Hunters

VI

[ONE] Executive Offices Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H. Fulda, Hesse, Germany 1105 6 August 2005 Otto Gorner, managing director of Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H., reached for his private line telephone with his right hand without taking his eyes off the editorial on his desk. It was anti-American, blasting the President of the United States of America personally and the policies of the U.S.A. generally.

He had known from the first couple of sentences that he would not permit it to run in any of the Tages Zeitung newspapers. The author would then think-and more than likely share with his peers-unkind thoughts about the Amizaertlich editor in chief of the Tages Zeitung newspapers for killing a well-thought-out piece about what the Gottverdammt Amis had done wrong again.

By the fourth paragraph, Gorner had realized-with some relief-that he would have killed the piece anyway based on its departure from what he regarded as the entirely Germanic editorial principles of the newspaper chain-in essence, to be fair-and not solely because running it would have offended the Ami who was the sole stockholder of Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H.

"Gorner," he growled into the telephone.

"Have you got any influence with the storm trooper guarding the parking lot?" a very familiar voice inquired in English. "He won't let me in."

"Speak of the devil," Gorner said.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"Put him on, Karlchen," Gorner said as he rose quickly from his desk and went to his window, which overlooked the parking lot.

Carlos Guillermo Castillo, born Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger, was standing by the red-and-white-striped barrier pole to the parking lot and extending a cellular telephone to the guard there of.

As the guard some what suspiciously put the cellular to his ear, Castillo looked up at the window, saw Gorner, and blew him a kiss. The guard followed that gesture, too, with interest.

"In the future," Gorner said to the telephone, "you may admit Herr von und zu Gossinger to our parking lot at any time, even if his car doesn't have an identification sticker."

"Jawohl, Herr Gorner," the guard said.

He handed the cellular back and hurried to the switch that would cause the barrier pole to rise.

Castillo bowed toward the window and then got in his car, a Mercedes-Benz 220, which Gorner decided he had rented at an airport.

Gorner had mixed feelings on seeing Castillo. On one hand, he was-and had been since Castillo's birth-extremely fond of the boy born to the sister of his best friend. He had long ago realized that there was little difference between the paternal feelings he had for Karlchen-"Little Karl"-and those he felt for his own children.

If Erika von und zu Gossinger would have had him, either when it first became known that the seventeen-year-old girl was pregnant with the child of an American helicopter pilot she had known for only four days or, later, until the hour of her death twelve years later, he would have married her and happily given the child his name.

But Erika would not have him as her husband, although she had been perfectly willing for him to play Oncle Otto to the boy as he grew up.

And over the last three or four days, Gorner had been genuinely concerned about Castillo's safety-indeed, his life. Karlchen had called from the States and suggested Gorner "might take a look at the Reuters and AP wires from Uruguay starting about now."

Gorner had done so, and the only interesting story-about the only story at all-from Uruguay had been a Reuters report that the Lebanese owner of a farm, a man named Jean-Paul Bertrand, and six other men, unidentified, had been found shot to death on Bertrand's farm.

There had been no question at all in Gorner's mind that Bertrand was Jean-Paul Lorimer, for whom he knew Karlchen had been looking. Confirmation of that had come yesterday, with an Agence France-Presse wire story that Dr. Jean-Paul Lorimer, Chief, European Directorate of UN Inter-Agency Coordination in Paris, had been murdered during a robbery while vacationing in Uruguay.

He had not been surprised to learn that Lorimer was dead. He had been in Budapest with Karlchen when Billy Kocian had told both of them that he thought Lorimer was probably fish food in either the Danube or the Seine and he didn't believe the robbery spin at all. Lorimer had been killed because he knew too much about the oil-for-food scandal.

But Uruguay? What was that all about?

He wondered how Karlchen had learned what had happened to Lorimer so quickly.

His thoughts were interrupted when Frau Gertrud Schroder put her head in the door and cheerfully announced, "Karlchen's here. They just called from the lobby."

"Warn my wife, lock up anything valuable, and pray," Gorner said.

"You're as glad to see him as I am," she said.

"Yes. Of course," Gorner agreed with a smile.

That's only half true. I am glad to see him, but I don't think I'm going to like what he tells me, or giving him what he asks for.

Castillo came to the door forty-five seconds later.

He hugged Frau Schroder and kissed her wetly on the forehead.

She beamed.

"Do I call you 'colonel'?" Gorner said.

"Not only do you call me colonel but you pop to attention, click your heels, and bow," Castillo said as he went to Gorner and hugged him. He would have kissed him on the forehead, too, had Gorner not ducked. Then he added, "How did you hear about that?"

"You're an oberst, Karlchen?" Frau Schroder asked.

"Oberstleutnant, Frau Schroder," Castillo said.

Gorner went behind his desk and sat down.

The old man was Oberstleutnant Hermann Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger at Stalingrad. The first time I met him, I was terrified of him. And now his grandson is one. In the American Army, of course. But an oberstleutnant. The old man would have been ecstatic.

"I'm so proud of you, Karlchen!" Frau Schroder said.

"Thank you," Castillo said.

He looked at Gorner and asked again, "How did you hear about that?"

"The American embassy called. A man who said he was the assistant consul general said he had reason to believe Lieutenant Colonel Castillo would be coming here and, if you did, would I be good enough to ask you to call?"

"We have a name and a number?"

Gorner nodded, lifted the leather cover of a lined tablet on his desk, and then flipped through several pages. By the time Frau Schroder had walked to the desk, he had found what he was looking for and had his finger on it.

She punched in numbers on one of the three telephones on Gorner's desk.

A moment later, she said in almost accentless English, "I have Colonel Castillo for you, Mr. Almsbury. Will you hold, please?"

She handed the handset to Castillo.

He spoke into it:

"My name is Castillo, Mr. Almsbury. I'm returning your call.

"My father's name was Jorge Alejandro Castillo.

"Who's it from?

"The sender is classified?

"Well, how do I get to see this message?

"And if I can't come to Berlin, then what?

"Well, then, I guess I just won't get to see it.

"Yes, I'll take your assurance that the sender is a very important person. But I still can't come to Berlin and I won't be here long enough for you to come deliver the message.

"I'd rather not share that with you, Mr. Almsbury. What I suggest you do is send a message to the sender that you couldn't get the message to me and that if the message is important that they try to send it to me through my office.

"Yes, I'm sure they know how to get in contact with my office.

"Yeah, I'm sure that this is the way I wish to handle this. Thank you very much, Mr. Almsbury. Good-bye."

He hung up.

"That sonofabitch," he said, shaking his head.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell us what that was all about, Karl?" Gorner asked.

Castillo looked between them and then said, "A couple of years ago-maybe longer-somebody said-maybe wrote a book-saying, 'The medium is the message.'"

"I don't understand," Gorner confessed.

"For the first time, I understand what that means," Castillo said.

"You're talking in tongues, Karl."

"Mr. Almsbury, who is more than likely the CIA station chief in Berlin, has a message for me. For a number of reasons, I think that message is from Ambassador Charles Montvale. You know who he is?"

