Hunters

II

[ONE] The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 1825 1 August 2005 The President of the United States was behind his desk. Across the room, Ambassador Charles W. Montvale, the director of National Intelligence, was sitting next to Secretary of State Natalie Cohen on one of two facing couches. Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall was on the other couch.

Major C. G. Castillo, who was in civilian clothing, was nonetheless standing before the President's desk at a position close to a tease.

Or, Secretary Hall thought, like a kid standing in front of the headmaster's desk, waiting for the ax to fall.

For the past ten minutes, Castillo had been delivering his report of what had happened since he had last seen the President-aboard Air Force One in Biloxi, Mississippi-when the President had issued the Presidential Finding that had sent him first to Europe and ultimately to Estancia Shangri-La.

"And so we landed at MacDill, Mr. President," Castillo concluded, "where we turned over Sergeant Kranz's remains to Central Command, and then we came here. I took everyone involved to my apartment and told them nothing was to be said to anyone about anything until I had made my report, and that they were to remain there until I got back to them."

"Colonel Torine, too?" the President of the United States asked. "And your cousin, too? How did they respond to your placing them in what amounts to house arrest?"

"Colonel Torine knows how things are done, sir. I didn't order him…And Fernando, my cousin, understands the situation, sir."

"And that's about it, Castillo?" the President asked.

"Except for one thing, sir."

"Which is?"

"Howard Kennedy was at Jorge Newbery when I landed there from the estancia. Mr. Yung saw him."

"The FBI agent?"

"Who was there?" Ambassador Montvale asked.

"Howard Kennedy…" Castillo began.

"Who, it is alleged, is in the employ of Aleksandr Pevsner," the President said, drily.

"The Russian mobster?" Montvale asked, incredulously.

Both Castillo and the President nodded.

"I'm missing something here," Montvale said.

The President made a fill him in gesture with his hand to Castillo.

Secretaries Cohen and Hall, who knew the story, exchanged glances and quick smiles. Montvale wasn't going to like this.

"Sir, we have sort of reached an accommodation with Mr. Pevsner," Castillo began.

"'We'?" Montvale interrupted. "Who's 'we'? You and who else? 'Accommodation'? What kind of 'accommodation'?"

"'We' is Major Castillo and your President, Charles. Let Charley finish, please," the President said.

"He was very helpful in locating the stolen 727, Mr. Ambassador," Castillo said. An American-owned Boeing 727 had disappeared from Luanda, Angola, on 23 May 2005, and when what the President described as "our enormous and enormously expensive intelligence community" was unable to determine who had stolen it, or why, or where It was, the president had come close to losing his temper.

He had dispatched Castillo, who was then an executive assistant to the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, to Angola, his orders being simply to find out what the CIA and the FBI and the DIA and the State Department-and all the other members of the intelligence community-had come to know about the stolen airplane, and when they had come to know it, and to report back personally to him.

Castillo had instead gone far beyond the scope of his orders. He not only learned who had stolen the aircraft-an obscure group of Somalian terrorists-and what they planned to do with it-crash it into the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia-but he also had located the 727 in Costa Rica, where it was about to take off for Philadelphia. Castillo had-with the aid of a Delta Force team from Fort Bragg-stolen the aircraft back from the terrorists and, with Colonel Jake Torine in the pilot's seat, delivered it to MacDill Air Force Base.

This had endeared Castillo to the president but not to the CIA, the FBI, and the rest of the intelligence community, whose annoyance with him was directly proportional to the amount of egg the various directors felt they had on their faces. "That's the first time I heard that," Montvale said.

"What part of 'Let Charley finish' didn't you understand, Charles?"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. President," Montvale said.

"Let me take it, Charley," the President said. "Perhaps there will be fewer interruptions that way. In a nutshell, Charles, there is no legal action of any kind against this fellow underway in an American court. He made contact with Charley shortly after I gave Charley the job of finding out why no one else in our intelligence community could find it. He was very helpful. He wanted something in return."

"I'll bet," Montvale said.

"Pevsner told Charley he thought the agency-which had quietly contracted for his services over the years-was trying to arrange his arrest by one of the countries that hold warrants for his arrest so that he could be locked up and his CIA contracts would not come to light. He went so far as to say he thought the agency would like to terminate him with extreme prejudice. Now, I know we don't do that anymore, but the man was worried.

"As a small gesture of my appreciation, I authorized Charley to tell him that I had ordered the DCI and the director of the FBI-this is before you became director of National Intelligence-to cease all investigations they might have underway and to institute no new investigations without my specific permission. What Pevsner thought was happening was that the CIA was looking for him abroad and the FBI inside the United States. If they located him, they would either arrest him here on an Interpol warrant or furnish his location to one of the governments looking for him.

"Such stay-out-of-jail status to continue so long as Pevsner does not violate any law of the United States and with the unspoken understanding that he would continue to be helpful."

"And has this chap continued to be helpful?" Montvale asked.

"He got me access to the helicopter I used to fly to Estancia Shangri-La," Castillo said.

"He's in Argentina?"

"I don't know where Pevsner is at this moment," Castillo said. "I ran into Howard Kennedy in Buenos Aires and he arranged for the helicopter."

That's not an outright lie. I just twisted the truth. For all I know, Alek might be in Puente del Este, Uruguay, not in Argentina.

"And Kennedy is?"

"A former FBI agent who now works for Pevsner," the President said.

"And what was he doing in Argentina?"

"He accompanied a 767 loaded with objets d'art sent by the Saudi royal family from Riyadh for the King Fahd Islamic Cultural Center in Buenos Aires and took back to Riyadh a load of polo ponies and saddles and other polo accoutrements for the royal family," Castillo said.

"The airplane no doubt owned by Pevsner?" Montvale asked.

"Probably, sir. I didn't ask."

"And this Kennedy fellow just turned over a helicopter to you because you asked him? Is that what you're saying, Major Castillo?"

"I would bet that he did so with Mr. Pevsner's permission, sir, but I didn't ask about that, either."

"I must say, Mr. President, that I find this whole situation amazing."

"What is it they say, Charles, about politics making strange bedfellows?"

"I don't understand why this Kennedy fellow was concerned that the FBI agent saw him," Montvale said.

"Kennedy is obviously paranoid," the President said. "He thinks the FBI is still looking for him, despite my specific orders that the search be called off, and that if they find him they will terminate him."

"That's absurd!"

"Oh, I agree. For one thing, terminating him would be illegal," the President said.

"Why would they want to?"

"Well," Castillo said, "Kennedy thinks-he was a senior agent in the Ethical Standards Division of the FBI before he left-it's because he knows where all the FBI's skeletons are buried."

"Charley," the President said, "correct me if I'm wrong, but wouldn't the secrecy provisions of the Finding extend to anything connected with what you were doing down there? I mean, even to who any of your people saw anywhere?"

"I made that point to Mr. Yung, sir."

"Well, that should do it," the President said. "But since the subject came up, Charles, why don't you check with the CIA and the FBI to make sure they haven't forgotten my specific orders? If they have, I'd really like to hear about it."

"I can't believe they would ignore any presidential order, Mr. President."

"Check, Charles, please," the President said.

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Charley, I didn't hear you say whether you found anything useful at this fellow's estancia."

"Sir, we found an address book, a coded address book. Agent Yung said it looks to him like a fairly simple code and that it should be breakable."

"That's underway?"

"No, sir. I came right here from the hotel, sir. And…"

"And what?"

"And frankly, sir, I thought it would be better to see if I still have a job, before going over to Fort Meade to-"

The President cut him off with a raised hand. "All you found at the estancia was this address book?"

"No, sir. We found written confirmation of what Agent Yung believed was the money Mr. Lorimer had in Uruguayan banks."

"A good deal of money? More than he could reasonably have socked away for a rainy day?"

"Fifteen-point-seven million dollars, Mr. President."

"What sort of evidence?" Ambassador Montvale asked. "Bankbooks? Certificates of deposit? What?"

The President flashed Montvale a very cold look, then looked at Castillo.

"Sir, what Mr. Lorimer did was in effect loan the banks the money. What we took from the safe…I have them with me."

"You have what with you?" Montvale asked.

"Let me ask the questions, Charles, please," the President said and made a Give me whatever you have gesture to Castillo with both hands.

Castillo some what awkwardly took a handful of colorfully printed documents from his briefcase and handed them to the President.

The President glanced at them, then said, "You're the linguist, Charley. I have no idea what these say."

