Hunters

XIII

[ONE] Lehigh Valley International Airport Allentown, Pennsylvania 1035 10 August 2005 As he taxied the Gulfstream to the Lehigh Valley Aviation Services' tarmac, Castillo saw United States Secret Service Special Agent John M. Britton-brightly attired in a pink seersucker jacket, a yellow polo shirt, light blue trousers, and highly polished tassel loafers-leaning against the front fender of one of two black Yukons whose darkened windows identified them to Castillo as almost certainly Secret Service vehicles.

With Britton were three men-more sedately dressed-who Castillo thought were probably the local Secret Service.

Castillo parked the aircraft.

"You go deal with the welcoming committee," Torine said. "I'll do the paperwork and get us some fuel. Speaking of which, you want to give me your credit card?"

Castillo unstrapped himself, worked his way out of the pilot's seat, gave Torine an American Express card, then went into the empty passenger compartment and opened the door and went down the stairs.

"Nice airplane," Britton greeted him. "This is the first time I've seen it."

"How are you, Jack?" Castillo said as they shook hands.

Britton made the introductions: "These are special agents Harry Larsen and Bob Davis, and their boss, Supervisory Special Agent Fred Swanson. They're out of Philadelphia."

"I'm an old pal of Isaacson and McGuire," Swanson said as they shook hands.

"Then I guess you heard that my Secret Service credentials are a little questionable?"

"Yeah, and I also heard getting them for you was Joel's idea," Swanson said. "So you're among friends, Colonel."

"Call me Charley," Castillo said. "I made light colonel so recently that when someone says it, I look around to see who they're talking to."

Swanson chuckled.

"And you know that Jack can hardly be called a grizzled veteran of the Secret Service?" Castillo went on.

"He told me. He also told me Joel recruited him, which makes him okay in my book-I know what Jack did in Philly, too. Isaacson told me that just when he was going to see if he would fit in the protection detail you grabbed him for whatever it is you do."

"What did he-or anybody-tell you about that?"

"Joel was pretty vague. Britton has been a clam. And when I asked McGuire, he said you were the only guy who could decide we had the Need to Know."

Castillo considered that, then nodded. "Okay. You do. The classification is Top Secret Presidential. But let's wait until we're out of here."

"Where are we headed? The farm? There's not much to see," Britton said.

"I better see what there is," Castillo said. "But first, Jake and I need a shower and a shave. And then breakfast. It's been a long flight."

"Where'd you come from?" Swanson asked.

"Buenos Aires and that's classified."

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

"We're in the Hotel Bethlehem in Bethlehem," Britton said. "It's not the Four Seasons-no marble walls in the bathrooms-but there's plenty of hot water and towels, and a nice restaurant, and it's near where we're going."

"Fine."

"I suppose this is also classified," Britton said. "Yung called Miller from Washington, and Miller called me. Yung was in Miami about to load Lorimer's body on a plane to New Orleans. He's really anxious to talk to you."

"And vice versa," Castillo said.

"'Lorimer's body'?" Swanson parroted. "Can I ask who Yung is?"

"David Yung is an FBI agent who now works for me," Castillo said. "Jean-Paul Lorimer-an American, a UN diplomat, up to his eyeballs in the Iraq oil-for-food scam-was whacked by parties unknown at his estancia in Uruguay."

"This is starting to get interesting," Swanson said.

"The Secret Service is involved," Castillo said. "I asked Tom McGuire to send people to watch the Lorimer family, the funeral home, the funeral, etcetera, to see if they can make any of the mourners. And to keep an eye on Yung. These bastards have already tried to kidnap and/or whack him."

"Really interesting," Swanson said. "Neither Tom or Joel mentioned anything about that, either."

"I told you they couldn't," Castillo said. "And what I said just now about parties unknown wasn't entirely accurate." He looked at Britton. "Jack, we now know who one of the Ninjas was. He was positively identified-fingerprints-by a Uruguayan cop as Major Alejandro Vincenzo of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia."

"No shit?" Britton said, in great surprise.

"I suppose you realize, Colonel, that you're really whetting my curiosity?" Swanson said.

"Let's get in one of the Yukons," Castillo said. "We can start clueing you in while Torine's dealing with the airplane. I don't think we can finish, but we can start." Fifteen minutes later, Jake Torine handed Castillo's American Express card to the Lehigh Aviation Services' fuel truck driver, who took it without question, ran it through his machine, then handed it back with the sales slip for his signature. Torine signed the slip-using his own signature, but it would have taken the expert eye of a forensic document examiner to determine that the scribble read "Torine" and not "Castillo"-then walked across the blazing-hot tarmac to the black Yukon that Castillo and the others had climbed in.

Special Agent Bob Davis of the Secret Service had to get out of the truck, fold down the middle-row seat he had been occupying, and get in the back, third row of seats so Torine could get in.

"If you weren't such a paragon of virtue and honesty, Charley," Torine said, after the introductions were made and as he handed Castillo his credit card, "you probably wouldn't have to pay for the fuel and the landing fee. I signed the bill 'Abraham Lincoln.'"

When Torine didn't get the laugh he expected, he added: "Somehow I sense I'm interrupting something."

"I have been regaling these gentlemen with the plot of the mystery," Castillo said.

"How far did you get?"

"Dropping the Munzes at the ranch in Midland," Castillo said. "I told them everything, Jake. We need all the help we can get."

"Any of this make any sense to you, Mr. Swanson?" Torine asked.

"No, Colonel, it doesn't. And I am about to be overwhelmed with curiosity as to how these Rambo operations of yours are connected with these home-grown Muslims we're watching 'as a highest priority.'"