Gorner nodded.

Frau Schroder said, "Your new chief of intelligence?"

"Close," Castillo replied. "He's the new director of National Intelligence."

"You work for him? Can I ask that?" Gorner said.

"You can ask. No, I don't work for him. He wishes that I did. The President told him no, I told him no, but Montvale doesn't like no for an answer-"

"Karl," Gorner interrupted and then stopped.

Castillo smiled at him. "I read minds, you know. What you were about to ask is, 'Why are you telling us this?' And/or, 'Aren't you liable to get in trouble talking so freely to us?' Am I close?"

Gorner shook his head in disbelief and then nodded in resignation.

"I'm telling you because I think you should know certain things, and because both of you are on my short list"-he held up his left hand with the fingers spread widely and his right hand with three fingers held upward-"of people I trust absolutely. And, no, I won't get in trouble. The President gave me the authority to tell anyone anything I want to tell them."

Gorner met his eyes for a moment and thought: He means that. He's telling the truth. But I now understand there is a third reason. Karlchen has just put both Onkle Otto and Tante Gertrud in his pocket. And I think he knows that. My God, he's so much like the old man!

"And the final reason I'm going to tell you about what I'm doing is because I'm going to need your help and I want you to understand why I need that help; why you're doing what I'm going to ask you to do."

Gorner started to speak, then stopped-Goddamn it, I have to say this-then said what was on his mind: "Karl, what we do here is publish newspapers, newspapers started by your great-great-grandfather. I can't stand idly by while you turn it into a branch of the CIA."

"The simple answer to that, Otto," Castillo said, "is you're right. It's a newspaper. But let's not forget, either, that I own Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H." He let that sink in a moment, then went on: "A more complicated answer is that I've thought about Grosspappa. And the Tages Zeitung newspapers. I'm not turning them into a CIA asset. For one thing, I don't work for the CIA. And from all I remember about him, all I've heard about him, he was a very moral man. I think he would be as annoyed-as disgusted-with the greedy bastards behind this oil-for-food scandal as Eric Kocian is. And I think if he was still alive and Ignatz Glutz came to him with CIA tattooed on his forehead and said he was trying to do something about those greedy, murderous bastards, Grosspappa would have helped. Within certain boundaries, of course. Anyway, that's the way I'm going to play it. Carlos Castillo is going to ask certain things of the Tages Zeitung and if Karl von und zu Gossinger thinks his grandfather would have given Castillo what he's asking for, the Tages Zeitung is going to give it to him."

"It says in the Bible, Karlchen, that a man cannot serve two masters," Gorner said.

"It also says in the Bible that Jonah was swallowed whole by a whale and lived through it," Castillo said. "Aren't you the man who told me to be careful about what you read? Not to believe something just because it's in print?"

"'Within certain boundaries' covers a lot of ground, Karl," Gorner said, softly. "Who defines those boundaries?"

"I do. But it should also go without saying that if I step over the line, you are free to tell me how I am over that line."

Gorner stared at him intently for a long moment.

"The older I get, the more I believe in genetics," he said, finally. "So I'm going to go with my gut feeling that there's a hell of a lot more of Oberst Hermann Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger running through your veins than there is Texas cowboy, Colonel Carlos Castillo."

Castillo didn't reply.

"Tell me about Ambassador Montvale and his message," Gorner said.

"I have no idea what's in Montvale's message, but if it was really important he would have gotten it to me."

"I don't understand," Frau Schroder said.

"If I go to Berlin to get the message, I'm a cute little dachshund answering its master's whistle. Which is what he wants."

"Oh," she said, and then a moment later said, "But what if there is something important in the message?"

"If something important happened, Dick Miller would know what it was and he would have gotten through to me. But just to be sure, as soon as we get the money straightened out, I'm going to give Dick a call."

"Is that why you're here?" Gorner asked. "About that money in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank?"

"Mostly."

"What else?"

"I want all your notes, all your reporters' notes, on oil for food," Castillo said. "They will go no further than me. I really don't work for the CIA, Otto. Or anybody but the President."

Gorner didn't reply.

"Am I crossing the line, Otto?" Castillo asked, softly.

"Not with that," Gorner said, simply. "I think the Old Man would have given your Mr. Ignatz Glutz his reporter's notes. I'll reserve judgment about the money until I hear whatever you think you can tell me about it."

"I'll tell you everything about it," Castillo said. "We found out that Lorimer had it in three banks in Uruguay. It seems logical to assume that he stole it-the American phrase is 'skimmed it'-from his payoff money. We also found out that it was not on deposit but rather in the form of on-demand notes issued by the bank, something like bearer bonds. We got the notes, and took the money. It's going to be spent finding who killed Mr. Masterson and Sergeant Markham and for other noble purposes, including finding out who sent the men to murder Lorimer."

"You certainly found out about that quickly," Gorner said.

"I was there, Otto. I was just about to tell Lorimer that he was about to be returned to the bosom of his family when somebody stuck a submachine gun through the window. They killed Lorimer and wounded a man with me. Other bad guys killed one of my sergeants by garroting him."

"Karlchen!" Frau Schroder exclaimed.

"Who were they?" Gorner asked.

"I don't know. I intend to find out. The only thing I know for sure was they were not Uruguayan bandits. Spetsnaz, possibly. Maybe Mossad. Maybe even French, from Le Premiere Regiment de Parachutistes d'Infanterie de Marine, known as Rip-em. There's even been a suggestion that they might be from Die Kommando Spezialkrafte. Whoever they were, they were damned good."

"And, I suppose you realize, damned dangerous?" Gorner asked.

"That thought has run through my mind. Let me tell what I'd like to do about the money, then Frau Schroder can explain why that's not possible."

Gorner realized that although it was the last thing he wanted to do, he was smiling.

Castillo said, "I have-that is, Lopez Fruit and Vegetables Mexico has-an account with the Banco Salamander Mexicano in Oaxaca."

"Say that again, slowly," Frau Schroder said as she picked up Gorner's leather-covered legal pad and a pencil. "And you better spell it, too. I don't speak Spanish."

"You don't?" Castillo asked as if deeply shocked. "I thought everybody spoke Spanish."

Gorner realized that he was smiling again at the look on Frau Schroder's face before she realized she was being teased.

Castillo went into his laptop case and took out a sheet of paper and handed it to her.

"Everything's on there," he said, "including account numbers. Fernando tells me we run a lot of money through there."

"That's the Bahias de Huatulco ranch?" Otto asked.

"Used to be cattle, now it's mostly grapefruit, "Castillo confirmed. "Anyway, a wire transfer of ten million dollars wouldn't set off alarm bells, particularly if we spend most of it right away to buy an airplane."

"Excuse me?" Gorner asked.

Castillo went back to his briefcase and took out a photocopy of what Gorner recognized after a moment as an aircraft specification sheet.

"A twenty-three-year-old Gulfstream III," Castillo said. "Just the sort of airplane that would be owned-or leased-by a successful Mexican farming operation trying to peddle its wares in Europe and Latin America. And a bargain, Fernando tells me, at seven million five, as it has new engines and all the maintenance is up-to-date. And its new glove-leather interior is sort of the cherry on the cake."

