By Order of the President

Chapter VI

[ONE]

The Mayflower Hotel

1127 Connecticut Avenue NW

Washington, D.C.

1655 31 May 2005

"So you became this Green Beret colonel's fair-haired boy?" Fernando asked.

Castillo nodded. He asked with a raised eyebrow if Fernando wanted another drink. Fernando held out his empty glass.

" 'Fair-haired boy' does not accurately describe what I was," Castillo said. "But I went right to work for him."

"He could arrange your transfer just like that?"

"The C-5 landed us-and McNab's dune buggy-at Dover Air Force Base, in Delaware," Castillo said. "McNab told me to get the dune buggy to the Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg and when I had I could take ten days off after which I was to report to him at Bragg. I asked him how I was supposed to get the dune buggy off the air base, much less to Fort Bragg. He said he was sure I would figure something out and left me there, right then, standing beside the dune buggy on the tarmac, in my short pants, bush jacket, and ghutra."

"Short pants? Bush jacket? And what?"

"And knee-high stockings," Castillo said. "Don't want to forget those."

Fernando's face showed he wanted an explanation.

"I got the story from guys who were with him before I got there," Castillo said. "He lined them all up, said that he had looked into previous hostilities in the area, and learned that the Brit uniform had been short pants, bush jackets, and knee-high stockings. He had therefore purchased, with his discretionary operating funds, a supply of same from a hunting outfitter in Nairobi. They made, he said, a lot more sense than what the Army was issuing to ordinary soldiers."

"And the other thing? The goot-something?"

"That came next," Castillo said, smiling. "According to the story I got, he went on to say that Lawrence of Arabia, who had been a very successful irregular warrior in the area, always wore a ghutra an iqal , the standard Arab headdress." He made a circular movement around the front of his head.

Fernando's nod told him he had the picture.

"Actually, there's two kinds, one with a red-and-white headcloth. That's the shumagh," Castillo went on. "With a white headcloth, it's a ghutra. Since Lawrence had learned it was a practical item of military clothing for Arabia, that was good enough for McNab and his special operators. It obviously made more sense than a Kevlar helmet, since they were going to be out on the desert in the sun a lot. He had acquired a supply of them-one size fits all-in Riyadh."

"And you all actually wore this thing?"

"I admit, some heads turned when we showed up in Riyadh," Castillo said, chuckling.

"So how did you get the dune buggy to Fort Bragg?"

"I knew how far I would get if I went to the Air Force with my problem-especially in my Lawrence of Arabia uniform-so I went into Dover, rented a ton-and-a-half truck from U-Haul, loaded the dune buggy aboard, and drove to Bragg. Thank God for the American Express card. Then I went home, spent ten days with Abuela and Grandpa, and then went back to Bragg."

"While I sat in the goddamned desert," Fernando said, "drinking lukewarm bottled water and eating MREs."

"I admit I was really beginning to think that I was something special," Castillo said. "Which notion was promptly taken from me when I got to Bragg. By then, he was Brigadier General McNab. I expected either thanks or even congratulations for getting his damned buggy to Bragg. Instead, he chewed me out for not protecting the footlocker full of scotch and cognac:"

"What?"

"Before the Marines liberated Kuwait City, Special Ops guys were there. Including McNab. His first stop was the U.S. embassy, where he blew the door on the crypto room, and filled a footlocker with the booze the diplomats had locked up before getting out. I had forgotten it was still on the dune buggy.

"He said if I was going to be in Special Forces, I was going to have to understand that Special Forces people could be trusted with anything but somebody else's whiskey and I could consider myself lucky that nobody at SWC thought I could possibly have been stupid enough to leave it on the dune buggy and that it had still been there when he collected the buggy."

Fernando laughed.

"And then he said he was going to charm school:"

"What?"

"I didn't know what it was, either," Castillo replied. "What they do is gather all the just-promoted-to-brigadier-generals together, usually at Fort Leaven-worth, the Command and General Staff School?"

"I know about Leavenworth," Fernando said.

": and the chief of staff and some other really senior brass tell them how to behave as general officers. McNab said the real purpose was to make sure the new generals didn't get too big for their solid striped trousers:"

"That's right," Fernando said. "Generals have one solid stripe down the seam of their trousers, don't they? I'd forgotten that."

": and with that in mind, I was on the four-forty flight from Fayetteville to Columbus, Georgia, via Atlanta, where, starting the next morning, I was to begin the course of instruction leading to being rated as a parachutist.

" 'Don't pay any attention to their bullshit, Charley,' McNab said. 'They still think what they call "airborne"-vertical envelopment, which means a thousand hanging targets floating down onto a field-is modern warfare, and getting those wings is an end in itself. Just keep your mouth shut, get through the course, and then come back here and we'll get you some useful training.'