"Tell them, Jack," Castillo ordered.

"Okay," Britton said, and took a moment to form his thoughts. "You know, Fred, that when I was on the Philly cops, I was undercover for a long time in the Aari-Teg mosque."

"That must have been fun," Special Agent Davis commented from the backseat. "How long did you get away with that before they made you?"

"Three and a half years-and they never made me."

"I'm impressed," Davis said in genuine admiration.

"Yeah, me, too," Castillo said.

"Right after we came back from Uruguay," Britton said, "I heard that another undercover cop in the Aari-Teg mosque, a pal of mine named Sy Fillmore, had gone over the edge-the cops found him wandering around babbling in North Philly. Once they learned, several days later, he was a fellow cop, they had him put in the loony tunes ward in Friends Hospital. So I went to see him.

"And he told me that AALs had bought a hundred-twenty-acre farm in Bucks County on which-or in which-were some pre-Revolutionary War iron mines that they were stocking with food and water, and in which they are going to take cover when a briefcase-sized nuclear bomb is detonated in Philly."

"Jesus Christ!" Special Agent Davis exclaimed.

"And you're taking this seriously?" Swanson asked, his tone serious. "It sounds incredible."

"Yes, it does," Britton said. "And that's what Chief Inspector Dutch Kramer decided when he heard it. First of all, it came from Fillmore, who slides back and forth between making sense and babbling, and is indeed incredible on its face value. Kramer didn't even tell the FBI. But when I told Charley, both he and McGuire, and I suppose Isaacson, too, decided I should look into it. That's when you got involved."

"You mean Joel knew this and didn't tell me?" Swanson asked, indignantly. "All I got was some bullshit about starting a 'highest priority round-the-clock surveillance' of these lunatics, the reason for which I would learn in due time."

"You weren't cleared for that information," Castillo said, reasonably.

"I've got a couple of security clearances," Swanson said. "Three or four of them with names. And Joel knows that."

"Joel couldn't tell you," Castillo said. "Only two people can decide who has the Need to Know."

The reply didn't seem to surprise Swanson. He nodded and asked, "The director of National Intelligence and the secretary of Homeland Security?"

Castillo shook his head. "The President and me."

"Only you and the President? That's impressive, Colonel," Swanson said. "Can I interpret that to mean somebody really high up thinks this threat is credible?"

"Ambassador Montvale thinks it's credible. And as soon as I have a look at this place, Jack, we're going to Washington. He wants to see you personally."

"Oh, shit," Britton said.

"Which reminds me," Castillo said. He pointed to a radio mounted under the Yukon's dashboard. "Is that tied into the Secret Service's communications system? I mean in Washington?"

Swanson nodded.

"I'd like to get word to Montvale that I'm here, and that I'm coming to Washington-with Britton-as soon as we're through here. ETA to come later."

Swanson nodded and pressed his finger to his lapel.

"Cheesesteak here," he said. "Is this thing working?"

The response came immediately: "Loud and clear."

"Get word to Big Eye that Don Juan is with me and will be coming to see him-with English-later today. ETA to follow. Acknowledge delivery."

"Got it. Will do."

Swanson turned to Castillo and said, "Done."

"Thanks," Castillo said. "Although I feel like I've just made an appointment with my dentist."

Swanson smiled, then asked, "You think this threat is credible, Colonel?"

"No," Castillo said. "I've been talking to some people who know about bombs like this and know about the Russians and they don't think so, and if I had to bet, I'd go with them."

"Why?" Swanson asked, simply. "There's supposed to be a hundred of these briefcase-sized nukes hidden around the country. There was even some KGB defector who testified before Congress that he'd scouted places to hide them."

"The defector's name was Colonel Pyotr Sunev," Castillo said. "And after the CIA set up a new identity for him as a professor at Grinnell College, he disappeared one day, then turned up in Europe, once again in the KGB."

"Disinformation?" Swanson asked.

Castillo nodded.

"And a lot of egg on the CIA's face?"

Castillo nodded again.

"And from everything I've learned about these bombs," Castillo said, "which I admit isn't much, they're the size of a suitcase, not a briefcase. And the firing mechanisms are coded. I can't imagine the Russians giving a bomb, much less that code, to a bunch of lunatics."

"What about our friends in the Muslim world?"

"I think if they had a bomb, and the code to detonate it, they would have already used it. The Russians have their own trouble with the Muslims. I just can't see them handing a nuke to any of them; they'd be liable to set it off in Moscow."

"So what's going on with these nuts in Durham?"

"I wish I knew. The first thing I'd like to know is where they got the money to buy the farm in the first place. Jack tells me the Aari-Teg mosque had trouble paying their rent."

"They paid for it with a cashier's check for $1,550,000 drawn against the account of the Aari-Teg mosque, Clyde J. Matthews, Financial Officer, in the Merchants National Bank of Easton, Colonel," Special Agent Harry Larsen said.

"Clyde, aka Abdul Khatami, is one great big mean sonofabitch," Britton added. "He's the head mullah of the Aari-Teg mosque. Before he found Muhammad, ol' Clyde was in and out of the slam from the time he was fifteen. Mostly drugs, but some heavier stuff, too-armed robbery, attempted murder, etcetera. He was doing five-to-ten in a federal slam-for cashing Social Security checks that weren't his-when he was converted to Islam."

"Mr. Matthews's account was opened six weeks before with six hundred in cash," Larsen went on. "It was essentially dormant-two small checks to pay for gas, signed by Matthews, but the payee-same one, a gas station in Riegelsville-amounts and dates filled in by somebody else…"

"I think one might describe Mr. Matthews as being some what literacy handicapped," Britton interrupted, in an effeminate voice, causing the others to chuckle.