"Why do you need an airplane like that?" Frau Schroder asked.

"We flew Fernando's plane-the Bombardier/Learjet-over here, then to South America, and then from Buenos Aires to the States. Two things wrong with that. It's not designed for long flights-over-the-ocean flights-like that. And, as a corollary, attracts attention when it does. And then when Ambassador Montvale kindly put the CIA's private airlines at my disposal, I knew I had to have an airplane, the pilot of which is not going to make hourly reports of my location to the ambassador."

"You're going to be doing a lot of that, flying across oceans?" Gorner asked.

"I'll be going wherever I have to go and I want to do it quickly, safely, and as invisibly as possible."

"Can you just go out and buy an airplane like that? And who's going to fly it?"

"That's a moot question until Frau Schroder tells me whether I can move the ten million to the account in Mexico."

He looked expectantly at Frau Schroder.

"That can be done with a telephone call," she said. "You can count on the money being available within the hour."

"Well, let's do that and then we'll get on the horn to Dick Miller," Castillo said. "The sooner we get the money into Salamander, the sooner I can-as an officer of Lopez Fruit and Vegetables Mexico-wire-transfer out of it to my account at the Riggs Bank in Washington. I already know how to do that."

"Couple of questions," Frau Schroder said, now all business. "You want to put the Liechtensteinische Landesbank money in a special account or just deposit it?"

"Just deposit it," Castillo said. "Fernando's going to report it as ordinary business receipts."

"Is that what they call 'money laundering'?" Gorner asked, drily.

"This is in a good cause," Castillo replied.

Gorner shook his head. Frau Schroder picked up the telephone.

Three minutes later, she announced, "Ten million dollars will be available in the Lopez account within twenty minutes."

"Thank you, and now see if you can get Dick Miller on there, will you, please? And put it on the speakerphone, please."

"I think I should point out, Karl," Gorner said, "that it's now about half past six in the morning in Washington."

"Until they take the bandages off his leg, Dick's sleeping in the office," Castillo replied. "He'll be there."

Frau Schroder punched in numbers on one of Gorner's telephones and then pushed the button that activated the speaker.

The phone rang twice and then Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., answered it.

"Miller."

"Good news, sweetheart, we won't have to sell the dogs and move in with your mother. The money's in the bank."

"That was quick."

"They don't call me Speedy Gonzales for nothing," Castillo said. "Any word from Jake about the new toy?"

"He and Fernando and the salesman brought it in here, to BWI, last night. Jake said it would have made waves taking it into Reagan. Jake says the bird's okay and where do you want to keep it?"

"Let me think about that. Ask Jake what he recommends. Transfer nine really big ones from Salamander to my account in Riggs and then pay for it."

"That check's not going to bounce, is it?"

"Nope. I have Frau Schroder's personal guarantee. Say, 'Danke schon, Frau Schroder.'"

"Danke shon, Frau Schroder," Miller said.

"How are you, Dick?" she replied.

"Aside from having more gauze bandage on my leg than a mummy, I'm just fine. Say hello to Otto for me when you see him."

"How are you, Dick?" Gorner said.

"You weren't listening in, were you, Otto? If so, did the colonel make you stand at attention?"

"And click my heels," Gorner said.

"God, he's going to be hard to live with."

"He's always been hard to live with."

"Jesus," Miller suddenly said, "before I forget, Charley, remember that you were here all day yesterday."

"Why?" Castillo said.

"Because yesterday, Colonel, Colonel Torine gave you a check ride in the C-20, which you passed, and which will be recorded on your FAA records this morning."

"Oh, that's great," Castillo said.

"Anything else, Charley?"

"Have you any idea why the ambassador would send me a message? To Berlin?"

"No. But he was fascinated to hear that we have people looking into briefcases in suburban Philadelphia. He can't imagine why you didn't share that with him."

"Because, as far as we know, that's fantasy. Did you tell him that?"

"I did. He didn't seem very impressed. What did the message say?"

"I don't know. I'm not going to Berlin to read it."

"You want to tell me where you are going?"

"Paris was a waste of time. Lorimer's apartment had been searched by the Deuxieme Bureau and the UN before my friend there could get in. I had a look. Nothing useful. And I'm just about finished here. All I have left to do is go see Billy Kocian in Budapest. I don't think that will take long…"

He stopped when he saw Gorner holding up his hand.

"Hold it a second, Dick," Castillo said and gestured for Gorner to speak.

"I don't think going to see Billy Kocian right now is going to be profitable," Gorner said.

"Why not?" Castillo asked.

"He's in the Telki Hospital with a broken ankle."

"What happened?"

"He fell down the stairs in his apartment."

"How do you know he broke his ankle?"

"He called and told me."

"He called and told you," Castillo repeated, softly, and then, raising his voice slightly for the speakerphone, asked, "Dick, where's Torine?"

"In your place. He and Fernando."

"Get on another line and ask him if there's any reason he can't bring the G-III to Budapest right away."

"I can think of one," Miller replied. "You don't own it yet."

"Call Jake, and ask him if the airplane is ready to cross the Atlantic. I'll hold."

Castillo felt Gorner's eyes on him.

"You think something happened to Billy," Gorner said.

"What I'm thinking is that it's unlikely that Billy would call to tell you he fell down. More than likely, he called you to tell you that because He didn't want you to know what really happened to him in case you heard he was in the hospital."

Gorner's eyebrows went up but he didn't say anything.

Miller's voice came over the speaker.

"I have Colonel Torine on the line for you, Colonel Castillo," Miller's more than a little sarcastic voice announced.

"What's up, Charley?" Torine's voice came over the speaker.

"If Dick gave the guy who came with the Gulfstream a cashier's check for the airplane as soon as the Riggs Bank opens, how soon could you get it to Budapest?"

"You mean handle the paperwork later?"

"Right."

"If he goes along with the cashier's check, it would take me maybe an hour and a half to go wheels-up at Baltimore. I can't make it nonstop. I'd have to refuel someplace, maybe Rhine-Main-"

"That's now Frankfurt International. Hadn't you heard? No more Rhine-Main."

"And didn't that make you feel old?" Torine replied. "Figure nine hours total flight time, an hour to refuel. Figure twelve hours from the time Dick gives the owner's guy the check, presuming he's willing to go along. If he's not?"

"Give him the check anyway and don't tell him where you're going on your final test flight."

"One more problem. I'll have to bring Fernando along to fly the right seat. He's not going to like that."

"Do you really need someone in the right seat?"

Torine hesitated before replying, "You know, I've never landed an airplane anywhere where someone counted the pilots. You have a reason you don't want Fernando to come?"

"I want Fernando to go home to Texas and keep the home fires burning."

"Okay, Charley. Not a problem."

Fernando's voice came over the loudspeaker: "I'll fly the goddamned airplane to Budapest, Gringo, and then go home."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Thanks," Castillo said. "Both of you. I'll get us rooms at the Gellert."

