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“Two-Gun Yung’s got you, Jack,” Edgar Delchamps said.
“And what about you?” Doherty challenged.
“I’ve already given him mine,” Delchamps said. “If he’s nice enough to sneak yours into Argentina, I guess we’ll have to start calling him Three-Gun Yung.”
They were back in the air at 1510. Five hours and thirty-two minutes later, Castillo—trying very hard to make a perfect landing—touched down much too long and some what hard on the runway at Jose Newbery.
“Because of the two-hour time difference,” Jake Torine told Castillo, “I will put it in the log that we landed at 1845 local time. Because I am a really fine fellow who would never hurt a junior officer’s delicate sensibilities, I will with-hold critical comment on that absolutely awful landing.”
They were met, as they had been the last time, by Paul Sieno and Ricardo Solez, who had the same unmarked Mercedes-Benz Traffik van and who again pretended to be Argentines sent to transfer American tourists to an unnamed estancia.
Once they were through the customs and immigration formalities and off the airfield, it was different. Sieno was obviously a great admirer of Edgar Delchamps and delighted to see him.
[TWO]
Nuestra Pequeña Casa
Mayerling Country Club
Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina
1925 13 August 2005
As soon as he walked into the house, Delchamps got an equally warm reception from Susanna Sieno and an only slightly less enthusiastic one from Alex Darby.
Castillo was not spared a welcome home. Max was so pleased to see him that he put his front paws on Castillo’s chest, knocked him down, and then to show there were no hard feelings enthusiastically licked his face.
Castillo was still trying to regain his feet when Eric Kocian came down the stairs, paused halfway, and announced: “I see my jailer has arrived.”
“Forgive me for trying to keep you alive, Uncle Billy,” Castillo said.
“Any man who shamelessly steals the affection of another man’s dog is beneath contempt,” Kocian said.
“Eric Kocian, Jack Doherty,” Castillo said. “I’m sure the two of you will become great buddies.”
“This is the schoolteacher with the blackboards?” Kocian said. “I recognize the voice.”
“And these two, Inspector Doherty,” Castillo continued, “are in—or were in—your line of work. Sándor Tor, formerly inspector of the Budapest police, and Colonel Alfredo Munz, former chief of Argentina’s SIDE, which is sort of the FBI and the CIA combined.”
“I know what it is,” Doherty said as they shook hands.
“Carlos, I don’t suppose you saw my family?” Munz said.
“Oh, yes,” Castillo said as he went into his briefcase for his laptop computer. “And I have to tell you they will probably want to stay in the States.”
He turned on the computer, found what he was looking for, and held it out to Munz.
“There’s a bunch of pictures,” he said. “Just push this key with the arrow for the next one.”
Munz looked at the first picture, then showed it to Tor. It was of his daughters, decked out in chef’s whites, including enormous billowing hats, broiling steaks on a grill as Señora Munz and Doña Alicia, their arms around one another like sisters, smilingly watched.
“That’s my abuela, Alfredo,” Castillo said.
Munz went through the twenty-odd pictures one by one, then handed the computer back to Castillo.
“I think I want to kiss you, Carlos,” Munz said, “and then kill Pevsner very slowly.”
“Don’t do either, please,” Castillo said. “It would give Inspector Doherty the wrong idea and Pevsner may not be—probably isn’t—the villain.”