"…until two days before the cashier's check for the farm was drawn," Larsen went on. "There had been a wire deposit of $1,950,000 from a numbered account in the Caledonian Bank and Trust Limited in the Cayman Islands." He paused and looked at Castillo. "I don't know if you know this or not, Colonel, but the Cayman Islands have stricter banking secrecy laws than Switzerland."

"I did. Not because I'm smart, but because Special Agent Yung told me. He's our resident expert in foreign banking and dirty money."

"Our reluctant expert," Britton said.

"He's seen the light, Jack," Castillo said.

"Did he see it before or after they popped him?"

"So," Larsen went on, a touch of impatience in his voice, "our chances of finding out who owns that account are practically nonexistent. On the day the check to pay for the farm was issued, there was a second cashier's check, for $59,805.42, payable to Fred Beans Cadillac Buick Pontiac GMC. Inc., 835 North Easton Road in Doylestown, as payment in full for a Cadillac Escalade, a white one." "Well, I've always said," Britton said, in his effeminate voice, "if you don't want to attract attention, get a white Cadillac Escalade."

Even Larsen laughed.

"Is this guy intellectually challenged, Jack?" Larsen asked.

"He's street smart, with a five-year postgraduate course in crime at Lewisburg behind him. He's ignorant but not stupid. Dangerous."

"And Matthews withdrew ten thousand dollars in cash," Larsen said.

"I don't know anything about this sort of thing," Castillo said. "Doesn't the IRS get involved in this some how?"

"Believe it or not, Colonel, there are a few nice IRS agents. I got most of what I have from one of them who's a friend of mine."

"Can he keep his mouth shut?" Castillo asked.

Larsen nodded. "They get notified whenever there's a cash transaction of ten thousand or better. When Matthews took the ten thousand in cash, that gave my guy the in to go into the bank records.

"When I asked him if I suddenly had a deposit of nearly two million from an offshore bank, wouldn't I have to answer some questions? He said I would. But I'm not a mosque. The Aari-Teg mosque, so far as the IRS is concerned, is a religious institution. Religious institutions do not have to identify their members or their donors. Or pay taxes."

"Shit," Castillo said.

"I'd say this whole suitcase nuke thing is absurd," Larsen said. "Except for all that money…"

"And except for the fact that Abdul Khatami and his loyal Muslims helped the Holy Legion of Muhammad steal that 727," Britton said. He turned to Larsen. "You know that story?"

"Joel told me," Larsen said, smiled, and pointed at Torine and Castillo. "And that these two stole it back. You think this money came from terrorists, Colonel?"

"I have no goddamned idea where it came from," Castillo said, bitterly, "but the terrorists are not stupid. Would they hand this clown two million dollars just because they like him or maybe to pull our chain when we heard about it? I don't think so. But I don't know."

Swanson said, "Follow the money, I say, based on my wealth of experience and not having a clue how you'd actually do that. Larsen's right about bank secrecy in the Cayman Islands."

"What we have is a coded list of what we think are names and addresses we took from Lorimer's safe," Castillo said. "By now, the whiz kids at Fort Meade should have that decoded. And I have all of Eric Kocian's notes about European involvement in the oil-for-food scam. There's a CIA guy in Paris who knows a lot about these SADMs-"

"These what?" Larsen interrupted.

"Nuclear suitcases," Castillo said. "The Russians call them 'Special Atomic Demolition Munitions.' This guy is already on his way to Washington. He may already be there. There're two other CIA types in Buenos Aires who know something about them. We know now that one of the Ninjas was a senior Cuban spook." He paused. "In all, a lot of disconnected information. All we can do is try to put it together." He exhaled audibly. "Can we go get some breakfast?" [TWO] State Route 212 Near Durham, Bucks County, Pennsylvania 1155 10 August 2005 The Secret Service radio went off in the black Yukon XL as they were going down a winding road through the countryside.

"Cheesecake?"

"Go."

"Big Eye asks for Don Juan's present location, destination, and ETA as soon as possible. He will send a taxi."

Swanson looked at Castillo.

"Don't tell him where we are," Castillo said. "Jake, we're going into Baltimore, right?"

"Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport," Torine corrected.

"And ETA will be furnished when available," Castillo said.

"Don Juan going to BWI. ETA will be furnished when available," Swanson said into his lapel microphone. "Cheesecake off."

Castillo saw the questions in Swanson's eyes.

"I don't care if he knows where I am," Castillo said. "But I don't want to talk to him right now."

Swanson nodded. "The entrance to the farm is about half a mile on the right," Swanson said five minutes later. "You can't see much-nothing but an unpaved road-from the highway. I've got some people, really good at what they do, in a house directly across the highway taking pictures of everyone going into and out of the farm road. We told the guy who owns the house that we're investigating a drug operation."

"So far, I've recognized all of them," Britton said. "They're all from the Aari-Teg mosque."

"And we've got a Cessna 172 that flies over the farm every couple of hours taking pictures," Swanson said. "All that's produced is that they've got three house trailers parked near the farmhouse…"

"New ones," Britton interrupted, "which makes me wonder where they got the money for them."

"…and a Ford pickup, one of those with two rows of seats, also new, registered to the mosque in Philadelphia."

"Same question about how did they pay for that," Britton said.

"Okay," Swanson said, pointing out his deeply tinted passenger's window. "Here we are. The road winds around that hill to the farm. The iron mines are in that hill. On the back side."