"See you in the wee hours tomorrow," Torine said and hung up.

"Anything else before I have my breakfast, Charley?" Miller asked.

"You ever get the avionics for the Ranger?"

"They're on their way to Buenos Aires."

"Okay. Great. I'll be in touch, Dick."

"Do I tell the ambassador where you're going?"

"You might as well. He'll know anyway."

"Run that past me again?"

"I'm going to use his aerial taxi to get me there," Castillo said. "He'll know."

"I don't quite understand that, but, what the hell. I probably don't have the Need to Know. Watch your back, buddy."

Castillo switched off the telephone and went back into his computer case, retrieved a business card, and held it in his hand as he punched in numbers on the telephone.

"Now what?" Otto Gorner asked.

"I'm calling an aerial taxi to take me to Budapest."

"You sure you can get one? And is the Tages Zeitung going to have to pay for it?"

"I'm sure I can get one. The CIA owns the taxi service and Ambassador Montvale told them I go to the head of the line. And, no, the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund will pay for it."

"Get two seats," Otto said.

Castillo looked at him curiously.

"You're right. Eric's story was a little too detailed," Gorner said. "He said he fell over his dog going down the stairs. If he had fallen over that goddamned dog, he wouldn't have told me. In fact, if he'd fallen down, period, he wouldn't have told me. Now I really want to know what's going on."

"This is Colonel Castillo," Charley said to the telephone. "I'm in Fulda, Germany, and I-and one other-have to get to Budapest as soon as possible. How's the best way to do that?"

Thirty seconds later, he put down the phone.

"Our taxi will be at Leipzig-Halle in ninety minutes," he said. [TWO] Office of the Ambassador The Embassy of the United States of America Lauro Miller 1776 Montevideo, Republica Oriental del Uruguay 1005 6 August 2005 "There's something going on around here, Robert," Ambassador McGrory said to Robert Howell, "that has the smell of rotten eggs and you and I are going to get to the bottom of it."

"I'm not sure that I know what you mean, Mr. Ambassador."

"I really would have thought, Robert, that someone in your line of business would be curious about Mr. Yung. His being suddenly called to the States and then coming back here to handle the Lorimer matter."

"I admit I wondered about that," Howell said.

"It could, of course, have just happened. But I don't think so."

"What do you think it is, Mr. Ambassador?"

"That, I don't know. That is what you and I are going to find out," McGrory said.

"What is it you would like me to do, sir?"

"So long as he's here, I want you to keep a very close eye on him. I want to know where he goes, who he talks to, etcetera. I suspect he has some connection with what happened at that estancia and I want to know what that connection is."

"Is there some reason you think he has…'some connection'…with what happened at Estancia Shangri-La?"

"Intuition," McGrory said. "When you have been in this game as long as I have, you develop an intuition."

"I'm sure that's true, Mr. Ambassador."

"So I want you to watch him very closely."

Howell nodded. I think I have just become the fox placed in charge of the chicken coop.

"Yung will be here in few minutes," McGrory said. "I want you to be here when I talk to him."

"Yes, sir." "Mr. Yung just came onto the compound, Mr. Ambassador," Senora Susanna Obregon reported from Ambassador McGrory's office door.

"When he gets up here, make him wait five minutes and then show him in," McGrory replied, and then added: "And don't give him any coffee."

He looked significantly at Howell.

"Making Special Agent Yung twiddle his thumbs for a while, Robert, will make the point that his being on the personal staff of the secretary or not, I am the senior officer of the United States government here."

"I understand, sir." Fifteen minutes later, when Yung had not appeared, McGrory was about to reach for his telephone to find out where the hell he was when Senora Obregon stepped into his office, closed the door behind her, and asked, "Mr. Yung just came in. What shall I do with him?"

"Ask him to wait, please," Ambassador McGrory replied and held up his hand, fingers and thumb extended, to remind her of how many minutes he wanted Yung to wait.

He then punched a button on his chronometer wristwatch, starting the timer. "The ambassador will see you now, Mr. Yung," McGrory's secretary announced.

Yung got up off the chrome-and-plastic couch, laid on the coffee table the Buenos Aires Herald he had been reading, and walked to McGrory's door.

"Good morning, Mr. Ambassador."

"Welcome back to Uruguay, Yung," the ambassador said, waving him first into the room, then into one of the chairs facing his desk. "You know Mr. Howell, of course?"

"Yes, sir. Good to see you, Mr. Howell."

"May I offer you some coffee?" McGrory asked.

"Thank you, sir."

McGrory flipped the switch on his intercom and ordered coffee.

"Long flight?" McGrory inquired as they waited.

"It didn't seem as long, sir, as the ride from Ezeiza to Jorge Newbery. The piqueteros had the highway blocked. It took the taxi two hours to get downtown, moving five meters at a time."

That was more information than McGrory wanted or needed.

"Well, you know the pickets," he said. "Closing highways and bridges gives them something to do."

"Yes, sir. I suppose that's so."

Senora Obregon served the coffee. McGrory waited until she had left the office, then asked, "I understand, Yung, that when you were here before you weren't doing exactly what everyone-including Mr. Howell and I-thought you were doing."

Yung didn't reply.

"What, exactly, were you doing?" McGrory said, pointedly.

"With the exception, sir, that I was responding to specific requests for information from the State Department and answering those queries directly to the department rather than through the embassy, I was looking into money laundering like every other FBI agent here."

"Why do you suppose that was necessary? And that I was not informed?"

"Sir, I have no idea. I'm pretty low on the totem pole. That's what I was told to do and I did it."

"Who told you to do it?"

"Mr. Quiglette," Yung said, simply.

"You're referring to Deputy Assistant Secretary of State for Latin America Quiglette?"

Yung nodded. "Nice lady."

"It was Mr. Quiglette who told you to tell me nothing of your special orders?"

"What special orders is that, sir?"

"The ones to keep me in the dark about what you were actually doing down here?"

"Yes, sir. But it wasn't a question of not telling you specifically, sir. I was told that no one was to know what I was doing."

"But you were aware that was highly extraordinary?"

"No, sir. I didn't think anything about it. I've had other assignments where no one knew what I was really doing."

"such `as?"

"Sir, I really can't discuss anything like that."

"And can you discuss why you were suddenly ordered out of here?"

"No, sir," Yung said.

"Deputy Assistant Secretary Quiglette messaged me that you were coming back here, to take over the late Mr. Lorimer's body, his assets, etcetera. Are you aware of that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, presumably, you are aware of the circumstances of Mr. Lorimer's death?"

Yung looked at the ambassador. Now, here's where I'm going to have to start being deceptive and dishonest. Goddamn Castillo for getting me into this!

"I know he was murdered, sir, and that he was Mr. Masterson's brother-in-law, but that's about all."

"I'm curious why the State Department felt it necessary to send someone down here to do what we're perfectly capable of doing ourselves?" McGrory asked, but it was more of a statement than a question.

Yung answered it anyway: "I was given the impression, sir, that that came from the secretary herself."

"You didn't deal with the secretary herself?"

