The Hostage

XIV

[ONE] Office of the Secretary Department of Homeland Security Nebraska Avenue Complex Washington, D.C. 0925 26 July 2005 Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., was sitting behind Major C. G. Castillo's desk when Castillo, Torine, and Lopez walked in. Miller was wearing civilian clothing, a single-breasted, nearly black suit. His left leg was encased in a thick white cast from his toes to well past his knee. His toes peeked out the bottom of the cast, which was resting on the desk.

"Forgive me for not rising," Miller said. "I honestly try to be humble, but it is very difficult for someone of my accomplishments."

Castillo shook his head. "How's the leg?"

"Let me ask you a question first," Miller said. "Dare I hope to have the honor of serving in some humble capacity within the Office of Organizational Analysis?"

"Why not?" Castillo replied.

"In that case, Chief," Miller said, "how does it look? As if I am about to run the four-hundred-meter hurdles?"

"What we should do, Colonel," Castillo said to Torine, "is hold him down and paint those ugly toenails flaming red, and then listen to him trying to explain that he really likes girls."

"Speaking of the gentle sex," Miller said, "Jack Britton called from MacDill about ten minutes ago. He said the Gulfstream was about to take off for Philadelphia about five minutes ago. Quote, Betty is resting comfortably, and the pilot estimates Philadelphia at eleven-thirty, end quote."

Miller saw Castillo's face, and when he spoke again, his tone of voice was that of a concerned friend. "I'm really sorry about that, Charley."

Castillo nodded.

"I told Tom McGuire," Miller went on, "and he's arranging for the aircraft to be met by a suitable Secret Service delegation."

Castillo nodded again, then asked, "How'd you hear about the Office of Organizational Analysis?"

"Secretary Hall showed it to me and Mrs. Forbison when we came in this morning," Miller said, then looked at Torine and added, "He said you'd been drafted, Colonel…"

"Given temporary duty, actually," Torine said.

"… but he didn't say anything about you, Fernando. How much about Charley's new exalted status do you know?"

"Consider him in. All the way," Castillo ordered.

"Can you do that?" Miller asked.

"There's a story that when General Donovan started the OSS-before he was General Donovan, when he was a civilian they called him 'colonel' because he'd been one in the First World War-he was paid a dollar a year. So hand Fernando a dollar and consider him on the payroll. I think I can do that."

"According to Hall, you can do just about anything you want to," Miller said. "So that makes"-he counted on his fingers-"three of us. You, the Texan, and me. Anybody else?"

Castillo turned to Torine and said, "We were talking about shooters in Argentina with General McNab. Jack Britton would make a good one."

Torine nodded his agreement.

"Where's Joel?"

"With Hall at the White House."

"Tom McGuire?"

"On his way here from Langley with your… modified… German passport. He also has your new American passport."

"When he gets here, I'll ask him if…" He stopped as Mrs. Agnes Forbison walked into the room.

The somewhat plump executive assistant to the secretary of Homeland Security walked up to Castillo and put her arms around him. "I'm so sorry about Betty Schneider," she said. "Did Dick tell you she's on the way to Philadelphia?"

"Just now."

"What were you going to ask the boss?" she asked, as she turned to smile at Torine and Fernando.

"I'm going to ask Tom if I can have Jack Britton. I'd like to send him back to Buenos Aires as soon as possible."

"You mean for the Office of Organizational Analysis?"

Castillo nodded.

"If you ask Tom, he will ask Joel. Joel will probably say yes, but if he doesn't, you'll go to the boss, who I know will give him to you. So consider it done."

"Okay, that's four," Miller said.

"I can think of two more people you could really use," Mrs. Forbison said.

"Who?"

"Tom, for one."

"I don't think that Tom would like taking orders from me," Castillo replied, "or that Hall would go along with that."

Mrs. Forbison seemed to be collecting her thoughts, and it was a moment before she responded.

"Charley," she said, "you need to learn to make better use of soft intel sources, and executive assistants such as myself are as good as it gets. Tom confided in me that he would really like to be in on this. Among your arguments for getting him-and there are many-is that you really need someone who knows his way around the dark alleys of federal law enforcement. He told me that, too."

Charley raised an eyebrow, both impressed at her ability to have her finger on the pulse of the department and disappointed in himself at having forgotten that she had her finger on said pulse. "Okay, I'll ask. I'd love to have Tom. And all Hall can say is no. Or probably 'hell, no.'"

"Let me handle the boss," Mrs. Forbison said.

"Good luck. Who else?"

"Me."

Castillo looked at her in genuine surprise.

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Well, you know how busy I am here keeping the furniture polished against the remote possibility that the secretary will bring somebody here to dazzle him with his elegant official office. We both know-more important, the boss knows-that Mary-Ellen really runs things for him and that he doesn't need both of us doing the same thing."

Castillo smiled at her.