Castillo saw the steep, tree-covered hill, but almost missed the road as the Yukon rolled past it.

"Not much to see, is there?" Britton said.

Castillo didn't reply directly.

"Maybe you better get me a set of those pictures," he said.

"I'm way ahead of you, Colonel," Britton said. "The ones taken from the house are on their way-ain't e-mail and digital photography wonderful?-to Dutch Kramer and Tom McGuire five minutes after they're taken. The aerials go the same way ten minutes after the Cessna lands at Allentown. So far nobody we don't know."

"Is that about all there is to see here?" Castillo said.

"Yep," Swanson said, then asked, "Where do you want to go now? To the hotel?"

"Christ, we forgot to eat!" Torine said.

"Is there some place, a McDonald's or something-better yet, a Wendy's-on the way to the airport?" Castillo asked.

"I suppose a shave and a shower is out of the question?" Torine said, drily.

"I want to get to Washington and a secure telephone as quickly as I can, Jake," Castillo said. "I need to talk to Yung and see what's going on before Jack and I go see the dragon."

"The last thing I had to eat was a stringy, cold Ecuadorian chicken leg somewhere over the Pacific Ocean," Torine said. "And that was so long ago, I forget when."

"Well, that's the Air Force for you," Castillo said. "Unless they're being fed a steak by some long-legged blond stewardess with a dazzling smile, they think they're suffering."

"The Air Force teaches that an officer should never be rude to an officer junior to them in rank," Torine said. "In your case, I'm going to make an exception: Fuck you, Colonel. I want more for breakfast than a goddamned hamburger."

Castillo laughed.

"You're right, Jake," he said. "So do I. And since Montvale is sending a taxi for us, we'd better have that shave and a shower."

"My sole remaining clean shirt and fresh undies are on the airplane," Torine said.

"We can change on the way to Baltimore," Castillo said.

"If you have to talk to your guy, Yung, in New Orleans," Swanson said, "and we're sitting on him there, then once we get to the hotel I can get the number of a pay phone to our guys and Yung can call you on it. It won't be a secure line, but that's how the bad guys communicate and it works for them."

"You're a good man, Mr. Swanson."

"So they tell me," Swanson said. [THREE] Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport Baltimore, Maryland 1350 10 August 2005 There was a Secret Service Yukon XL waiting for them at the Signature Flight Support building.

True to the traditions of the Secret Service, there was no change of expression on the agent's face when he came onto the Gulfstream and saw Castillo on his knees in the passenger compartment removing an Uzi, a Micro Uzi, and a suppressed Ruger.22 caliber pistol from the compartment under one of the couches and then carefully handing them one at a time to Torine and Britton.

When Castillo climbed into the front seat of the truck, beside the agent, he was just about to ask "Where are we headed?" when the Secret Service agent spoke into his lapel microphone.

"Leaving Thurgood for the OEOB," he said, "with Don Juan, Lindbergh, and English aboard. Advise Big Eye ETA 1515."

"Charley," Torine said, "why do I think there is something derisive in your code name but that English really fits Britton and Lindbergh is absolutely appropriate for me?"

"Because you are modesty-impaired, Jake. I understand that's fairly common in the Air Force."

"What do you want me to do when you and Jack are with Montvale?"

"Pay close attention, you might learn something."

"I have to be there?"

"You have to be there," Castillo said. [FOUR] The Office of the Director of National Intelligence The Old Executive Office Building Washington, D.C. 1515 10 August 2005 Ambassador Charles W. Montvale's office in the OEOB was not very impressive for the very powerful man the press had dubbed the "New Intelligence Czar." It consisted of two small, sparsely furnished rooms and the first thing Castillo thought when he saw it was that it was even smaller than the OEOB offices of Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall.

There was a reason for this. Both Montvale and Hall had far larger and more ornately furnished offices elsewhere. The primary purpose of their OEOB offices was to provide them with a place to wait and take calls until time was found for them in the President's schedule.

Cabinet members such as himself, Secretary Hall had once only half jokingly told Castillo, could not afford to be seen sitting twiddling their thumbs on chairs outside the Oval Office, like schoolboys having been sent to the principal's office for disciplining. It was bad for their public image.

Castillo was surprised when Montvale didn't keep them waiting. His secretary-or executive assistant, whatever she was-went directly to Montvale's door and opened it the moment she saw them walking into the outer office.

"Colonel Castillo and two other gentlemen are here," the secretary said.

Castillo didn't hear a reply, but a moment later, the secretary said, "Go right in, please, gentlemen."

Castillo went in first, aware that a Pavlovian reflex had kicked in, trying-and almost succeeding-to make him march in, salute, stand at attention, and bark: "Lieutenant Colonel Castillo reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador," Castillo said.

"Hello, Charley," Montvale said.

He acknowledged Torine by saying, "Colonel," then looked at Britton.

"I like that," Montvale announced with a smile. "Pink and yellow and blue go well together. But you don't bring up what usually comes to mind when someone says, 'Secret Service.'"

"I try to put the emphasis on the 'secret' in Secret Service, Mr. Ambassador," Britton said.

"On a scale of one to ten, Britton," Montvale said, his tone suddenly serious, "what's your take on the chances of a nuclear weapon being detonated in Philadelphia anytime soon?"

"Point-zero-zero-one, Mr. Ambassador," Britton responded immediately.

"That answer sounded rehearsed."

"Your question was expected, Mr. Ambassador."

"Colonel Castillo told you to expect it?"

"No. But I didn't think you were calling me down here to discuss my wardrobe."