"No, sir. But I was led to believe that it was personal courtesy-maybe professional courtesy-probably both-on her part to Mr. Lorimer's father, who is a retired ambassador."

"But why you, Yung?"

"Because I was here, I suppose. I know Uruguay and the banks and people at the embassy."

McGrory appeared to think that over, then nodded.

"That may well put you in a very delicate situation, Yung," McGrory said.

"Sir?"

"As it does me, frankly, Yung," McGrory said. "Could we go off the record a moment, do you think?"

"Yes, sir. Of course."

"Not that you're really keeping a record, of course. Just as a manner of speaking."

"Yes, sir."

"Now-bearing in mind that I don't know this for sure, but I've been in this diplomatic game for many years now, and believe me you acquire a certain insight into things…"

"I'm sure you have, sir."

"One of the things you learn is that people who would have you think they have a certain influence with the upper echelons of something-like the State Department, for example-don't really have much influence at all."

"I suppose that's true," Yung said.

"And ying yong," McGrory said, significantly.

"Excuse me?"

"Ying yong," McGrory repeated, and then when he saw on Yung's face that he didn't understand went on: "I thought, as an Oriental, you would understand. That's Korean, I believe."

"I'm Chinese, Mr. Ambassador," Yung said. "My family came to this country-to the United States-in the 1840s. I don't speak Korean."

"It means everything evens out," McGrory explained. "Sort of like the law of physics which says every action has an immediate and exactly opposite reaction."

"Yes, sir?"

"In this case, Yung, it would mean that someone who goes to some effort to suggest he has little influence-is 'pretty low on the totem pole,' to use your phrase-may in fact have a good deal of influence."

What the hell is McGrory talking about? Is he suggesting I have influence?

"I'm not sure I follow you, Mr. Ambassador."

"I understand, of course," McGrory said.

McGrory gave Yung time for that to sink in, then went on: "As I was saying, we are both in a some what delicate position vis-a-vis Mr. Lorimer."

"How is that, sir?"

"Like the secretary, I am concerned with Ambassador Lorimer. I never met him, but I understand he is a fine man, a credit to the diplomatic service."

"That's my understanding, sir."

"And Ambassador Silvio, in Buenos Aires, told me in confidence that Ambassador Lorimer has certain health problems…his heart."

"So I understand," Yung said.

"Let me tell you, Yung, what's happened here. Off the record, of course."

"Yes, sir."

"As incredible as this sounds, Deputy Foreign Minister Alvarez came to my office. He had with him a Senor Ordonez, who I have learned is the chief inspector of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policia Nacional. Not an official visit. He just 'happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to chat over a cup of coffee.'"

"Yes, sir?"

"And he suggested not only that what really happened at Estancia Shangri-La was a shoot-out between persons unknown and United States Special Forces, but also that I knew all about it."

Yung looked at Howell but did not reply.

McGrory continued: "The accusation is patently absurd, of course. I don't have to tell you that no action of that kind could take place without my knowledge and permission. As ambassador, I am the senior U.S. officer in country. And Mr. Howell-who as I'm sure you suspect is the CIA station chief-assures me that he knows of no secret operation by the intelligence community. And he would know."

"I'd heard the rumors that Mr. Howell was CIA, sir…"

"Well, that's classified information, of course," McGrory said. "I never told you that."

"Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Where do think Mr. Alvarez got an idea like that? About a Special Operations mission?"

McGrory did not reply directly.

Instead, he said, "The question is, why would he make such an absurd accusation? That was the question I asked myself, the question that kept me from immediately reporting the incident to the department. I did, however, just about throw him out of my office."

"Did he offer anything to substantiate the accusation?" Yung asked.

"He showed me a…thingamabob…the shiny part of a cartridge, what comes out of a gun after it's fired?"

"A cartridge case, sir?"

"Precisely. He told me it had been found at the estancia. And he told me he had gone directly to the Uruguayan embassy in Washington and they had gone to the Pentagon and the Pentagon had obligingly informed them that it was a special kind of bullet used only by U.S. Army competitive rifle shooters and Special Forces."

"A National Match case, sir? Did the case have NM stamped on it?"

If it did, it almost certainly came from that Marine high school cheerleader's rifle.

McGrory pointed his finger at Yung and nodded his head.

"That's it," he said.

"That's not much proof that our Special Forces were involved," Yung said.

"Of course not. Because they were not involved. If there were Special Forces involved, Mr. Howell and I would have known about it. That's a given."

"Yes, sir."

"My temptation, of course, was to go right to the department and report the incident. You don't just about call the American ambassador a liar in his office. But as I said before, Yung, I've been in the diplomatic game for some time. I've learned to ask myself why somebody says something, does something. I realized that if I went to the department, they'd more than likely register an official complaint, possibly even recall me for consultation. And I thought maybe that's what the whole thing was all about. They wanted to cause a stink, in other words. Then I asked myself, why would they want to do that? And that answer is simple. They were creating a diversion."

"To take attention from what, sir?"

"What really happened at that ranch, that estancia."

"Which is, sir?"

"Think about this, Yung," McGrory replied, indirectly. "Bertrand-Lorimer-had nearly sixteen million dollars in banks here. Did you know about that?"

Yung didn't answer directly. He said, "Sixteen million dollars?"

McGrory nodded.

"That's a lot of money."

"Yes, it is," McGrory agreed. "And the United Nations-although their pay scales are considerably more generous than ours-wasn't paying him the kind of money-even if he lived entirely on his expense account, which I understand a lot of them do-for him to have socked away sixteen million for a rainy day. So where, I asked myself, did he get it?"

He looked expectantly at Yung, who looked thoughtful, then shrugged.

"You've been looking into money laundering," McGrory said, some what impatiently. "Where does most of that dirty money come from?"

"Embezzlement or drugs, usually," Yung said.

"And there you have it," McGrory said, triumphantly. "Lorimer was a drug dealer."

"You really think so, sir?"

"Think about it. Everything fits. With his alter ego as an antiques dealer, he was in a perfect position to ship drugs. Who's going to closely inspect what's stuffed into some old vase-some old, very valuable vase? You can get a lot of heroin into a vase. And where did Lorimer get his new identity and permission to live in Uruguay? The best face they could put on that was they were surprised that he was dealing drugs right under their noses. He had probably paid off a half dozen officials. That would come out, too."

"It's an interesting theory, Mr. Ambassador," Yung said.

"I thought you might think so, Yung. What happened at the estancia was that a drug deal, a big one, a huge one-we're talking sixteen million dollars here-went wrong. You know, probably better than I do, that murder is a way of life in that business. Those drug people would as soon shoot you as look at you."

"Yes, sir, that's certainly true."

Does he really believe this nonsense?

"Well, I'm not going to let them get away with it, I'll tell you that. I'm not going to give them the diversion they want. No official complaint to the State Department."

"I understand, sir."

"I'm just going to bide my time, leaving them to swing in the breeze as they realize I'm not going to be their patsy." He paused, then went on: "However, I think that the appropriate people in the State Department should be made aware of the situation. That's more or less what I was getting into when I said you and I-and even the secretary herself-are in a delicate position. If it wasn't for Ambassador Lorimer, I'd be perfectly happy to call a spade a spade, but in view of the ambassador's physical condition…"

"I understand, sir."