Mrs. Mary-Ellen Kensington, a GS-15 like Mrs. Agnes Forbison who also carried the title of executive assistant to the secretary of Homeland Security, maintained Hall's small and unpretentious suite of offices in the Old Executive Office Building, near the White House. Hall spent most of his time there. He and the President were close personal friends, and the President liked to have him at hand when he wanted him.

"Mrs. Kellenhamp," Mrs. Forbison went on, "can supervise the furniture polishing as well as I can, and bringing her out here would also get her out of Mary-Ellen's hair."

Mrs. Louise Kellenhamp, a GS-13 who carried the titleof deputy executive assistant, worked in the OEOB performing mostly secretarial-type duties.

"You've given this some thought, haven't you?" Castillo asked.

"From the moment I realized the boss, whether he wanted to or not, was going to have to have his own intelligence people. And now that we have, thanks to the President, this 'clandestine and covert' Office of Organizational Analysis hiding in the Department of Homeland Security, it seems to me that you're really going to need someone who knows her way around official Washington. And how to push paper around."

"What do we do with him?" Castillo asked, nodding toward Major H. Richard Miller, Jr. "Send him back to Walter Reed?"

"Eventually, he'll get out of that cast," Mrs. Forbison said. "And if he behaves himself, he can try to make himself useful around here until he does."

"God spare us all from conniving bureaucrats," Miller said piously.

"You know I'm right, Charley," Mrs. Forbison said.

"You think you can talk the boss into this?" Castillo said.

"Consider it done," she said. "The next time the subject comes up, act pleasantly surprised when the boss says 'I've had an idea, Charley, I'd like to run past you.'"

"Mrs. Forbison, you're marvelous," Castillo said.

"I know," she replied. "Now that that's settled, Chief, what's on our agenda this morning?"

"I brought a satellite radio, and an operator, from Fort Bragg. Like we did when we were hunting the stolen 727, the dish has to go on the roof, and the operator's going to need a place to live," Castillo said.

"Dick," Mrs. Forbison said, "if you'll take care of the operator, I'll deal with the building engineer. His delicate feelings were bruised the last time the chief put that thing on the roof."

"Yes, ma'am," Miller replied, smiling.

"And I need the passports," Castillo said.

"They're on the way," Mrs. Forbison said. "Tom's handling that."

"And I have to call Ambassador Silvio or Alex Darby-preferably both-on a secure line." He looked at Miller. "McNab is sending equipment for six shooters down there. I want to make sure it doesn't get lost."

"You'll have to use the one on my desk for that," Mrs. Forbison said. "I ordered one for you this morning, but it won't be in until later today."

"You ordered one for me?" Castillo asked, surprised.

"You're now on the White House circuit, didn't you know?"

"No, ma'am, I didn't."

"Well, you are. Anything else?"

"We'll need someplace to stay in Paris. The Crillon, if we can get in."

"Fancy," Mrs. Forbison said.

"And right next door to the embassy. Have them bill it to Gossinger. Four rooms."

"Let's talk about that," Mrs. Forbison said. "You, I can put on orders. The colonel, presumably, is already on orders?"

"Yes, ma'am," Colonel Torine said.

"But what about the other operator and Fernando?"

"I'll pick up the bill for the operator," Castillo said. "Then he can pocket the per diem check he gets from Fort Bragg. And I'll pick up Fernando's bill, too."

"If we hire him as a temporary contract employee… maybe as an aircraft pilot… I can cut orders on him, too."

"Mrs. Forbison, at the risk of repeating myself, you're wonderful," Castillo said.

"At the risk of repeating myself, Chief, I know. But you're going to have to start calling me Agnes."

He looked at her but didn't immediately reply.

"Please don't tell me-I already know-that I'm nearly old enough to be your mother. But you have just become a bureaucratic heavy, Chief, and bureaucratic heavies call their executive assistants by their first names."

"Whatever you say… Agnes," Castillo said, and then asked, "What do I do about Secretary Hall?"

"He said that he'd like you, if possible, to come by the OEOB before you leave."

"I'll do it." Thirty minutes later, after having spoken with both Ambassador Silvio and Alex Darby; after being informed that the Hotel Crillon would be expecting all of them; after having received his new American passport and his German passport now bearing a departure stamp from the Republic of Argentina; and after having talked to Tom McGuire long enough to be convinced that McGuire really wanted to become a member of the Office of Organizational Analysis and was going to have no problems working under a man ten years his junior, Castillo shook hands with Dick Miller and then went to Mrs. Forbison's office to say goodbye to her.

She gave him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek and told him to be careful. He and Torine and Fernando were waiting for the elevator when Mrs. Forbison put her head in the corridor.

"Call for you, Chief."

"If you keep calling me chief, we're back to Mrs. Forbison. Who is it?"

"Somebody who wants to talk about Jean-Paul."

"Jean-Paul Lorimer?"

"All he said was Jean-Paul, Charley."

Castillo went into Mrs. Forbison's office and picked up the telephone.

"Castillo."