"So less than twenty-four hours after I arrived at Bragg, a decorated, wounded hero who had been on a couple of interesting operations, and was now to be the aide-de-camp to the deputy commander of the Special Warfare Center, I found myself lying in the mud at Benning with a barrel-chested hillbilly sergeant-his name was Staff Sergeant Dudley J. Johnson, Jr.; I'll never forget that-in a T-shirt with airborne printed on it standing over me screaming-I couldn't do forty push-ups-that he couldn't understand how a fucking flaming faggot-I loved that line-like me got into the Army, much less into jump school, and I better get my act in gear or he would send me back to whatever fairy-fucking dipshit outfit I came from so fast my asshole wouldn't catch up for six months."

"I know the type of gentle, nurturing, noncommissioned officer to which you refer," Fernando said, laughing. But then he had a thought and asked:

"Didn't he know you were a lieutenant? Had been in Desert Storm? Worse, that you were a West Pointer?"

"That I was a lieutenant? Yeah, sure. But rank doesn't count in jump school. And I was still a second lieutenant. He probably thought I'd just graduated from OCS, or, more than likely, from some ROTC college. He didn't think I'd been in Desert Storm, because I was there. McNab brought me home a couple of days after the armistice. And I'd already learned what wearing a West Point ring means:"

"What?"

"People watch you closely to see if you're really perfect and are absolutely delighted when you fuck up. So my ring went in my toilet kit beside my wings. I was pretty stupid, but I knew better than to show up at jump school wearing pilot's wings."

"But you muddled through?" Fernando asked.

"I could even do fifty push-ups by the time I finished."

"Was there a temptation to show up at the graduation ceremony wearing your wings, ring, and DFC?"

"Yeah. But I didn't. I'd worked for McNab long enough to know that when he said I was to keep my mouth shut he meant that I was to keep my mouth shut. And Staff Sergeant Dudley J. Johnson, Jr., was really just doing his job, trying to get people through jump school alive. I did see him, come to think of it, a year, eighteen months later. He had applied for Special Forces and reported in to the SWC to go through the Q Course. It was McNab's turn to give the welcoming speech, and there behind him, in Class A uniform, wearing a green beanie, with the rope of an aide hanging from his epaulets, was this familiar-looking lieutenant, an aviator."

Fernando chuckled.

"I did check to see how he was doing," Castillo said. "He didn't make it through Camp Mackall. They busted him out as 'unsuitable.' "

"What does that mean?"

"It can mean any number of things, but it's usually because the raters, which include other trainees, conclude that he would be either a pain in the ass in an A-Team or that he couldn't carry his share of the load. Special Forces requires more brains than brawn. You can't make it on the number of push-ups you can do."

"Then how the hell did you get through if it takes brains?"

Castillo looked at him thoughtfully a moment.

"Fernando, I'm not trying to paint myself as John Wayne, but when I decided to have this little tete-a-tete with you I decided I was going to tell you everything I could."

"Okay, Gringo. I understand."

"I had already passed the real test; I'd been on operations and carried my weight. The instructors at Mackall knew that, so they knew all they had to do with me was give me skills I didn't have and polish the very few I already did. Aside from having my ass run ragged, I actually liked Mackall. The instructors knew what they were teaching and they wanted you to learn. I can't remember one of them ever shouting at me, even when I did something really stupid."

"Interesting," Fernando said.

"My weekends were free," Castillo went on. "I spent them proofreading the How to Fight in the Desert literature General McNab was preparing. And staying current as an aviator."

"How did this affect your social life?"

"If you mean how did I find time to get laid, I didn't."

"Poor Gringo."

"Anyway, I finally finished the course and went to work as his aide."

"Passing hors d'oeuvres and shining shoes?"

"At oh-dark-hundred, his driver picked me up at my BOQ and drove me to Simmons Army Airfield, where, if I was lucky, the guy given the great privilege of being the general's copilot that day had already checked the weather and had the Huey ready to go. Nine times out of ten he had not, so I did the weather, got the Huey up and running, and flew it to Smoke Bomb Hill. Then I went inside, got the coffeepot running, and checked the overnight mail. By then his driver had picked him up and delivered him to headquarters. Then the three of us took a three- or four-mile run around scenic Smoke Bomb Hill to get the juices flowing. Following which, we returned to the office where I spent part of the day taking notes at meetings of one kind or another to which the general was part, and the rest of the day flying him wherever he thought it would be advantageous for military efficiency for him to drop in unannounced. Camp Mackall, the stockade:"

"The stockade?"

"Delta Force is in what had been a stockade. Makes sense. It was already surrounded by large fences and barbed wire."

"You got involved with Delta Force?"

"You've just heard all I can tell you about Delta Force," Castillo said, and then went on: ": and other places he felt he should keep an eye on. Sometimes, we even got to eat lunch. It was a blue-ribbon day if we happened to be flying near the Fort Bragg Rod and Gun Club, out in the boonies, and the general decided he would like one of their really first-class hamburgers."

"Speaking of food:"

"Getting hungry?"

"All I had was two bowls of pistachios," Fernando said.

"So am I, I just realized. There's a Morton's of Chicago across the street."

"A little fancy, no?"

"They have huge lobsters. And nice steaks. I suspect I will be able to get neither where I'm going."