"None of us wish to spoil what I'm sure is his cherished memory of his son, much less give him a heart attack, do we?"

"No, sir, we certainly don't."

"On the other hand, I think the secretary should know about this, don't you? Even if the information comes quietly from someone pretty low on the to tempole."

"I take your point, sir."

"I was sure you would," McGrory said.

He stood up, leaned across his desk, and offered Yung his hand.

They shook, then he sat back down.

"Now, getting to the business you're here for. Is there anything I can do, anyone on my staff can do, to facilitate the return of Mr. Lorimer's remains to the United States, and the rest of it?"

"I'm sure there will be something, sir."

"I'll pass the word that you are to be given whatever assistance you need, and if you think anyone needs a little jogging, I'm as close as your telephone."

"Thank you, sir."

"Specifically, what I'm going to do is ask Mr. Howell to ask Mr. Monahan to assign Mr. Artigas to assist you in whatever needs to be done so long as you're here."

"Mr. Artigas?"

"He can fill you in on what happened at Estancia Shangri-La," McGrory explained. "He's been up there. Chief Inspector Jose Ordonez of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policia Nacional flew him up there in a helicopter the day after it happened."

Yung thought: I've been sandbagged. The last thing I need is Julio Artigas looking over my shoulder and taking notes so that he can report to McGrory.

"I appreciate the thought, sir, but I'm not sure that will be necessary."

"Nonsense," McGrory said. "I'm sure he'll be very helpful to you."

"Yes, sir."

McGrory stood up again.

"If you can find time while you're here, why don't we have lunch?"

Yung understood the meeting was concluded.

"I'd like that very much, sir," Yung said and stood up.

McGrory offered his hand again. Yung shook it, then offered his hand to Howell.

"Why don't we go see Mr. Monahan right now, Yung?" Howell asked.

"Good idea," McGrory said.

"Thank you," Yung said.

As he walked out of the ambassador's office, Yung had several thoughts, one after the other:

Unbelievable! Surreal!

Wait till Castillo hears that nonsense about Lorimer being a drug dealer!

Thank God that pompous moron-no wonder they call him Senor Pompous!-wasn't told what we were up to! He would have ordered all of us out of the country and told the Uruguayans why.

But he's not as stupid as he appears. He's going to have Artigas watch me and Howell watch both of us. I have to keep that in mind.

Just as soon as I can, I'm going to have to go to Buenos Aires and get on a secure line to Castillo. "I'm going to have to stop in here," Yung said to Howell as they approached the door to a men's room.

Howell followed him inside and stood at the adjacent urinal.

"Well," Howell said. "That was interesting, wasn't it?"

"Does he actually believe that drug dealer business or is he being clever?"

"He believes it. He also believes he's smelling rotten eggs."

"Artigas is smart and he doesn't like me," Yung said.

"And he and Chief Inspector Ordonez are pals."

"So what do I do?"

"Make sure Artigas doesn't learn anything Ordonez would like to know."

"And how do I do that?"

"Be very careful, Yung. Very careful." [THREE] Office of the Legal Attache The Embassy of the United States of America Lauro Miller 1776 Montevideo, Republica Oriental del Uruguay 1035 6 August 2005 Generally speaking, there is little love lost between the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Central Intelligence Agency, and in the United States embassy in Montevideo there was little lost between James D. Monahan, the senior FBI agent, and Robert Howell, the cultural attache rumored to be the CIA station chief.

Monahan privately thought of Howell as a typical CIA asshole who couldn't find his ass with both hands and Howell privately thought of Monahan as someone far better suited to be walking a beat in Chicago eating a stolen apple while preserving law and order with his billy club than holding his present position.

They were, of course, civil to each other.

"Can we come in a moment, Jim?" Howell asked.

"Absolutely. What's on your mind, Bob?"

"Hello, Monahan," Yung said.

"I heard you'd been recalled to the bureau," Monahan said. "You're back?"

"Temporarily," Yung said. "They sent me back to handle the affairs of Mr. Lorimer. Return of the remains, conservation of assets, etcetera."

"The bureau sent you back to do that?"

"Actually, it was the State Department that sent me."

"Oh, that's right. You work for the State Department, don't you? A little something you never got around to telling me."

"You didn't have the Need to Know," Yung said, more than a little lamely.

"Jim," Howell said, quickly, "the ambassador would like you to have Julio Artigas work with Yung on this."

"Work with Yung on what?"

"Repatriation of Mr. Lorimer's remains, for one thing, safeguarding his assets and having a look at Lorimer's estancia."

"The ambassador wants this?" Monahan asked.

"Yes, he does."

Monahan picked up his telephone and punched in a number.

"Julio, can you come in here a minute?" Legal Attache Julio Artigas was surprised to see Yung in Monahan's office. In thinking about what had happened at Estancia Shangri-La and his gut feeling when he had gone with Ambassador McGrory to Buenos Aires that Howell and Darby, the Buenos Aires CIA station chief, knew all about what had happened there, he had concluded that Yung was also probably involved.

The story that Yung had been suddenly recalled to the States to testify in some court case smelled. Artigas had thought it even possible that Yung had been at the estancia during the firefight and had been wounded and taken out of the country by whoever had been at the estancia and won the gun battle. It seemed logical to presume that at least some of the Americans involved had been wounded or even killed-and there was little question in his mind that Americans were involved. Getting Yung out of the country, even with a fishy, hastily concocted story, made more sense than trying to explain how and where he had been wounded.

Artigas had kept his thoughts to himself. His opinion of James D. Monahan was that his greatest skill was covering his own ass. Monahan liked being the senior FBI agent in the embassy, which allowed him to order the other agents around. But whenever he should have stood up and defended the other agents from one of McGrory's stupid orders, he was quick to argue that he wasn't the SAC and that sort of thing wasn't his business.

Artigas knew that if he had said anything of his suspicions to Monahan, there was no question that Monahan would have run with it right to McGrory-or, more likely, to Theodore J. Detweiller, Jr., the chief of mission.

"I think I should tell you, Ted, what a wild idea Artigas came to me with." "What can I do for you, Jim?"

"It's what you can do for Yung, "Monahan replied. "Or, more accurately, for the State Department."

"You're back, huh, Yung?" Artigas asked.

"Yung was sent back," Howell answered for him, "by the secretary of state to handle the return of Lorimer's remains and to protect his assets."

"And to compile a report for the secretary about what happened at Lorimer's estancia," Yung added.

Artigas looked at Yung. Or maybe, since you know goddamned well what happened, to see how much we know? Or the Uruguayans know?

"You're a little late to protect his assets," Artigas said. "Parties unknown emptied his bank accounts. Of sixteen million dollars."

He thought, As you almost certainly know.

"I've heard something about that," Yung replied, "and I'd like a full report on that. What we know for sure. Ambassador McGrory told me there is some reason to think he was into drugs. But first things first. Where is the body?"

