couldn't afford anything this nice.
Well, fuck it. Maybe working for Castillo, I won't be spending all that much time in Washington.
The garage was in the basement of the building. There was a clicker-activated solenoid that opened the steel-mesh door most of the time when you pushed the button after you pulled off the street and into the steeply slanted driveway.
If the clicker didn't work, you had to get out of the car and open the door with a key.
The clicker didn't work.
Shit!
He turned the ignition off, took the keys from the ignition, and opened the Blazer's door.
As he squeezed past the front fender, he noticed two things. First, the floodlight that went on when you pushed the clicker-even if the goddamned door didn't open-hadn't come on.
What the hell!
And then he noticed that a bag, a cloth-something-was covering the clicker receiver.
What the hell!
And then in the same split second, he saw that a man was coming quickly down the driveway and that a car was entering the drive.
Backward! What the hell?
He pushed his jacket aside and took out his pistol.
There was a sudden burst of light, from a large handheld floodlight.
"Policia!" a voice shouted.
The car-he saw now that it was a small Fiat van-started up the driveway, its tires squealing.
The man coming down the driveway shielded his eyes from the floodlight. Then he put his other hand to his eyes. That hand held a pistol.
"Don't shoot him!" Yung screamed, in Spanish.
There came three shots-booms rather than cracks, telling Yung they were from a shotgun and not a pistol-and the man who had been shielding his eyes looked as if something had shoved him hard against the concrete driveway wall. He slid down it.
Yung dropped his pistol and raised his hands over his head. He started screaming, "Policia! Policia! Policia!"
Something warm dripped onto his face.
In a moment, he realized that he was bleeding.
A Uruguayan policeman, a sergeant with his pistol drawn, came down the driveway.
"Are you all right, Senor Yung?"
How the hell did he know my name?
"May I put my hands down?"
"Of course, Senor," the sergeant said, then added, "You've been hit, Senor Yung!"
Yung looked at his left hand. It looked as if someone had gouged a two-inch-long, quarter-inch-deep channel across it. It was starting to bleed profusely.
Yung thought: There are usually twelve pellets, with a total weight of 1.5 ounces, in a 00-Buckshot cartridge. Each pellet has roughly the knockdown power of a.32 ACP bullet.
Wyatt Earp fired three times. That translated to thirty-six pellets, each with roughly the knockdown power of a.32 ACP slug bouncing around in the OK Corral here. I guess I'm lucky I got only one of them.
He leaned against the wall and took out his handkerchief.
When he applied the handkerchief as a pressure bandage to his hand, he saw there were at least a half dozen holes in the glass and metal of the Blazer.
IX
[ONE] Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Newbery Buenos Aires, Argentina 0720 8 August 2005 Castillo had flown in the right seat on the last leg from Recife, Brazil, with Torine in the left seat. But as they had approached Jorge Newbery, Torine had said, "If you have your ego under control, First Officer, you may land the aircraft."
And then, when they had shut down the Gulfstream on the tarmac in front of the JetAire hangar, Torine had two more comments.
"You came in a little long, Charley."
"I know."
"The less the gross weight, the harder these are to get on the ground."
"I'll remember."
Torine handed him the plastic envelope holding the aircraft documents.
"Dealing with the local authorities is beneath the dignity of the captain," Torine said.
"Yes, sir," Castillo said. When he came down the stair door, Castillo saw that in addition to the Argentine customs and immigration authorities a Mercedes Traffik van also was there to meet the Gulfstream.
The driver was leaning against the van. Castillo recognized him. He was a CIA agent named Paul Sieno. He had met him the morning they had found J. Winslow Masterson's body. And when he looked closer at the van, he saw another man he recognized, Ricardo Solez, of the Drug Enforcement Administration.
Jesus, I hope Fernando doesn't take one look at him, get carried away, and pick Ricardo up in a bear hug!
Sieno walked over and in heavily accented English said, "We are from the estancia, senor, when you have finished with these officers."
"Thank you," Castillo said and turned to the Argentine officials. "Where would you like us to put our luggage for exam-"
Max came bounding down-more accurately, over-the steps in the stair door and headed for the nose gear, where he raised his leg.
The Argentine customs officer smiled.
"That won't be necessary, sir. If we can go aboard, we'll deal with the passports."
"You are very kind," Castillo said.
He went quickly back into the fuselage.
"Passports, please, everybody," he called. "And then please board the van, which will take us to the estancia."
Eric Kocian's bushy white eyebrow rose at that, but he said nothing. He handed the immigration officer his passport as if it identified him as the personal representative of, if not God, then at least the pope.
"Welcome to Argentina, senor," the immigration officer said.
Five minutes later, everyone was in the van and had left the airport. Where's this estancia we're going?" Castillo asked Sieno when it seemed to him the van was not headed for any of the highways leading to the countryside.