"You'll have to remember to turn your cellular on," Howard Kennedy said.

"Jesus, it's in my briefcase."

"Then it wouldn't matter, would it, if it's on or off?"

"What's up, Howard?"

"You have really opened a can of truly poisonous worms with that pal of yours, the one you asked me to find."

"What kind of poisonous worms?"

"The kind I have been absolutely forbidden to talk about on the telephone," Kennedy said.

"That bad?"

"Worse than that bad. Where can we meet?"

"Where are you?"

"Answer the question."

"As soon as I can go by the hotel and pack some clothes, and after a stop at Hall's coffee shop on Pennsylvania Avenue, I'm going to get on an airplane for Paris."

"What flight?"

"Air San Antonio, flight seventeen."

"Oh, really? Anybody I know coming with you?"

"The same crew we had in Cozumel. You know both of them."

"Interesting. And where will you be staying in Paris?"

"The Crillon."

"Lovely hotel. Unfortunately, too close for me to some former associates of mine who work close by."

Christ, I forgot to tell, or remind, Tom McGuire to find out what Special Agent Yung of the FBI is really doing in Montevideo! Castillo thought, then said, "What do you suggest?"

"When did you say you're leaving?"

"As soon as we can."

"You can't make it nonstop in that airplane, can you?"

"No. We're going to have to refuel at Gander, Newfoundland, and Shannon, Ireland. I figure it's going to take us, factoring in two one-hour fuel stops, about ten hours."

"Well, it's nearly half past four in Paris," Kennedy said. "If you get off the ground in an hour, that would make it half past five. Five plus ten is three o'clock in the morning. Figure another hour at least to get through customs and immigration, to get to the Crillon from Le Bourget… Is that where you're headed, Le Bourget?"

"Yeah," Castillo said.

"It will be five o'clock when you get to the hotel from Le Bourget. Factor in another hour for delays, call it six. See you in the morning, Charley. We really do need to talk."

There was a change in the background noise, and Castillo realized that Kennedy had hung up. [TWO] Old Executive Office Building Seventeenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, NW Washington, D.C. 1120 26 July 2005 "The President told me you'd had a little chat," the Honorable Matthew Hall, secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, said. "You have any questions about that?"

"One big one," Castillo replied. "The soldier in me is uncomfortable not understanding my chain of command."

"The simple answer to that is that you answer to the President directly," Hall said. "But I think I know what you're asking. And proving that I'm learning to be a Washington bureaucrat, let me answer obliquely. When he came up with that finding, I wondered why I had been taken out of the loop. Then I realized I had not been. It all goes to deniability. I can now honestly answer, if someone asks, and someone inevitably will, either as a shot-in-the-dark fishing expedition or because this comes out, what's my relationship to you, that we have none. You don't work for me.

"Similarly, if someone asks the President's chief of staff what he knows about C. G. Castillo or the Office of Organizational Analysis, he can honestly say he doesn't know anything about it. If we get caught-which is a real possibility-we can hide behind the President's finding.

"The further you distance the Office of Organizational Analysis from the President, the better. That's why he's hiding it in Homeland Security. As far as you working for him directly, there's a lot of captains through colonels-the aides, the guys who carry the football, for example-who work for him directly, and if some enterprising reporter sniffs you out, you can answer the same way they are instructed to. 'Sorry, my duties in the White House are classified. You'll have to ask the White House.' Still with me?"

"Sir, what I was really asking was how much of what I'm doing do I tell him. Or you."

"As far as 'or me' is concerned: Whatever you tell me I will tell the President when I think I should, and only then. The President is not interested in the means, just the end. That's what puts me back in the loop. I will tell him only those things which may require some action on his part-I'm thinking of 'Hell no, we can't do that; tell him to stop.'" He paused, then asked, "You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay. Now is there anything you need?"

"Just one thing I can think of, sir. I asked Tom McGuire to do it for me, but I'm not sure-don't misunderstand this, I have a profound admiration for his abilities-that he'll be able to do it."

"You have 'a profound admiration for his abilities'?" Hall asked.

"Yes, sir."

"How would you like to have Tom working for you?"

"Is that possible, sir?"

"Joel suggested he would be very useful to you. I agree. Should I ask Tom?"

"I'd really like to have him, sir," Castillo said, and thought, I have just proved that I, too, am learning to be a Washington bureaucrat. Those answers were, without being out-and-out lies, certainly designed to mislead. I already know Tom wants to work for me and that it's possible.

"Okay, I will. Now what don't you think Tom will be able to do?"

"Find out what FBI agent Yung is really doing in Montevideo. If he's doing something covertly, they're not going to tell Tom."

"What makes you think he's not doing what he says he is?"

"I don't think you want to know, sir."

"Ah, you're learning," Hall said. "Has this guy got a first name?"

"David William, sir. Junior."

Hall pushed the speakerphone button on his telephone.

"Mary-Ellen, will you get me Director Schmidt on a secure line, please?"