"Now I know why Colonel Castillo likes you," Montvale said. "You're about as much of a self-confident wiseass as he is. Now you and Colonel Torine please step out for a moment-actually, it's probably going to be a bit longer than that-while I have a private word with the colonel. Tell Jo-Anne no calls except from the President personally, and to get you some coffee."

"Yes, sir," Britton said. "Thank you."

"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador," Torine said and turned and followed Britton out.

Montvale waited until the door had closed.

"You understand, I hope, Charley, how much rides on Britton's-and thus your-assessment of the threat that there is a SADM somewhere around Philadelphia?"

"I've talked to some other people, sir. It-"

Montvale shut him off by raising his hand like a traffic cop.

"Hold that until the briefing," he said.

"I thought this was the briefing," Castillo said. It was more of a question.

"Right now we have to talk about your eleven-hundred-dollar-a-day love nest in the Mayflower Hotel," Montvale said.

"Sir?"

"That's how Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter C. Harry Whelan, Jr., of The Washington Post described it. No. What Harry actually said when he called Secretary Hall and told him he intended to make certain allegations in a story and wanted, in fairness, to get his version before it was published, he was in 'Motel Monica Lewinsky.'" He paused, then added with a thin smile, "He has a flair for colorful phrases."

"What sort of allegations?"

"That an Army officer by the name of Castillo who is an agent of the Defense Intelligence Agency is whooping it up on the taxpayer's dollar in the Mayflower and elsewhere all over the world."

Oh, shit!

"Where'd that come from? I never was assigned to the DIA."

"Think about it a moment," Montvale ordered, "and tell me the first name that comes to mind."

Three seconds later, Castillo said, "Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson."

Montvale nodded.

"Goddamn her!"

"Hell hath no fury like the female scorned, I understand. You might want to write that down to think about the next time you experience the sinful lusts of the flesh and are about to throw caution to the winds and, with it, your career, the mission you've been given by the President, and the many-all unpleasant to contemplate-manifestations of that."

"The next time? What next time? I'm blown. The problem now is how to keep the Finding operation from being blown with me. I'm blown, that's it. The most I can hope for is that I will be allowed to resign for the good of the service and go hide somewhere before this reporter can find me. Once I'm out of the service, I don't have to even talk to this guy -if he could find me-and I don't think he'll be able to do that. All the Army has to do is say they're way ahead of the reporter, and the guy with the love nest has already been allowed to resign and they have no idea where former Lieutenant Colonel Castillo is. And, by the way, he was never assigned to the DIA." He paused. "Does General Naylor know about this?"

Montvale nodded.

"He won't like it, but between him and Schoomaker I can be out of the Army and out of Washington by noon tomorrow."

Montvale just looked at him.

"Is Edgar Delchamps here yet?" Castillo said.

Montvale nodded.

"Then what I suggest, sir, is that you keep him under wraps until you can recommend to the President that he turn the Finding operation over to him."

"Why would I want to do that, Colonel?" Montvale asked, softly.

"It's the only way I can think of to keep the Finding operation from being blown. He's privy to just about everything, but there's no way that he can be tied to me, the Finding operation, or anybody else I've been working with. Once I'm gone and he's got the Finding operation, I can meet him someplace and give him everything he doesn't already have. The Finding operation doesn't have to go down the toilet with me."

"And why in the world," Montvale asked, "knowing what's happened, would Mr. Delchamps take on that responsibility? If I were he, I'd think I was being set up as the fall guy. He would reason that Mr. Whelan is not going to let this story go just because he can't find you."

"He's a pro, Mr. Ambassador. He knows the risks of doing something that has to be done. He's been doing it a long time. He'll take the job. And more than likely do a better job with it than I've been doing."

"Let me get this straight, Castillo. What you are saying you want to do is quietly fold your tent and steal away into anonymity. Pay for your carnal sins with, so to speak, professional suicide?"

"I wouldn't put it quite that way, Mr. Ambassador, but, yes, I suppose. I disappear and the Finding operation goes on. I don't have any better ideas."

"Fortunately, I do."

"Sir?"

"Fortunately, I do," Montvale repeated. "More precisely, did."

"Whatever you want me to do, sir," Castillo said.

"Let me tell you what I did, Colonel. When Secretary Hall called me to tell me C. Harry Whelan, Jr., wanted to talk about your eleven-hundred-dollar-a-day love nest, I suggested that he invite Mr. Whelan to luncheon with both of us the next day in his private dining room at the Nebraska Avenue Complex."

What?

"Sir?"

"Telling him that I would tell him everything there. I further suggested that he put Major Miller back into his uniform and wheelchair-the last time Miller came here to tell me what you were up to, he was wearing civilian clothing and using canes-two of them-which naturally aroused one's sympathy, but not as much as a fully uniformed wounded hero in a wheelchair would-and that he advise Major Miller of the situation and invite him to take lunch with us.

"I told Secretary Hall that Mr. Whelan was known to be fond of oysters, grilled Colorado trout avec beurre noir, and an obscure California Chardonnay-Judge's Peak. I told Secretary Hall that if he could handle the oysters and the trout, I would send over a case of the Judge's Peak.

"When I sent the wine, I also sent a team of specialists from NSA to install microphones discreetly around the dining room, and to instruct Miller in their use."

My God, he's telling me he bugged Hall's private dining room!

What the hell for?

"Miller, at my orders, was waiting in your office for me when I arrived at the Nebraska Avenue Complex. Mr. Whelan was already in the dining room with Secretary Hall. I shall long remember Miller's response to my question, 'What would you say Mr. Whelan's frame of mind is?'