"In the cooler, in the British Hospital on Avenida Italia. It was taken there for an autopsy. Chief Inspector Ordonez of the federal police has promised me a copy of the autopsy report sometime today."

"I'd like a copy of that, too, of course. And is there going to be any kind of a problem getting into the estancia?"

"Ordonez has the estancia pretty well sealed off. He'd be the man to ask about that."

"Well," Howell suggested, "why don't we go to my office, see if we can get him on the phone? And get out of Jim's hair."

"Just to be sure I know what's going on here, this has the blessing of the ambassador, right?" Artigas asked.

"Yes, it does," Howell said. He nodded toward the door. "Shall we go?"

"I'd like a brief word with you, Artigas," Monahan said, then added for Howell, "It'll take just a couple of seconds, Bob."

"Certainly," Howell said, smiling, and walked out of Monahan's office. Yung followed him.

Both heard Monahan say, "Close the door, Jim," and exchanged glances.

"I suspect Monahan just told him to report everything we do," Howell said. "Does that make me paranoid?" [FOUR] Office of the Cultural Attache The Embassy of the United States of America Lauro Miller 1776 Montevideo, Republica Oriental del Uruguay 1055 6 August 2005 There was no reason for Julio Artigas to report the substance of his conversation with Chief Inspector Ordonez to Howell and Yung. Howell had punched the speakerphone button on his telephone and they had heard the entire conversation.

Howell spoke first: "Chief Inspector Ordonez is certainly obliging, isn't he?"

"Uruguayan courtesy," Yung said. "Or professional courtesy. Maybe-probably-both."

"I thought his offer of a Huey to fly us to the estancia was more than generous," Howell said.

"And volunteering to go with us. That was rather nice of him," Yung said.

"My cousin Jose is a very charming man," Artigas said. "But what I think you two have to keep in mind is that he's one smart cop."

"Why do you think we should we keep that in mind, Julio?" Howell asked.

"Oh, come on," Artigas said.

"Oh, come on what?" Howell replied.

"Something is going on here. I have no idea what. But you two do."

"Really?" Howell asked. "What do you think is going on, Julio?"

"What I don't think is that Lorimer was a drug dealer who got himself killed when a deal went wrong. And neither does Jose Ordonez."

"He told you that?" Yung asked.

"He didn't have to. I know him pretty well."

"What does he think, do you know? Or can you guess?" Howell asked.

"I know he's fascinated with several things," Artigas said. "First, that he can't identify the Ninjas at the estancia. If they were Uruguayans, Argentines, or Brazilians, by now he would have. Second, that National Match cartridge case. And the cleaning out of Lorimer's bank accounts. He's trying to tie those unknowns together. If he can, he'll know what really happened at Estancia Shangri-La."

"What do you know about Presidential Findings, Julio?" Howell asked.

"Jesus," Yung muttered.

Howell looked at him and shrugged, as if to say, What choice do we have?

"Not much," Artigas admitted. "I've heard the term."

"Well-just talking, you understand-what I've heard about Presidential Findings is that they are classified Top Secret Presidential. The only persons cleared to know any details of a Presidential Finding are those cleared by the President himself or by the officer the President has named to do whatever the Presidential Finding calls for."

"You've got my attention," Artigas said.

"So hypothetically speaking, of course," Howell went on, obviously choosing his words carefully, "if there were people privy to a Presidential Finding and it happened that a professional associate of theirs-an FBI agent, for example, or an ambassador for that matter, someone with all the standard security clearances-became interested in something touching on the details of the Finding and went to one of these people and asked them about it, they just couldn't tell him no matter how much they might like to, not even if telling that person would facilitate their execution of their assignment."

"That would apply to an ambassador, too? I mean, there's the rule that nothing is supposed to happen in a foreign country that the ambassador doesn't know about and approves of."

"That's my understanding," Howell said. "Is that your understanding, too, of how a Presidential Finding works, Yung?"

"From what I've heard," Yung said.

"And from what I understand," Howell went on, "it would be a serious breach of security for someone privy to a Presidential Finding to even admit his knowledge of any detail of a Presidential Finding. He couldn't say, for example, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Ambassador, but that touches on a Presidential Finding for which you are not cleared.' He would have to completely deny any knowledge of even knowing there was a Presidential Finding."

"Fascinating," Artigas said. "Can I ask a question?"

"You can ask anything you want," Yung said.

"But I may not get an answer? Is that it?"

"Ask your question," Howell said.

"Just between us, hypothetically speaking, where do you suppose Lorimer got sixteen million dollars?"

"The ambassador thinks it was from drugs. I'm not about to question the ambassador's judgment," Howell said. "But, hypothetically speaking of course, it could have come from somewhere else. Embezzlement comes to mind. It could even, I suppose, have something to do with the oil-for-food scandal. I heard somewhere there was really a lot of money involved in that."

"You know, that thought occurred to me, too."

"Did it?" Howell asked.

"One more question?" Artigas asked.

"Shoot."

"Monahan just now told me I was to tell him everywhere Yung went, who he talked to, what he said-everything."

"How interesting," Howell said. "The ambassador told me to do exactly that about Yung."

"I'm wondering whether that would mean I should tell him about this little discussion of ours."

"What discussion was that?"

"About Presidential Findings."

"I don't remember any discussion of Presidential Findings, do you, Yung?" Howell asked.

"No, I don't remember any discussion like that."

Artigas stood up.

"We'd better be getting over to the British Hospital," he said. "We wouldn't want to keep Ordonez waiting, would we? Since he's being so helpful?" [FIVE] Camp Mackall, North Carolina 0930 6 August 2005 Sergeant Major John K. Davidson's job description said he was the Operations Sergeant of the Special Forces training facility. He was, but he actually had two other functions, both unwritten and both more or less secret. It was not much of a secret that he was the judge of the noncommissioned officers going through the basic qualification course-the "Q course." He was the man who, with the advice of others, decided which trainee was going to go on to further, specialized training and ultimately earn the right to wear the blaze of a fully qualified Special Forces soldier on his green beret and which trainee would go back to other duties in the Army.

Far more of a secret was that he was also the judge of the commissioned officers going through the Q course.

Jack Davidson had not wanted the job-for one thing, Mackall was in the boonies and a long drive from his quarters on the post, and, for another, he thought of himself as an urban special operator-as opposed to an out in the boonies eating monkeys and snakes and rolling around in the mud field special operator-and running Mackall meant spending most of his time in the boonies.

But two people for whom he had enormous respect-he had been around the block with both of them: Vic D'Allessando, now retired and running the Stockade, and Bruce J. "Scotty" McNab, whom Davidson had known as a major and who was now the XVIII Airborne Corps commander and a three-star general-had almost shamelessly appealed to his sense of duty.

"Jack, you know better than anybody else what it takes," Scotty McNab had told him. "Somebody else is likely to pass some character who can't hack it and people will get killed. You want that on your conscience?" Sergeant Major Davidson was not surprised when he heard the peculiar fluckata-fluckata sound the rotor blades of MH-6H helicopters make as they came in for a landing. And he was reasonably sure that it was either D'Allessando or the general, who often dropped in unannounced once a week or so, and neither had been at Mackall recently.