"Right away, Mr. Secretary," Mary-Ellen Kensington said.

He pushed the button again and looked at Castillo.

"I know the DCI knows about the finding; he called me first thing this morning to feel me out about it. I don't think Schmidt has seen it yet. This is one-upmanship, Charley. A dirty game we all have to learn to play."

The speaker came alive with Mrs. Kensington's voice:

"Director Schmidt is on one, Mr. Secretary, the line is secure."

Hall pushed the speakerphone button again.

"Good morning, Mark," Hall said cordially. "How are you?"

"What can I do for you, Matt?"

"You've seen the Presidential Finding vis-a-vis the Masterson assassination, right?" Hall asked, ignoring Schmidt's abruptness.

"As a matter of fact, no."

"Well, hell. That makes this a little difficult, Mark. Obviously I can't talk about it if you haven't seen it. So forget I mentioned it. Just take this as a routine request for information. If you don't mind a suggestion, you might ask the attorney general what's new."

"What sort of information do you need, Matt?" Schmidt said, his voice betraying his annoyance.

"Would it be easier for you if I called the attorney general? I don't want to put you on a spot."

"What information do you need, Matt?"

"You have an agent in the embassy in Montevideo. David William Yung, Junior. He's supposed to be working on money laundering. What I need to know is what he's really doing down there."

"What makes you so sure he's not doing what he says he's doing?"

"We're back to that area I can't talk about," Hall said. "Are you sure you don't want me to go to the attorney general with this? I know he's in the loop, and I'm surprised that you're not."

"I'll look into it, Matt," Schmidt said, "and get back to you."

"I need this information yesterday, Mark," Hall said. "So I have to ask, how long do you think it will take for you to get back to me?"

"I'll get back to you just as soon as I can. Probably this morning."

"I appreciate that, Mark. Thank you."

"Anytime, Matt."

Hall pushed the button, breaking the connection.

"See how it's done?" he asked. "I'll bet you two dollars to a doughnut that Schmidt is already trying to get the attorney general on the horn. The attorney general will tell him about the finding, and that he has to go along with it. Which will also make the point that I knew about it before he did, suggesting he's not as important as he likes to think he is."

"It's childish, isn't it?"

"Absolutely, but that's the way things work," Hall said. "Now that I've annoyed him, is there anybody else you'd like me to annoy?"

"Sir, when he calls back, could you ask him to contact the FBI people in Paris-and in Vienna, come to think of it-and ask them to give me whatever I need?"

"I will tell him that the chief of the Office of Organizational Analysis wants to make sure they know that when they are contacted, they will make any information they have on any subject available to him, and that they will probably be contacted by a man named Castillo." He paused, and then went on. "And I will contact Ambassador Montvale and tell him to do essentially the same thing vis-a-vis his CIA station chiefs in Paris and Vienna. And Montevideo, too, if you'd like."

"Thank you. It would probably be a good idea when you speak with Director Schmidt to ask him to tell the FBI in Montevideo to give me what I ask for."

Hall nodded his agreement.

"Anything else, Charley?"

"I can't think of anything else, sir."

"Let me run this past you," Hall said. "You're going to need someone to handle your paperwork, someone who knows her way around Washington. What would you think about me asking Agnes Forbison if she'd like to work with you?"

"I could really use her."

"I'll have a word with her as soon as I can," Hall said. [THREE] Over Wilmington, Delaware 1225 26 July 2005 They had been in the air only a few minutes when Castillo sensed the Lear had changed altitude from climbing-to-cruise-altitude to descent. There was only one reason he could think of for that; they were about to land.

Oh, shit, that's all I need! Red lights blinking on the panel! The goddamn bird is broke!

He got out of his seat, walked to the cockpit, and dropped to his knees between the pilot's and copilot's seats.

"What's going on?"

Fernando, who was in the left seat, looked over his shoulder.

"Please return to your seat, sir, and don't interfere with the flight crew in the performance of their duties."

"What's wrong with the goddamn airplane?"

Colonel Torine took pity on him.

"You really didn't want to go to Paris without saying goodbye to your girlfriend, did you, Charley?"

Castillo didn't reply.

"Does it make any real difference if we get to Paris at four in the morning, or five?" Torine went on. "I'll top off the tanks, get us something to eat en route, get the weather, and file the flight plan to Gander while the Secret Service runs you back and forth to the hospital."

When Castillo didn't reply to that, either, at least partially because he didn't trust himself to speak with the enormous lump in his throat, Torine went on: "Tom McGuire called and set it up."

Castillo laid a hand on Torine's shoulder, and then got off his knees and went back to his seat. [FOUR] Department of Oral and Maxillofacial Surgery Fifth Floor, Silverstein Pavilion Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania 3400 Spruce Street Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 1340 26 July 2005 As the Secret Service Yukon pulled up outside the hospital, the agent sitting beside the driver spoke into the microphone under his lapel.

