Hunters

XIV

[ONE] The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 1555 10 August 2005 The Secret Service agent standing just outside of the Oval Office-a very large man attired in a dark gray suit carefully tailored to hide the bulk of the Mini Uzi he carried under his arm-stepped in front of Charles W. Montvale, blocking his way.

"Excuse me, Director Montvale," he said, politely. He nodded once, indicating Jack Britton, who still was wearing his pink seersucker jacket, yellow polo shirt, light blue trousers, and highly polished tassel loafers. "I don't know this gentleman."

"Show him your Secret Service credentials, Agent Britton," Montvale ordered. "Quickly. We don't want to keep the President waiting."

Britton exchanged a glance with Charley Castillo, then unfolded a thin leather wallet.

The Secret Service Agent failed to uphold the traditions of his service. Surprise, even disbelief, was written all over his face as he stepped out of the way.

The President was not in the Oval Office. Secretary of State Natalie Cohen and Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall were. They were seated side by side on one of the pair of matching couches that faced each other across a coffee table.

Hall got to his feet and offered his hand to them each in turn.

Then he asked Britton, "I don't believe you know Secretary Cohen, do you, Jack?"

"No, sir," Britton said.

The secretary of state stood up and offered her hand to Britton.

"Secretary Hall has been telling me what you did before joining the Secret Service," she said. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

"It's an honor to meet you, Madam Secretary," Britton said.

She walked to Castillo, kissed his cheek, and said, "Hello, Charley. How are we doing with the repatriation of Mr. Lorimer's remains?"

"They're in a funeral home in New Orleans, Madam Secretary," Castillo said. "Special Agent Yung accompanied them from Uruguay. I spoke with him a couple of hours ago." He paused, then went on, "He's got an out-of-channels message for you from Ambassador McGrory. He's supposed to deliver it personally…"

"That's odd, Charley," she said. "Do you know what it is?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Let's have it."

"Ambassador McGrory believes Mr. Lorimer was a drug dealer-in his alter ego as Jean-Paul Bertrand, antiquities dealer-and that a drug deal went bad at his estancia and he was murdered and the sixteen million dollars stolen."

"My God, where did he get that?" she exclaimed.

"He apparently figured that out all by himself. He confided his theory in Ambassador Silvio."

She shook her head in disbelief.

"Unfortunately," Castillo went on, "there's a clever Uruguayan cop, Chief Inspector Ordonez of the Policia Nacional, who's pretty close to figuring out what really happened."

That got everyone's attention.

Castillo continued, "And he's also positively identified one of the Ninjas we killed as Major Alejandro Vincenzo of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia-"

"One of the what, Charley?" the President of the United States asked as he came into the room. "Did you say 'Ninjas'?"

"Sir, that's what we're calling the people who bushwhacked us at Estancia Shangri-La."

The President looked at him strangely.

"Sir, they were wearing balaclava masks and black coveralls," Castillo added, some what lamely. "Ninjas-that's what they looked like."

"Well, I want to hear about that, of course," the President said. "But first things first."

He walked to Britton and offered him his hand.

"You're Special Agent Britton, right?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. President."

"I like your jacket," the President said. "What's your assessment of the possibility of a nuclear device being detonated in Philadelphia anytime soon? On a scale of one to ten?"

"When he briefed me, Mr. President," Montvale said, "Britton said, 'Point-zero-zero-one.'"

God, you're clever, Montvale, Castillo thought. By answering for Britton, you've painted yourself as really being on top of everything.

"Is that right?" the President asked Britton. "You think the threat is that negligible?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm relieved. I'll want to hear why you think so, of course. But that will wait until I get things organized in my mind." He looked at Castillo. "That means I want to hear everything, Charley, starting from the moment you left the White House, what was it, a week ago?"

"Six days, Mr. President. It seems like a lot longer, but it was only six days ago."

"Charley," the President said, "I want to hear everything you think has affected-or might affect-execution of the Finding. I'll decide what's important."

"Yes, sir," Castillo said and immediately decided to leave out the first thing that had happened after he left the White House that had indeed had a bearing on the Finding-his some what-strained conversation with Montvale at the Army-Navy Club.

"Sir, I went to Paris…" he began as he thought he saw a look of relief on Montvale's face. "My God, you really got around, didn't you?" the President said fifteen minutes later when Castillo had finished. "You must be exhausted."

"I am kind of beat, sir."

"Sum it up for me, Charley. Where are we?"

"We know a lot more, Mr. President, than we knew when I left here-that a Cuban was involved, for example, and that there's probably a connection with the KGB-but I don't know what any of it really means."

The President turned to the secretary of state.

"What do you make of the Cuban, Natalie?"

"If there wasn't a positive identification, Mr. President, I'd have trouble believing it. I just don't know."

"Can we tweak Castro's nose with that? Now or later?"

"If the Cubans sent him to Uruguay-and we don't know, or least have no proof of, that-by now they know he's dead," the secretary of state said. "So far as embarrassing the Cubans, I don't think so, sir. If we laid this man's body on Kofi Annan's desk in the Security Council chamber, the Cubans would deny any knowledge of him and the delegate from Venezuela would introduce a resolution condemning us for blaspheming the dignity of the UN."

The President's face showed what he thought of the secretary-general of the United Nations and of the organization itself.

"They've washed their hands of Lorimer, right?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Secretary Cohen said. "One of Annan's underlings issued a brief statement regretting the death of Mr. Lorimer, but-we invited them-they're not even sending someone to his funeral."

"So what are you going to do next, Charley?" the President asked.

"Well, tomorrow morning, sir, I'm going to assemble what information we have-all the disconnected facts we have, both here and in Buenos Aires-and start to try to make some sense of it."

"Need any help?" the President asked. "Anything you need to do that?"