"Sir, they're certificates signed by officers of the banks involved, essentially stating that a payment on demand loan has been made by Mr. Lorimer to their bank and that the bank will honor-pay-these things, like checks, once Mr. Lorimer has endorsed them. Sort of like bearer bonds, Mr. President, but not exactly."

"And these are unsigned?"

"Yes, sir. Right now they're as good as an unsigned check," Castillo said.

"And we have no idea where-specifically, I mean-Lorimer got all that money, do we?" the secretary of state asked.

"No, ma'am," Castillo said. "I think-hell, I know-it's oil-for-food proceeds, but I can't prove it. What I was hoping was that we could tie it somehow to one of the names in the address book-assuming we can get that decoded-or to one or more of the names I got from another source."

"What other source?" Ambassador Montvale asked.

"I'd rather not say, Mr. Ambassador," Castillo said.

"I'm the director of National Intelligence," Montvale said, icily.

"And I think Charley knows that," the President said. "If he'd rather not say, I'm sure he has his reasons." He paused. "Which are, Charley?"

"Sir, I promised I would not reveal the identity of that source or share what he gave me without his permission."

"That's absurd!" Montvale snapped.

"I was hoping to get his permission," Castillo said. "Before I fucked up in Uruguay."

"You did say 'screwed up in Uruguay, ' didn't you?" the President asked.

"I beg your pardon," Castillo said. "I'm very sorry, Madam Secretary."

"I've heard the word before, Charley," Natalie Cohen said.

"Is that about it, Charley?" the President asked.

"Yes, sir. Except to say, Mr. President, how deeply I regret the loss of Sergeant Kranz and how deeply I regret having failed in the mission you assigned."

The President did not immediately respond. He looked into Castillo's eyes a moment as he considered that statement, then said, "How do you figure that you have failed, Charley?"

"Well, sir, the bottom line is that I am no closer to finding the people who murdered Mr. Masterson and Sergeant Markham and shot Agent Schneider than I was before I went looking for Mr. Lorimer. Mr. Lorimer is now dead and we'll never know what he might have told us if I hadn't botched his…"

Castillo's voice trailed off as he tried to find the right word.

"Repatriation?" the President offered.

"Yes, sir. And now Sergeant Kranz is dead. I failed you, sir."

"Charles," the President said, "what about the long-term damage resulting from Major Castillo's failure? Just off the top of your head?"

"Mr. President, I don't see it as a failure," Secretary Hall spoke up.

"The director of National Intelligence has the floor, Mr. Secretary. Pray let him continue," the President said, coldly.

"Actually, Mr. President, neither do I," Montvale said. "Actually, when I have a moment to think about it, quite the opposite."

"You heard him," the President pursued. "This man Lorimer is dead. We have no proof that Natalie can take to the UN that he was involved in the oil-for-food scandal or anything else. And Castillo himself admits that he's no closer to finding out who killed Masterson and the sergeant than he ever was. Isn't that failure?"

"Mr. President, if I may," Montvale said, cautiously. "Let me point out what I think the major-and that small, valiant band of men he had with him-has accomplished."

"What would that be?"

"If we accept the premise that Mr. Lorimer was involved in something sor-did, and the proof of that, I submit, is that he sequestered some"-Montvale looked to Castillo for help-"how many million dollars?"

"Fifteen-point-seven, sir," Castillo offered.

"…Some sixteen million U.S. dollars in Uruguay, and that parties unknown tracked him down to Uruguay and murdered him to keep him from talking. After they abducted Mr. Masterson and later murdered her husband."

"So what, Charles?" the President demanded.

"I don't seem to be expressing myself very well, Mr. President," Montvale said. "Let me put it this way: These people, whoever they are, now know we're onto them. They have no idea what the major may have learned before he went to South America. They have no idea how much Lorimer may have told him before they were able to murder him. If they hoped to obtain the contents of Lorimer's safe, they failed. And they don't know what it did or did not contain, so they will presume the worst, and that it is now in our possession. Or, possibly worse, in the possession of parties unknown. They sent their assassins in to murder Lorimer and what we-what the major and his band-gave them in return were six dead assassins and an empty safe. And now that we know we're onto them, God only knows how soon it will be before someone comes to us."

"And rats on the rats, you mean?" the President asked.

"Yes, sir, that's precisely what I mean. And I'm not talking only about identifying the Masterson murderers-I think it very likely that the major has already 'rendered them harmless'-but the people who ordered the murders. The masterminds of the oil-for-food scandal, those who have profited from it. Sir, in my judgment the major has not failed. He has rendered the country a great service and is to be commended."

"You ever hear, Charles, that great minds run in similar paths? I had just about come to the same conclusion. But one question, Charles, is what should we do about the sixteen million dollars in the banks in Uruguay? Tell the UN it's there and let them worry about getting it back?"

"Actually, sir, I had an off the top of my head thought about that money. According to the major, all it takes is Lorimer's signature on those documents, whatever they're called, that the major brought back from the hideaway to have that money transferred anywhere."

"But Lorimer's dead," the President said.

"They have some very talented people over in Langley, if the President gets my meaning."

"You mean, forge a dead man's signature and steal the money? For what purpose?"

"Mr. President, I admit that when I first learned what you were asking the major to do, I was something less than enthusiastic. But I was wrong and I admit it. A small unit like the major's can obviously be very valuable in this new world war. And if sixteen million dollars were available to it-sixteen million untraceable dollars…"

"I take your point, Charles," the President said. "But I'm going to ask you to stop thinking off the top of your head."

"Sir?"

"The next thing you're likely to suggest is that Charley-and that's his name, Charles, not 'the major'-move the Office of Organizational Analysis into the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. And that's not going to happen. Charley works for me, period. Not open for comment."

Secretary Hall had a sudden coughing spasm. His face grew red.

Ambassador Montvale did not seem to suspect that Secretary Hall might be concealing a hearty laugh.

"Natalie, do you have anything to say before I send Charley out of here to take, with my profound thanks, a little time off? After he lets everybody in his apartment go, of course."

"I was thinking about Ambassador Lorimer, sir. He's ill and it will devastate him to learn what his son has been up to."

Ambassador Philippe Lorimer, Jean-Paul Lorimer's father, had retired from the Foreign Service of the United States after a lengthy and distinguished career after suffering a series of progressively more life-threatening heart attacks.

"Jesus, I hadn't thought about that," the President said. "Charley, what about it?"

"Sir, Mr. Lorimer is missing in Paris," Charley said. "The man who died in Estancia Shangri-La was Jean-Paul Bertrand, a Lebanese. I don't think anyone will be anxious to reveal who Bertrand really was. And I don't think we have to or should."

"What about his sister?" Natalie Cohen asked. "Should she be told?"

"I think so, yes," Charley said. "I haven't thought this through, but I have been thinking that the one thing I could tell Mr. Masterson that would put her mind at rest about the threats to her children is that I know her brother is dead and, with his death, these bastards…excuse me…these bad guys have no more interest in her or her children."

"And if she asks how you know, under what circumstances?" the President asked.

"That's what I haven't thought through, sir."

"You don't want to tell her what a despicable sonofabitch he was, is that it?"

"I suspect she knows, sir. But it's classified Top Secret Presidential."

"Would anyone have objections to my authorizing Charley to deal with the Masterson family in any way he determines best, including the divulgence of classified material?"

"Splendid idea, Mr. President," Ambassador Montvale said.

"Do it soon, Charley. Please," Natalie Cohen said.

"Yes, ma'am."

The President stood up and came around the desk and offered Castillo his hand.

"Thank you, Charley. Good job. Go home and get some rest. And then think where you can discreetly hide sixteen million dollars until you need it." [TWO] Room 404 The Mayflower Hotel 1127 Connecticut Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 2015 1 August 2005 When Major C. G. Castillo pushed open the door to his apartment-the hotel referred to room 404 as an "Executive Suite"; it consisted of a living room, a large bedroom, a small dining room, and a second bedroom-he found Colonel Jacob Torine sprawled on one of the couches watching The O'Reilly Factor on the FOX News Channel. Torine's feet were on the coffee table and his right hand was wrapped around a Heineken beer bottle, which rested on his chest.

Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, sat beside him, feet on the floor, holding a half-empty bottle of Coca-Cola. He was puffing on a large dark brown cigar.