"Don Juan arriving."

Fernando chuckled. Castillo gave him the finger. He wondered, now that he had been given a hell of a lot of power, if it would be enough to have the Secret Service change the code name Joel Isaacson had given him when he'd gone to work for Secretary Hall.

The Secret Service agent led them to the elevator bank, waved them inside, and then said, "Fifth floor, Mr. Castillo. We'll be right here."

A tall, stocky woman-visibly some kind of Latin- was standing in the lobby of the fifth floor when the elevator door opened. Her hair was drawn tight against her skull, and Castillo could see the flesh-colored speaker in her ear. He could also see a bulge on her left hip that was almost certainly a handgun.

"This way, please, Mr. Castillo. Special Agent Schneider has been put in five-twenty-seven."

"Muchas gracias," Castillo said. "Muy amable de su parte."

It wasn't hard to find room 527. There were two law enforcement officers sitting in folding chairs on either side of the door. One was wearing the motorcyclist's boots and other special uniform items of the Philadelphia Police Department's elite highway patrol. The other was a large and burly man in civilian clothing with the telltale ear speaker of the Secret Service in his ear.

As Castillo got close to the room, both of them stood.

Castillo glanced to his left and saw a glass-walled waiting room. There were more than a half dozen people in it. Castillo recognized three of them as Philadelphia police officers: Chief Inspector Fritz Kramer, the commander of the counterterrorism bureau; Captain Frank O'Brien, who headed the intelligence and organized crime unit and for whom Betty Schneider had worked as a sergeant; and Lieutenant Frank Schneider of the highway patrol, who was Betty's big and, it could be reasonably argued, somewhat overprotective brother.

There were also a couple who Castillo decided were Betty's parents, a clergyman, and several other people.

Well, what the hell did you expect? That it would be just the two of you?

He had what he realized was the vain hope that no one in the waiting room would see him.

The Secret Service agent at the door said, "Special Agent Schneider is in X-ray, Mr. Castillo. She should be back any moment. There's a waiting room…" He pointed.

"Any reason we can't wait in there?"

"No, sir."

Castillo and Fernando entered the room. The bed was mussed, but Castillo could see no other sign that Betty had been in the room.

And I didn't see Jack Britton in that waiting room. Where the hell is he?

He walked to the window and looked out into an interior courtyard, and turned only when he sensed the door to the room was opening.

Betty was wheeled in on a gurney. She didn't see Castillo until the technicians had moved her from the gurney onto the bed and moved out of the way.

Then she raised her hand and almost moaned, "Oh, Charley!" through her wired-shut jaws.

Castillo went to the bed and took her raised hand, and kissed it, and then bent over and kissed her very gently on the forehead. Then they just looked at each other.

Thirty seconds or so later, he took a chance that his voice would work.

"Wiener schnitzel, baby," he said.

Betty smiled at him.

"If you don't mind, Costello, our mother wants to see her!" Lieutenant Frank Schneider said behind him.

Castillo turned.

Standing behind Betty's brother was the couple Charley presumed were the parents. Behind them were the clergyman and another man.

"What's the matter with you, Francis?" Betty's mother snapped. "Can't you see the way she's looking at him?"

"I'm sorry," Castillo said.

Reluctantly, Betty let go of his hand.

Betty's mother touched Castillo's cheek, and stepped around him to the bed.

Betty's father eyed him icily.

Castillo walked out of the room, followed by Fernando, and a moment later by Lieutenant Schneider.

Did he leave because he wanted his mother and father and the minister to be alone with Betty? Or did his mother tell him to get out?

"Costello!" Lieutenant Schneider said.

Castillo turned. Schneider walked very close to him and asked, "You remember one time I promised to break both your legs?"

Both the highway patrolman and the Secret Service agent guarding Betty's door were now on their feet.

"The name is Castillo," Charley said evenly. "And, yes, I seem to remember something like that."

"I knew you were bad news the minute I laid eyes on you," Schneider said. "She's in there because of you."

Castillo nodded slightly. "Guilty."

"If you ever show your face around her again, I swear I'll break both your legs and then tear off your arms and shove them up your ass!"

Castillo didn't reply.

Fernando took a couple of steps closer. "Let me tell you something, Shorty," he said, aware that "Shorty" was relative. Lieutenant Schneider, at six-feet-one, was at least two inches shorter-and maybe forty pounds lighter-than Fernando Lopez.

"Butt out, lardass!" Lieutenant Schneider said.

"That's enough, Lieutenant!" Chief Inspector Kramer barked. "Back off! Now!"

"What I was about to tell the lieutenant," Fernando said, matter-of-factly, "is that the way it is in our family, anyone wanting to get at Charley has to get past me first."

"Don't pour gas on a fire," Chief Inspector Kramer said. "Ask any fireman. Both of you shut up."

Castillo chuckled.

"You open your mouth once more, Schneider, and I'll order you out of here. Capische?"

Schneider nodded.