"And where is that?"

"Luanda, Angola."

"And where is that?"

"On the west coast of Africa."

"Looking for this missing 727?"

"Yeah. Let me check on my flight and then we'll go. I'll even buy," Castillo said. He took a notebook from his jacket, found the number he wanted, and dialed it.

" Guten abend, heir is von und zu Gossinger, Karl, "he began and then inquired into the status of his business-class reservation, Dulles to Frankfurt am Main.

He hung up and looked at Fernando.

"I'm going on Lufthansa," he said. "It leaves at one-thirty in the morning."

"As Karl von und zu Gossinger?" Fernando asked.

"He's the Washington correspondent of the Fulda Tages Zeitung," Castillo said. "Accredited to the White House and everything. Charming fellow. People say he has quite a way with the ladies."

He reached into his jacket again and tossed a German passport to Fernando, who looked at it.

"That's who it says you are, Gringo. You going to tell me what that's all about?"

"The passport is legitimate. Since I was born in Germany, so far as the Germans are concerned I'm a German citizen. Nobody likes journalists:"

"You own those newspapers and you admit to such a thing?"

Castillo chuckled.

"And every week or so, I write something for it. I generally steal it from The American Conservative magazine. That way, if somebody checks on Karl there's his picture, beside his latest story from Washington. And if they look closer, the masthead says it was founded by Hermann von und zu Gossinger in 1817. As I was saying, nobody likes journalists but they're expected to ask questions. When an American army officer asks questions, people tend to think he's in the intelligence business."

"Gringo, why are you suddenly telling me all this? For the last: Christ, I don't know: the last ten years, you've been like a fucking clam about what you do."

"I won't tell you anything you shouldn't know."

"Why are you telling me anything?"

"Straight answer?"

Fernando nodded.

"Because I'm sometimes not sure who I am. I used to be able to unload on General McNab, but that: hasn't been possible lately. And that leaves only four people I can really trust."

"Only four? That's sad, Gringo."

"Abuela, General Naylor, Otto, and you," Castillo said. "I can't tell her what I do, obviously; Otto, I'm sure, has a good idea, but I can't talk to him for different obvious reasons:"

"He doesn't know?" Fernando interrupted. "I wondered about that."

"I'm sure he has a damn good idea, but we've never talked about it," Castillo answered, and then went on, "General Naylor knows, but if I let him know that I sometimes get a little confused, a little shaky, he'd jerk me."

"Jerk you?"

"Send me back to the Army. 'Thank you for your services and don't let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out.' " He paused. "That left you. And you, thank God, know how to keep your mouth shut."

"Christ, what's wrong with going back to the Army? You said they're going to make you a light colonel."

"Because I'm very good at what I do," Castillo said. "And if I went back to the Army, what would I do?"

"Be a lieutenant colonel. Hold parades. Berate lieutenants. Fly airplanes."

"It wouldn't work. For a number of reasons."

"Come home to Texas. Make an honest woman out of the most deserving of your harem. Breed rug rats."

Castillo appeared about to respond to that but didn't.

"Let's go eat," Castillo said.

[TWO]

Washington Dulles International Airport

Sterling, Virginia

0115 1 June 2005

The stewardess, a trim redhead, led Castillo into the first-class compartment of the Boeing 767-300ER and smilingly indicated his new seat. " Ich danke innen vielmals, "he said.

" Keine Ursache, Herr von und zu Gossinger, "she replied, flashed him a very cordial smile, and then went down the aisle.

Castillo had once known another redheaded stewardess, who had worked for Delta. He had blown that brief but fairly interesting dalliance because he had been unable to remember that she was a member of the cabin crew who flew for Delta. In her mind-Dorothy was her name-the distinction was very important, and anyone oblivious to it was obviously a male chauvinist not worthy of being admitted to her bed.

Occupied with memories of Dorothy mingled with thoughts of the trim Lufthansa stew who had just bumped him up to first class-and who had a very attractive tail, indeed-and with putting his laptop briefcase in the overhead bin, Castillo did not notice who was going to be his traveling companion until he actually started to sit down.

" Guten abend, "he said to the good-looking, lanky blonde sitting in the window seat, and then switched to English. "Or should it be 'Good morning?"

"I think that's up for grabs," the lanky blonde said, in English, with a smile.

"I think I should warn you I don't belong up here in the front of the bus," Castillo said. "Lufthansa took pity on me and gave me an upgrade."

"Then we're both usurpers," she said. "Me, too."

Another member of the cabin crew, this one a wispy male of whose masculinity Castillo had immediate doubts, came and offered a tray of short-stemmed glasses.

"Will you have some champagne, madam?" he asked, in German.

The lanky blonde replied, in not bad German, "Yes, thank you, I will."

The steward offered the tray to her and then to Castillo, who wondered, Why is "steward" okay and "stewardess" some sort of slam? and then said, in German, "You will go to heaven because you have just saved my life."

The lanky blonde smiled.

He raised his glass to the blonde.