Well, I may not get cashiered, Castillo thought. But if somebody sees him with that cigar, I'll certainly be charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

The obvious source of Bradley's cigar, Fernando Lopez, sat puffing on its twin across a chessboard from Special Agent David W. Yung, Jr., of the FBI. Special Agent Jack Britton of the Secret Service watched them with amused interest; it looked to him as if the kid was clobbering Lopez.

Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., in civilian clothing, sat in an armchair. His left leg, heavily bandaged, rested on the coffee table. Miller and Castillo had been classmates and roommates at West Point. They had served together several times during their careers, most recently with the "Night Stalkers," more formally known as the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment.

Everybody turned to look at Castillo.

"What happened to your cast?" Castillo asked, looking at Miller.

"They took pity on me and sawed it off. I am now down to two miles of rubberized gauze," Miller said.

"And how's the knee?"

"Time will tell," Miller said, disgustedly, then asked, "Well, how did it go with the President?"

"Well, I don't think we'll all wind up in Alaska counting snowballs," Castillo announced.

"You really didn't think something like that was going to happen, did you, Charley?" Torine asked.

"Actually, I bear a message from the commander in chief," Castillo said. "Quote, Good job. Thank you, End quote."

"What did you expect, Charley?" Torine pursued.

"We lost Kranz and they blew Lorimer away before we could talk to him," Castillo said. "How does that add up to a 'good job'?"

"You found the sonofabitch," Miller said. "And, in doing so, removed the threat to the Mastersons. That's a good job, Charley. In my book or anybody else's."

"Can Britton and I go home now, Gringo?" Fernando asked. "To try to salvage what we can from the ashes of our marriages?"

"Is that all the President had to say?" Torine asked.

"Montvale was there," Castillo said.

"And?"

"Hall and Natalie Cohen," Castillo said.

"How effusive was the ambassador in his praise for our little undertaking?" Torine said.

Castillo chuckled. "Actually, he called you-us-'the major and his small, valiant band of men.'"

"No kidding?" Torine said. "Well, I can live with that."

"He actually tried to take us-the Office of Organizational Analysis-over."

"Oh, shit!" Torine said.

"He didn't get away with it," Castillo said. "The President cut him off in midsentence."

"Leaving us where?" Miller asked.

"We're still in business," Castillo said. "The President was very clear about that." He looked at Miller. "Colonel Torine's brought you up to speed on everything, right, Dick?"

Miller nodded.

"David, we have something with Lorimer's signature on it, don't we?" Castillo asked.

Yung nodded.

"Well, as soon as possible, take it over to Langley," Castillo said. "That means right now. Something with Lorimer's signature on it, and the bearer bonds or whatever the hell they're called."

"Why?" Yung asked.

"So the agency's finest forgers can put Lorimer's signature on the bearer bonds and we can grab the money. It's now our operating budget."

"Lovely idea," Torine said. "Fifteen-point-seven million is a nice little operating budget. But what are you going to do when Montvale finds out about it? And he will."

"Actually, it was his idea," Castillo said. "Admittedly while he was still thinking he could bring us under his benevolent wing."

"Where am I supposed to put it?" Yung said.

"Good question," Castillo said.

"I've got an account in the Cayman Islands," Yung said. "At the Liechtensteinische Landesbank."

"You've got what?" Castillo asked, incredulously. "A pillar of the FBI, an expert in uncovering money laundering, and you're hiding your own money from the IRS in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank in the Cayman Islands?"

Yung was not amused.

"It was an investigative tool, Major," he said. "I opened the account both to see how that could be done and so that I could be kept abreast of any changes in their banking laws. As a depositor, I could ask questions that I could not ask otherwise."

"That's even better," Castillo said, delightedly. "The FBI has money in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank in the Caymans. Is nothing sacred anymore?"

"What the hell is that?" Britton asked. "Lickten-what?"

"Liechtenstein is a little country-run by a prince-about twenty miles long and five miles wide between Switzerland and Austria," Castillo said. "Landesbank means 'state bank.' The Liechtensteiners make their money growing cows and banking other people's money."

"Actually, the funds in the bank are mine," Yung said. "Using my own money to open the account was easier than trying to get permission-and, of course, the money itself-from the FBI."

"And how much of your own money are you sequestering in your Liechtensteinische Landesbank account?"

"Twenty-five hundred dollars."

"How hard is it to open an account?" Castillo asked.

"Actually, it's quite simple. All they ask is a reference from your home banker and a cashier's check or a wire deposit. They won't take cash deposits," Yung answered.

"Well, then, that's what we'll do. But I want to get that money out of Uruguay before they find out Lorimer is dead."

"Bertrand," Yung corrected him. "The funds are in Bertrand's name."

"Okay. Bertrand," Castillo said. "Are any questions going to be asked when your secret little account suddenly grows by fifteen-point-seven million?"

"I'm not sure I want to do that," Yung said.

"Answer the question," Castillo said. "Is that going to make waves?"

"No questions are ever asked and they have stricter bank secrecy laws than even Switzerland. But, for the obvious reasons, I am uncomfortable transferring Bertrand's funds into my account."

"Then why did you tell us about your account?" Torine asked with a tone of impatience in his voice.

"I was going to suggest that you look into opening an account there. What Castillo's asking me to do is commit a felony. I'm an FBI agent, dammit!"

"Jesus H. Christ!" Torine said. "FBI rule number one: Always cover your ass. Right?"

"What I'm ordering you to do is carry out an order of the President of the United States," Castillo said.

"I don't believe you have the legal authority to give me an order. I'm in the FBI. I don't work for you."

Torine started to say something, then changed his mind and looked at Castillo.

Castillo said, "I suppose that's true, that you don't work for me. Right now, I guess your status is volunteer."

"Major, I thought-still think-you were doing the right thing when you staged that operation to kidnap Lorimer from Estancia Shangri-La. That's why I went with you. But that's not going to go over well at the J. Edgar Hoover Building when they hear about it. The FBI is supposed to investigate kidnappings, not participate in them."

"And you don't want to endanger your FBI career any more than you already have?" Torine asked, sarcastically.

Yung considered that and then nodded.

"Yung," Torine said, evenly, "if you're even thinking of running over to the J. Edgar Hoover Building and repeating even one word of this conversation or one detail of the operation we have just been on into some sympathetic FBI inspector's ear, I suggest you think again. That would constitute the divulgence of material classified Top Secret Presidential to persons not authorized access to such material. And that is a felony."

Castillo added, "And that includes telling anybody you bumped into Howard Kennedy in Buenos Aires."

Yung looked at him coldly.

"Let me be brutal," Castillo said. "Supposing you went to the FBI and confessed all and it was decided for a number of reasons not to try you for unauthorized disclosure, are you really naive enough to think you'd be welcomed back like the prodigal son? Or is it more likely that you'd spend the rest of your FBI career investigating parking ticket corruption in Sioux Falls, South Dakota?"

The look on Yung's face showed that Castillo had struck home.

"Right now, the question seems to be that you don't think I have the authority to give you orders. Is that right?"

"I don't believe you have that legal authority," Yung said.

"What if I got it? Would that change things?"

"How could you do that?"

Castillo sat down on the couch next to Corporal Lester Bradley and picked up the telephone. He punched in a number from memory.

"This is C. G. Castillo," he announced a moment later. "Is Secretary Hall still with the President?

"Can you get him for me, please?

"Charley, sir. Sorry to interrupt.

"Yung would feel more comfortable dealing with that banking business we discussed earlier if he was assigned to the Office of Organizational Analysis and therefore under my orders. Is that going to be a problem?

"The sooner the better, sir. By the time the banks open in the morning. Tonight would be even better.

"He'll be with Miller. Here in my apartment, sir.

"Yes, sir."

There was a sixty-second period of silence.

"Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.

"No, sir. I'm going to go to Philadelphia and then to Biloxi. Maybe still tonight if there's a way to get from Philadelphia to Biloxi. In any event, as soon as I can, sir.

"Yes, sir. I'll let you and Secretary Cohen know how that went as soon as I can.

"Yes, sir, I will. Thank you very much, sir."

Castillo put the handset back in the cradle and looked at Yung.

"Secretary Hall tells me the President has put in a call to the director of the FBI. When he gets him, or his deputy, he will order that you be placed on duty with the Office of Organizational Analysis. Either the director or his deputy will call you here and tell you that. That will place you under my orders. Any questions?"

Yung shook his head.

"Let me take this opportunity to welcome you to the Office of Organizational Analysis, Mr. Yung," Castillo said, mock portentously. "We hope your career with us will last as long as the organization itself-in other words, maybe for the next two or three weeks."