"Say 'Yes, sir,' Lieutenant!"

"Yes, sir," Schneider said, reluctantly.

"Charley, I need to talk to you," Kramer said. "And O'Brien wants to know what's going on, too. If I order our gorilla to wait at that end of the corridor"-he pointed-"can you get your gorilla to wait down there?" He pointed in the other direction.

Castillo looked at Frank Schneider. "I think you have a right to hear what I'm going to tell the chief," he said. "Can you behave?"

Lieutenant Schneider nodded curtly.

"Say 'yes' or 'no,' goddammit, Schneider," Kramer snapped.

"Okay, okay," Lieutenant Schneider said.

"We can use the waiting room," Kramer said, and pushed the door open. "Well, Frank, what do you think?" Chief Inspector Kramer inquired of Captain O'Brien when Castillo had finished.

"A lot of cocaine comes here from Argentina," O'Brien said.

"I didn't know that," Fernando said.

"They fly it from Colombia to Bolivia or Paraguay- sometimes direct to Paraguay-and then get it into Argentina," O'Brien explained. "And then they mule it to Miami from Buenos Aires. The Argentine drug cops- they call them SIDE-are smart. Instead of arresting the critters, they let them get on a plane, and then call our DEA guys down there. The DEA in Miami meets the airplane. That way the cocaine gets stopped, and we have to pay to try the critters and the cost of keeping them in the slam for fifteen to twenty."

"SIDE does more than drugs, Captain," Castillo said. "It's the Argentine FBI, CIA, and DEA under one roof."

"I didn't know that," O'Brien said. "What I'm thinking is that the drug guys-here, there, everywhere-do this kind of casual whacking. Anybody they think might be in the way of anything, anybody they think may have seen or heard something, gets whacked. Including members of their family."

"I'm not saying you're wrong," Castillo said. "But that didn't come up down there, either from a DEA guy I know, who would have told me, or from the head of SIDE." "What did they think was going on?"

"They had no idea," Castillo said. "All we know-and I didn't know this in Argentina-is that somebody wants to get their hands on Jean-Paul Lorimer, and is perfectly willing to kill anybody to do that."

"We had a job here in Philadelphia a couple of years ago," Kramer said. "Drugs shipped from… where, Frank?"

"Senegal," O'Brien furnished.

"From Senegal to their UN Mission in New York. With diplomatic immunity. What happened was… out of school?"

Castillo nodded.

"Our dogs-not K-9, but the drug sniffers, those little spaniels or whatever-sniffed the cocaine in freight handling. We couldn't get a warrant to open the boxes, of course, but I happened to be down there looking for explosives and one of the boxes happened to get knocked over. Not much damage, but put enough of a crack in the box for me to be able to stick one of those meat-basting hypodermic needles… You know what I mean? They have great big needles?"

Castillo nodded again.

"… into the box and come out with a white powder that tested to be really high-grade coke. So we called in the DEA. Who called in the FBI and customs and the State Department. It got to be a real Chinese fire drill. The State Department didn't believe the white power had just dribbled out of the box; they as much as accused us of violating diplomatic immunity. They were afraid the Senegalese ambassador would be pissed and give an anti-American speech to the general assembly.

"What finally happened was that the shipment was passed through customs. Then the FBI brought in the New York City cops, told them what we knew, and the New York cops put some heavy surveillance on the Senegalese mission, and they finally caught one of their diplomats… he was number two, right, Frank?"

"Number three. Deputy chief of mission," O'Brien corrected him.

"… in the midst of a five-kilo sale to a guy in the Plaza Hotel. All they could do was charge the buyer with conspiracy to traffic. They couldn't even hold the Senegalese. He had diplomatic immunity. The State Department wouldn't even ask for the UN to send him home. They said they couldn't because they 'had knowledge of the legally highly questionable manner in which the alleged facts triggering the investigation had been conducted.'

"This really pissed off the New York cops, so wherever, wherever the Senegalese diplomat went for the next couple of months he had at least two cops sitting on him. And then one day, he had enough, went out to Kennedy, and got on an airplane and went home."

"Jesus Christ!" Fernando exploded.

"So when you find this guy you're looking for, Charley, maybe you better keep the drug angle in mind," Kramer said.

"I will," Castillo said.

"How do you rate the threat against Sergeant… sorry, Special Agent Schneider?" Kramer asked.

"I don't think these bastards were after her; they were either after me or anybody-like a Secret Service agent- to make their point to Mrs. Masterson. So I don't think there's much of a threat here. Having said-"

"You sonofabitch!" Lieutenant Schneider interrupted. "You really don't-"

"Out!" Chief Kramer exploded. "Out of here, Schneider! Right goddamn now!"

"Let him stay until I finish," Castillo said evenly.

Kramer raised an eyebrow, stared at Schneider, then sighed and nodded.

"Having said that," Castillo went on, "I'm going to keep Secret Service protection on her until I get the bastards that shot her. The agents are pretty good at protecting people."