Before Castillo could reply, Ambassador Montvale said, "In that connection, Mr. President, I'm going to call DCI Powell personally and tell him that he is to provide to Mr. Delchamps everything that Colonel Castillo asks for."

"That's the CIA man from Paris?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Why are you calling Powell personally? I've already ordered that the CIA-that everybody-give Charley whatever he asks for. And now Delchamps works for Charley, right?"

"Mr. Delchamps is about as popular in Langley as is Colonel Castillo, Mr. President. And then there's the matter of our not having informed the CIA-or, for that matter, others, including the FBI-of your Finding. I thought my personal call would be useful."

The President looked thoughtfully at Montvale, then at Castillo.

"And Charley's not likely to win any popularity contest in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, either, is he?" the President said, then paused in thought. "Let me make some contribution to this."

The President walked to his desk, punched several buttons on his telephone without lifting the handset, then sat and leaned back in his high-backed leather chair.

"Yes, Mr. President?" the White House switchboard operator's voice came over the speakerphone.

"Get me Mark Schmidt, please," the President said.

Less than twenty seconds later, the voice of the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation came over the speakerphone.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President."

The President wasted no time on the social amenities.

"Mark, what I need is a good, senior FBI agent," he said.

"There's no shortage of them around here, Mr. President. May I ask why?"

"Someone who knows his way into the dark corners over there, Mark. Someone who's really good at putting disassociated facts together. Someone, now that I think about it, who probably works pretty closely with you and will be able to get you on the phone if he needs some help."

"Inspector Jack Doherty of my staff meets those criteria, Mr. President. It would help, sir, if I knew exactly what you need."

"I told you, Mark. I need some help in putting a jigsaw puzzle together. This is very important to me, so if this is inconvenient for you I'm sorry. But I want this man to be in Ambassador Montvale's office by nine tomorrow morning. He'll be working for him for an indefinite period-until the puzzle is assembled. And Montvale is going to tell him that he is not to share with anyone-anyone-anything about the puzzle. I think it would be a good idea if you told him about that before you send him to the ambassador."

"That sounds as if I'm being kept in the dark about whatever your problem is, Mr. President."

"It's a question of Need to Know, Mark. And right now…"

"I understand, Mr. President."

"Thanks, Mark. We'll be talking."

The President reached forward and punched a button, breaking the connection.

"When Inspector Doherty shows up at your office, Charles," the President said, "you tell him about the Finding and then send him over to Castillo."

"Mr. President, I can't do that," Montvale replied.

The President was known for not liking to have his orders questioned.

"Why not?" he asked, sharply.

"Sir, only you and Colonel Castillo are authorized to grant security clearances vis-a-vis the Finding."

The President stared at him a moment, then said, "You're right. I'd forgotten that. Okay. So when Inspector Whatshisname shows up tomorrow, you relay to him my personal order that he is not to relate to Director Schmidt or anyone else in the FBI anything he learns while working for Castillo. Then send him to Castillo, who can tell him about the Finding."

"Very well, sir, if that's the way you wish for me to handle it."

"That's the way," the President said.

Well, Castillo thought, suppressing a smirk, that ends your hope of being able to clear people for the Finding, doesn't it, Mr. Ambassador?

Wait. What the hell are you being so smug about, hotshot?

Montvale just saved your ass.

"Come to think about it," the President said, thoughtfully, making Castillo wonder if he was about to change his mind, "that's a good way to handle the whole expert question. If Castillo decides he needs an expert from somewhere else-the NSA, for example, or State, or Homeland Security-we'll run them past you or the appropriate secretary, who will relay my order to them that nothing goes back where they came from, and then run them over to Castillo. He may be able to get what he wants out of them without having to tell them why and thus about the Finding. And he's the only one who can make that decision."

"That'll work," Matt Hall said. It was the first time he had said anything.

"I'll handle the intelligence community personally, Mr. President," Montvale said.

The President looked at him and nodded but didn't respond directly.

"Anyone else got anything?" the President asked.

There was a chorus of "No, sir"s.

"Get some rest, Charley," the President said, finally. "Get to bed early. I can't afford to have you burn out. And I think you're going to have a busy day tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."

The President thought he saw something on Castillo's face and asked, smiling naughtily, "What makes me think you have other plans for the evening, Don Juan?"

"Sir…"

"What's her name?"

"Actually, sir, I thought I would go by my office, pick up Major Miller, and go to the Army-Navy Club to…" At the last moment, Castillo had enough presence of mind to change the next words from drink our supper to "have our supper."

"Yeah," the President said, unconvinced. "Good hunting, Colonel."

The President got up and walked out of the Oval Office through the doorway leading to his private working office. He was gone before any of the others could rise to their feet.

Sure, she has a name. Elizabeth Schneider.

And I still haven't called her. Or, worse, even thought of calling her.

What the hell is the matter with me? [TWO] Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo and Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., did not go to the Army-Navy Club as Castillo had announced to the President of the United States that they would do.

Instead-with Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF, and Special Agent Jack Britton in tow-they went right around the corner from the White House, to 15th Street NW. There, at the Old Ebbitt Grill (est. 1856), they sat at the massive dark mahogany bar and dined on hot roast beef sandwiches au jus with steak fries (Miller and Torine) and linguini with white clam sauce (Castillo) and red clam sauce (Britton), washing it all down with Heineken beer from the tap.

By ten o'clock, all four were in beds-alone and asleep-in Herr Karl Gossinger's suite in the Motel Monica Lewinsky, the management having obligingly made up one of the couches in the sitting room into a bed for Special AgentBritton.

Although the thought that he should telephone Miss Elizabeth Schneider had occurred to Charley Castillo, he had not made an attempt to do so, having reasoned that it was too late-particularly for him. He was about to crash, and crash hard, and thus in absolutely no condition to participate in a long apologetic and explanatory conversation.

I'll call tomorrow, he had thought, then buried his head in his pillow.

If I don't get distracted and forget again.

