The Hostage (Presidential Agent 2)

"I'm afraid you'll have to check it," the stewardess said firmly.

It would also seem to logically follow, Castillo thought, watching the luggage carousel rotate at MIA, that since my suitcase was loaded, if not last, then close to last, it would be unloaded first. That obviously is not the case.

The suitcase finally showed up. Castillo pulled out the handle and dragged it from luggage recovery. Surprising him not at all, the map in the entrance foyer showed him that Aerolineas Argentinas was at the other end of the airport, almost in Key West. It was a long walk through the crowded airport, which reminded him of his cousin Fernando Lopez's appraisal of Miami International: "It is the United States' token third world airport."

That reminded him, Jesus Christ, I almost forgot! that he would have to call Fernando and/or Abuela, their grandmother, and tell them he would not be able to come home for the weekend, even if Fernando flew up to pick him up.

He finally reached the Aerolineas Argentinas counter. There was a long line of people in the first-class line, all of whom seemed to have extra, overweight, or oversize luggage. There were far more such people than there were seats in the first-class compartment of either a 747 or a 767, which suggested that they were economy-class passengers who had taken advantage of there being no one in the first-class line.

Twenty minutes later, he reached the head of the line and was given permission to approach the counter by the clerk, who beckoned to him with her index finger like the Queen of Spain summoning a footman.

He laid a passport issued by the German Federal Republic and an American Express corporate credit card issued to the Tages Zeitung on the counter.

"My name is Gossinger," he said. "I have an electronic ticket, I believe." Getting through airport security was-if possible-more harassing than usual. Castillo was randomly selected for close examination. Not only did the security people make him take his shoes off, but their pawing through his luggage effectively nullified his careful packing. And he was concerned about the detailed examination of his briefcase cum laptop carrier that was to come.

They made him turn the laptop on to prove that it indeed was not an explosive device, but they didn't show much interest in the briefcase itself. That was a relief. Herr Gossinger did not want to have to explain what he was doing with C. G. Castillo's passport and Secret Service credentials.

Finally they were through with him, and he went to the Club of the Americas, the first- and business-class lounge that served Aerolineas Argentinas and other South American airlines that did not have their own lounges.

He fixed himself a double scotch on the rocks, then found a secluded corner and sat down. He took his cellular telephone from his pocket and punched an autodial key.

"Hello?"

"And how is my favorite girl?"

"Your favorite girl is wondering if you're calling to tell me you're not coming home for the weekend."

"Abuela, I'm in the airport in Miami, waiting to get on a plane for Buenos Aires."

"Well, I'll give you this. Your excuses are out of the ordinary. Darling, I was so looking forward-"

"Abuela, this wasn't my idea."

"What are you going to do in Argentina? Am I allowed to ask?"

No, you're not.

"I should be back within the week."

"Buenos Aires?"

"Uh-huh."

"It's winter down there now. You did think to pack warm clothing?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"If it's convenient, Carlos, I'm almost out of brandy. You know the kind."

"I'll get you a case."

"I think you're limited to six liters."

"I'll find out."

"Be careful. I talked to Jeanine Winters just this morning, and she said kidnapping is now the cottage industry down there."

Jeanine Winters was a very old friend of Dona Alicia. The Winters family, Texans, had been operating an enormous cattle operation in Entre Rios province and a vineyard in Mendoza Province for generations.