"To a pleasant flight," he said.

"To a pleasant flight," she parroted and touched glasses with him.

"Why do you think Lufthansa picked you for an upgrade?" he asked.

Goddamned pity I'll be in Germany only long enough to change planes.

"I'm a journalist," she said.

Oh, shit.

"Really?"

"I work for Forbes. The magazine? It happens a lot if I make sure they know I work for Forbes."

"I know," he said. "Same thing."

"You're a journalist? Who do you work for?"

"The Fulda Tages Zeitung," Castillo said. "A small newspaper in Hesse. I write mostly about American business."

"There or here? I couldn't help but notice that your English is just about perfect."

"I'm based in Washington," he said. "And I've been here a while."

"Going home on vacation?"

"I vacation whenever I can find something to write about in Florida," he said. "That way the paper pays for it. No, I'm going because they sent for me. They do that every once in a while to make sure I'm not being corrupted by you decadent Americans."

Jesus, it would be nice if just once when I met a good-looking female I could tell her the truth about who I am and what I do.

But to do that, I would have to have a job that I could talk about.

"Well, I'm a district sales manager for Whirlpool. You know, washing machines?"

"You don't look as if you would be easy to corrupt," she said.

"Oh, you're wrong," Castillo said. "I can only hope you won't take advantage of me."

She laughed at that, displaying a nice set of teeth and bright red gums.

"No promises," she said and offered her hand. "Patricia Wilson. Pat."

Her hand was warm and soft.

"My name is Karl, but I try to get people to call me Charley," he said.

"Nice to meet you, Charley."

The pilot ordered that the passenger compartment be readied for flight.

When they turned the cabin lights on the next morning, Castillo opened his eyes and saw Patricia Wilson was still asleep beside him. She had her seat all the way back-it was one of the new seats that went almost horizontal. She was straight in the seat, with the small airline pillow in the nape of her neck.

She looked good. A lot of women, he thought, did not look good first thing in the morning, especially after they had spent most of the night flying across an ocean. Some of them slept with their mouths open. And some snored, which he found amusing, if not very attractive.

He unstrapped himself and got up carefully so as not to disturb her and then took his laptop briefcase from the overhead bin and went to the toilet. He urinated and then closed the toilet seat and laid the laptop briefcase on it. He went quickly through his morning toilette, which concluded with splashing cologne on his face and examining it in the mirror as he swished Listerine around in his mouth.

That done, he opened the computer section of the briefcase and removed one of the computer-cushioning pads.

It appeared to be simply a black plastic cushion. It was not. He pried apart what looked like a heat-welded seam and then tugged on the Velcro inside until it separated. Then he arranged all the documents which identified him as Carlos Guillermo (or C. G.) Castillo-his Army AGO card, his Supervisory Special Agent Secret Service credentials, his Department of Homeland Security identification, building pass, and business cards, and his MasterCard, Visa, and American Express credit cards-inside against what looked like a random pattern of the plastic.

The lines on the pattern were actually of a special plastic that would both keep the documents from shifting around, thus making a lump in the cushion pad, and also present a faint, baffling pattern to X-ray machines.

He carefully closed the cushion pad, put it back in the briefcase, zipped everything up, and went back to his seat.

Patricia Wilson was not only awake but sitting up and sipping at a glass of tomato juice. There was another glass of tomato juice on the small flat area between their seats.

She pointed to it.

"You didn't strike me as the canned orange or grapefruit juice type," she said. "Okay?"

"You're a mind reader," he said. "Which will probably get me in trouble."

She smiled but did not respond directly.

"Let me get out and go where you have been," she said. "And then you can sit down. Take my seat, if you like."

[THREE]

Frankfurt International Airport

Frankfurt am Main, West Germany

0900 2 June 2005

When the Lufthansa 767 touched down at Frankfurt International Airport-which he always thought of as "Rhine-Main," as it was known to American military personnel-Castillo remembered, somewhat painfully, the first time he'd come there twenty-four years ago, at age twelve.

He'd said good-bye to his mother three hours before. He had understood that she was close to dying and didn't want him to see her last days. But leaving her had really been tough; they had both known it was really good-bye forever.

Otto Gorner had driven him and Abuela and Grandpa down from Bad Hersfeld in his mother's Mercedes. Major Naylor and his wife and Colonel Lustrous's wife had met them in the Pan American VIP lounge. There had been a man from the American consulate there, too, to make sure things went smoothly. It had been the first proof of what his mother had said about Grandpa. That he was "a man of influence."

The Naylor's and Mrs. Lustrous had told him they would see him in America. He hadn't believed them. Otto had made him promise to write, and to get on the phone if he ever needed anything, or just to talk.

Mrs. Naylor and Mrs. Lustrous had kissed him. Major Naylor had hugged his shoulders. Otto had shaken his hand. And then he and Abuela and Grandpa had gotten on the first-class-passengers-only bus, which carried them to the 747. It was not only the largest airplane he had ever seen but the first airplane he'd ever been inside of.