Torine laughed. Others chuckled.

A smile-small but unmistakable-crossed Yung's lips.

"Just as soon as I can-within a day or two-I will open another account in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank," Castillo said. "We'll get the money out of your account as soon as possible."

Yung nodded.

"You ever been to Langley, Yung?" Miller asked.

Yung shook his head.

"I'll take you over there," Miller said and then had a second thought: "Better yet, Charley, Tom McGuire knows his way around there better than I do."

"You know where to find him?"

Miller nodded.

"Ask him to do that, please," Castillo said. "How hard is it going to be to get Vic D'Allessando on the horn?"

Miller held out a cellular telephone. Castillo went and took it from him.

"Autodial seven," Miller said.

"I don't know when I'll be able to get to Biloxi," Castillo explained. "But I want to see Vic before I see the Mastersons."

"It'll probably be in the very wee hours when we get there," Fernando said. "But if you go with me, I'll bet you'll get there sooner than if you went commercial."

"I want to go to Philadelphia first," Castillo said.

"So does Jack," Fernando said. "Jack's wife is with her mother in Philly. The planned itinerary is Reagan to Philly. Then, after you see your lady friend, Philly to Charleston, where we drop the colonel off. Then Charleston to San Antone. No problem to drop you off in Biloxi."

"You're going to Charleston by way of Philadelphia?" Castillo asked Torine. "You can't catch a plane from here?"

"The oldest member of this small, valiant band of men," Torine said, "having just returned from a tour of the world, is in no condition to pass through airport security, especially in possession of an Uzi and a case of untaxed brandy that I don't want to have to try to explain."

Castillo chuckled. "Untaxed brandy?"

"Fernando told me you had bought your grandmother a case of Argentine brandy at twelve bucks a bottle. I figured if it was good enough for your grandmother, it would be a suitable expression of my affection for my wife."

"It's really good brandy," Castillo said. "And, best of all, it's not French."

"It's a sad world, Charley, where boycotting the products of those who have screwed you interferes with your drinking habits, but that's the way it is."

Castillo chuckled.

"Okay, let's get this show on the road. While I call D'Allessando, somebody call the doorman and have him get us a couple of cabs."

"There's a big Yukon stationed at the National Geographic exit," Miller said. "And since I'm not going anywhere, you can use that."

"Great," Castillo said.

"Sir, what about me?" Corporal Lester Bradley asked. Castillo looked at him a long moment before replying. "You better come with me, Bradley," he said, finally. "Sir, may I ask what I'm going to be doing?"

"You can ask, but I can't tell you because I haven't figured that out yet." [THREE] The Belle Vista Casino and Resort U.S. Highway 90 ("The Magic Mile") Biloxi, Mississippi 0405 2 August 2005 Inside the resort, as C. G. Castillo and Lester Bradley, in civilian clothing, approached the main entrance of the casino, a burly "host" came out from behind a small stand-up desk and not very politely asked Bradley how old he was and then, when told, shook his head and said he couldn't go in.

"Wait right here, Bradley," Castillo ordered. "I'll be right out."

"Yes, sir."

Castillo entered the casino and walked past rows of slot machines, at which maybe a quarter of them sat gamblers, most of them middle-aged and elderly women. Beyond the slot machines was an arch with a flashing GAMING sign on it. Castillo walked under it and found himself in a huge area filled with tables for the playing of blackjack, craps, and roulette.

Perhaps a third of them were in use. He saw Vic D'Allessando's totally bald head at one of the blackjack tables deep in the room. He walked toward the table and stopped six feet from it.

There was a sign on the table indicating the minimum bet was ten dollars. There were five stacks of chips in front of D'Allessando. He tapped them steadily with the fingers of his left hand as he watched the dealer deal.

Even if they were all ten-dollar chips-and they're obviously not, since each stack is a different color, which means they're worth even more-Vic is into this game big-time.

He watched a little longer, saw that Vic was playing two cards at a time, and then walked up behind him. D'Allessando sensed his presence and turned to see who was behind him. He gave no sign of recognition.

The dealer busted and passed out chips to both of the cards D'Allessando was playing.

"That'll do it," D'Allessando said, then slid a tip of two chips to the dealer and started to gather up the remainder of his chips. The dealer slid a rack to him.

"Thanks," D'Allessando said and put the chips in the rack.

"Oh, goody," Castillo said. "I brought you luck."

D'Allessando snorted. He arranged the chips in the rack and stood up. He was a short man whose barrel chest and upper arms strained his shirt.

"Cashier's over there," D'Allessando said, indicating the direction with a nod of his head.

On his retirement from twenty-four years of service-twenty-two of it in Special Forces-CWO5 Victor D'Allessando had gone to work for the Special Operations Command as a Department of the Army civilian. Theoretically, he was a technical advisor to the commanding general of the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg. What he actually did for the Special Operations Command was classified.

At the cashier's window, a peroxide blonde in her fifties counted the chips, then asked if D'Allessando wanted his winnings as a check.

"Cash will do nicely, thank you," D'Allessando said.

The peroxide blonde began to lay crisp new one-hundred-dollar bills in stacks, ten bills to a stack. There were four stacks. Then she started a fifth stack with fifties, twenties, a ten, and, finally, a five.

"Jesus Christ, Vic!" Castillo said. "You had a good night."

D'Allessando grunted again, stuffed the money in the inside pocket of his lemon-colored sports coat, and started for the door. Castillo followed him.

D'Allessando made a Give it to me gesture to the host, who had refused to let Bradley into the casino. The host unlocked a small drawer in the stand-up desk and tried to discreetly hand D'Allessando a Colt General Officers model.45 ACP semiautomatic pistol. The discretion failed. D'Allessando hoisted the skirt of his sports coat and slipped the pistol into a skeleton holster over his right hip pocket.

"They won't let you carry a weapon in there," D'Allessando said. "I guess losers have been known to pop the dealers."

Castillo chuckled. The host was not amused.

"Elevator's over there," D'Allessando said, again nodding to show the direction.

"I know."

"Oh, yeah. Masterson said you'd been here."

"You get to talk to him?" Castillo asked as they walked and Bradley followed.

"He'll be here at eight for breakfast."

When they reached the bank of elevators, D'Allessando took a plastic card key from his jacket pocket and swiped it through a reader. The elevator door opened. D'Allessando waved Castillo into it. Bradley started to get on.

"Sorry, my friend," D'Allessando said, "this elevator is reserved for big-time losers."

"He's with me," Castillo said.

D'Allessando shrugged and stepped out of the way.

When the door closed, Castillo said, "Bradley, this is Mr. D'Allessando. Vic, this is Corporal Lester Bradley. He's a Marine."

"You're in bad company, kid," D'Allessando said. "Watch yourself."

"He's a friend of mine, Vic."

"Even worse."

The elevator stopped and D'Allessando swiped the plastic key again. The door opened.

"Welcome to Penthouse C," D'Allessando said.

"Wow!" Bradley exclaimed.

They were in an elegantly furnished suite of rooms. Two walls of the main room were plate glass, offering a view of what was now an intermittent stream of red lights going west on U.S. 90, white lights going east. In the daylight, the view would be of the sugar white sand beaches and emerald salt water of the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

"My sentiments exactly, Bradley," Castillo said.

"You want a drink, Charley?" D'Allessando asked.

"At four o'clock in the morning?"

"It would not be your first drink at four in the morning," D'Allessando said.

"True," Castillo said. "What the hell, why not? There's wine?"

"There's a whole bin full of it behind the bar," D'Allessando said.

"You want something to drink, Bradley?" Castillo asked.

"I'm a little hungry, sir," Bradley said.

"So'm I," Castillo said. "There's round-the-clock room service, right, Vic?"

"Indeed."

Castillo picked up the telephone and punched a button on the base.

"What kind of steak can I have at this unholy hour?" he said into the phone.

He was told.

"New York strip sounds fine."

Castillo looked at Bradley, who smiled and nodded, and then at D'Allessando, who said, "Why not? I can think of it as breakfast. Get mine with eggs."

"Three New York strips, medium rare. With fried eggs. Either home fries or French fries. And whatever else seems appropriate for two starving men and an old fat Italian who really shouldn't be eating at all."

D'Allessando gave him the finger as he hung up the phone.

"So tell me, Marine," D'Allessando said to Bradley, "how did this evil man worm his way into your life?"

"He saved my life, Vic," Castillo said.

