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“Bradley’s in there,” Castillo said, indicating the helicopter.
“How did it go, Charley?” Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF, a tall, slim redhead in a sports coat, asked.
“Not well,” Castillo replied. “Lorimer is dead. And Kranz bought the farm.”
“Oh, shit! What happened?”
“And Munz took a hit,” Castillo went on. He looked at the third man, who was slim, in his early forties, with shortly cropped thinning hair and wearing a light brown single-breasted suit.
“Well, hello, Howard,” he said, not kindly. “Your boss send you to see how badly I bent his chopper?”
Howard Kennedy had spent most of his adult life as an FBI agent. Two years before, he had abruptly abandoned his prestigious duties in the FBI’s Ethical Standards—read Internal Affairs—Division to go to work for Aleksandr Pevsner, a Russian national, who, it was alleged in warrants issued for his arrest by nearly a dozen countries, had committed an array of crimes ranging from being an international dealer in arms and drugs all the way down to murder.
“I came because he thought I might be useful,” Howard Kennedy said.
“What happened, Charley?” Colonel Torine asked again.
“There were some other people at the estancia. Six of them…”
“Who?” Kennedy said.
“…all dressed in black and armed with Madsens,” Castillo finished.
“Who were they?” Kennedy pursued.
“I wish to hell I knew,” Castillo said, and turned to Torine. “How soon can we go wheels-up?”
“All I have to do is file the flight plan. It shouldn’t take long this time of night.”
“Howard, can you take care of Colonel Munz?” Castillo asked.
“Does he need a hospital?”
“The bullet’s out, and he’s been given antibiotics. Unless he develops an infection, no.”
“Who took the bullet out?” Kennedy asked.
Castillo ignored the question.
“Take him home, Howard. Right now, he’s still in la-la land, but that should wear off in no more than an hour. Then he’ll start to hurt.”
“Can he walk?”
Castillo nodded.
“I don’t like this,” Kennedy said.
“Howard, didn’t your mother ever tell you when you go somewhere uninvited, you’re likely to find something at the party you won’t like?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. And if I wasn’t here, what would you have done with Munz?”
“He gave me a number to call if something went wrong,” Castillo said. “I just want you to remember I didn’t have any idea you would be here.”
“Okay. So what?”
“Special Agent David W. Yung, Jr., of the FBI is in the chopper.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ!”