"Miller said, 'Mr. Ambassador, his face looks like he's happily looking forward to nailing all our nuts to the floor.'

"I then wheeled Miller, his knee again wrapped in far more white elastic gauze than was necessary, into the dining room. Whelan's eyes lit up. They lit up even more when I introduced Miller as your roommate in the Motel Monica Lewinsky.

"Mr. Whelan said, 'I'd like to hear about that. What happened to your knee, Major?'

"'In good time, Harry,' I said. 'I'll tell you everything. But first I'd like, and I'm sure Major Miller would like, one of those.'

"Mr. Whelan was drinking a vodka martini. A large one…"

I don't know where he's going with this, Castillo thought, but he loves telling the tale.

"…made with Polish hundred-twenty-proof spirits. The waiter promptly poured martinis for Miller and myself. Ours were one hundred percent ice water with a twist of lemon and two speared cocktail onions."

"You were trying to get him drunk?"

"Not drunk. Happy. One never knows what a drunk is liable to do," Montvale said.

"And did you get him happy?"

"Oh, yes. First, I complimented him on his piece about Senator Davis in yesterday's Post. The senator has been using an airplane just like yours, belonging to a corporation just awarded an enormous interstate highway construction contract, as if it were his own. That put Harry in a good mood.

"As did the first of what turned out to be three bottles of the Judge's Peak, consumed along with some Chilean oysters.

"And then we had our lunch, the grilled trout with beurre noir, washed down with more of the Chardonnay. By then, Mr. Whelan was telling us of his journalistic career, how he'd started out on a weekly and worked his way up through The Louisville Courier-Journal to the Post. It was a long story, and, fascinated with this tale of journalistic skill and prowess, I naturally kept asking him for amplification.

"Meanwhile, the wine was flowing, and there had not been a mention of Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo."

"And this reporter didn't sense what was going on?"

"Eventually, he suspected he was being manipulated. Or he realized that he had been doing all the talking. In any event, he asked Miller, 'I asked before what happened to your leg and never got an answer.'

"To which I quickly responded, 'Major Miller suffered grievous wounds-he will shortly be retired-in Afghanistan. His helicopter was shot down.'

"Whelan jumped on that. 'So what's he doing here in this Office of Organizational Analysis? And, by the way, what is that? What does it do and for whom?' Etcetera. One question after another.

"I asked him if he had ever heard of the West Point Protective Association," Montvale went on. "To which he replied, 'Of course I have. What about it? What's Miller being protected from? And by whom?'

"At that point, I began to suspect I had him," Montvale said. "I told him that actually Miller was doing the protecting. That was why he was sharing the apartment at the Mayflower.

"To which Whelan replied something to the effect that we were now getting down to the nitty-gritty. What was Miller protecting you from?

"'From himself, I've very sorry to have to tell you,' I replied, and went on. 'Major Milleris assigned, pending his retirement, to the Detachment of Patients at Walter Reed. Now he goes there daily on an outpatient basis for treatment of his knee and his other wounds. When Miller heard that Major-now Lieutenant Colonel-Castillo was in trouble, he asked-unofficially, of course-if he could try to help him. They were classmates at West Point as well as comrades-in-arms in bitter combat. Permission was granted-unofficially, of course.'"

"You told this guy Miller is protecting me?" Castillo asked, incredulously. "From what?"

Montvale ignored the question.

"This announcement caused Whelan to quiver like a pointer on a quail," Montvale said. "He just knew he was onto something.

"'How is this Castillo in trouble?' Whelan asked. 'Something to do with his eleven-hundred-dollar-a-day love nest in the Motel Monica?'

"To which I replied," Montvale went on, "that I wasn't at all surprised that a veteran journalist like himself had found out about your suite in the Mayflower and that I therefore presumed he knew about your Gulfstream."

He told this reporter about the Gulfstream?

Where the hell is he going with this?

"Whelan said that he had heard something about it," Montvale continued, "although the look on his face more than strongly suggested this was news to him.

"I then told him I would fill him in on what few details he didn't know and told him that you had paid seven and a half million dollars for what I was very afraid he would be soon calling your flying love nest. And then I told him the last anyone heard from you, you had flown it to Budapest.

"I thought carefully about telling him about Budapest, but I decided that if I was wrong, and didn't have him in my pocket, and since you acquired it so recently he might find out about the flight there and ask questions. This way, I nipped those questions in the bud."

"I don't know what the hell to say," Castillo said.

"I'll tell you when I want a response from you, Colonel," Montvale said, evenly. "Right now, just listen. We don't have much time."

Much time? For what?

"Sorry, sir."

"So, predictably, Whelan says something to the effect that he hopes I am going to tell him where an Army officer was getting the money to live in the Mayflower and buy a Gulfstream.

"To which I replied something to the effect that I was going to tell him everything, not only because I knew he'd find out anyway, but also because I knew him well enough to trust his judgment, his decency, and his patriotism.

"At that moment, for a moment, I thought perhaps I had gone a bit too far. He was more than halfway into his cups, but, on the other hand, he didn't get where he is by being an utter fool.

"And sure enough, the next words out of his mouth are, 'Why do I think I'm being smoozed?'

"I didn't reply. Instead, I took your service-record jacket from my briefcase and laid it before him…"

My jacket? Where the hell did he get my jacket? They're supposed to be in the safe at Special Operations Command in Tampa where nobody gets to see them.

Montvale saw the look on Castillo's face, knew what it meant, and decided to explain.

