The Hunters (Presidential Agent 3)

“No, just that it’s important.”

Max happily trotted after Castillo as he headed for the quincho door.

“Not this time, pal,” Castillo said.

He could hear Max barking and whining even after he’d entered the big house and headed for the driveway.

[SEVEN]

Punta del Este Airport

Punta del Este, República Oriental del Uruguay

1335 14 August 2005

Robert Howell, the “cultural attaché” of the U.S. embassy, was waiting for them at the small but well-equipped airport with a blue Yukon displaying diplomatic tags.

Castillo introduced Delchamps to him—Howell knew who Delchamps was but had never met him—then explained what he intended to do: Grab Howard Kennedy, bring him back to the airport, and fly him to the States, with only a fuel stop in Quito.

“I’d like to have you in on this, but if it would make things awkward for you just give us the truck and come back in two hours. If we’re lucky, I’ll leave the key under the mat.”

Howell said, “I’m in. We may need my diplomatic carnet. If there’s trouble, all they can do is expel me as persona non grata.”

“Thank you.”

“How do we get him out of the hotel and into the truck?”

“Let’s make sure he’s there first, then worry about that,” Delchamps said. “Our noble leader is placing a lot of faith where I’m not at all sure it belongs.”

Castillo ignored him.

“How come this place looks so deserted?” Castillo asked. “There’s nothing here but a couple of light twins and some Cessna 172s.”

“It’s winter,” Howell said. “Punta del Este is just about closed in the winter. Wait till we get downtown.”

Ten minutes later, Castillo could see a long line of high-rise apartment buildings overlooking a wide, nice-looking beach. When they came close to the apartments, however, he was surprised at what he found: The blinds were drawn behind almost all of the apartment windows, there were few cars on the street (and even fewer in the parking lots under the high-rise buildings), and only a very few people on the streets.

This is almost surreal, Castillo thought.

Five minutes after that, the Conrad came into view, an imposing structure Castillo guessed was twenty stories high.

“They keep this open for the gamblers,” Howell said. “But I’d say it’s not even one-quarter full.”

He turned off the road and drove up the driveway.

“Well, there’s activity here,” Delchamps said. “Why does that make me feel uneasy?”

The parking area in front of the main door of the resort was crowded with vehicles. With the exception of two stretch limousines and a Volkswagen bug, they were all police vehicles of one description or another.

“Why do I think going back to the airport would be a good idea?” Delchamps asked.

“Oh, let’s go play the slots!” Castillo said. “I feel lucky.”

“Well, I suppose it’s remotely possible that somebody tried to knock off the casino and the entire Uruguayan police force has responded,” Delchamps said and opened his door.

They walked up a wide flight of marble stairs and were halfway across the lobby when a voice called, “Alfredo!”

Everybody stopped. A man was quickly walking toward them.