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They might as well have had COP tattooed on their foreheads.
When Castillo locked eyes with Delchamps, it was obvious they were both wondering if the official-who-had-not-yet-come-to-work was really late, or whether this was some kind of stall.
Max was not concerned. He had for some reason changed his mind and decided he liked the customs officers who wouldn't let him into the country, and had offered them his paw. They had responded by offering him a thick rope to tug on, and he now was dragging two of them across the baggage room.
Castillo was somewhat concerned that when it came to inspecting their luggage there might be special interest in the AFC satellite telephones in the suitcases carried by Lester Bradley and Jamie Neidermeyer.
There was a cover story ready, of course-that they were ordinary satellite telephones necessary to keep Senor Castillo in touch with the world headquarters of the Lorimer Charitable amp; Benevolent Fund in Washington, D.C.-but that sounded fishy to even Senor Castillo, and there might be problems later if the customs officers decided they had best make a record of the entry of the radios into Argentina so that they would leave the country when Senor Castillo did, and not be sold in Argentina without the appropriate taxes being paid.
The problem did not come up. By the time the official charged with making sure Max was healthy showed up a half hour later, Max had so charmed the customs officials-mostly by being stronger than the two of them tugging on the rope-that as soon as the official had stamped his vaccination certificate they waved them past the luggage X-ray machines and through the doors to the lobby for arriving passengers.
There were no familiar faces waiting for them. But Torine nudged Castillo and nodded toward a man waving a sign with "Herr Gossinger" written on it.
Castillo discreetly signaled the others to wait, then walked over to the man.
Before Castillo could open his mouth, the man with the sign greeted him, in German: "Herr Munz welcomes you to Argentina, Herr Gossinger. He awaits you and your party at the estancia."
"Danke schoen," Castillo replied, and motioned for the others to follow him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the two cops who had been in baggage claim were now in the terminal, and obviously about to follow him and the others wherever they went.
The man with the sign led them out of the terminal to a small yellow Mercedes bus with ARGENTOURS painted on its doors. As the driver, eyeing Max warily, stuffed their luggage into it and the two cops watched the process, Torine discreetly nudged Castillo again, this time indicating a BMW with ordinary Argentine license plates.
Castillo saw Alfredo Munz behind the wheel. Alex Darby, the "commercial attache" of the United States embassy, was sitting next to him. Neither Darby nor Munz gave any sign of recognition.
There were two
people in the backseat of the BMW whom Castillo couldn't identify.
Not surprising. I can barely see Darby and Munz through those darkened windows.
But what the hell is this all about?
When the yellow Mercedes bus pulled away from the terminal, Munz's BMW followed it, and when they had left the airport property and were on the highway headed toward downtown Buenos Aires, Munz passed the bus and pulled in front.
That wasn't surprising either, but a minute or so later, Corporal Lester Bradley made his way with some difficulty through the crowded bus to kneel in the aisle beside Castillo.
"Colonel, I may be wrong, but I thought I should bring to your attention the possibility that we're being followed."
Yung heard him. He said, "It's those two cop types who were eyeing us in the terminal."
Castillo looked out over the luggage stacked in the back of the bus. There behind them were four men in a blue Peugeot sedan.
"And two of their friends," Castillo said.
"What's going on, Colonel?" Yung asked.
"I think they're friendlies, bringing up our rear. Munz and Darby are in that BMW in front of us. As to what's going on, I haven't a clue."
Ten minutes later, perhaps five seconds after Castillo had decided they were en route to the safe house in Pilar-they were on the sort of parkway that connects the downtown Buenos Aires-Ezeiza autopista with the Acceso Norte, which turns into Ruta 8-the BMW ahead of them suddenly turned onto an exit road and the bus, tires squealing, followed them.
When Castillo looked out the back, he saw that the Peugeot behind them had come to a stop in the middle of the exit road, effectively blocking anyone who might be following.
They drove three blocks into what looked like a working-class neighborhood-rows of small, wall-sharing, single-family homes built of masonry, broken only by buildings that could have been small factories, or garages, or warehouses-then made another screeching turn, and abruptly slowed before making a left turn off the street and rolling through an opened overhead door into a three-story building.
A stocky man wearing a pistol shoulder holster was standing just inside the door, and as soon as the bus was inside, he pulled on a chain mechanism that quickly lowered a corrugated steel door.
The room had been dimly lit. Now fluorescent lights flickered on, filling the area with a bright, harsh light.
