tell anyone where you got it.”
“Agreed.”
“And that these gentlemen will be similarly bound by our agreement.”
“Agreed. When do I get the names?”
“Once I get to the office, it will take me an hour or more to go through what I have. I want to make sure in my own mind that if you have to render any of these people harmless—that’s a much nicer phrase than ‘terminate with extreme prejudice,’ isn’t it?—that they really deserve such treatment.”
“Fair enough.”
“And I don’t want you—especially Otto—coming to the office and making people curious. So why don’t you meet me at the Kárpátia at noon? You know where it is, Otto.”
Göerner nodded.
“And so do I,” Castillo said. “Not far from the American embassy.”
Kocian nodded. “We can have a nice lunch,” he said and, not without effort, got to his feet. Then, grunting, he bent over and picked up his ashtray, his cellular telephone, and the books and magazines.
Then he waddled down the tiled floor of the bath and disappeared through a door.
“You got more out of him, Karl,” Otto Göerner said, thoughtfully, “than I thought you would. I can only hope that’s a good thing. What he didn’t say was that these people would torture and kill him without thinking twice about it if they knew he knows as much as he does. And unless you’re very careful with those names, they will learn he does.”
Castillo nodded but didn’t reply. Then he stood up.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, wrapping a towel around his waist. “I want to get on the horn.”
[TWO]
The Embassy of the United States of America Szabadság tér 12 Budapest, Hungary 1105 28 July 2005
Otto Göerner touched Castillo’s arm as they started to get out of the taxi in front of the American embassy, a seven-story century-old mansion.
“You’re not going to need me in there, are you?” Göerner asked.
“No.”
“And it might even be a bit awkward, no?”
“I’ll handle it,” Castillo said.
“Why don’t I keep the cab, go to the Kárpátia, get us a table, get myself a cup of coffee . . .”
“Okay, Otto. This won’t take long. We’ll see you there,” Castillo said, and he and the others got out of the taxi. As Castillo watched it drive away, Sergeant Seymour Kranz touched his arm.
“Major, what the hell is that?” he asked, pointing.
Castillo looked. In the park facing the embassy was a statue of a man in uniform with his hands folded behind his back.
“It’s a statue, Seymour. Budapest is full of them. They even have a section of the Berlin Wall around here somewhere.”
“That’s an old-timey American uniform,” Kranz said.
“I’ll be damned, I think he’s right,” Colonel Torine said.
Castillo looked again and asked, “What time is it in Washington, Seymour?”
Kranz consulted his watch and reported, “Oh-four-oh-five, sir.”
“Since it won’t make much difference to whoever we get out of bed whether it is oh-four-oh-five or oh-four-ten, let us go and broaden our cultural horizons by examining the statue,” Castillo said. “Why the hell would there be a statue of an American officer in a park in Budapest?”
They walked to the statue. It was indeed of an American, wearing a World War I-era uniform of riding boots and breeches. He looked as if he were examining the embassy and found it wanting.
There was a bronze plaque with a legend in English beneath it. Kranz read it aloud: “Harry Hill Bandholtz, Brigadier General, U.S. Army. ‘I simply carried out the instructions of my Government, as I understood them, as an officer and a gentleman of the United States Army.’”
“I wonder what the hell that’s all about?” Fernando said.
“I wonder what the instructions he carried out were to get him a statue?” Kranz asked.
“Gentlemen,” Castillo said, “fellow history buffs. Perhaps there is a public information officer in the embassy who can enlighten us all. Shall we see?”
There might have been a public information officer at the embassy, but they never got to meet him.
They encountered first a Marine guard, a buck sergeant, who politely but firmly told them there was no way they could see the ambassador without an appointment.
Colonel Torine produced his Air Force identification.
“Sergeant, you get the defense attaché on the phone, or down here, and do it now.”
The Marine guard examined the photo ID carefully, and then picked up his telephone.
“There is a USAF colonel here who wants to talk to a defense attaché,” he announced, and then handed the telephone to Torine.
“This is Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF. Are you the defense attaché, Captain?” Brief pause. “Then get him