He had stared out the window, fighting back tears, as they taxied to the runway and then taken off. He had been surprised how little time it had taken before Germany disappeared under them.

Pat Wilson went with Castillo while he rented a car. She was on her way to Berlin, she had told him, and coming the way she had, even though it meant changing planes after a two-hour wait in Frankfurt, would get her there faster than either waiting for a direct Dulles-Berlin flight or catching one in New York would.

They had exchanged telephone numbers and promised to call whenever one of them was in the other's city- Forbes was published in New York City. He intended to call her the next time he had some free time in Manhattan, but the number he gave her was that of one of the answering machines in his suite in the Mayflower. He never answered the machines. The Karl von und zu Gossinger machine announced in his voice, in English and German, that Herr von und zu Gossinger was out of town but would return the call as soon as possible if the caller would leave a name and number at the beep.

He didn't want to see her in Washington. She was a journalist and there was too much in his life there that would ignite her curiosity.

Seeing her in New York was something else again. Or anywhere but Washington, for that matter. Maybe he could coincidentally find himself wherever her journalistic duties took her.

As Castillo drove away from the Hertz lot in an Opel Kapitan, he was surprised to realize he really wanted to see more of Patricia Wilson.

[FOUR]

Executive Offices

Der Fulda Tages Zeitung

Fulda, Hesse, West Germany

1045 2 June 2005

Castillo took the A66 Autobahn to Schultheim, where it turned into Highway 40, and continued on that until he came to the A7 Autobahn to Fulda. Once out of the Frankfurt area traffic, he made good time. He kept the speedometer needle hovering around 120 kilometers per hour, which meant he was going about 75 miles per hour, which seemed both fast enough and safe on the four-lane, gently curved superhighway.

A steady stream of cars, an occasional Audi or Porsche or Mercedes but mostly Volkswagens and other small cars, passed him as if he were standing still.

He told the burly guard-almost certainly a retired cop-at the entrance to the Tages Zeitung parking lot that his name was Gossinger and that he had an appointment with Herr Gorner, which wasn't exactly true but got him into the parking lot.

By the time he entered the building-which had been built in the late nineteenth century, destroyed in World War II, and then rebuilt to prewar specifications afterward-and went up the wide staircase to Otto's office, Otto was standing at the head of the stairs waiting for him.

Otto Gorner was a Hessian, but he looked like a postcard Bavarian. Plump, red-cheeked, and radiating gemutlichkeit. He was wearing a dark gray vested suit he'd probably had made in Berlin, but he would have looked just as much at home in lederhosen and a green hat with a tassel waving a liter mug of beer.

" Ach, der verlorene Sohn, "Otto said. "You should have let me know you were coming. I'd have had someone meet you."

You mean, you would have been waiting for the prodigal son at Rhine-Main.

"I rented a car, no problem," Castillo said.

Otto put his arm around Castillo's shoulders when Castillo reached the head of the stairs, hugged him briefly, and then waved him into the suite of executive offices.

The two women and one man in the outer office stood up as they entered. Castillo smiled and shook hands with each of them.

They knew who he was, and thought they knew what he did. He was the owner, and was the Washington correspondent, of the Gossinger G. m.b. h newspapers. Read: Playboy/Remittance Man.

Otto followed him into his office and waved him into one of the leather armchairs facing his desk.

"I was just thinking about you, actually," Otto said.

"I'm flattered."

"I just got your monthly bill from the Mayflower," Otto said. "I've got to come see you and see what all that money is buying."

"On the other hand, you're not paying me a salary," Castillo said. "We should not forget that. Especially since you're sending me all the way to Africa."

"Is that where I'm sending you?"

"Uh-huh."

"What story is that?" Otto asked and then answered his own question. "That missing airplane? The missing 727?"

Castillo nodded.

"I've been following that yarn on Reuters," Otto said. "Actually, I think we ran sort of a wrap-up in the Sunday editions."

"Looks like a fascinating story," Castillo said.

"Dare I hope that you will send something we can use?"

"Unless I am eaten by a lion, or wind up in some cannibal's pot, I intend to file daily."

"When do you want to go?"

"I'm on British Airways Flight BA 077, departing Heathrow at seven thirty-five tomorrow night, and will arrive at Luanda at four-ten the next morning."

"And we're sending you first class, of course?"

"It's a long flight, Otto."

"You do know you'll need a visa?"

"I got one in the States. One of their assistant consul generals couldn't do enough for me."

Otto snorted.

"You can't stick around a couple of days?" he asked.

"I'd like to, Otto, but:"

Otto shrugged.

Not a word, not a single word, had ever been exchanged between them about what Castillo did. But that didn't mean Otto didn't know. He was a highly intelligent man and a good journalist. He knew but never asked questions.

"That's Luanda, Angola, right?" Otto asked.

Castillo nodded.

"You want me to let our embassy know you're coming?"

"That might be very helpful."

"You have a ticket to London?"

"No. And I don't have hotel reservations in Luanda, either."