D'Allessando looked at Bradley.

"Not to worry," he said. "You're a young man. In time, you'll be forgiven."

Castillo shook his head.

"You going to have a drink before or after you tell me what's going on, Charley?"

"Yes," Castillo said and went behind the bar in search of wine.

"If you promise not to tell your mother, Marine, you may also have a little taste," D'Allessando said.

"Leave him alone, Vic," Castillo said. "I wasn't kidding when I said he's a friend of mine."

"You also said he saved your life," D'Allessando said.

"He did."

"And how-not to get into 'Why in the name of all the saints?'-did he do that?"

"He took out two bad guys who were shooting submachine guns at me. With two headshots."

"I have this very odd feeling that you're not pulling my chain," D'Allessando said. "Forgive me, son, if I say you do not look much like the ferocious jarhead of fame and legend."

"Says the Special Operations poster boy," Castillo said.

"You always have had a cruel streak in you, Carlos," D'Allessando lisped as he put his hand on his hip.

Bradley chuckled.

"I have an idea, Charley," D'Allessando said. "Take it from the top."

Castillo held up a wineglass to Bradley.

"No, thank you, sir. Is there any beer?"

"Half a dozen kinds. Come over here and help yourself."

"And while you're doing that, Major Castillo is going to take it from the top."

"Okay," Castillo said. "Vic, this is Top Secret Presidential."

"Okay," D'Allessando said, now very seriously.

"You remember I told you here that Masterson had been whacked to make the point to his wife that these bastards were willing to kill to get to her brother?"

D'Allessando nodded. "The UN guy in Paris."

Castillo nodded. "What I didn't tell you is that there is a Presidential Finding, in which an organization called the Office of Organizational Analysis is founded-"

"C and c?" D'Allessando interrupted.

Castillo nodded.

"Covert and clandestine," he went on, "and charged with, quote, rendering harmless, end quote, those responsible for whacking Masterson, Sergeant Markham, kidnapping Mr. Masterson, and wounding Special Agent Schneider."

"I figured there was something like that in the woodpile," D'Allessando said. "Who's running that?"

"I am."

D'Allessando considered that and nodded, then asked, "And you found out who these people are, huh?"

"I don't have a clue who they are."

"You're losing me, Charley."

"I figured the best way to find these people was to find Lorimer first. So we went looking for him. We found him in Uruguay."

"Uruguay?"

"Uruguay," Castillo confirmed. "We also found out that Mr. Lorimer was the bagman-the bagman-for the guys who got rich on the Iraqi oil-for-food scam. He knew who got how much, and what for."

"And they wanted to silence him," D'Allessando said. "But what's with Uruguay?"

"Uruguay and Argentina are now the safe havens of choice for ill-gotten gains."

"I knew Argentina and Paraguay, but this is the first I've heard about Uruguay."

"I really don't know what I'm talking about here, Vic. I always heard Argentina and Paraguay, too. But Uruguay is where we found Lorimer. He had a new identity-Jean-Paul Bertrand-a Lebanese passport, a Uruguayan residence permit, and an estancia. Everybody thought he was in the antiquities business."

"Clever," D'Allessando said.

"He also ripped off nearly sixteen million from these people."

"You never said who these people are."

"I don't have a fucking clue, Vic," Castillo said. "Anyway, once we found Lorimer I staged an operation to repatriate him."

"McNab sent people down there? I didn't hear anything about that. Who'd he send?"

"He didn't send anybody. I didn't have time to wait for anybody from the stockade. I went with what I had."

"Which was?"

"Kranz and Kensington were already down there, as communicators. So I used them. Plus two Secret Service guys, a DEA agent, an FBI agent, and Bradley."

D'Allessando pointed at Bradley, who was now sucking at the neck of a Coors beer bottle, and raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah. That Bradley," Castillo said and then went on: "The CIA station chiefs in Buenos Aires helped and I had an Argentine-ex-SIDE-with me. I thought it was, do it right then or don't do it all. If I could find Lorimer, so could the bad guys."

"Yeah. So what were you going to do with Lorimer when you found him?"

"Get him to the States."

"How?"

"I had the Lear-you saw it here?"

"You took that to South America?"

"By way of Europe," Castillo said.

"Across the Atlantic twice?" D'Allessando asked, incredulously.

"That was interesting," Castillo said. "But Jake Torine said we could do it and we did. I borrowed a JetRanger in Uruguay…"

"The last time you 'borrowed' a helicopter, you nearly went to Leavenworth," D'Allessando said. "Is Interpol looking for you, Charley?"

"No. I really borrowed this one from a friend."

"And he will keep his mouth shut when people start asking him questions?"

"It's in his interest to keep his mouth shut."

D'Allessando shrugged, suggesting he hoped this would be the case but didn't think so.

"The plan was to snatch Lorimer at his estancia, chopper him, nap of the earth, to Buenos Aires, put him on the Lear, and bring him to the States. The ex-SIDE guy had arranged for us get the Lear out of Argentina without questions being asked."

"But something went wrong, right? The best-laid plans of mice and special operators, etcetera?"

"We had just gotten him to open his safe when somebody stuck a Madsen through the window and let loose. Lorimer took two hits to the head and the SIDE guy took one in the arm. And then Bradley took the shooter out with a head shot from Kranz's Remington and then took out the shooter's pal. Both head shots. He saved my ass, Vic."

D'Allessando looked at Bradley.

"Consider all my kind thoughts about your touching innocence withdrawn," he said.

"Just doing my job, sir," Corporal Bradley said.

D'Allessando's eyebrow rose but he didn't say anything.

"And when Bradley was popping these people with Seymour's rifle, where was Seymour?"

"Getting himself garroted," Castillo said, softly.

"No shit? How the hell did that happen? Kranz was no amateur."

"Neither, obviously, were the bad guys. It was a stainless steel garrote, with handles."

"Well, who the hell were they?"

"I don't know, Vic. There ensued a brief exchange of small-arms fire, during which three more of the bad guys met their fate. Kensington found the last of them, number six, lying on the ground near Kranz. Seymour had gotten a knife into him before going down."

"And Kensington finished him off?"

Castillo nodded.

"Understandable-those two went way back together-but inexcusable. He should have remembered that dead people don't talk much."

"I mentioned that to him," Castillo said.

"So you hauled your ass out of wherever you were?"

"After Kensington took a 9mm bullet out of the ex-SIDE guy."

"And what was in the a safe?"

"An address book and withdrawal slips for the money Lorimer had squirreled away in Uruguayan banks."

"You got the money? What did you say, sixteen million?"

"I think we should have it first thing in the morning."

"And what's in the address book?"

"It's in code. It'll be at Fort Meade at eight this morning. When they do their thing, I'll be able to have a good look. Anyway, we got the hell out of there and the hell out of South America."

"Seymour? You didn't leave him there?"

"We left Lorimer and the six bad guys there-no identification on any of them-and dropped Kranz off at MacDill on the way to Washington."

"And then you came here. Why?"

"I wanted your opinion, Vic."

"Well, that's a first."

"Mr. Masterson told me the bad guys wanted Lorimer and that was why they executed Masterson, to make the point they were willing to kill to find him. Well, he's been found. The bad guys are going to hear that he's dead. Does that remove the threat from the Masterson family?"

"Unless the bad guys really want their sixteen million back."

"We don't know that it's the bad guys' sixteen million. Or that they know we have it. They may have been after Lorimer just to shut him up…"

"Or both," D'Allessando said. "Whack him and get their money back."

"Or both," Castillo admitted. "Anything happen here to suggest they're watching her?"

"Not a thing. We have taps on all the phones, including the cellulars. Nothing. And no tourists at the plantation, either."

"I'd like to tell her I think the threat is gone."

"And I'd like to take my guys back to the stockade," D'Allessando said. "They're getting a little antsy. I didn't tell them why they're here, and they're starting to think of themselves as babysitters. Thank God the widow-and Masterson's father-are such good people."

What had once been the military prison-the stockade-at Fort Bragg now held the barracks and headquarters of Delta Force, the elite, immediate-response Special Forces unit. The same barbed wire that had kept prisoners in now kept people without the proper clearances out.

"How're you doing with people from China Post?"

Many former Special Forces soldiers, Marine Force Recon, Navy SEALs, Air Commandos, and other warriors of this ilk belong to China Post 1 in exile (from Shanghai) of the American Legion. Those wishing to employ this sort of people in a civilian capacity often have luck finding just what they want at "China Post."

"I guess you know General McNab called them?"

Castillo nodded. "He told me he was going to."

"That helped. I've got eight guys, good guys-I guess they're getting a little tired of commuting to Iraq and Afghanistan-lined up. They're going to be expensive, but Masterson said that wasn't a problem."

"It's not. How soon can they be up and running?"

"Forty-eight hours, tops, and they'll be on the job."

"I want to run this whole thing past Masterson-and the widow-but I don't think they'll object. How about first thing in the morning getting that going?"

"This is first thing in the morning."

Castillo looked at his watch. "Half past four, which means it's half past ten in Germany. Which brings me to this."

He walked to the bar, picked up a telephone, and punched in a long series of numbers from memory. [FOUR] Executive Offices Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H. Fulda, Hesse, Germany 1029 2 August 2005 Frau Gertrud Schroder, a stocky sixty-year-old who wore her blond hair in a bun, put her head in the office door of Otto Gorner, the managing director of Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H. She had on a wireless headset.

"Karlchen is favoring you with a call," she announced, her hand covering the microphone.

"How kind of him," Gorner replied. He was a well-tailored sixty-year-old Hessian whose bulk and red cheeks made him look like a postcard Bavarian. As he reached for one of the telephones on his desk, he added, "Well, at least he's alive."

Frau Schroder walked to the desk and Gorner waved her into a chair opposite him.

"And how are things in South America?" Gorner said into the handset.

"I have no idea, I'm in Mississippi. And I'm fine. Thank you for asking."

"May I ask what you're doing in Mississippi?"

"I'm in Penthouse C of the Belle Vista Casino in Biloxi about to have steak and eggs for breakfast."

"Why do I suspect that for once you're telling me the truth?"

"But speaking of South America, you might take a look at the Reuters and AP wires from Uruguay starting about now."

"Really?"

"I think both you and Eric Kocian might be interested in what might come over the wire."

"Well, I'll keep an eye out, if you say so."

"It might be a good idea."

"Is that why you called, Karl, or is there something else on your mind?"

"Actually, there is. How much trouble would it be for Frau Schroder to open a bank account for me in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank in the Cayman Islands?"

"Why would you want to do something like that?"

"And put, say, ten thousand euros in it?"

"Why would you want to do something like that?" Gorner asked again.

"I've always been frugal. You know that, Otto. 'A penny saved,' as Benjamin Franklin said, 'is a penny earned.'"

"Gott!"

Frau Schroder shook her head and smiled. Gorner gave her a dirty look.

"And tell them to expect a rather large transfer of funds into the account in the next few days, please," Castillo said.

"I really hate to ask this question, but didn't you just say you're in the penthouse of a casino?"

"In the Belle Vista Casino."

"And did you put the penthouse on the Tages Zeitung's American Express card?"

"No. Actually, I'm staying here free."

"How much did you lose to get them to give you a free room? A penthouse suite?"

"Why do you think I lost?"

Gorner exhaled audibly.

"When do you want this bank account opened?"

"How about today?"

"If you're telling the truth-and I would be surprised if you are-and you're trying to hide money from the IRS, you're probably going to get caught."

"Thank you for your concern. Just have Frau Schroder open the account and e-mail me the number so I can make a deposit. I'll worry about getting the money out later."

"All right, Karl. But I wish I really knew what you're up to this time."

"I'll tell you the next time I see you."

"And when will that be?"

"Maybe soon. I'm going from here to see my grandmother and then I'll probably come over there."

"I hope I can believe that."

"Tell Frau Schroder thanks, Otto. I've got to run."

The line went dead.

Gorner put the handset in the cradle and Frau Schroder took off her headset.

"I wonder what that's all about?" he asked.

"Gambling? I never knew of his gambling."

"Not with money," Gorner said. "The last I heard, when he was in Budapest with Eric and me, he was going-they were all going-to Argentina."

"I wonder what we're supposed to find on the South American wires?"

"He said 'Uruguay' wires."

"I wonder what we're supposed to find on the 'Uruguay' wires?"

Gorner shrugged.

"Is there going to be any trouble with opening that account? Don't we have some money in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank?"

"Quite a bit, actually," she said. "I'll send them a wire and have them open an account for him. Shouldn't be any trouble at all." She paused. "The question is, though, in whose name do I open it?"

"I think we're supposed to cleverly deduce who he is right now."

"Shall I try to get him back and ask him?"

Gorner thought that over for a moment and then said, "No. Open it for Karl W. Gossinger. That'll raise fewer questions than if we opened it for Carlos Castillo." [FIVE] Penthouse C The Belle Vista Casino and Resort U.S. Highway 90 ("The Magic Mile") Biloxi, Mississippi 0835 2 August 2005 Vic D'Allessando, smiling and shaking his head, pointed to Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, who was sitting sound asleep in an armchair.

Castillo smiled and then motioned for D'Allessando to go into the bedroom. He followed him in and closed the door.

"Jesus Christ, he's just a kid," D'Allessando said. "You going to tell me what he's doing here?"

"I didn't know what else to do with him," Castillo said.

"Meaning?"

"He's seen too much, he's heard too much, he's done too much. He's either eighteen or nineteen and I wonder if he can keep his mouth shut."

"Oh," D'Allessando said.

"I couldn't leave him in Buenos Aires," Castillo went on. "He's in the Marine Guard detachment at the embassy. I think he was the clerk. The detachment is run by a gunnery sergeant-good guy-but a gunnery sergeant who's going to ask, the moment he sees him, 'Lester, my boy, where have you been and what have you been doing?'"

"Yeah," D'Allessando agreed.

"As a rule of thumb, Marine corporals, when a gunny asks a question, answer it," Castillo said.

"Even if some Army major has told them to keep their mouth shut," D'Allessando said. "And since you can't have the gunny knowing what went down… You have a problem, Charley."

"Yeah, compounded by the fact that Bradley not only saved my bacon but I really like him."

"Isn't his gunny going to wonder where the hell he is?"

"I told Alex Darby to tell the ambassador I exfiltrated Bradley with us. That'll hold off the gunny for a couple of days, but even if the ambassador and Darby tell the gunny not to get curious he will."

"So get him out from under the gunny. Get him transferred out. Can you do that?"

"Get him transferred where? 'Welcome to Camp Lejeune, Corporal Bradley. Where have you been, what have you been doing, and why have you suddenly been transferred here? What do you mean you can't tell me, it's classified Top Secret Presidential'?"

"Yeah," D'Allessando agreed again, chuckling. "Okay, stash him at Bragg. Call McNab and tell him the problem."

"A Marine corporal would stand out like a sore thumb at the Special Warfare Center."

"Not necessarily," D'Allessando said. "There's been some talk about taking some Marines-a lot of Marines, two or three thousand-into Special Operations. Another of Schoomaker's brainstorms, I think."

General Peter J. Schoomaker was chief of staff of the U.S. Army.

"Schoomaker's one of us, Vic," Castillo said.

"Yeah, I know. I knew him then, too. I was the armorer on his A-Team. Good guy. I wasn't saying it's a bad idea, just where I think it came from. Anyway, what they're doing right now is running some Marines-mostly from their Force Recon-through the Q course. So they can tell us what we're doing wrong, I guess. Anyway, we can stash the kid with them."

"Where Corporal Bradley would stand out like a sore thumb among the hardy warriors of Marine Force Recon," Castillo said. He chuckled. "Most of them have gone through that SEAL body building course on the West Coast and look like Arnold Schwarzenegger."

"That's my best shot, Charley. Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it. I'll call General McNab."

"I'll deal with McNab. Just leave the kid here with me. There will be a Special Ops King Air here around noon. I'll put him on it and it'll take him to Bragg."

"Thanks, Vic."

As they were walking out of the bedroom, there was a melodious chime and Vic D'Allessando walked to the door and pulled it open.

"Good morning, Mr. Masterson," he said. "Come on in."

"I'm sorry to be late," J. Winslow Masterson said. "It was unavoidable."

He was a very tall, very black sharp-featured man wearing a crisp, beautifully tailored off-white linen suit. He held a panama hat in his hand.

Castillo smiled as what his grandfather had said about linen suits-or, rather, about seersucker suits-popped into his memory: The reason I wear seersucker suits is, they come from the tailor mussed and people expect that. When I put on a linen suit, it's mussed in ten minutes and people come up to me sure that I know where they can find dope or whores or both.

"You're smiling, Charley," Masterson said, crossing the room with large strides to put out his hand. "There must be good news."

