On her death, as far as the government of the Federal Republic of Germany was concerned, American citizen with a new name or not, Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger, native-born son, had become the last of the von und zu Gossinger line.
At twenty-one, just before C. G. Castillo graduated from West Point, Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger came into his German inheritance, which included the Tages Zeitung newspaper chain, two breweries, vast—for Germany—farmlands, and other assets.
A second identity, as Herr Karl Gossinger, foreign correspondent of the Tages Zeitung, had proved very useful to Major C. G. Castillo, U.S. Army Special Forces, in the past, and it probably would again in Argentina.
In his suite at the Mayflower, C. G. Castillo was nearly finished with packing his luggage. He had carefully packed his small, guaranteed-to-fit-in-any-airplane-overhead-bin suitcase-on-wheels with enough winter clothing to last three or four days. When it was midsummer in Washington, it was midwinter in Buenos Aires. He didn’t think he’d be down there longer than that.
All that remained was to pack his briefcase, which also came with wheels and was large enough for his laptop computer. This was somewhat more difficult as it required carefully separating a section of the padding from the frame. Inside was a ten-by-thirteen-inch plastic folder. There was a sticky surface to keep things from sliding around, and the folder material itself was designed to confuse X-ray machines. Castillo carefully arranged his American passport; his U.S. Army identification card; C. G. Castillo’s Gold American Express and Gold Visa credit cards; his Texas driver’s license; and credentials identifying him as a supervisory special agent of the U.S. Secret Service on the sticky surface, closed the folder, and then replaced the padding.
He then went into the small dining area, and from a small refrigerator concealed in a credenza, took out a bottle of Dos Equis beer, popped the top, took a healthy swallow from the neck, burped, and then went into the living room, where he sat down in a red leather recliner—his, not the hotel’s—shifted his weight so that it opened, and reached for the telephone.
He punched in a number from memory, took another sip of the Dos Equis, and then lay back in the chair as he waited for the call to be completed.
The general director of Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H., who was also the editor-in-chief of one of its holdings, the Tages Zeitung newspapers, answered his private line twenty seconds later.
“Göerner.”
“Wie geht’s, Otto?” Castillo said.
“Ach, der verlorene Sohn.”
“Well, you may think of me as the prodigal son,” Castillo said, switching to English, “but I like to think of myself as one of your more distinguished foreign correspondents.”
“Distinguished, I don’t know. But I’ll go with most expensive.”
Castillo thought of Otto Göerner as his oldest friend, and he certainly was that. Otto had been at Philipps University in Marburg an der Lahn with Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger, Karl’s uncle, and had been with the Tages Zeitung since their graduation. He had been around der Haus im Wald in Bad Hersfeld, as Uncle Otto, as far back as Castillo could remember. He remembered, too, the very early morning when Otto had brought the news of her father’s and brother’s death to his mother.
And how, when his mother had told him they had located his father’s family and he would probably— “after”—be going to them in the United States, he had thrown a hysterical fit, demanding that he be allowed— “after”—to live with Uncle Otto.
And how, at the airport in Frankfurt, tears had run unashamedly down Otto’s cheeks when he’d seen him off to the States. And how he had been a friend ever since.
“How’s ol’ Whatsername and the kids?”
“Ol’ Whatsername and your godchildren are doing very well, thank you for asking. To what do I owe the honor?”
“I’m off to Buenos Aires on a story, and I thought I’d see if there was anything else you wanted me to do down there.”
“Can’t think of anything, Karl,” Otto said.
Göerner didn’t ask what story Castillo would be pursuing in Argentina.
He’s the opposite of a fool, Charley thought for the hundredth time, and without any question knows what I do for a living. But he never asks and I never tell him. All he does is give me what I ask for.
“I won’t be gone long,” Charley said. “Probably less—”
“Yeah, come to think of it, Karl, I do,” Göerner interrupted.
“Okay, shoot.”
Karl Gossinger, the Tages Zeitung’s Washington-based foreign correspondent, usually had a bylined