Otto picked up one of the telephones on his desk and told Frau Schroder to get Herr Gossinger to Heathrow in time to make British Airways Flight BA 077 to Luanda, Angola, at seven thirty-five the next night, first class, of course; and to see what she could do for him about some place to stay; and when she had done that, to send a message to the German embassy in Luanda, Angola, saying that Herr Gossinger was coming and requesting all courtesies. And to cancel all his appointments for the rest of the day-he and Herr Gossinger were going to Bad Hersfeld and she could reach him in his car or at das Haus im Wald.

"We're going to Bad Hersfeld, are we?" Castillo asked when Otto hung up.

"I want you to see your godchild and the other children."

"Okay," Castillo said and smiled. "I carry the greetings of Fernando."

That wasn't true, of course. But if he had told Fernando where he was going, Fernando would have said, "Give my best to Otto."

"I am also godfather to one of Fernando's rug rats, you know. Jorge."

"One of his what?"

"His rug rats. He calls his children 'the rug rats.' "

"That's terrible," Otto said, but he laughed. "Rug rats! How is Fernando?"

"Well. I think he's still growing," Castillo said. "He's well. Working hard."

"You want something to eat before we go?" Otto asked.

"I ate a large breakfast on the plane, thank you."

"And your grandmother?"

"Very well, thank you. She spends most of her time at the hacienda, but not much gets by her. I saw her a couple of days ago."

"You will give her my best regards, Karl?"

"Of course."

As they passed through the outer office, Otto turned to Castillo and said, "Give me the keys to the rental car, Karl."

"Why?"

"So I can have someone turn it in. There's no sense paying for it if you're not going to be using it." He paused, had a thought, and added: "Unless there is some reason I can't take you to the airport?"

I'd rather you didn't. But how do I tell you no?

"It's a long ride back and forth to Frankfurt."

"Good. That will give us more time to be together."

"I left my luggage in the car," Castillo said.

"Frau Schroder, we'll leave the keys to Herr Gossinger's rental car with the guard," Otto ordered. "Have someone turn it in."

Otto's car was a black Mercedes S600, the big one, with a V-12 engine. It belonged, Castillo knew, to one of the companies. That way, it was considered essential transportation for an employee, deductible as a business expense, and not regarded as part of Otto's taxable income.

In the six days Fernando Castillo had been in Germany to meet and take his grandson home, he had seen enough of Otto Gorner, who had been running the company since Hermann Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger and his son Wilhelm-Castillo's grandfather and uncle-had died on the autobahn, to make the snap judgment that he should remain in charge for the time being.

Grandpa told Carlos years later-when he'd gone home on Christmas leave during his final year at West Point and was about to turn twenty-one-that he'd, of course, had Otto investigated as quickly as he could. Grandpa said he trusted his snap character judgments only until he could get some facts to back them up.

Otto had apparently stood up under that expensive close scrutiny because he had been running everything ever since.

The estate had been complicated. Hermann von und zu Gossinger had intended to leave das Haus im Wald and twenty-five percent of his other assets to his daughter. The rest of his estate, less some bequests to faithful employees and Saint Johan's Church, was to go to his son.

But it was determined that Wilhelm had died first in that black Mercedes-and the implications thereof had not yet been decided by the courts when Erika von und zu Gossinger had died.

"Typical Germanic gross absurdity, Carlos," Grandpa had told him. "Everybody knew everything was going to come to you; you were everybody's only living heir. Your uncle had neither wife nor children. That meant his estate would ultimately go to his nearest living relatives, your grandfather and your mother. Her will left everything to you.

"If your grandfather had died first in that wreck, his estate would have been distributed according to the provisions of his will. But since your uncle was dead, his inheritance would have gone to your mother. But if your uncle died first, then his assets would be shared between his nearest living relatives, his father and your mother. But since his father was dead, it would go to your mother-who had already named you as her sole heir. It took fifty lawyers, five years, God only knows how many judges, and a hell of a lot of money to split those legal hairs, even though it didn't matter a damn what any of the courts decided. The bottom line was that you were going to get it all when you turned twenty-one. And that happens on February the thirteenth."

"What am I going to do with it?" Carlos had asked.

"If you're smart, you'll continue what I set up with Otto Gorner. He gets a good salary, a lot of perks-including use of that house in Bad Hersfeld, a car, and an expense account our American IRS wouldn't let me or you get away with, plus a percentage of the profits. He's a hard worker, and honest, and about as smart as they come. I'll continue to keep an eye on things for you if you'd like."

And he had, so long as he had lived.

Now the family's law firm kept an eye on things in Germany, and Fernando, who had taken a law degree after Desert Storm at Grandpa's advice, kept an eye on them.

Frau Helena Gorner was a blond Bavarian, but she didn't look as if she belonged in a dirndl with her hair braided into pigtails. She was a svelte blonde-which made Castillo think of Patricia Wilson-who dressed in what Castillo thought of as Neiman Marcus, or maybe Bonwit Teller, clothing.