Castillo was finally able to get off the couch.

"Actually, sir, when I saw that beautiful suit I thought of something my grandfather said."

"I'd love to hear it," Masterson said.

Charley repeated his grandfather's trenchant comment.

Masterson laughed.

"Your grandfather had a way with words," he said. "Did you ever tell Mr. D'Allessando about Lyndon Johnson?"

"No, sir."

"Mr. Castillo had a magnificent bull registered as Lyndon Johnson. The animal, from the time it was a calf, had eaten heartily and therefore had droppings far above average…"

"No kidding?" D'Allessando said, laughing. "I didn't know you knew Charley's grandfather."

"Not as well as I would have liked," Masterson said. He looked expectantly at Castillo.

"Yes, sir. I have news. Whether it's good or not is a tough call."

"May I help myself to your coffee?" Masterson asked.

"Oh, hell, excuse me," D'Allessando said. "Let me get it for you."

"I'm old but I can still pour my own coffee, thank you just the same."

As he walked to the wet bar, Masterson saw Corporal Lester Bradley for the first time. Bradley was dozing in an armchair. Masterson looked curiously at Castillo.

"That's Corporal Bradley of the Marine Corps, sir," Castillo said.

That woke Bradley up. He erupted from the armchair, saw Masterson, and quickly came to attention.

D'Allessando smiled and shook his head.

"At ease, Corporal," Castillo said. "This is Mr. Masterson's father, Bradley."

"Yes, sir," Bradley said.

"Bradley was involved in the protection of the family in Buenos Aires," Castillo said.

"How do you do, Corporal?" Masterson said, advancing on Bradley with his hand extended. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

God, he's really a gentleman, Castillo thought. You'd never know from his face that's he's wondering what this boy could possibly have been doing on a protection detail. What he's doing is putting him at ease. That's class.

"How do you do, sir?" Bradley said.

"Please, sit down," Masterson said.

Bradley looked at Castillo, who signaled for him to sit down.

Castillo waited until Masterson had poured the coffee.

"Sir," he began, "the President has authorized me to tell you and Mr. Masterson anything I think I should. I'll tell you what I know and you can tell me how much I should tell her."

"Whatever you say."

"And I have to tell you, sir, that this is highly classified and is to go no further than yourself and Mr. Masterson."

"There are two ladies so identified," Masterson said.

"I will trust your judgment with regard to both. And as far as that goes, with regard to Ambassador and Mr. Lorimer."

"Thank you."

"Jean-Paul Lorimer," Castillo reported, "was shot to death by parties unknown at approximately 9:20 p.m. local time, 31 July, in Tacuarembo, Uruguay."

Masterson's eyebrows rose.

"You're sure of this?" Masterson said.

"Yes, sir, I was there," Castillo said. "As was Corporal Bradley. Bradley took out the men who killed Mr. Lorimer."

That got Masterson's attention. He looked first in uncontrollable surprise at Bradley and then shifted his curious look to Castillo. There was a question in his eyes. It hung in the air but was not asked.

"Mr. Masterson," Castillo said, carefully, "once I located Mr. Lorimer, it was my intention to repatriate him-willingly or otherwise. I had just identified myself to him when he was shot."

"I have two questions," Masterson said. "Who shot him? And what was he doing in Uruguay?"

"I have no idea who shot him. Every one of them-there were six men in the group who attacked us-were killed by my people. As to what he was doing in Uruguay, I believe he was trying to establish a new identity. Actually, he had established one. He had a Lebanese passport in the name of Jean-Paul Bertrand. He was legally-as Bertrand-a resident in Uruguay, where people believed he was a successful antiquities dealer."

"Antiquities dealer? Can you tell me-I have the feeling you know-why he was doing something like that?"

"Apparently, he was involved with the Iraqi oil-for-food scandal. Specifically, I believe, as the paymaster. He knew who got how much money, and when and what for. That could have been the reason he was killed. Additionally, I believe he skimmed some of the payoff money. He had almost sixteen million dollars in several bank accounts in Uruguay. He may have been killed as punishment for stealing the money."

"One is not supposed to speak ill of the dead," Masterson said, "but that explains a good deal. Greed would motivate Jean-Paul. Coupled with the delusion that he was smarter than those from whom he was stealing, that would give him motivation sufficient to overcome his natural timidity."

"I can't argue with that, sir, but I just don't know why he did what He did."

"How did you find him? And so quickly?"

"Good question, Charley," D'Allessando said.

Castillo flashed him a dirty look, then said, "I don't mean to sound flippant, but I got lucky."

"And the money? What happens to that money? Sixteen million, you said?"

"Yes, sir. We have it."

"Does anyone-everyone-know you have it?"

"No, sir."

"What are you going to do with it? Jesus! Sixteen million!" D'Allessando said, earning him another dirty look from Castillo.

"Mr. Masterson, do you remember me telling you the day we came here that the President had ordered Ambassador Montvale, and the attorney general, and the secretaries of state and Homeland Security-everybody-to give me whatever I needed to track down Mr. Masterson's murderers?"

Masterson nodded.

"That was the truth, but it wasn't the whole truth. In fact-and this carries the security classification of Top Secret Presidential, and, if I somehow can, I'd rather not make Mr. Masterson privy to this-"

"I understand," Masterson interjected.

"In fact, there has been a Presidential Finding, in which the President set up a covert and clandestine organization charged with locating and rendering harmless those people responsible for the murders of Mr. Masterson and Sergeant Markham."

"'Rendering harmless'? Is that something like the 'terminating with extreme prejudice' of the Vietnam era?"

"Just about," D'Allessando said.

"I would rather not answer that, sir," Castillo said.

"I understand. And who-if you can't answer, I'll understand-is running this 'covert and clandestine' organization? Ambassador Montvale? The CIA?"

"I am, sir. And that's something else I would rather not tell Mr. Masterson."

Masterson nodded and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"The money will be used to fund that activity, sir," Castillo said.

"Is that what they call poetic justice?" Masterson said. "A moment ago, I was worried about Ambassador Lorimer…"

"Sir?"

"Jean-Paul's only blood kin are his parents and Betsy. That means unless he left a will bequeathing his earthly possessions to some Parisian tootsie, which I don't think is likely, they are his heirs. The ambassador would know there was no way Jean-Paul could have honestly accrued that much money. That would have been difficult for him. And God knows Betsy doesn't need it-and, of course, would not want it."

"Sir, Mr. Lorimer owned-and I don't think it was mortgaged-a large estancia-a farm-in Uruguay. And he owned-I know he owned-a nice apartment on rue Monsieur in the VII Arrondisement in Paris."

"Well, he lived in Paris, therefore he needed a place to live. Many people take insurance to pay off the mortgage on their apartments on their death. The same argument could be presented to the ambassador vis-a-vis the farm in Uruguay, which Jean-Paul could have acquired in anticipation of his ultimate retirement. The question is, how do we explain to the ambassador the circumstances of Jean-Paul's death?"

"That's what they call a multiple-part question," Castillo said. "Let me try to explain what we have. By now the local police in Tacuarembo have found out what happened. The question is, what have they found out?"

He let that sink in, then continued:

"We plastic-cuffed and blindfolded the servants that were in the house." He paused. "One of these was a young Uruguayan girl with whom Mr. Lorimer apparently had a close relationship."

He waited until he saw understanding and what could have been contempt in Masterson's eyes and then went on.

"We put her-and the estancia manager and his wife-to sleep. A safe narcotic, administered by someone who knew what he was doing.

"Now, everybody saw who did the cuffing: Spanish-speaking masked men wearing balaclava masks. You remember when the Alcohol, Firearms and Tobacco agents 'rescued' the Cuban boy in Miami? Their black ski masks?"

Masterson nodded. His face showed his contempt for that act.

"And everybody was wearing what are essentially black coveralls. That description will be reported to the police. When the police arrive-and by now they almost certainly have-they will have found six men in dark blue, nearly black coveralls. But no masks. Which poses a problem…"

"Six dead men in coveralls," Masterson said.

"Yes, sir. Plus Mr. Lorimer, who they will have found lying on his office floor next to his safe. There are no valuables in the safe. The best possible scenario is that they will suspect a robbery by the same people who cuffed and needled the servants."

"But they're now dead?" Masterson said.

"Shot treacherously by one or more of their number so that whatever was stolen would not have to be split in so many shares," Castillo said.

"The local police won't know-or suspect-that someone else-you and your people-were there?"