"So are we," Chief Kramer said. "And as far as you're concerned, Schneider, when you come to visit your sister and you see detectives from Dignitary Protection sitting on her beside the Secret Service, instead of Highway, you think long and hard about why I decided to do that. Now get out of here. Wait by the elevator. I'm not through with you."

"How about keeping him in here while I go say goodbye to her?" Castillo asked. "I really have to get out of here right now."

Kramer nodded. "Sit there, Lieutenant Schneider," he ordered, pointing to a vinyl-upholstered couch. "And if you get off that couch before I tell you you can, I'll have you up on charges."

Kramer waited until Lieutenant Schneider angrily threw himself onto the couch and then put out his hand to Castillo.

"Let me know what I can do to help."

"Thanks, Fritz," Castillo said, and walked out of the waiting room.

Special Agent Jack Britton was standing by Betty's door.

"I only heard you were coming here forty-five minutes ago, Charley. I called Miller and-"

"I'm glad you're here, Jack," Castillo said. "I'm headed for Paris and what I'd like you-"

"Miller told me," Britton interrupted. "Everything. Thanks for keeping me on this."

"I need you, Jack."

"I'm on an American Airlines flight from Miami to Buenos Aires at eleven something tonight."

"Go to the Four Seasons, and then get in touch with Tony Santini."

"I'll do it."

Castillo pushed open the door to Betty's room. Her mother and father were standing on either side of the bed. Her father gave him another icy look, and when he did, her mother looked over her shoulder and saw Castillo.

"Charley's here, honey," her mother said. "Dad and I will be right outside."

"Thank you, Mrs. Schneider," Castillo said softly. He offered his hand. "We haven't been formally introduced, and I'm very sorry it had to be under such conditions."

Betty's mother took his hand in both of hers, made a soft smile, then turned for the door.

Her father shook his head, walked wordlessly to the door, and held it open for his wife, then followed her through it.

Castillo went to the bed and took Betty's hand.

With great difficulty, Betty asked, "The Mastersons? Okay?"

"They've got twenty-four Delta shooters and half of the Mississippi state police sitting on them."

"Delta?"

"Special Forces guys."

She was surprised to hear that and asked with her eyes for an explanation.

"Long story, baby. Not important. But the Mastersons are safe. The key to this is her brother. Right after we landed in Mississippi, she told me the bad guys really want her brother. She doesn't know where he is. So I'm on my way to Paris to find him. He should know who these bastards are."

"Can you do that?"

"Find him, you mean? I'm going to try hard."

"Just go to Paris?"

Jesus Christ, I have to go through the classified business, even with her!

"Baby, this is Top Secret-Presidential, which means you can't tell anybody, even your family."

Especially your goddamn brother.

She nodded, but her eyes asked for an explanation.

"The President, in what they call a finding, set up a covert unit to find the people who did this. He gave it to me, together with all the authority I need to do whatever has to be done."

Her eyebrows showed that she was impressed.

"I'll make sure they keep you up to speed on what's happening. But you have to keep it to yourself."

"Will they tell me?"

"Special Agent Schneider, you are now assigned to the Office of Organizational Analysis, which is the cover for this," Castillo said. "I'm the chief. You'll be told."

"I wish I could go with you."

Jesus, she's not thinking of us holding hands as we take the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Or sitting in the Deux Magots on the Left Bank. She wants to go as a cop.

"Me, too."

"Be careful, Charley."

"Wiener schnitzel, baby. I have to go."

He bent over, kissed her very gently on the lips, and looked into her eyes for a long moment.

Then she shrugged, squeezed his hand, and motioned with her head toward the door.

As he and Fernando got on the elevator, he heard the Latin Secret Service agent talk to her lapel microphone.

"Don Juan coming down." [FIVE] Hotel de Crillon 10 Place de la Concorde Paris, France 0525 27 July 2005 Paris was just starting to wake up when they landed. There had been little traffic on the way in from Le Bourget, and the Place de la Concorde had been nearly empty of vehicles and pedestrians.

"I think the best thing to do is grab some sack time," Castillo announced as they registered. "What about leaving a call for half past ten?"

"Good idea," Torine said.

Castillo knew the problem was going to be jet lag. Their body clocks thought it was midnight, not half past five in the morning.

They weren't really tired, or even particularly sleepy, despite the time they had been up and the distances they had traveled since getting up almost twenty-four hours before at the Masterson plantation in Mississippi. For one thing, that had been only eighteen hours ago in real time. Paris time was six hours ahead of Mississippi.

For another, they'd shared the piloting between them, from Philadelphia to Gander, Newfoundland, and then to Shannon, Ireland, and finally Le Bourget. The "off-duty" pilot-a role each had played-had nothing to do but doze, and the Lear's seats in the main cabin, which folded back to near horizontal, had made dozing easy. It was as if they'd gotten up early and taken several naps before midnight.

