The Hostage (Presidential Agent 2)

"When you get here, my friend, you will understand why I was trying to be a little more cautious than I usuallyam. And you will understand that I really consider you a trustworthy friend."

"Why should I go anywhere?"

"Because I am asking you as a friend."

"I don't want to have to hurt Howard."

"There will be no need to even consider something like that. Please give me just a few hours of your time."

Whatever this is about, it's important to him. He doesn't ask people to do things; he tells them, and, it is credibly alleged, has them killed if they don't do what he says.

"Okay," Castillo said, after a just perceptible hesitation.

"Thank you, Charley," Pevsner said, and there was a click as the connection was broken.

Castillo looked at Kennedy and then tossed the phone to him.

"Get in the car, Howard, and put the bag over your head," Castillo said.

He took pity on Kennedy when he saw the look on his face.

"Just pulling your chain, Howard." [THREE] Their route took them through the residential district of San Isidro, and then past a long line of interesting-looking restaurants facing the San Isidro Jockey Club. He thought he more or less knew where he was. His grandfather had taken him and Charley's cousin Fernando here a half dozen or more times when they were in high school.

Then quickly they were on a wide superhighway-six lanes in each direction-and although this was new to him, Castillo was pretty sure that it was the old Pan Americana Highway. The Argentines had been expanding it for years, and they had apparently finally finished what they called an autopista.

After six or seven kilometers at what Castillo decided was at least twenty klicks above the posted 130-kilometers-per-hour speed limit-meaning they were going ninety-plus miles per hour-the road split, and Frederic took the left fork. Signs said that the right fork was the highway to Uruguay and that they were now headed for Pilar.

They went through a tollbooth without stopping, just slowing enough for a machine to read a device that opened the barrier, and then Frederic quickly accelerated back to their way-above-the-speed-limit velocity.

On the left was a large factory, a long rectangular building three stories high and three hundred meters long, connected to four enormous round concrete silos with a rat's nest of conveyors.

LUCCETTI, LA PASTA DE MAMA was lettered in thirty-foot-tall letters across the silos.

Castillo chuckled. Kennedy looked at him.

"Mama's family obviously eats a lot of pasta," Charley said.

Kennedy smiled and said, "There are more Italians here than Spanish."

The autopista here was narrower-three lanes in each direction-but the speed limit was still 130 kph, and Frederic was still driving much faster than that.

Outside the autopista fence there were now large, attractive restaurants and what looked like recently constructed showrooms for Audi, BMW, and other European and Japanese automobiles. Charley saw only a Ford showroom to represent American manufacturers, and wondered idly where Mercedes-Benz had their showroom.

He had been out this way as a kid, too, but then there had been only a two-lane highway leading from Buenos Aires to the estancias in the country.

The area around Pilar was obviously now an upscale residential area-somebody had to be buying the Audis and BMWs-but there were no houses visible from the highway, just businesses catering to people with money.

Frederic took an exit ramp off the highway, and there was the missing Mercedes showroom, a typically elegant affair across the road from a large shopping center anchored by a Jumbo supermarket.

And then they were in the country again.

Three klicks or so down a two-lane highway-which slowed Frederic down to no more than, say, sixty-five or seventy mph-the car braked suddenly and turned off the road and slowed as they approached a two-story red-tiled-roof gatehouse.

A sign carved from wood read BUENA VISTA COUNTRY CLUB.

There were four uniformed guards at the gatehouse, two of whom looked into the Mercedes carefully before a heavy, red-and-white steel barrier pole was raised. All the guards were armed, and inside the gatehouse Charley saw a rack holding a half-dozen riot guns. They looked like American Ithaca pump shotguns.

Now this, Castillo thought, is what you call a "gated community."