A minute later he came back.

"Lowery asked if we're all right," he said. "I told him yes. He's sending an Automobile Club wrecker and a car. It'll probably take a little while for the car. The demonstrators are still at it."

"The sonofab.i.t.c.h who hit us took off," Masterson said.

"Really? You're sure?"

"Yes, G.o.ddammit, I'm sure."

"Take it easy, Jack. These things happen. n.o.body's hurt."

"He is," Masterson said, nodding at Senor Macho.

"The cops and an ambulance will be here soon, I'm sure."

"Betsy's going to s.h.i.t a brick when I'm late," Masterson said. "And I can't call her."

"Get on the radio and have the guard at Post One call her at the Kansas."

Masterson considered that.

"No," he decided aloud. "She'll just have to be p.i.s.sed. I don't want the guard calling her and telling her I've been in another wreck."

[FOUR].

Restaurant Kansas Avenida Libertador San Isidro Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1925 20 July 2005

Elizabeth "Betsy" Masterson, a tall, slim, well-groomed thirty-seven-year-old, with the sharp features and brownish black skin that made her think her ancestors had been of the Watusi tribe, was seated alone at the bar of Kansas-the only place smoking was permitted in the elegant steakhouse. She looked at her watch for the fifth time in the past ten minutes, exhaled audibly, had unkind thoughts about the opposite s.e.x generally and Jack, her husband, specifically, and then signaled to the bartender for another Lagarde merlot, and lit another cigarette.

G.o.dd.a.m.n him! He knows that I hate to sit at the bar alone, as if I'm looking for a man. And he said he'd be here between quarter to seven and seven!

Jack's emba.s.sy car had been in a fender bender- another fender bender, the second this month-and was in the shop, and he had caught a ride to work, and was catching a ride home, with Alex Darby, the emba.s.sy's commercial attache. Jack had called her and asked if she could pick him up at Kansas, as for some reason it would be inconvenient for Alex to drop him at the house.

The Mastersons and the Darbys, both on their second tours in Buenos Aires, had opted for emba.s.sy houses in San Isidro, rather than for apartments in Palermo or Belgrano.

Their first tours had taught them there was a downside to the elegant apartments the emba.s.sy leased in the city. They were of course closer to the emba.s.sy, but they were noisy, sometimes the elevators and the air-conditioning didn't work, and parking required negotiating a narrow access road to a crowded garage sometimes two floors below street level. And they had communal swimming pools, if they had swimming pools at all.

The houses the emba.s.sy leased in San Isidro were nice, and came with a garden, a quincho- quincho- outdoor barbecue-and a swimming pool. This was important if you had kids, and the Mastersons had three. The schools were better in San Isidro, and the shopping, and Avenida Libertador was lined with nice shops and lots of good restaurants. And of course there were easy-access garages for what the State Department called Privately Owned Vehicles. outdoor barbecue-and a swimming pool. This was important if you had kids, and the Mastersons had three. The schools were better in San Isidro, and the shopping, and Avenida Libertador was lined with nice shops and lots of good restaurants. And of course there were easy-access garages for what the State Department called Privately Owned Vehicles.

The Masterson POV was a dark green 2004 Chrysler Town & Country van. With three kids, all with bicycles, you needed something that large. But it was big, and Betsy didn't even like to think about trying to park what the Mastersons called "the Bus" in an underground garage in the city.

When she went to Buenos Aires, to have lunch with Jack or whatever, she never used a garage. The Bus had diplomat license plates, and that meant you could park anywhere you wanted. You couldn't be ticketed or towed. Or even stopped for speeding. Diplomatic immunity.

The price for the house and the nice shops, good restaurants, and better schools of San Isidro was the twice-a-day thirty-sometimes forty-five-minute ride through the insane traffic on Libertador to the emba.s.sy. But Jack paid that.

Her bartender-one of four tending the oval bar island-came up with a bottle of Lagarde in one hand and a fresh gla.s.s in the other. He asked with a raised eyebrow if she wanted the new gla.s.s.

"This is fine, thank you," Betsy said in Spanish.

The bartender filled her gla.s.s almost to the brim.

I probably shouldn't have done that, she thought. she thought. The The way they pour in here, two gla.s.ses is half a bottle, and with half a bottle in me I'm probably going to say something- however well deserved-to Jack that I'll regret later. way they pour in here, two gla.s.ses is half a bottle, and with half a bottle in me I'm probably going to say something- however well deserved-to Jack that I'll regret later.

But she picked the gla.s.s up carefully and took a good swallow from it.

She looked up at the two enormous television screens mounted high on the wall for the bar patrons. One of them showed a soccer game-what Argentines, as well as most of the world, called "football"-and the other was tuned to a news channel.