The temptation was to take a quick shower, grab a quick breakfast, and then rouse the Paris CIA station chief from his bed and get to work finding Jean-Paul Lorimer. The smart thing to do was to take a quick shower and go to bed, sleeping as long as possible. When sleep proved impossible, with a little bit of luck, the body clock might be fooled, and it would be something like getting up fresh and ready to do a full day's work.

Castillo tipped the bellman and then looked around his suite. The heavy curtain across the windows of his bedroom was permitting a crack of light. He went to it and impulsively pushed it aside far enough to look out. He had a view of the Place de la Concorde and the bridge across the River Seine.

Then he pulled the curtain closed, took fresh linen from his bag, and started to undress. He was down to his Jockey shorts when the telephone rang.

"Hello?"

"Five minutes, in front of the hotel," Howard Kennedy said. "I'm in a black Mercedes."

"I expected no less of you," Castillo replied, even though halfway through the sentence he realized Kennedy had hung up. Ten minutes later-having decided that his need for a shave and a shower was more important than jumping to obey Kennedy's curt orders-Castillo walked across the empty lobby and out onto the Place de la Concorde.

There was no Mercedes in sight.

Not to worry. Kennedy might be pissed, but he wants to see me, and badly. He's not about to drive off, never to return.

Castillo turned right and walked toward the U.S. embassy. He had just reached the fence, where he was able to see the American flag flying in the courtyard, when he heard the squeal of tires.

He turned and saw a black Mercedes S600 sedan in front of the Crillon. The headlights flashed. Castillo walked-purposely slowly-back to it.

The front passenger window was down, but the door remained closed. Castillo leaned down, put his hands on the opening, and looked inside.

"Hello, handsome," he said to Kennedy, who was sitting behind the wheel. "Looking for a little action?"

"Goddamn you, Charley, get in the fucking car!"

Castillo opened the door and got in. Kennedy, with another squeal of tires, took off and then turned right onto the Champs-Elysees.

"Where are we going, Howard?"

"Unless you know someplace we can talk without being overheard, we're just going to drive around."

"You think my room in the Crillon is bugged?"

"I don't know for sure that it's not."

"Why all the concern?"

"How much do you know about Lorimer?"

"A little more than I knew when I first talked to you," Castillo replied. "There are people looking for him. They killed Masterson to make the point that they are willing to kill to find him."

"And do you know who these people are?"

"No. That's why I'm hunting Lorimer."

"Would it surprise you that some Russians are doing the same?"

"Nothing would surprise me."

"Or some Germans?"

"Same answer."

"Or some French? Or some former members of Saddam Hussein's regime? Or, for that matter, some people from Houston, Texas?"

"Get to the point, please, Howard. I'm not good at riddles."

"Your friend Lorimer was a bagman-maybe the head bagman-for that noble program called Oil for Food. Which means that he knows who got paid off. That's enough for any of the aforementioned people to take the appropriate steps to make him dead."

"Give me a minute to think that over."

A traffic cop stepped into the street and with a shrill burst from his whistle and an arrogant wave of his stiff arm stopped traffic. Kennedy, with a heavy foot, brought the Mercedes to a stop at the crosswalk. As Castillo watched the trickle of early-morning commuters making their way to cafes and then to work, he considered how Kennedy might-or might not-be trying to play him.

"In addition to his knowing too much, Charley, there are those who think he skimmed the payoff money. To the tune of some-depending on who you talk to- twelve to sixteen million dollars."

"Jesus!"

"Yeah, Jesus. And one more little item. This gets uncomfortably close to Alex."

"How Alex?"

"How do you think you move that kind of money around? By wire transfer? By UPS?"

"You tell me."

"One hundred thousand U.S. dollars fresh from the mint comes in a neatly wrapped plastic package about so big," Kennedy said, taking his hands off the wheel to demonstrate the size. He could have been mimicking a stubby shoe box.

The traffic cop blew another burst of his whistle and waved traffic forward.

"And Alex moves freight, right?" Castillo said. "No questions asked?"

"You don't really expect me to answer that, do you?"

"So why are you telling me what you did?"

"Alex thinks you're a lot smarter than I do," Kennedy said. "He thinks it's possible you'll find this sonofabitch before anybody else does, and that you'll share that information with him."

"Tell Alex, sorry, no. I want this sonofabitch alive, not with a beauty mark in the center of his forehead."

"Why? So he can tell you who's after him?"

"Exactly."

"You really are a virgin, aren't you? These people are untouchable. Believe me."

"The answer is no, Howard. Tell Alex that."

"I told him that's what you would probably decide," Kennedy said.

They were now almost to the Arc de Triomphe de L'etoile. Kennedy made an abrupt left turn onto Rue Pierre Charron and stopped.

"Get out, Charley. Conversation over."

Without another word, Castillo got out of the car. Kennedy drove quickly off.

Castillo walked back to the Champs-Elysees, and then down it, toward the Crillon.