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Castillo had felt like an intruder, a voyeur, in Kocian’s apartment, especially the bedroom. But curiosity had overwhelmed those feelings, and he and Otto Görner had spent a half hour in the huge, high-ceilinged rooms, examining the photos on the walls and furniture. There were all sorts of photographs, some of which were obviously of Kocian’s family and many of what obviously had become Kocian’s second family, the von und zu Gossingers.
There were several of Castillo’s grandfather and Kocian together, in uniform. And more of the former Herr Oberst in shabby civilian clothing, apparently taken right after the Second World War. There were others as Castillo remembered him, elegantly tailored.
In Kocian’s bedroom there had been a photograph on the bedside table of a young girl in braids and a near-adolescent boy holding Kocian’s hand—Castillo’s mother and his uncle Willi. There had been others of Kocian and Otto Görner.
The walls and furniture had held framed photographs at various places of Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger—aged three, five, seven, ten—holding his mother’s hand. There had been several of Carlos Guillermo Castillo, as a skinny Boy Scout, as a teenager on a horse at Hacienda San Jorge wearing a far-too-large cowboy hat, as Cadet Sergeant C. G. Castillo of the Corps of Cadets of the United States Military Academy, and as Second Lieutenant Castillo with just-awarded Distinguished Flying Cross, Bronze Star, and Purple Heart medals dangling from the breast of his tunic.
And more than a dozen photographs of women, ranging from in their twenties to middle age. They had been obviously important to Kocian, if not important enough for him to have married them.
Castillo had left Kocian’s bedroom feeling sad, almost to the point of tears. The old man had to be lonely. No wonder that he was bananas about Max. Max gave him the only love he had in his life.
Castillo patted Max and was surprised at how tense—actually, he was quivering—the dog’s body was. And he realized the dog was still growling, softly, deep in his throat.
“Hey, pal! What’s the matter?”
Max, who had been lying next to Castillo, suddenly got half to his feet and slinked off the bed.
Castillo’s heart jumped again. He sat up.
There was just enough light for Castillo to be able to see Max stalking across the floor toward the door leading to the sitting room.
He’s like a lion, a panther, stalking its prey!
Castillo rolled on his side far enough so that he could slide open the drawer of the bedside table. His fingers found the suppressed Ruger pistol. He quickly chambered a round, then sat up, pushing back on the bed until his back was resting against the headboard.
It’s probably Otto, looking for a glass of water. Or another dog. Maybe somebody cleaning the corridor outside the apartment.
Calm down, for Christ’s sake!
Max was now crouched but no longer growling.
There was a squeak.
What the hell is that?
The door swung open quickly and two men jumped into the room in crouching positions. Both held Madsen submachine guns at the ready. Max leaped at the first one, locking his massive jaws on the man’s arm. The man yelped in surprise and pain. The second pointed his Madsen at Max.
Without thinking what he was doing, Castillo raised the Rugerin both hands and fired instinctively—twice, as are flex action—at the second man. The suppressed muzzle made a soft tut-tut sound. Then, without waiting to see if he had hit the second man, Castillo fired at the first. Tut-tut. And then he looked back at the second man. He was now sliding limply down the doorframe. Tut-tut. Castillo’s eyes and the Ruger went back to the first man, who was now sitting down. It looked as if Max was about to drag him somewhere. Tut-tut.
The Ruger’s magazine had held ten .22 Long Rifle cartridges. Castillo had subconsciously counted as he had fired; he had two rounds left. He leaped out of the bed and ran to the dresser, where he had left the Micro Uzi. Its magazine was fully charged and he could get it much quicker than he could charge the Ruger’s magazine, the extra cartridges for which he had put in the same drawer as the Uzi.
He grabbed the Uzi and dropped to the floor, pulling the action lever back and then rolling over twice before sitting up with the Uzi pointed at the door.
There was no burst of gunfire.
Max trotted over and licked Castillo’s face.
Castillo felt tear swelling.
“You big sonofabitch,” he said. “I love you, too.”
He got to his feet and went to the men in the door.
The one Max had grabbed was on his back, openmouthed, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Castillo could see no entrance wounds. The second man was sitting in the doorway. There were two small holes in his forehead and a third next to his nose.
Castillo’s heart jumped again and he felt a chill.
Jesus Christ, Otto!