There was no sound that she could hear.

Typical Argentina, she thought unkindly. she thought unkindly. Rather than make a decision to provide the audio to one channel, which would annoy the watchers of the other, compromise by turning both off. That way, n.o.body should be annoyed. Rather than make a decision to provide the audio to one channel, which would annoy the watchers of the other, compromise by turning both off. That way, n.o.body should be annoyed.

She didn't really understand the football, so she turned her attention to the news. There was another demonstration at the American emba.s.sy. Hordes of people banging on drums and kitchen pots, and waving banners, including several of Che Guevara-which for some reason really annoyed Jack-being held behind barriers by the Mounted Police.

That's probably why Jack's late. He couldn't get out of the emba.s.sy. But he could have called.

The image of a distinguished-looking, gray-bearded man in a business suit standing before a microphone came on the screen. Betsy recognized him as the prominent businessman whose college-aged son had been a high-profile kidnapping victim. As the demands for ransom went higher and higher, the kidnappers had cut off the boy's fingers, one by one, and sent them to his father to prove he was still alive. Shortly after the father paid, the boy's body-shot in the head-was found. The father was now one of the biggest thorns in the side of the President and his administration.

Kidnapping-sometimes with the partic.i.p.ation of the cops-was big business in Argentina. The Buenos Aires Herald, Buenos Aires Herald, the American-owned English-language newspaper, had that morning run the story of the kidnapping of a thirteen-year-old girl, thought to be sold into prost.i.tution. the American-owned English-language newspaper, had that morning run the story of the kidnapping of a thirteen-year-old girl, thought to be sold into prost.i.tution.

Such a beautiful country with such ugly problems.

The image shifted to one of a second-rate American movie star being herded through a horde of fans at the Ezeiza airport.

Betsy took a healthy swallow of the merlot, checked the entrance again for signs of her husband, and returned her attention to the TV screen.

Ten minutes later-well, enough's enough. To h.e.l.l with him. Let him stand on the curb and try to flag a taxi down. I'm sorry it's not raining- she laid her American Express card on the bar, caught the bartender's eye, and pointed at the card. He smiled, and nodded, and walked to the cash register. she laid her American Express card on the bar, caught the bartender's eye, and pointed at the card. He smiled, and nodded, and walked to the cash register.

When he laid the tab on the bar before her, she saw that the two gla.s.ses of the really nice merlot and the very nice plate of mixed cheeses and crackers came to $24.50 in Argentine pesos. Or eight bucks U.S.

She felt a twinge of guilt. The Mastersons had lived well enough on their first tour, when the peso equaled the dollar. Now, with the dramatic devaluation of the peso, they lived like kings. It was indeed nice, but also it was difficult to completely enjoy with so many suffering so visibly.

She nodded, and he picked up the tab and her credit card and went back to the cash register. Betsy went in her purse and took out a wad of pesos and pulled a five-peso note from it. For some reason, you couldn't put the tip on a credit card. Five pesos was about twenty percent, and Jack was always telling her that the Argentines were grateful for ten percent. But the bartender was a nice young man who always took good care of her, and he probably didn't make much money. Five pesos was a buck sixty.

When the bartender came back with the American Express form, she signed it, took the carbon, laid the five-peso note on the original, and pushed it across the bar to him.

"Muchas gracias, senora."

"You're welcome," Betsy said in Spanish.

She put the credit card in her wallet, and then the wallet in her purse, and closed it. She slipped off the bar stool and walked toward the entrance. This gave her a view of the kitchen, intentionally on display behind a plate-gla.s.s wall. She was always fascinated at what, in a sense, was really a feeding frenzy. She thought there must be twenty men in chef's whites tending a half-dozen stainless steel stoves, a huge, wood-fired parrilla parrilla grill, and other kitchen equipment. All busy as h.e.l.l. The no-smoking dining room of the Kansas was enormous and usually full. grill, and other kitchen equipment. All busy as h.e.l.l. The no-smoking dining room of the Kansas was enormous and usually full.

The entrance foyer was crowded with people giving their names to the greeter-girls to get on the get-seated roster. One of the greeters saw Betsy coming and walked quickly to hold open the door for her.

Betsy went out onto Avenida Libertador, and looked up and down the street; no husband. She turned right on the sidewalk toward what she thought of as the Park-Yourself entrance to the Kansas parking lot. There were two entrances to the large parking area behind the restaurant. The other provided valet parking.

Betsy never used it. She had decided long ago, when they had first started coming to the Kansas, that it was really a pain in the you-know-where. The valet parkers were young kids who opened the door for you, handed you a claim check, and then hopped behind the wheel and took off with a squeal of tires into the parking lot, where they proved their manhood by coming as close to other cars as they could without taking off a fender.

