“Mayerling was the Imperial Hunting Lodge of Franz Joséf. It was in Mayerling that Crown Prince Rudolph, after his father told him he had to get rid of some sixteen-year-old baroness he was banging, that he whacked the baroness and then shot himself. That’s one version. The one I got from my Hungarian aunt—the version Kocian believes—is that Franz Joséf had the crown prince whacked after he learned the kid was talking to the Hungarians about becoming king of Hungary. Kocian thinks maybe Mayerling, the country club, was built with oil-for-food money and named Mayerling to be clever.”
“That sounds pretty far-fetched, Charley,” Santini said.
“So does six guys dressed like Ninja characters in a comic strip going to Estancia Shangri-La to whack Lorimer. I’m not saying I believe Kocian, but, on the other hand, he’s one hell of a journalist. Whoever’s trying to whack him thinks he knows more than he should. Anyway, if I can get him out there and keep him alive for a couple of days, maybe I can get the bad guys to back off.”
“How are you going to do that?” Darby asked.
“You don’t want to know, Alex.”
Darby shrugged.
“What I need now,” Castillo said, “is the boxes I sent to the embassy under diplomatic seal and a black car.”
“Ambassador Silvio turned them over to me and didn’t even ask what was in them. He’s a good guy, Charley. I really don’t want him to get burned in this.”
“I’ll do my best to see that doesn’t happen,” Castillo said. “Where are the boxes now?”
“In the backseat of the Cherokee,” Darby said, and added, “which is registered to a guy in Mar del Plata.” He tossed Castillo a set of keys. “Registration’s in the glove compartment.”
“Thanks,” Castillo said. “Now, let me get on the horn to Dick Miller and get some money down here.”
Darby nodded.
“Do you—either of you—have to rush back to the embassy?” Castillo asked. “Or would you have time to look at some of Kocian’s files and see if anything rings a bell? At least until I get back?”
“Back from where?”
“Where I’m going, Alex,” Castillo said, smiling.
“Curiosity underwhelms me. I’ll make time,” Darby said, smiling back.
“Me, too,” Santini said.
As he picked up the heavily corded telephone, Darby asked, “White House, right?”
“Right.”
“Darby again,” Darby said into the telephone. “Get me a secure line to the White House switchboard.”
[FOUR]
Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina
1025 8 August 2005
Castillo was glad when he saw the sign indicating the exit from Route 8 to the Pilar Sheraton Hotel. He hadn’t been certain that he was on the right road to the Buena Vista Country Club or, for that matter, even on the right road to Pilar.
He hadn’t been able to ask directions from Santini or Darby; that would have given them more than a hint of where he was going. He had had trouble getting on the Panamericana, the toll highway that led to Pilar, but he’d finally—after ten minutes—found it.
And then he had trouble with the tollbooth. He had sat there for Christ only knew how long, holding a ten-peso note out the window with angry horns bleating behind him, until the horns finally woke him up to the fact that not only was there no attendant in the booth but that the barrier pole was up.
As he pulled away, he saw an electronic gadget mounted inside the windshield, under the rearview mirror. The gadget had triggered the barrier-raising mechanism as he approached. He hadn’t noticed it.
From the tollbooth to the sign pointing to the Sheraton Hotel exit, he had wondered about a number of things, including how he was going to get past the gate of the Buena Vista Country Club once he got there—if he got there. And what he was going to do if Aleksandr Pevsner wasn’t there. Or was there and didn’t want to see him.
And how he was going to protect Eric Kocian if he couldn’t get through to Pevsner, presuming he could get past the Buena Vista Country Club gate to get in to see him.
He knew that he wasn’t functioning well and the reason for it.