"You asked a while back if General Naylor knew of the situation you'd gotten yourself in. He knew, of course, how you'd met Mr. Wilson in Angola and even of your unwise dalliance with her. Still, it required a good deal of persuasion on my part to bring him on board to agree this was the only possible way to deal with this situation and to authorize flying your records up here.

"But that, too, was a fortunate happenstance, because once I'd brought him on board he provided me with a number of very touching details of your life that proved to be quite valuable."

Very touching details? Oh, shit! What does that mean? "To go on: After first reminding Mr. Whelan that the Freedom of Information Act did not entitle him or anyone else to peruse your personal history data, I told him I was going to tell him everything about your distinguished record, which he could verify by checking the records I had just put into his hands."

"You let him see my jacket? There's a lot of classified material in there. Missions I was on that are still classified. They keep the goddamned thing in a safe in Tampa!"

"Your entire file is lassified Top Secret. That impressed Mr. Whelan in no small way. I began with going through your decorations-and, I must say, even I was impressed, Colonel-starting with your first DFC and Purple Heart, which I pointed out you had earned when you were a mere boy just months out of West Point, and ending with your last Purple Heart, in Afghanistan.

"When that was over, I knew I had Whelan hooked because he put on his tough, no-nonsense journalist's face and tone of voice and said, 'Okay. Very impressive. But let's get back to the love nests, both of them. And I think you should know that I know all about this Karl Gossinger character.'

"I asked, 'You know everything about Karl Wilhelm Gossinger?' and he replied, 'The eleven-hundred-dollar-a-day love nest in Motel Monica Lewinsky is registered to him. He's supposed to be the Washington correspondent for the Tages Zeitung newspapers. Nobody I know ever heard of him and I haven't been able to find him yet. But I will.'

"I told him that he already had, that you and Gossinger were one and the same…"

"Jesus Christ!"

"…and that you were born out of wedlock and never knew your father. That your mother was a teenage German girl whose name was Gossinger."

"You had no right to get into that!" Castillo flared. "That's my personal business."

"I had, of course, considered your personal business, before I decided I had to deal with Whelan, and concluded that protecting the president of the United States, certain members of his cabinet, and finding out who the people who murdered Masterson are and dealing with them was the most important thing and far outweighed any momentary embarrassment you might feel. You get the picture, Colonel? If you had kept your male member behind its zipper when you should have, you and I would not be sitting here, would we?"

Goddamn him…he's right!

"No, sir. We would not. I apologize for the outburst."

"Fuck the outburst, Castillo. Apologize for not thinking!"

"Yes, sir. No excuse, sir."

Montvale looked coldly at Castillo for a moment, then went on, conversationally, the anger gone from his voice.

"So I told Mr. Whelan that your father was a teenage American helicopter pilot who died for our country in Vietnam without ever knowing he had a son. And, of course, that Warrant Officer Junior Grade Jorge Alejandro Castillo was a true hero, a legend in Army Aviation, in the Army.

"I could tell from the look on his face that while he was impressed, he thought I was laying it on a little thick. Of course I wasn't through.

"I asked him if he knew General Naylor and of course he said he did. And then I told him how General Allan Naylor becomes involved in the saga of Lieutenant Colonel Castillo."

"I really don't want to know what else you told this man, but I realize I should know."

"Yes, you should," Montvale said. "I told Mr. Whelan that when you were twelve, your mother, the sole heiress to the Gossinger fortune-I told him I was sure he knew that the Tages Zeitung newspaper chain was owned by Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft G.m.b.H.; he nodded, although I'll bet he was hearing that for the first time-was diagnosed with a terminal illness. I told him your mother went to the U.S. Army-specifically, to then-Major Allan Naylor, who was stationed nearby-and asked for help to find her son's father in the United States and told him why.

"I told him that Allan Naylor told me he promised some what reluctantly to see what he could do, as he had no respect for an officer who would leave a love child behind him, and was concerned about what would happen when a man of such low character came into the fortune the boy would inherit.

"And, of course, that when he did look into it, he learned that your father was a posthumous recipient of the Medal of Honor, and, not only that, but the only son of a distinguished and equally wealthy family in San Antonio. The question then became would the Castillos, who traced their Texas lineage back to two men who fell beside Davy Crockett and the other heroes of the Alamo, accept their son's illegitimate German son?"

Castillo's anger began to build again. "Why the hell did you tell him all this? I don't want any pity."

"Well, then you're not going to like the rest of this," Montvale said. "By the time I was through, I was nearly in tears myself about poor Charley Castillo."

"Oh, shit!" Castillo said, softly.

"I told him that that hadn't turned out to be a problem. That your grandmother took one look at the picture of you that Naylor had shown her and said, 'He has my Jorge's eyes,' and was on a plane to Germany that night.

"I then painted a touching picture of this poor, illegitimate, parentless boy being suddenly thrust into an alien culture with nothing to hang on to but memories of his late mother and the legend of his heroic father, of his going to West Point and then to war, determined to be worthy of his hero father. I went over your list of decorations…"

"Mr. Ambassador," Castillo interrupted, "I don't think that'll keep this guy from writing just about what he started to write in the first place. In fact, it would appear that he now has a bigger story…"

"If you'll indulge me, Colonel," Montvale said, icily, "I'll tell you how I did just that."

"Sorry."

"I ended your touching life story by telling him that you stole a helicopter in Afghanistan to save Miller's crew at great risk not only to your career but your life itself."

"Oh, boy!"

"Hearing that, Mr. Whelan really fixed the hook in himself. 'Mr. Ambassador,' he asked, 'forgive me, but wasn't that a crazy thing to do?'

"Whereupon I looked at him sadly and said, 'Precisely. It was an insane, irrational act. Major Castillo had gone to the well of his resources once too often and found it dry. Everybody has a breaking point and Castillo had reached his.'"

"In other words, you told him I'm crazy?"

"In effect. I didn't use those words. I told him you were sent home from Afghanistan for some well-deserved rest. I implied that on the plane from Afghanistan you had decided your number was about up and, that being the case, you were going to have some fun before you met the grim reaper. Fun that you were going to pay for with your personal wealth, something you had never done before. Another indication of an overstressed mind.

"And I told him that it was at this point that the West Point Protective Association came into play, in the person of General Allan Naylor. I told him that Naylor didn't know what to do with you. He could not give you, in your current state of mind, the command of a battalion to which you were entitled. The way you were drinking and chasing wild, wild women, you would soon be relieved of any command you were given…"

"Jesus! Is that part true?"

"…and he was reluctant to have you hospitalized for psychological problems because that on your records would keep you from ever becoming a general."

Montvale paused when he saw the look on Castillo's face, then added: "That was an original thought of mine. Getting you psychiatric help never occurred to General Naylor.

"What I told Whelan was that Naylor went to Secretary Hall, who had been decorated for valor and wounds while serving under Naylor in Vietnam and was thus a fellow warrior who knew how even the best of men sometimes reach their limits…"

"Oh, my God!"

"…and asked him if he could find something for you to do until you got some rest. Which Hall, of course, agreed to do. And Naylor also arranged for Miller, whose life you had saved, to be placed on outpatient status at Walter Reed so that he could look after you."

Castillo, shaking his head in disbelief, said nothing.

"So far, you're still stressed…"

"You mean crazy," Castillo said, bitterly.

"…but you seem to be improving. General Naylor hopes that soon you will be able to return to normal duty in the Army. The Army has done what it could to help a distinguished warrior, the son of an even more distinguished warrior."

"And Whelan swallowed this yarn?"

"He had no trouble at all accepting that there were good reasons-touching reasons-for your having gone over the edge," Montvale said.

Castillo gave him an exasperated look.

"But what's important comes next," Montvale said. "Two things. First, Whelan said, 'I've written a lot of stories that people tell me have ruined people's lives and I've done it with a clear conscience and I'll do it again. But I'm not going to ruin this young man's life simply because some bitch comes to me with a half-cocked story and an agenda.'

"Whereupon I asked him, in surprise, 'A woman gave you this story?'

"'I knew damned well she had an agenda beyond getting on the right side of me,' Whelan said. 'I knew it.'

"'Has this lady aname?'

"'She's in the agency,' Whelan said. 'She and her husband both work for the agency. Her name is Wilson. I forget his first name, but hers is Patricia. Patricia Davies Wilson. That's to go no further than this room.'

"'Of course not,' I readily agreed. 'You think…what was her name?'

"He obligingly furnished it again: 'Wilson, Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson.'

"I asked, 'You think Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson had an agenda?'

"'She did,' Mr. Whelan replied. 'I have no idea what it was, but it was more than just cozying up to me. She's fed me stuff before. A lot of-most of it-was useful. I thought of her as my private mole in Langley.'

"Whereupon I sought clarification: 'You say you thought of Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson as your private mole in the Central Intelligence Agency?'

"He took a healthy swallow of wine-in fact, drained at least the last third of a glass-and said, 'Yes, I did. I've gotten a half dozen good stories out of her. There's a lot of things going on at Langley that the public has the right to know. Stories that don't help our enemies. But a story about somebody who's been burned out doing his duty and is teetering on the edge is not a good story. I write hard news, not human interest. Damn her!'"

"So what happens now?"

"I don't know what Whelan's going to do to her, but I know what I did," Montvale said. "I had my technicians erase all but the last minute or so of that recording-anything that could identify you-and then personally took it over to Langley and played it for John Powell."

"And the DCI didn't ask you who Whelan's story was supposed to be about or how you just happened to record their conversation?" Castillo asked.

"I'm sure he would have liked to," Montvale said. "But he was torn between humiliation that I had personally brought him credible evidence that Mr. Whelan had a mole in the agency and anger with himself that he hadn't done more to the lady after I personally had sent Truman Ellsworth over there to subtly warn them-after our conversation at the Army-Navy Club-that they had a problem with Mr. Wilson."

"You're sure this guy is not going to write about me?"

"I'm sure he's not. He told meso."

"Because he feels sorry for the overstressed lunatic?"

"That's part of it, certainly. And part of it is that Whelan thinks of himself as a loyal American. Patriotism is also a actor."

"Isn't patriotism supposed to be the last refuge of a scoundrel?" Castillo asked, bitterly.

"You're the one who needed the refuge, Colonel. If the scoundrel shoe fits, put it on."

"It fits," Castillo said. "I guess I'm supposed to thank you, Mr. Ambassador…"

"You're welcome, but don't let it go to your head. I was protecting the President, not you."

"Yes, sir. I understand."

Montvale looked at his watch.

"I'd really hoped-so I would have no surprises when you brief the President…"

Brief the President? Where the hell did that come from?

"…and the others…"

What others?

"…that you and Britton would be able to bring me up to speed about these people in Bucks County, on everything, but we don't seem to have the time. We're due to be over there in ten minutes and I need to visit the gentlemen's rest facility before we go."

"Yes, sir."

"If I have to say this, Colonel, not a word vis-a-vis Mr. Whelan."

"Yes, sir."

"I wonder what the President's going to think about the stylish Mr. Britton," Montvale said, then rose from behind his desk and waved for Castillo to precede him out of the office.