And then when you left, you had to find the claim check, and stand outside waiting for a parker to show up so you could give it to him. He then took off at a run into the parking lot. A couple of minutes later, the Bus would arrive with a squeal of tires, and the parker would jump out with a big smile and a hand out for his tip.

It was easier and quicker to park the Bus yourself. And when you were finished with dinner-or waiting for a husband who didn't show the simple courtesy of calling and saying he was delayed, and who didn't answer his cellular-all you had to do was walk into the parking lot, get in the Bus, and drive off.

When she'd come in today, the parking lot had been nearly full, and she'd had to drive almost to the rear of it to find a home for the Bus. But no problem. It wasn't that far, and the lot was well lit, with bright lights on tall poles on the little gra.s.sy-garden islands between the rows of parked cars.

She was a little surprised and annoyed when she saw that the light shining down on the Bus had burned out. Things like that happened, of course, but she thought she was going to have a h.e.l.l of a hard time finding the keyhole in the door.

When she actually got to the Bus, it was worse. Some sonofab.i.t.c.h-one of the valet parkers, probably-had parked a Peugeot sedan so close to the left side of the van that there was no way she could get to the door without sc.r.a.ping her rear and/or her b.o.o.bs on either the dirty Peugeot or the Bus, which also needed a bath.

She walked around to the right side of the Bus and with some difficulty-for a while she thought she was going to have to light her lighter-managed to get the key in the lock and open the door.

She was wearing a tight skirt, and the only way she was going to be able to crawl over the pa.s.senger seat and the whatever-it-was-called thing between the seats to get behind the wheel was to hike the skirt up to her crotch.

First things first. Get rid of the purse, then hike skirt.

She opened the sliding door and tossed her purse on the seat.

The front door suddenly slammed shut.

What the h.e.l.l?

She looked to see what had happened.

There was a man coming toward her between the cars. He had something in his hand.

What the h.e.l.l is that, a hypodermic needle?

She first felt arms wrap around her from behind, then a hand over her mouth.

She started to struggle. She tried to bite at the hand over her mouth as the man coming toward her sort of embraced her. She felt a sting on her b.u.t.tocks.

Oh, Jesus Chri . . .

Four minutes later, a dark blue BMW 545i with heavily darkened windows and a Corps Diplomatique license plate pulled out of the flow of traffic on Avenida Libertador and stopped at the curb. It was a clearly marked NO PARKING NO STOPPING zone, but usually, as now, there were two or three cars with CD tags parked there.

In the rear seat of the BMW, Jack Masterson turned to Alex Darby.

"Now that your car has joined mine in the shop, how are you going to get to work in the morning?"

"I can have one of my guys pick me up," Alex replied.

"Wouldn't you rather I did?"

"I was hoping you'd ask."

"Eight-fifteen?"

"Fine. You want me to send this one back here after he drops me off?"

"No. Betsy has the Bus. Send this one back to the emba.s.sy." He raised his voice and switched to Spanish. "Make sure the dispatcher knows I need a car at my house at eight tomorrow morning."

"Si, senor," the driver replied. the driver replied.

"That presumes," Masterson said to Darby, "that I'm still alive in the morning. She who hates to wait is going to be highly p.i.s.sed."

Darby chuckled.

Masterson got out of the car and half-trotted across the sidewalk to the Kansas entrance. He pushed his way through the crowd of people waiting to be seated and went up the shallow three-step stairs to the bar.

Betsy was nowhere in sight, either at the bar or in one of the half dozen booths.

s.h.i.t!

One of the bartenders caught his eye and held up his hands in a helpless gesture. Jack walked to him.

"You just missed her, senor," the bartender said. "Not two minutes ago, she left."

s.h.i.t!

Maybe I can catch her in the parking lot!

"Muchas gracias," he said, and then hurriedly went back through the entrance foyer and left through the door leading to the valet parking entrance. he said, and then hurriedly went back through the entrance foyer and left through the door leading to the valet parking entrance.

If she used valet parking, she might still be waiting.

Betsy was nowhere in sight.

s.h.i.t!

Jack trotted into the parking lot and looked around.

He didn't see the Bus anywhere at first, and then he did, in the back of the lot. The interior lights were on, which meant she'd just gotten to the car.

He took off at a dead run for the Bus.

I don't have any idea what she's doing with the door open, but it means I probably can get there before she drives off.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry!" he called when he got to the Bus.

Where the h.e.l.l is she?

There was no room to get to the driver's door, and when he got to the pa.s.senger side, he saw that it wasn't open, just not fully closed. That explained the interior lights being on.

Where the h.e.l.l is she?

He slid the sliding door open enough so that he could slam it shut. He saw the purse on the seat.