But when he pushed himself out of his chair and walked outside the small, wood-frame operations building just as the Little Bird touched down, he was surprised to see that the chopper held both of them. That seldom happened.

He waited safely outside the rotor cone as first General McNab-a small, muscular ruddy-faced man sporting a flowing red mustache-and then Vic D'Allessando ducked under the blades.

He saluted crisply.

"Good morning, General," he said, officially. "Welcome to Camp Mackall. May the sergeant major ask the general who the bald, fat old Guinea is?"

"I told you it was a bad idea to teach the bastard how to read," D'Allessando said, first giving Davidson the finger with both hands and then wrapping his arms around him.

"How are you, Jack?" McNab asked.

"Can't complain, sir. What brings you to the boonies?"

"A bit of news that'll make you weep for the old Army," McNab said. "Guess who's now a lieutenant colonel?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

"Charley Castillo," Vic D'Allessando said. "Make you feel old, Jack?"

"Yeah," Davidson said, thoughtfully. "I remember Charley when he was a second john and driving the general's chopper in Desert One. Lieutenant Colonel Castillo. I'll be damned." He paused, thought about that, then added, "I think he'll be a good one."

"And I want to see Corporal Lester Bradley of the Marines," McNab said.

"You heard about that, did you, General?" Davidson said.

"Heard about what?"

"The goddamned Marines pulling our chain."

"How pulling our chain?"

"I'm responsible," Davidson said.

"What are you talking about?"

"I went to Quantico and talked to the jarheads about the people they're starting to send here. The master gunnery sergeant of Force Recon there-an Irishman named MacNamara-was a pretty good guy. We hit it off. We had a couple of tastes together. And while we were talking, I asked him if he had any influence on who they were sending here. He said he did. So I asked him as a favor if he could send us at least one who wasn't all muscles, especially between the ears, and could read and write."

He stopped when he saw the look on McNab's face.

"General," he went on, "they send all their Force Recon guys through the SEAL course on the West Coast. They run them up and down the beach in the sand carrying telephone poles over their heads. By the time they finish, they all look like Arnold Schwarzenegger. They're more into that physical crap than even the goddamned Rangers."

"And?" McNab asked.

"So I forgot about it," Davidson said. "I'd pulled MacNamara's chain a little and I was satisfied. And then Bradley appeared."

"And?" McNab pursued.

"Well, not only can he read and write-he talks like a college professor, never using a small word when a big one will do-and not only is he not all muscle, he's no muscle at all. And he's eighteen, nineteen years old and looks fifteen. I have to hand it to Master Gunnery Sergeant MacNamara. He had to look all over the Marine Corps to find this guy."

"And where is this stalwart Marine warrior?"

"In the office. I've got him typing. He didn't even-I forgot to mention this-have orders. What I'm doing now is hoping that MacNamara's going to call me and go, 'Ha-ha! Got you good, my doggie friend. Now you can send him back.'"

"I think that's unlikely, Jack," General McNab said and walked toward the small frame building, where he pushed open the door.

A voice inside, in a loud but some what less than commanding voice, cried, "Attention on deck!"

Mr. D'Allessando and Sergeant Major Davidson followed General McNab into the building.

Corporal Bradley was standing at rigid attention behind a field desk holding a notebook computer.

General McNab turned and looked at Sergeant Major Davidson.

"Never judge a book by its cover," he said. "You might want to write that down, Jack."

Then he looked at Corporal Bradley.

"At ease," he said, softly.

Bradley shifted from his rigid position of attention to an equally rigid position, with his hands in the small of his back, his legs slightly spread.

"Unless I'm mistaken, son," General McNab said, "you are now standing at parade rest."

"Sir, the corporal begs the general's pardon. The general is correct, sir," Bradley said, let his body relax, and took his hands from the small of his back.

"So you're the sniper, are you, son?" McNab asked.

"Sir, I was a designated marksman on the march to Baghdad."

"Thank you for the clarification."

"With all respect, sir, my pleasure, sir."

"Tell me, son, how would you describe your role in the assault on that wonderfully named Estancia Shangri-La?"

"With all respect, sir, I am under orders not to discuss that mission with anyone."

"Can you tell me why not?"

"Sir, the mission is classified Top Secret Presidential."

General McNab looked at Sergeant Major Davidson but didn't say anything.

Vic D'Allessando said, "It's okay, Lester. The general and the sergeant major are cleared."

"Yes, sir," Lester said.

"Well, son? What did you do on that mission?"

"Sir, Major Castillo, who was in command, assigned me to guard the helicopter."

"For your information, Corporal, Major Castillo has been promoted to lieutenant colonel," McNab said.

"If it is appropriate for me to say so, sir, it is a well-deserved promotion. Maj…Lieutenant Colonel Castillo is a fine officer under whom I am proud to have served."

Vic D'Allessando was smiling widely at a thoroughly confused Sergeant Major Davidson.

"So you guarded the helicopter?" McNab pursued.

"Yes, sir. Until the situation got a bit out of control, when I realized it had become my duty to enter the fray."

"'The fray'? Is that something like a firefight?" McNab asked.

"Yes, it is, sir. Perhaps I should have used that phrase."

"How exactly did you enter the fray, Corporal?" McNab asked. "When the situation got a bit out of control?"

"Sir, when it became evident that one of the villains was about to fire his Madsen through a window into a room into which Maj…Lieutenant Colonel Castillo had taken the detainee, I realized I had to take him out. Regrettably, he managed to fire a short burst before I was able to do so."

"How did you take him out?"

"With a head shot, sir."

"You didn't consider that it would be safer to try to hit him in the body?"

"I considered it, sir, but I was no more than seventy-five meters distant and knew I could make the shot."

"Is that all you did, Corporal?"

"No, sir. I took out a second villain perhaps fifteen seconds later."

"With another headshot?"

"Yes, sir."

"Just to satisfy my curiosity, Corporal," McNab asked, "were you firing offhand?"

"Yes, sir. There just wasn't time to adjust a sling and get into a kneeling or prone position, sir."

"Colonel Castillo has told Mr. D'Allessando that there is no question you saved his life. Sergeant Major Davidson and myself are old friends of Colonel Castillo's and we are grateful to you, aren't we, Sergeant Major?"

"Yes, sir. We certainly are."

"Just doing my duty as I saw it, sir."

"The yare going to bury Sergeant Kranz at sixteen hundred today in Arlington. If Sergeant Major Davidson can spare you from your duties here, I thought perhaps you might wish to go there with Mr. D'Allessando and me."

"Yes, sir. I would like very much to pay my last respects."

"Have you a dress uniform?"

"Yes, sir. But I'm afraid it's not very shipshape, sir."

"Well, I'm sure Sergeant Major Davidson will be happy to see that it's pressed and that you're at Pope at twelve hundred, won't you, Jack?"

"My pleasure, sir," Sergeant Major Davidson said.