"Well, we hope not," Castillo said. "There is a history of that kind of robbery-of isolated estancias-in Uruguay and Argentina. And Mr. Lorimer/Bertrand, a wealthy businessman, meets the profile of the sort of people robbed."

"You…left nothing behind that can place you there?"

"The only thing we know of-which is not saying I didn't screw up somewhere and they'll find something else-is blood."

"I don't understand," Masterson said.

"When we were bushwhacked by these people, we took casualties," Castillo said. "One was one of my men, who was garroted, and the other was an Argentine who was helping us. He lived, but he bled a lot."

"The guy the bastards got was a sergeant first class named Seymour Kranz," D'Allessando said. "Good guy. No amateur. Which makes me really wonder who these bad guys are."

"I'll get to that later, Vic," Castillo said.

"Do I correctly infer that the sergeant did not live?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm really sorry to hear that. What happened to his body?"

"We exfiltrated it with us," Castillo said. "Now here the scenario gets very hopeful. If American police were investigating a crime like this, they would subject the blood to a number of tests. They would match blood to bodies, among other things. I'm hoping the police in rural Uruguay are not going to be so thorough; that they won't come up with a blood sample, or samples, that don't match the bodies."

"My God, seven bodies is a massacre. They won't ask for help from-what?-the Uruguayan equivalent of the FBI? A police organization that will be thorough?"

"I'm counting on that, sir. That's how it will be learned that Mr. Bertrand is really Mr. Lorimer."

"How will that happen?"

"Mr. Lorimer had a photo album, sir. One of the photographs was of Mr. Masterson's wedding. The wedding party is standing in front of a church-"

"Cathedral," Masterson corrected him. "Saint Louis Cathedral, on Jackson Square in New Orleans. Jack and Betsy were married there."

"The whole family-including Mr. Lorimer-is in the photo, sir. I'm almost sure that a senior police officer from Montevideo will recognize Mr. Masterson. Maybe even one of the local cops will. Mr. Masterson's murder was big news down there. It's what the police call a 'lead.' I can't believe they won't follow it up, and that will result in the identification of Mr. Bertrand. If they somehow get the photo to the embassy in Buenos Aires, a man there-actually, the CIA station chief who was in on the operation-is prepared to identify the man in the photo as Mr. Lorimer. He knew him in Paris."

"If the police are as inept as you suggest-and you're probably right-what makes you think they'll find, much less leaf through, Jean-Paul's photo album?"

"Because I left it open on Mr. Lorimer's desk, sir."

"You're very good at this sort of thing, aren't you?" Masterson said.

"No, sir, I'm not. There is a vulgar saying in the Army that really applies."

"And that is?"

Castillo hesitated a moment, then said: "'I'm up way over my ears in the deep shit and I don't know how to swim.'"

"Oh, horseshit, Charley," D'Allessando said. "You and I go back a long way. I know better."

"I agree that it's vulgar," Masterson said. "But I don't agree at all that it applies. You seem to have been born for duties like these and Mr. D'Allessando obviously agrees with me."

"Mr. Masterson, when I went to West Point what I wanted to do with my life was be what my father was, an Army aviator. At least twice a day, I curse the fickle finger of fate that kept me from doing that."

D'Allessando said, "The fickle finger's name, Charley, as you damned well know, is Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab."

Masterson looked between them.

"The first time I ever saw Charley, Mr. Masterson, he was a bushy-tailed second lieutenant fresh from West Point. It was during the first desert war. General McNab-that was just before he got his first star, right, Charley?"

Castillo nodded.

"Colonel McNab, who was running Special Ops in that war, had spotted Charley, recognized him as a kindred soul, rescued him from what he was doing-probably flying cargo missions in a Huey; he wasn't old enough to be out of flight school long enough to fly anything else-and put him to work as his personal pilot."

"If we've reached the end of memory lane, Vic," Castillo said, "I would like to get on with this."

D'Allessando held up both hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Well, as a father," Masterson said, "I'm sure that your father is proud of what you do. He does know?"

"No, sir. My father died in Vietnam."

"I'm sorry, Charley," Masterson said. "I had no way of knowing."

"Thank you, sir. If I may go on?"

"Please."

"Once Mr. Lorimer is identified, there's a number of possibilities. For one thing, he was both an American citizen and a UN diplomat. God only knows what the UN will do when they find out he was murdered in Uruguay. We don't know what the UN knows about Mr. Lorimer's involvement with the oil-for-food business, but I'm damned sure a number of people in the UN do.

"They will obviously want to sweep this under the diplomatic rug. By slightly bending the facts-they can say Lorimer was on leave, somehow the paperwork got lost when we were looking for him to tell him about his sister getting kidnapped, and then about Mr. Masterson being murdered-they can issue a statement of shock and regret that he was killed by robbers on his estancia."

"Yeah," D'Allessando said, thoughtfully.

"Once it is established that Bertrand is, in fact, Lorimer, an American citizen, our embassy in Montevideo can get in the act. For repatriation of the remains, for one thing, and to take control of his property temporarily, pending the designation of someone-kin or somebody else-to do that. Which brings me to that.

"Do you think Ambassador Lorimer would be willing to designate someone to do that? The someone I have in mind is an FBI agent in Montevideo, who was in on the operation. Give him what would amount to power of attorney, in other words? I'd really like to really go through the estancia and see what can be found."

"I don't think he would have any problem with that. I don't think he would want to-in his condition-go there himself, nor do I think his wife or physician would permit it."

"And the same thing for the apartment in Paris?"

"I think so. Now that I have had a chance to think it over, they'd be pleased. Perhaps I can suggest it was offered as a courtesy to a fellow diplomat."

"The sooner that could be done, the better. Of course, we have to wait until the scenario I described unfolds. If it does."

"It'll work, Charley," D'Allessando said. "You've got all the angles covered."

"You never have all the angles covered, Vic, and you know it," Castillo said and then turned to Masterson. "This now brings us to the bad guys."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," Masterson confessed. "We don't even know who they are, do we?"

"No, sir, we don't. I intend to do my best to find out who they are."

"And 'render them harmless'?" Masterson asked, softly.

Castillo nodded slightly but did not respond directly.

"What they did was find Mr. Lorimer, which among other things they've done suggests that they're professionals. And what they did was send an assault team to the estancia. I think it's logical to assume they wanted to make sure he didn't talk about what he knows of the oil-for-food business and possibly to get back the money he skimmed.

"By now, they have certainly learned that their operation succeeded only in taking out Mr. Lorimer. And that somebody took out their assault team. And they will have to presume the same people who took out their assault team have what was in the safe: money or information. They don't know who we are-we could be someone else trying to shut Lorimer up, somebody after the money, or Uruguayan bandits. I don't think it's likely that they'll think an American Special Operations team was involved, but they might.

"I think it's likely the people who bushwhacked us are the same people who killed Mr. Masterson, but of course I can't be sure. But if they are-or even if it's a second group-and they are professional, I think the decision will be to go to ground.

"They may be capable of-it wouldn't surprise me-of keeping an eye on her bank accounts, or yours, to see if they suddenly get sixteen million dollars heavier. But that's not going to happen.

"What I'm driving at is there is no longer a reason for them to try to get to Mr. Masterson or the children. Lorimer is out of the picture and she has nothing they want to give them."

"You think we can remove Mr. D'Allessando's people, is that what you're saying?" Masterson asked.

"Well, they can't stay indefinitely," Castillo said. "And Vic tells me he's run the retired special operators from China Post past you."

"Very impressive," Masterson said.

"And very expensive?" Castillo asked.

"Uh-huh," Masterson said. "But what I was thinking was that the children-for that matter, Betsy, too-would probably be more at ease with them than they are now with all of Mr. D'Allessando's people. They must have grown used to private security people in Buenos Aires."

"The people I brought over here are good, Mr. Masterson," D'Allessando said. "And, frankly, a job like this is better than commuting to Iraq or Afghanistan, which is what they've all been doing."

"Okay, so that's what I'll recommend to Betsy," Masterson said. "When do you want to talk to her, Charley?"

"Now, if possible, sir. I'm on my way to Texas. I want to see my grandmother, and I can be with her only until they call me to tell me what's happened in Uruguay."

"I'll get her on the phone," Masterson said as he reached for it. "And I'll get you a car to take you to the airport."

"That's not necessary, sir."

"Biloxi? Or New Orleans?" Masterson asked.

"New Orleans, sir."