When he went into the foyer of das Haus im Wald, and she kissed-or made smacking noises in close proximity to-his cheek, she smelled of expensive perfume.

He had no idea what she really thought of him, and often wondered if she was pleased, displeased, or didn't give much of a damn that he was godfather to her second son, Hermann Wilhelm, who had been named after both his grandfather and uncle.

She was ten-maybe more-years younger than Otto. They had married when Castillo had been in his junior year in high school, and Otto-ever the businessman-had combined their honeymoon trip to America with a business conference with Fernando Castillo in San Antonio.

Abuela had liked her, and been receptive to the idea that his-and, of course, Fernando's-spending their summer vacation in Germany would be a good idea.

Abuela had told him, as he and Fernando were getting on the airplane to go to Germany, that Helena had told her that Otto had told her he had several times offered marriage to Erika von und zu Gossinger but that she had refused. And that Otto had always looked on Karl as a son.

"If we knew you were coming, Karl," Helena said, "I could have prepared something. Some of your old friends from Saint Johan's or something."

Which is another reason I didn't tell Otto I was coming.

"Maybe the next time," Castillo said. "But thanks anyway, Helena."

"Karl just came to see us and our rug rats," Otto said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's what Fernando calls his children," Otto said, visibly pleased with himself.

"I don't understand," Helena said.

Why doesn't that surprise me?

"How is Fernando and Maria?" Helena asked, electing to get off the subject of rug rats. "And your grandmother?"

"All well, thank you, Helena. They send their best wishes."

"Well, let's go out in back-the weather is wonderful; maybe spring has finally come-and have a glass of wine before lunch," Helena said. "Or knowing you two, something stronger. The children:"

"The rug rats, you mean," Otto interrupted.

"The children normally come home about four," Helena said, not amused by either the term or her husband, "but sometimes they go off with their friends. I'll call and make sure they come home."

Shit, I didn't think to bring any of them a present. Among other things, I am a lousy godfather and sort-of uncle.

Hell, I'll give them money.

He and Otto had just touched glasses dark with scotch when one of the servants handed him a walk-around telephone.

"Frau Schroder, Herr Gossinger," his caller announced. "I have booked you on British Airways:"

"Hold one, please, Frau Schroder, I want to write this down."

He mimed a writing instrument to Otto, who handed him a leather-bound notebook and a gold felt-tip pen.

"A journalist without a notebook?" Otto asked.

"Go ahead, please, Frau Schroder," Castillo said.

"Herr Gossinger, I was unable to get you a first-class ticket to London:"

"What do you have?"

"I have a business ticket for you on British Airways Flight 907, leaving Frankfurt tomorrow afternoon at four-thirty and arriving in London at five-fifteen."

"Fine," Castillo said.

"I presume you have a ticket to Luanda?"

"Yes, I do."

"In that case, Herr Gossinger, British Airways in Frankfurt will check your luggage through to Luanda if you wish."

"Great."

"I have made reservations for you at the Le Presidente Hotel, a small suite, in Luanda. It's a Meridien Hotel. They will send a car to meet you at the airport and will bill us directly."

"Frau Schroder, you are absolutely marvelous. Thank you very much."

"It is my pleasure, Herr Gossinger. The tickets will be at the British Airways counter at Frankfurt, and, now that you have approved the itinerary, I will inform the German embassy in Luanda that you are coming."

"Thank you very much, Frau Schroder."

"It is my pleasure. Have a pleasant trip, Herr Gossinger."

[FIVE]

Heathrow Airport

London, England

1915 3 June 2005

The first-class lounge at Heathrow provided Internet access in nice little cubicles providing some privacy, but Castillo decided against sending his boss an e-mail announcing where he was and where he was going. For one thing, Secretary Hall knew where he was going and didn't expect a step-by-step report. Instead, Castillo had a drink and watched the BBC television news until an attractive British Airways passenger service representative came and collected him and an ornately costumed, tall, jet-black couple he thought were probably from Nigeria for no good reason except they were smiling and having a good time. He also thought, perhaps unkindly, as they walked through the terminal to the boarding gate, that the Brits still had the class distinction business down pat and up and running. The passenger service rep had called him by name-including the von and the zu -in German. She had addressed the Africans, in French, as M'Sieu et Madame Le Ministre, which meant two things: that they were not Angolans, where the language was Portuguese, and that he was some sort of senior government official, which explained what they were doing in first class. The three of them were apparently the only first-class passengers.

The business-class passengers were lined up ahead of them in the airway, under the care of another passenger service representative, looking like so many third-graders being led into the school library. There were, he guessed, twenty or twenty-five of them; it took some time for them to pass through the final ticket check, which, of course, was waived for the upper class. The lower class had already been herded into economy, which occupied most of the rear of the Boeing 777 fuselage.

Once through the door and on the plane, three members of the cabin crew, under a steward, smilingly directed them left into the first-class compartment, which was in the nose.

He didn't intend to look to the right, into the business-class section, because he usually found himself looking at someone disappointed that he wasn't either a movie star or an oil-rich Arabian prince traveling with a high-priced, usually very blond mistress-of-the-moment.