He had then groped in the dark for his cellular on the bedside table, found it, dialed its own number, and after the mechanized female voice answered that he was being transferred into voice mail he left the message, "Call Betty, you heartless bastard."

Then he pushed the END button, returned the phone to the table, and finally crashed. [THREE] Office of Organizational Analysis Department of Homeland Security Nebraska Avenue Complex Washington, D.C. 0825 11 August 2005 "Welcome home, Chief," Mr. Agnes Forbison, deputy chief for administration of the Office of Organizational Analysis, greeted Castillo as he led Torine, Miller, and Britton off of the elevator. "Or would you prefer that I now call you 'Colonel'?"

"I'd prefer that you call me Charley, Agnes."

She walked to him and kissed his cheek.

"We've been over that," she said, evenly. "You are now too important to be addressed by your nickname. So, which do you prefer?"

"I give up," Castillo said. "You choose."

"'Chief' has a nicer ring to it," she said. "This town is too full of colonels. No offense, Colonel Torine."

"None taken," Torine said.

She looked at Britton. "I like your jacket, Jack."

"Thank you," Britton said. "It's all I've got to wear. I hadn't planned to come to Washington."

"What's first, Agnes?" Castillo asked.

"Well, there's already someone in my office waiting to see you," she said as she led the way to the door of Castillo's office-marked PRIVATE NO ADMITTANCE-slid what looked like an all-white credit card through the reader mounted by the lock, then pushed the door open and handed the card to Castillo.

They all followed her through the open door.

"First is getting me back to Pennsylvania," Britton said.

"First is credit cards," Agnes corrected him. "You wouldn't want to leave home without your American Express card, would you, Jack?"

"I've got an American Express card," Britton said.

"Not one of these, you don't," Agnes said. "They came in yesterday."

She went to Castillo's desk, opened a drawer, and collected what looked like half a dozen Platinum American Express cards. She handed one card to Britton and others to Castillo and Torine and put the rest back in the drawer.

"Miller's already got one and so do I," she said.

Britton examined his.

"What the hell is Gossinger Consultants, Inc.?" he asked.

"Well, I needed a name of a nongovernmental organization to spend Lorimer's money," she said. "And that seemed reasonably appropriate. The cards are coded so no questions will be asked in case somebody wants to buy a lot of airplane gas."

"That's aviation fuel, Agnes," Castillo said, smiling. "You're amazing."

"I told you I was going to be useful," she said. "And the Riggs Bank is going to get us checks on the Gossinger Consultants account as soon as they can. Which may mean today but probably means in three or four days. You all have to sign signature cards and I have to get them back to the bank before you can write checks."

She turned to Torine.

"Gossinger Consultants is now the official owner of the Gulfstream," she said. "And Signature Flight Support at BWI is going to direct bill the corporation for hangar space, maintenance, aviation fuel, and so forth."

"Yesterday, I had to give them Charley's credit card," Torine said.

"It probably hasn't worked its way through the bureaucracy," she said. "I'll give them a call and switch over the charge."

"We have a corporation?" Castillo asked.

"A Delaware corporation, and a post office box," Agnes replied.

She looked at Britton again.

"Where in Pennsylvania?"

"Bethlehem."

"How far is that, do you know?"

"I'd guess a hundred and fifty miles, maybe a little more."

"You want to take the Amtrak to Philadelphia and have the Secret Service pick you up there? Or have a Yukon take you from here? I think that would probably be a little quicker."

"And there's already three Yukons from the Philadelphia office in Bethlehem," Britton said. "Is getting one here going to be any trouble?"

"None at all. Just as soon as you sign the signature thing, I'll call."

"Thank you," Britton said.

"Charley," Torine said, "would you have any problem after I make sure the paperwork on the Gulfstream is all done and things are set up with Signature if I went home for a couple of days?"

"No. I don't think I'll be going anywhere for seventy-two hours anyway. But I never know."

"Yeah, I know you never know," Torine said. "If you need me, I'll have someone fly me back here."

"Go ahead," Castillo said. "The both of you. And thank you, the both of you." "What now, Agnes?" Castillo asked after Torine and Britton had left.

"Why don't you sit down, Chief, and we'll have a cup of coffee while I tell you what else is going on?"

"You want some coffee, Dick?" Castillo asked.

"I'm coffee'd out."

"Why don't you get on the horn and see if anything's new in Buenos Aires?"

"It's half past seven down there," Miller replied. "Is anybody going to be awake?"

"Why don't you sit down, kill a half hour with a cup of coffee, then get on the horn?"

Miller shrugged. "Why not?"

Agnes pushed a button on one of the telephones on Castillo's desk and ordered coffee.

Then she said, "There's a man named Delchamps out there, Chief. He would like to see you at your earliest convenience but he wouldn't tell me why."

"Great!" Castillo said. "Ask him to come in, and order another cup of coffee for him."

Agnes did so.

Edgar Delchamps and the coffee came through the door at about the same time. The latter was borne by a very tall, very attractive African American woman in her early thirties.

Castillo said, "Good morning, Edgar. I'm really glad to see you!"

Delchamps nodded but said nothing.

"Juliet," Agnes said to the attractive woman, "this is the boss, Colonel Castillo. Colonel, Miss Knowles handles our classified files. She has a master's in political science from Georgetown. She's got several Top Secret clearances, but you're going to have to think about clearing her for…"

"Let me get to that later," Castillo said. "It's nice to meet you, Miss Knowles…"

"Please call me Juliet," she said.

"And I'll need to talk with you later, but right now I have to speak with Mr. Delchamps."

"I understand, sir. It's nice to meet you, too."

As soon as the door closed behind her, Castillo asked, "If she's in charge of classified files and has a master's degree from Georgetown, why is she running coffee?"

"Well, Chief, it's not in her job description," Agnes said, "and she has her own office and her own administrative assistant, but, for some reason, every time Gimpy here asks for coffee Juliet seems to have time to bring it."

"If it was anybody but Gimpy," Castillo said, "I'd say she was attracted to him. But what it probably is is morbid curiosity."

Miller gave him the finger.

"Edgar, say hello to Mr. Agnes Forbison, who's really the boss around here, and Gimpy, otherwise known as Major Dick Miller."

Delchamps nodded at both but said nothing to them.

"I'd really like to see you alone, Colonel," Delchamps said.

He's pissed about something, Castillo thought.

"There's a list of people here, Edgar-Agnes and Dick are on it-and you just went on it-who know everything that everybody else knows. What's on your mind?"

"I was at Langley yesterday, Colonel. One of the chairwarmers there had told me Ambassador Montvale had something for me to do and I was to report to him. So I went to see him. He was too busy to deal with someone unimportant like me, of course, but his flunky, Truman Ellsworth, who I've met before, told me to report to you for an extended period of temporary duty and that you would explain everything to me."

"And explain I will. Welcome aboard, Ed."

"Before you waste your breath on that, let me finish."

Castillo raised an eyebrow. "Okay, finish."

"I wanted you to be the first to know, Colonel, that later today I'm going over to Langley and sign my application for retirement, which is being typed up as we speak. They told me it takes about three weeks to complete the process and be officially retired. But I have a bucketful of accrued leave, so I'm going to be on leave until my retirement comes through."

Castillo took a moment to reply.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think that maybe you're a little annoyed about something."

Delchamps made a thin smile. "I told you in Paris, Ace, that I would let you know if I was interested in employment-I think you said 'reasonably honest employment'-in Washington. That was not a yes. I don't want to work here and I won't."

"I need you, Ed," Castillo said, simply. "I'm sorry if Montvale summarily ordered you to get on a plane…"

"It wasn't even Montvale," Delchamps interrupted, disgustedly. "It wasn't even his flunky, Ellsworth. It was some goddamned chairwarmer at Langley."

"…but yesterday-I was in Argentina-I realized how much I needed you and asked Montvale to bring you home."

Delchamps shook his head. "I realize that once you've been infected with Washington, Ace, the temptation to build an empire is nearly irresistible. But you know goddamned well I've given you-and would have continued to give you-everything I know or find out about these oil-for-food maggots…"

"I'm not trying to build an empire!"

"Look at this goddamned office. It's a bureaucrat's throne room!"

"Blame the office on Agnes. She said it was important. I don't know my way around Washington and she does."

Agnes said, unruffled, "Yes, I do, and I make no apologies for trying to teach Charley the rules of the game."

Delchamps looked at her, looked as if he was going to respond, then changed his mind and looked back at Castillo.

"Ace, what made you decide yesterday in Argentina that you needed me so badly that you were going to get me whether or not I liked it?"

Agnes answered for him. "It probably started in Budapest where these people-I like your term 'oil-for-food maggots'-tried to assassinate him."

Castillo looked at her.

How the hell did she hear about that?

I know. There's a list here and she's on it.

"They tried to whack you?" Delchamps said.

"They were trying to kidnap and/or whack my Budapest source. When their first attempt failed, they tried again. But I was in his apartment."

"And had to put down two of them," Miller added.

Delchamps looked at Castillo for confirmation.

Castillo nodded slowly.

"You're a regular James Bond, aren't you, Ace?" Delchamps said.

"Indeed he is," Miller said. "Ace even had the foresight to get a suppressed.22 from the agency guy in Budapest."

Castillo flashed Miller a dirty look.

"I'm surprised he gave you any kind of a weapon," Delchamps said. "He's a real agency asshole."

"I noticed," Castillo said. "It took Montvale personally to get him to open his weapons locker."

"How much does the asshole in Budapest know about this? Does he know about the two you took down?"

Castillo shook his head. "I didn't tell him anything."

"That was also smart of you, Ace," Delchamps said. He paused in thought, then added, "You must be getting close."

"And they tried to whack an FBI agent who was with me at Lorimer's estancia-that was in Uruguay-and they were following around, threateningly, the former head of SIDE in Argentina, who was also at the estancia. And his family."

"What happened to your Budapest source?" Delchamps asked.

"I moved him to Argentina, where two old pals of yours are sitting on him."

"What two old pals?"

"Make that three," Castillo said, and raised his eyebrows as he added: "Alex Darby and Mr. and Mr. Sieno."

Delchamps considered that a moment, then nodded and asked, "You're sitting on the SIDE guy?"

"I moved his family here. He's still in Argentina, at a safe house with everybody else, trying to put all the pieces together. That's what I need you here for, to help with that."

"How could I help with that?"

"What if I told you Montvale told the President he was personally going to call DCI Powell to tell him you were coming over there and were to be given everything you asked for?"

Delchamps considered that a moment, then said, "When I asked for the retirement forms yesterday, they seemed pretty happy about that. I guess the word is out."

"I don't think so, Ed, not so soon," Castillo said. "Montvale told the President that late yesterday afternoon."

"Well, I guess they were just happy to get rid of me, period," Delchamps said. "Truth to tell, I was a little pissed about their eager cooperation." He paused, and asked: "Can Montvale be trusted to do what he told the President he was going to do?"

"Yeah," Castillo said. "I trust him to do what he tells the President-in front of witnesses-he's going to do."

Castillo went to his desk and picked up a telephone handset.

"We up?" he said into it, and, after there was a reply, he looked at Delchamps and said, "Listen to this, Ed."

He then pushed the speakerphone button and said, "Open it up."

A young man's voice, having made a fifty-four-thousand-mile trip through space, came over the speaker.

"Corporal Bradley speaking, sir."

"Good morning, Lester," Castillo said. "How long will it take you to get Mr. Sieno for me?"

"She's right here, Colonel. She just brought me my breakfast. Hold one, sir."

"Good morning, Colonel," Susanna Sieno said. "You made it there, I guess?"

"Good morning, Susanna," Castillo said. "I'm in my office and so is an old friend of yours. He'd like to say hello."

He extended the handset to Delchamps.

Delchamps, shaking his head, took it. "Hey, sweetie, how are you?"

"Oh, Ed, it's good to hear your voice…"

Castillo pushed the button that turned off the speakerphone function. "Pretty impressive," Delchamps said, ninety seconds later, after the connection was taken down. "What about the garbling?"

"We twenty-first-century spooks call that 'encryption,'" Castillo said. "This system uses a logarithm-ours alone-we think even NSA can't crack."

"Okay," Delchamps said. "I'll hang around long enough to see if I can do you any good. If I can't, I'm off to my vine-covered cottage by the side of the road. Deal?"

"Agnes, get Mr. Delchamps an American Express card," Castillo said. "And see that Gossinger Consultants, Inc., provides him with accommodations suitable for someone we really need."

"Why do I suspect that Gossinger Consultants, Inc., has some sort of connection with the Lorimer Benevolent and Charitable Trust you told me about?" When there was no immediate reply, Delchamps smiled, then asked, "What happens now?"

Castillo said, "The President, at the same meeting, called the director of the FBI and ordered him to send over a senior guy first thing this morning skilled in putting jigsaw puzzles like this one together. I think you'd better stick around and meet him, then get yourself settled in."

"Inspector Doherty is already here," Agnes said. "Shall I bring him in?"

"What was that name again?" Miller asked.

"Doherty," Agnes replied. "Inspector John J. Doherty."

"Oh, this should be interesting," Miller said.

"Meaning what?" Castillo asked.

"You don't remember him, Ace?" Miller asked.

Castillo shook his head.

Miller went on, "He's the guy they sent to you about the turned FBI agent-Whatshisname-Howard Kennedy, your Russian mafioso's pal. When he told you-some what peremptorily, I'll admit-that the FBI expected you to notify them immediately the moment you heard anything about either Pevsner or Kennedy or they contacted you in any way, you told him not to hold his breath."

"Christ, that's him? I forgotten his name, if I ever knew it."

"Well, there's a lot of Irishmen in the FBI," Miller said. "Maybe there's two or more inspectors named John J. Doherty, but I really don't think so."

"Show Inspector Doherty in please, Mr. Forbison," Castillo said. "And Dick, you can stop calling me Ace."

"You want me to get out of the way?" Delchamps asked.

"No. Stick around, please," Castillo said.

Inspector Doherty, unsmiling, came through the door sixty seconds later. He was a nondescript man in his late forties, wearing a single-breasted dark gray suit. He wore frameless glasses and his graying hair was cropped short.

Castillo thought, I didn't like this guy the first time I saw him and I don't like him now.

"Good morning, Inspector Doherty," Castillo said. "Thank you for being so prompt, and I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

Doherty nodded but didn't speak.

"This is Mr. Forbison," Castillo said, "and Major Miller and Mr. Delchamps. These are the people you'll be primarily working with."

"Ambassador Montvale wasn't very clear about what I'm supposed to do," Doherty said.

"That's because you don't have the proper clearance," Castillo said. "I'm about to grant you that clearance. The classification is Top Secret Presidential. It deals with a Presidential Finding that charges me with locating and rendering harmless the people who murdered Mr. J. Winslow Masterson, of the State Department, and Sergeant Roger Markham, of the Marine Corps, and who kidnapped Mr. Masterson and wounded a Secret Service agent."

"What does 'rendering harmless' mean?" Doherty asked.

"Since there is little chance you will be involved in that, I don't think that you need to know how I interpret that," Castillo said. "What you do need to know is that from this moment, you will communicate to no one not cleared for this information-and that, of course, includes anyone in the FBI who is not specifically cleared for it-anything you hear, learn, conclude, or intuit about this operation."

"I don't like this at all, I guess you understand," Doherty said.

"You have two options, Mr. Doherty," Castillo said. "You can go back to the J. Edgar Hoover Building and tell them you're unwilling to take this assignment. You may not tell anyone there why you don't want to do it, what I have just told you, identify me or anyone else you have met here, or of course repeat that there is a Presidential Finding."

"There's been talk of a Finding, as you probably know."

"There's a lot of talk in Washington," Castillo said, evenly.

"What's my second option?"

"You can bring to this operation all the skills Director Schmidt told the President you have. I was there when he made that call. I want you to understand clearly, however, that once you become aware of the details we think you need to help sort everything out, you can't change your mind. If that happens, I'm going to give you an office where you can sit all day, read The Washington Post, and drink coffee, then send people home with you at night to make sure you don't see anybody you should not or make any unmonitored telephone calls, etcetera. That will last until we're finished, however long it takes."

Doherty looked at him coldly.

"You realize, Colonel, that I was an FBI agent when you were a cadet at West Point and I don't like being threatened like that."

"Mr. Delchamps here was a clandestine agent of the CIA when you were a bushy-tailed cadet at the FBI Academy. He's operating under the same rules. What's important, Mr. Doherty, is not how old I am but to whom the President has given the authority to execute the Finding. That's me, and if you can't live with that feel free to walk out right now."

They locked eyes for a moment.

"What's it going to be, Inspector?" Castillo asked. "In or out?"

After a long moment, Doherty said, "In with a caveat."

"Which is?"

"I will do nothing that violates the law."

"Well, I guess that means you're out," Castillo said. "I'll do whatever I have to do to carry out my orders and I can't promise that no laws will be broken."

Doherty exhaled audibly.

"You want to know what I'm thinking, Colonel?"

"Only if you want to tell me," Castillo said.

"That if I turn you down, they'll send you somebody else, and if he turns you down, somebody else. Until the bureau finally sends you someone who'll play by your rules."

"That sounds like a reasonable scenario," Castillo agreed.

"When I joined the bureau, I did so thinking that sooner or later I would have to put my life on the line. I was 'bushy-tailed' then, to use your expression, and had in mind bank robbers with tommy guns or Russian spies with poison and knives. It never entered my mind that I would be putting my life-my career-on the line for the bureau doing something like this."

He sighed.

"But if the President thinks this is so important, who am I to argue with that? And, being important to me, who's better qualified to keep the bureau from being mud-splattered with this operation than I am?"

He met Castillo's eyes for a long moment.

"Okay, I'm in. No caveats. Your rules."

"And no mental reservations?" Castillo asked, softly.

"I said I'm in, Colonel. That means I'm in."

"Welcome aboard," Castillo said.

There were no smiles between them.

"Okay, Agnes, where are we going to set up?" Castillo asked.

"I figured the conference room," she said. "It's about as big as a basketball court, and there's already phones, etcetera. And, of course, a coffeemaker."

"Why don't you take Mr. Delchamps and Inspector Doherty in there and let them see it? I need a word with Major Miller and then we'll both have a look." "Well?" Castillo asked the moment the door had closed after Mr. Forbison and the others.

"I don't think Inspector Doherty likes you very much," Miller said.

"I don't give a damn whether he does or not. The question is, is he going to get on the phone the first time he has a chance? 'Hey, guys, you won't believe what this loose cannon Castillo is up to.'"

"I think I would trust him as far as you trust Yung."

"Going off at a tangent, Yung has now seen the light and is really on board."

"Did he see the light before or after these bastards tried to kill him?"

"Britton asked almost exactly the same question," Castillo said, chuckling.

"You know, great minds tread similar paths," Miller replied. "Well?"

"I heard about it after they tried to kidnap him," Castillo said. "But I have the feeling he'd made up his mind before."

"Your charismatic leadership?"

"I think it's more likely that he thought about what I said about spending the rest of his FBI career investigating parking meter fraud in South Dakota and realized that would happen anyway if he ever did get to go back the FBI. With going back then not an attractive option, working for us didn't seem so bad. I don't know. I'm not looking the gift horse in the mouth. Yung is smart and we need him."

"Before you sent him down south, you said you trusted him because he was moral," Miller said.

Castillo nodded. "And I think Doherty is moral. The difference between them is that Doherty's a heavy hitter in the bureau."

"But he knows (a) he's here because the President set it up and (b) that if anything leaks to the FBI and we hear about it, we'll know he's the leaker because he's the only FBI guy who's being clued in."

"Except Yung, of course," Castillo said. "What did you think of Edgar Delchamps?"

"I think he likes you," Miller said. "I think the reason he was really pissed-and really pissed he was-was because he thought his friend Castillo had stabbed him in the back."

"You think he still thinks that?"

"I think he's giving you a second chance," Miller said.

Castillo nodded. "I really like him. And a dinosaur like him is just what we need."

"I wonder how he and the inspector are going to get along?"

"Jesus, I didn't even think about that," Castillo said. "And there's one more guy coming. A heavy hitter from NSA. He won't work for us, but he will get us whatever we want from NSA."

"When's he coming?"

"He should be here now," Castillo said. "Let's go look at what Agnes has set up." The conference room wasn't nearly as large as a basketball court, as Agnes had described it, but it was enormous. There was an oval table with more than a dozen spaces around it, each furnished with a desk pad, a telephone, a small monitor, and a leather-upholstered armchair. And there was room for more. One narrow end of the room had a roll-down projection screen and flat-screen television monitors were mounted in a grid on the walls. Two wheel-mounted "blackboards"-the writing surfaces were actually blue and they came with yellow felt-tip markers instead of chalk-were against one wall, and there was room for a half dozen more.

"This place looks as if we're going to try to land someone on the moon," Miller quipped.

Castillo and Agnes chuckled.

Delchamps and Doherty didn't even smile.

"Colonel," Doherty asked, "are you open for suggestions on how to do this?"

"Your call, Inspector."

"Okay, first the basics. If this room hasn't been swept sweep it, and sweep it daily."

"NSA is supposed to send a man here to get us what we need from NSA," Castillo replied. "I presume that means technicians. That sound okay?"

Doherty nodded, then went on, "And seal this room. Never leave it empty, and make sure nobody gets in here who shouldn't be. If it gets so we can't walk through the clutter on the floor, we'll shut down for an hour or so, turn the blackboards around, and have it cleaned."

"Not a problem, Inspector," Agnes Forbison said.

"And speaking of blackboards," Doherty said, "two's not half enough. Get another four-better, six-in here."

"When do you want them?" Agnes said.

"Now."

"The first will be here in five minutes," Agnes said. "It'll probably take a couple of hours to get another five."

"The sooner, the better," Doherty said.

"What's with all the blackboards?" Castillo asked.

"Inspector Doherty shares with me," Delchamps said, "the philosophy that if you're going to use a computer, use the best one."

"What about computers, Agnes?" Castillo asked.

"I can set up pretty quickly whatever you and the inspector tell me you need."

"We are referring, Colonel," Delchamps said, "to the computers between our ears."

"Then you've lost everybody except you and the inspector," Castillo said.

"Computers, Colonel, are only as good as the data they contain," Doherty said. "You know what GIGO means?"

Castillo nodded. "Garbage in, garbage out."

"Right. So anything we put into our computers, the kind you plug in the wall-and I'll get with you shortly, Mr. Forbison, about what we're going to need: nothing fancy-has to be a fact, not a supposition, not a possibility. The possibilities and the suppositions and the theories go on the blackboards. With me so far?"

"I think I understand," Castillo said.

"We'll probably save time if you watch to see how it's done," Doherty said.

"Let's try that, then," Castillo said.

"Okay. Off the top of your head, Colonel, tell me the one name you think is at the center of your problem."

Castillo thought a moment, then said, "Jean-Paul Lorimer, aka Jean-Paul Bertrand…"

"Just one, just one," Doherty said. "How do you spell that?"

Doherty went to one of the blackboards and wrote JEAN-PAUL LORIMER in the center of it.

"This is the player's board," he said. "This guy had an alias?"

"Bertrand," Castillo said and spelled it for him.

On the board Doherty wrote AKA BERTRAND. he said, "We know that for sure? The names?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, when we get a typist and a computer in here we can start a file called 'Lorimer' and put those facts in it in a folder called 'Lorimer.' When do we get the typist and the computer?"

"Agnes?"

"You want to clear Juliet Knowles for this, Charley?"

"Okay, but her and a typist. You got somebody?"

Agnes nodded.

"Go get them, Agnes. Tell them what's involved."

"And start on the other blackboards," Doherty ordered. He turned to Castillo. "So what about this Lorimer? What do we know for sure?"

"For sure, that he's dead," Castillo said. "We also believe that he was the head bagman for the maggots involved in the Iraq oil-for-food scandal."

"Facts first. He's dead. When did he die? Where? What of?"

"He died at approximately 2125 hours 31 July at Estancia Shangri-La, Tacuarembo Province, Uruguay, of two 9mm gunshot wounds from a Madsen to the head."

"Okay, those are all facts, right?"

"Facts," Castillo confirmed.

"Okay," Doherty replied, matter-of-factly, showing no reaction at all to the manner of Lorimer's death, "that gives us the first facts in two new folders. One folder is the 'Time Line,' the other 'Events.' Spell all that for me, Colonel, please."

Ninety seconds later, after writing everything on the blackboard, Doherty said, "Okay. Who shot him and why?"

"We have only theories about why he was shot," Castillo said.

"Then get to them later. Who shot him?"

"There were six guys in their assault party…"

"Whose assault party?"

"We don't know. We have identified one of them positively as Major Alejandro Vincenzo of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia."

"Now, that's interesting," Doherty said. "Who's your source for those facts. How reliable is he?"

"I'm the source," Castillo said. "I was there."

"Why?"

"We were going to repatriate Lorimer."

"To where?"

"Here. He was an American who worked for the UN in Paris."

"How were you going to do that? And why?"

"We were going to snatch him, chopper him to Buenos Aires, load him on a Lear, and fly him here. To find out what we could from him about who might have murdered J. Winslow Masterson, who was his brother-in-law."

"Who's we? Who was there with you?"

Castillo hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and started to tell him. He stopped when a moment later Juliet Knowles and a pale-faced young woman who looked British came into the room, pushing a blackboard mounted on a wheeled frame. Mr. Forbison, carrying a laptop computer, was on their heels.

"Colonel Gregory J. Kilgore of NSA is here, chief," Agnes said as she put the computer on the conference table. "What do you want me to tell him?"

"I better see him," Castillo said. "This is going to take a little while to get organized anyhow." Colonel Kilgore was a tall, slender Signal Corps officer in a crisp uniform.

"Colonel Castillo?" he asked.

"I'm a brand-new lieutenant colonel and I don't wear my uniform around here, sir," Castillo said.

"Ambassador Montvale made it pretty clear, however, that you're the man in charge. What would you like me to call you?"

"How do you feel about first names? Mine is Charley."

"I'd be more comfortable with Mr.," Kilgore said.

"That's fine with me."

"What can NSA do for you, Mr. Castillo?"

"This is a covert and clandestine operation authorized by a Presidential Finding and the classification is Top Secret Presidential."

"Understood."

"I'm going to need some intercepts," Castillo said. "The priority is a wire transfer into the Merchants National Bank of Easton, Pennsylvania, from a numbered account in the Caledonian Bank and Trust Limited in the Cayman Islands. The amount was $1,950,000. What I need is who that Cayman account belongs to, what monies have been transferred into it, when and by whom."

"If NSA provided you with that information, it would be in violation of several sections of the United States Code, as I'm sure you're aware, and even if we gave it to you it could not be used as evidence in a court of law."

"Didn't Ambassador Montvale tell you, Colonel, that you are-NSA is-to give me whatever I asked for?"

Kilgore did not respond directly.

"Just a question to satisfy my curiosity, Mr. Castillo," he said. "If a messenger left an envelope here with only your name on it, would you get it? No matter the hour? Twenty-four/seven?"

"I would."

"And no one else?"

"No one not cleared for this operation," Castillo said.

"While of course we are both agreed that you would not ask NSA to provide intercepts of this nature if doing so would violate any part of the United States Code, and that even if you did NSA would not provide data of this nature to you under any circumstances…"

"I understand, Colonel."

"Speaking hypothetically, of course, if NSA happened to make an intercept of wire transfers into or out of, say, a foreign bank in Mexico, that's all it would have. The amount, the routing numbers, and the numbers of the accounts involved in both banks. There would be no way to identify the owners of the accounts by name."

You get me the numbers, Colonel Kilgore, and my man Yung will get me the names.

"Understood," Castillo said. "Speaking hypothetically, of course, how does this work?"

"I really don't know," Kilgore said, "but I've heard that what happens is that just about everything is recorded in real time and then run through a filter which identifies what someone is interested in. The more information that's available for the filter…bank routing numbers, the time period in which the data sought was probably being transmitted…"

Castillo took his laptop computer from under his desk, turned it on, and called up the data he'd gotten from Secret Service Agent Harry Larsen in Pennsylvania. He then turned the computer around so Kilgore could see it.

Kilgore studied it, nodded, and said, "Certainly I'll excuse you while you meet the call of nature, Mr. Castillo. I know how it is. When you've gotta go, you've gotta go. And while you're gone, I don't suppose there's a telephone, preferably a secure one, I could use? I'd like to check in with my secretary, let her know I'll be a little late getting to the office."

Castillo stood up.

"The red one's connected to the White House switchboard," he said and went into the private restroom off his office. Kilgore was sitting behind Castillo's desk when three minutes later-as timed by Castillo's watch-Castillo came out of the restroom.

"That's an interesting handset," Kilgore greeted him. "The small black one. It looks like something AFC would make."

"And so it is," Castillo said.

"You know much about AFC?" Kilgore asked.

"I even know Mr. Casey."

"Interesting man, isn't he? Among my other duties, I'm the liaison officer between NSA and his research facilities in Las Vegas."

"I've even been there."

"Well, that would explain, I suppose, why some people in Fort Meade are reporting a stream of gibberish coming out of here, absolutely unbreakable."

"Who in a position to use your services would be interested in anything coming out of here?"

"I wouldn't know, of course, but the agency is one possibility," Kilgore said.

"I suppose it would be," Castillo said.

"I once asked Mr. Casey about a rumor floating around that he'd given Delta Force-and only Delta Force-an encryption logarithm that was really something. He used to be a Green Beret. Did you know that?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Castillo said. "What did he say?"

"He said that when he was a Green Beret he was almost blown away several times because somebody with a big mouth had listened to things they didn't need to know and that he was trying to see that that no longer could happen. He said Special Forces was like the Marines. Once a Green Beanie, always a Green Beanie."

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

"You wouldn't happen to have a green beret in a closet somewhere, would you, Mr. Castillo?"

"A souvenir of happier times, Colonel," Castillo said.

Kilgore stood up.

"Well, it's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Castillo. I don't think we'll be seeing each other again. But on the other hand, you never know. We may bump into each other at an Association of USMA Graduates meeting and get to sing 'Army Blue' together."

"Thank you, sir," Castillo said.

"I left a number on your computer you can call if you need anything else," Kilgore said.

He shook Castillo's hand quickly but firmly and walked out of the office.

Castillo started to return to the conference room but Mr. Forbison put her head in the door.

"One more," she said. "This one says from the Secret Service."

That has to be Tom McGuire. Or maybe Joel Isaacson.

Castillo made a bring 'em on wave of his hand and went behind his desk, sat down, and started to shut down his laptop.

"Hello, Charley," Special Agent Elizabeth Schneider said from the office door.

Castillo was to remember later that his first reaction was, "Oh, shit, not now!"

He got some what awkwardly to his feet and was aware of his awkwardness.

"I thought you'd still be in the hospital," he said.

"I've been out for almost a week," she said. "I'm on what they call 'limited duty.'"

He looked at her carefully and noticed that although she appeared not to be a hundred percent-he thought he heard a catch to her speech, as if it was some what painful to speak-she was, by all appearances, well on the mend now, nearly three weeks after the ambush in Buenos Aires.

He then recalled from his experience in the first desert war and in Afghanistan that It was not uncommon for certain people to rebound some what quickly from trauma, particularly ones who had a young strong body on their side.

And Betty indeed had a young strong body.

Castillo crossed the room to her, thinking she expected to be kissed.

He put his hands on her arms and moved his face close.

She didn't seem at all eager for his kiss, much less the passionate embrace he thought was likely.

That's what's known as a "chaste kiss." As between aunt and dutiful nephew.

Oh, I know.

She's pissed. And has every right to be.

"Baby, I tried to call you. I wanted to call before I went to Paris. I couldn't. There just wasn't time."

I don't want to get into a long explanation of what happened that night, my promotion ceremony and the conversation with Montvale at the Army-Navy Club.

"Not a problem, Charley," Betty said.

She smiled some what awkwardly.

"Congratulations on your promotion."

"Thank you. Undeserved, but deeply appreciated nonetheless."

"If it was undeserved, they wouldn't have given it to you," Betty said.

"Well, I'm glad to see you," he said. "And, oh boy, did you arrive at the right time!"

"Excuse me?"

"You can type, right? We've got a…"

"Charley, I'm not going to work for you. Where'd you get that idea?"

"What's wrong with that idea?"

"A lot, starting with Joel's got me a probationary spot in the protection section."

"I'm not sure what that means."

"It means if I work out and once I get a clear physical, I can be permanently assigned to the protection section. That's what I want to do."

"And you don't want to work for me?"

"Be reasonable. That wouldn't work out and you know it."

"What if I promise to keep my hands off you during business hours and to call you Agent Schneider?"

Agent Schneider visibly did not find that amusing.

She sighed. "Charley, that wouldn't work. I had a lot of time to think and…Well, what happened, happened. But there's no future in it for either of us."

"We can just be friends, right?" he asked, sarcastically.

"Frankly, I don't even think that, Charley. I don't trust myself. Or maybe it's you. I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Have I just been told that I've been dumped? Just because I couldn't get on the horn to tell you I was going to Paris?"

"One of the things I thought of is how often is that going to happen with you? 'Sorry, Betty, the movie's off. I have to catch a plane to Timbuktu and I don't know when I'll be back.'"

"This is what I do for a living. You know that."

"I didn't realize what it meant. Now I know I couldn't live with a situation like that."

"Can we talk about this?" Castillo asked.

"Sure, after I get settled. But there's nothing to really talk about."

"Let's give it a shot. You never know. How do I get in touch with you?"

"When I leave here, I'm going over to Crystal City-near the Pentagon-where another agent is looking for a roommate."

"What's his name?"

Betty made a thin smile. "A female agent. If that works out, I'll call Mr. Forbison and give her the phone number."

Castillo nodded softly.

"Okay, Betty, you do that."

"Congratulations again on your promotion, Colonel," Betty said and offered her hand to shake.

He took it.

She shook it briefly, turned, and walked to the door.

There, she turned again and said, "Take care of yourself, Charley."

And then she was gone.

"Oh, shit," Castillo said, slowly.

He stared at the empty doorway, shook his head, then walked to the conference room.