But he did look.

And Patricia Wilson looked back at him.

Jesus H. Fucking Christ! That's the last fucking thing I need!

Was that really her?

You know goddamn well it was.

Did she recognize me?

Three to five she did. That wasn't curiosity on her charming face; it was surprise.

What the fuck do I do about this?

The cabin attendant handed him a glass of champagne. Before he was half finished with it, the pilot ordered the cabin be prepared for flight.

The seat of his pants and the sound of the engines cutting back told him that they were at cruising altitude even though the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign remained lit. That was explained when the door to the flight deck opened and the captain, a middle-aged man with a Royal Air Force mustache, came out and quickly disappeared into the toilet.

Well, guess who forgot Rule 13? Piss before takeoff.

Castillo unlatched his seat belt and went to the toilet door.

When the captain came out, Castillo extended his business card.

"I've got a little problem you can solve in about ten seconds, Captain."

The captain didn't like being intercepted, but you don't ignore-much less snap at-first-class passengers.

"How may I help you?" he asked.

"There's a passenger in business, a fellow journalist, a very good-looking fellow journalist, Miss Patricia Wilson, who works for Forbes magazine. I would like very much to make this long flight in her company. Either move me back there or her up here."

The captain looked around the first-class compartment. Only three of the eighteen seats were occupied.

He beckoned to the steward.

"The steward will take care of your little problem for you, sir," the captain said when the steward was within hearing range.

"Thank you very much, Captain, I really appreciate your courtesy."

"Not at all," the captain said. "Glad I could be of service."

"I thought that was you," Patricia Wilson said three minutes after the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign went off. "You're going to Luanda?"

"Is that where this thing is going?"

"On the 727 story?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Me, too," she said.

You told me, you beautiful creature, that you were going to Berlin. Therefore, you were lying. Or are lying. Or both.

What the fuck is going on here?

Besides, that missing airliner is a breaking story. Forbes comes out every other week. They don't do breaking stories.

As if she had read his mind, Patricia Wilson said, "My editor wants an in-depth piece about sloppy air control in Africa, and I thought, Well, hell, why not start where they lost an airplane?"

Good try, Patricia, but that's bullshit.

"Good idea," Castillo said.

[SIX]

Le Presidente Hotel

Largo 4 de Fevereiro

Luanda, Angola

0605 4 June 2005

There were a dozen or more black men in business suits and chauffeur's caps holding cards with names lettered on them waiting for the passengers as they came out of customs at the airport. One of the cards read: PATRICIA WILSON.

"I guess the hotel sent a car for me, too," she said. "What do we do?"

"I suspect you'll have to pay for it anyway," Castillo said, "and I suspect both cars will be small."

"And probably French?" she asked.

"If yours breaks down-and it probably will-I'll rescue you," Castillo said. "And you can do the same for me."

"Call me later? I need the attentions of a beautician."

"Absolutely," he said.

He had put her into her car, a Citroen, and then followed his driver to a Mercedes. He wondered if that was random or whether the Meridien hotel chain had a policy: Germans get Mercedes, Americans get Citroens.

When he didn't see her in the hotel lobby he was disappointed. He thought her driver had probably made much better time through the very early morning traffic in the small Citroen than he had in the larger Mercedes and that she was probably already in her shower. That triggered an immediate mental image.

There's no question about it. At this almost obscene hour of the morning my hormones are raging.

And you know in your bones that this one is dangerous and that you should back off.

He tried out his Portuguese on the assistant manager behind the registration desk, but the French hotelier insisted on responding in barely understandable German.

In which he said welcome to Le Presidente and that he would have to keep Castillo's passport.

Hotels did that either to make sure they got paid-not a valid excuse here because his bills were to be paid directly by the Tages Zeitung -or so the police could have a look at it.

The "small suite" was a sitting room, a bedroom, and an alcove with a desk and chair that wasn't large enough to be called a room. A high-speed Internet cable was neatly coiled on the desk.

The windows of both the sitting room and the bedroom looked out and fifteen stories down onto the bay. There was a basket of fruit and a bottle of wine on the coffee table and a terry cloth robe had been laid across the double bed.

Castillo wondered if the room was bugged, but that was an automatic thought. As he always assumed any gun he picked up was loaded, he always assumed hotel rooms were bugged. He knew a lot of people who really should have known better who had fired "unloaded" guns and others who had wrongly presumed "There's no way this place could be bugged."

He took his laptop from its briefcase and plugged the charger and the ethernet cable into it. The high-speed access to the Internet was up and running. There were three e-mail messages for him on tageszeitung. wash@aol. com. One was from a company promising to return the full purchase price (less shipping) if their product failed to increase the size of his male member. After a moment's thought, and pleased with himself, he forwarded that one to fernandolopez@castillo. com.

The second offered Viagra online without a prescription and the third told him now was the time to refinance his mortgage. He deleted both.

There was only one message on his MSN account, from shake.n. bake@yahoo. com: