The shooters

PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

WITNESS:

Natalie G. Cohen

The identification of the bodies in the Sheraton garage-and of two others shortly thereafter in the Conrad Resort amp; Casino in Punta del Este, Uruguay-pretty well "determined the identity of the terrorists."

And, obviously, they had been "rendered harmless" as called for by the Finding.

This accomplishment, however, did not mean that the Office of Organizational Analysis now could be shut down, or that the Finding could be filed in the Presidential Documents Not To Be Declassified For Fifty Years, or that the OOA personnel could be returned whence they had come.

Just about the opposite was true.

The investigation had been going on in Nuestra Pequena Casa for nearly three weeks. To say that no end was in sight was a gross understatement.

The turning over of the rocks had revealed an astonishing number of ugly worms of interest to the director of National Intelligence, the Department of Justice, the Internal Revenue Service, the Department of State, and other governmental agencies.

"What we have here isn't an investigation," Inspector Doherty, who was on the staff of the director of the FBI and who had given the subject a good deal of thought, said very seriously the night before at dinner, "it's an investigation to determine what has to be investigated."

Doherty had reluctantly-another gross understatement-become part of the investigation only after the President had personally ordered the FBI director to loan the best man he had to OOA, not the senior FBI man who could be most easily spared.

Edgar Delchamps, of the CIA, had replied, "You got it, Sherlock."

Delchamps, too, had come to the OOA reluctantly. So reluctantly that when transferred from his posting as the CIA station chief in Paris, he had reported to Castillo only after he had stopped by CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, to put in for retirement.

When Castillo found out about that, it had taken a personal call from the director of National Intelligence, Ambassador Charles W. Montvale, to the director of the Central Intelligence Agency to get Delchamps to put off his retirement "for the time being." Montvale told the DCI that the President had personally ordered that the OOA-meaning Delchamps-be given absolute access to any intelligence the agency had gathered on any subject.

Doherty and Delchamps had not at first gotten along. Both were middle-aged and set in their ways. Doherty's way-which had seen him rise high in the FBI hierarchy-was to scrupulously follow the book, never bending, much less breaking, the law. Delchamps had spent most of his career operating clandestinely, often using a fictitious name. There was no book for what he did, of course, because the clandestine service does not-cannot-operate that way. So far as Delchamps was concerned, the end really justified the means.

Yet surprisingly they had become close-even friends-in recent weeks, largely because, Castillo had decided, they were older than everybody but Eric Kocian. They regarded everyone else-including Castillo-as inexperienced youngsters and were agreed that the President had erred in giving Castillo the authority he had given him. (Castillo thought they were probably right.) What Doherty the night before had called the "investigation to determine what has to be investigated" now was just about over.

Castillo and Colonel Torine had flown the OOA's private jet-a Gulfstream III registered to the Lorimer Charitable amp; Benevolent Fund-down to Argentina to quietly ferry Delchamps, Doherty, and some of the others-not to mention the results of the investigation, which now filled one small filing cabinet and a dozen computer external hard drives-back to Washington.

Eric Kocian and his two dogs would go with them, too. His notes about the Iraqi Oil for Food scandal had provided keys to much of the information now on the hard drives.

So far as Castillo, Delchamps, and Doherty were concerned, Kocian was going to Washington to serve as a sort of living reference library as their investigation moved into the data banks of the FBI, the CIA, and other elements of the intelligence community.

So far as Kocian was concerned, however, he was going to Washington because there was a direct Delta Airlines flight from Washington Dulles International Airport to Budapest. It would allow him to take his dogs. There was no such flight from Buenos Aires.

Kocian owned two Bouvier des Flandres dogs, a male named Max and a bitch named Madchen. At one hundred-plus pounds, Max was time-and-a-half the size of a large boxer. Madchen was just a little smaller. There always had been a Max in Kocian's life since right after World War II, all of them named Max. Madchen was a recent addition, a gift from the Lorimer Charitable amp; Benevolent Fund, not necessarily as a pet for Kocian, but as a companion for Max.

Max's alertness in Budapest had warned Castillo in time for him to be able to use a suppressed Ruger MKII.22-caliber semiautomatic pistol to render harmless two men who had broken into his hotel room bent on his assassination.

As Castillo later had put it-perhaps indelicately-to Edgar Delchamps, "I don't know how things are done in the spook world, but in the Army when someone saves your ass, the least you can do for him is get him laid."

It had been love at first sight between Max and Madchen. But the playful frolicking of two canines weighing more than two hundred pounds between them had caused some serious damage to the furnishings of Nuestra Pequena Casa. Although they slept on the floor in Kocian's bedroom, they mostly had been banished to the backyard and to the quincho, where they had sort of adopted Corporal Lester Bradley, sensing that not only did he like to kick a soccer ball for them, but while manning the secure satellite communication device had the time to do so.

Everyone was so used to seeing Max, Madchen, and Lester together that hardly anyone noticed when Lester went to Ricardo Solez, touched his shoulder, and pointed to the secure radio. Solez nodded his understanding that if the radio went off, he was to answer the call.

Solez thought that Lester and Max and Madchen were leaving the quincho so that the dogs could meet the call of nature and Lester would then kick the soccer ball for them to retrieve. Both dogs could get a soccer ball in their mouths with no more effort than lesser breeds had with a tennis ball.

The first person to sense that that had not been Corporal Bradley's intention was Edgar Delchamps, who happened to glance out of the quincho into the backyard.

"Hey, Ace!" he called to Lieutenant Colonel Castillo. "As much as I would like to think the kid's playing cops and robbers, I don't think so."

Castillo looked at him in confusion, then followed Delchamps's nod toward the backyard.

Corporal Bradley, holding a Model 1911A1.45 ACP pistol in both hands, was marching across the grass by the swimming pool. Ahead of Bradley was a young man in a suit and tie who held his hands locked in the small of his neck. Max walked on one side of them, showing his teeth, and Madchen on the other showing hers.

"What the hell?" Castillo exclaimed.

Sandor Tor, with almost amazing grace for his bulk, got out of his chair and walked toward the door, brushing aside his suit jacket enough to uncover a black SIG-Sauer 9mm P228 semiautomatic pistol in a skeleton holster on his belt.

Castillo moved quickly to the drapes gathered at one side of the plateglass window and snatched a 9mm Micro Uzi submachine gun from behind them.

He opened the door as they approached the verandah of the quincho.

"What's up, Lester?" he asked.

Corporal Bradley did not reply directly.

"On the porch," he ordered the man. "Drop to your knees, and then get on your stomach on the tiles."

"Permission to speak, sir?" the young man in the suit asked.

"I told you to get on your stomach," Bradley ordered as sternly as he could. He did not have much of what is known as a "command voice."

"I'd do what he says, pal," Edgar Delchamps suggested, conversationally. "Lester's been known to use that.45, and Max likes to bite people."

The young man dropped to his knees, then went flat to the tile of the shaded verandah. Max leaned over him, showing his teeth. Madchen sat on her haunches across from him.

"I apprehended the intruder behind the pine trees, sir," Bradley announced, "as he was making his way toward the house."

"He was inside the fence?" Castillo asked. "What happened to the motion detectors?"

"He was inside the fence, sir," Bradley said. "Perhaps there is a malfunction of the motion-detecting system."

Tony Santini, carrying a Mini Uzi, and Ricardo Solez, holding a CAR-4, came out of the quincho.

"Jesus Christ, Pegleg!" Solez exclaimed. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Right now I'm laying on my goddamn stomach," the young man said.

"You know this guy, Ricardo?" Castillo asked.

"Yes, sir," Solez said.

Castillo waited a moment, then asked, "Well?"

"He's an assistant military attache at the embassy in Asuncion."

"Permission to speak, sir?" the man on the tile said.

"See what he's got in his pockets, Sandor," Castillo ordered.

Sandor Tor bent over the man on the tile, took a wallet from his hip pocket, and tossed it to Castillo. Then he rolled the man onto his back and went into the pockets of his jacket. He came up with an American diplomatic passport and tossed that to Castillo.

Castillo examined it.

"Sit, Max," he ordered.

Max looked at him, head cocked.

"He's probably not a bad guy," Castillo added.

After a moment, as if he had considered, then accepted, what Castillo had said, Max sat back on his haunches.

"Permission to speak, sir?" the man on the tile said.

"Why not?" Castillo said.

"Sir, I request to see Lieutenant Colonel Costello."

"Nobody here by that name," Castillo said. "Why don't we talk about what the hell you're doing here?"

"Sir, I came to see Colonel Costello."

"And if this Colonel Costello was here, what were you going to say to him?" Castillo asked.

"I was going to ask him for his help."

"Help about what?" Castillo asked, but before the man had a chance to open his mouth, Castillo asked another question. "You sneaked in here to ask somebody for help?"

"Sir, I didn't know what name you were using for the safe house. And even if I did, I didn't think you would pass me through the gate to this place. So I had to come in surreptitiously."

"Son," Edgar Delchamps asked, "how'd you get past the motion sensors on the fence? Fences, plural?"

"Dry ice, sir. I froze the mercury switches."

"Where'd you get the dry ice?"

"I bought it from a kid who delivers ice cream on a motorbike from the Freddo's ice cream store in the shopping mall."

"And where'd you learn to use dry ice on mercury switches?"

"Fort Huachuca, sir."

He pronounced that correctly, Castillo thought. "Wah-choo-kuh."

"What were you doing at Huachuca?" Delchamps challenged.

"Going through the Intelligence School."

"You're an Army intelligence officer?"

"Yes, sir. First Lieutenant Edmund Lorimer, sir."

"Lorimer?" Castillo said. "Your name is Lorimer?"

"Yes, sir. Same as that UN guy who got himself whacked in Uruguay."

"Your witness, Colonel," Delchamps said, gesturing grandly.

"You're Colonel Costello?" Lorimer asked.

"For the time being, I'll ask the questions," Castillo snapped, and was immediately sorry. "You may get up, Lieutenant Lorimer."

"Thank you, sir."

"You can put the.45 away, Bradley," Castillo said. He added, "But good job, Lester."

"Thank you, sir. The credit is due Max. He either detected unusual movement in the pines or perhaps smelled him."

"Take them inside the quincho, tell them 'good dog!', and give them each a bone."

"Yes, sir. Sir, when Max has too many bones-and he's already had several today-he suffers flatulence."

"Use your good judgment, Lester."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Castillo had been watching Lorimer out of the corner of his eye, idly wondering why he was getting to his feet slowly and carefully. He saw that Lorimer was smiling at Bradley, probably at the word "flatulence."

Lorimer's eyes met Castillo's for a moment, and when Lorimer was half-sitting on the table there, Castillo saw what had caused him to get to his feet so slowly and carefully.

And why Ricardo had called him "Pegleg."

Lorimer's right trouser leg had been pulled up. Rising from his stockinged ankle was a dully shining metal tube.

Titanium, Castillo thought. They now make those things out of titanium. How do I know that?

"What happened to your leg?" Castillo asked gently.

"RPG," Lorimer said.

"Where?"

"Afghanistan. We got bushwhacked on the way to Mazar. On Highway A76."

Castillo knew well the Mazar airfield-and, for that matter, Highway A76, the road to it from Kabul. The next to last time he had been there, he had "borrowed" a Black Hawk helicopter to make an extraction of the crew of another Black Hawk that had been shot down. Far senior officers had reluctantly concluded that the weather was so bad that making such an attempt would have been suicidal.

The last time he'd been at Mazar was to board a USAF C-5 Galaxy for the States, which carried him home with a vaguely phrased letter of reprimand for "knowingly and flagrantly violating flight safety rules."

The letter of reprimand was the compromise reached between several very senior officers who wished to recommend him for the Distinguished Service Cross-or perhaps even The Medal-and other very senior officers who wished to bring the crazy Special Forces sonofabitch before a General Court-Martial for willful disobedience of orders.

"How far up does that thing go?" Castillo asked.

"To the knee. Actually, the knee's part of it. All titanium."

"What were you doing in Afghanistan?"

"I thought I was winning their hearts and minds until this happened."

"You were Special Forces?"

Lorimer nodded. "Was. Now I'm Intelligence. DIA."

"How did that happen?"

"Well, for a while I thought I could do a Freddy Franks, but that didn't work."

General Frederick M. Franks Jr., then an Army major, lost a leg to wounds suffered in the Cambodian Incursion during the Vietnam War. He managed to stay in the Army by proving he could pass any physical test required of any officer. He became both the first one-legged general since the Civil War and, as a four-star general, the commander of ground forces in the First Desert War. Franks served as an inspiration to all-particularly to amputees.

"Why not?"

"It hurt too much."

"Okay. Who told you about this place?" Castillo asked.

"I asked around, sir."

"I asked who, Lieutenant."

Castillo looked at Ricardo Solez, who proclaimed his innocence by shaking his head and wagging both hands palms outward.

Lorimer said, "A lot people, sir. I just put it together."

"Among them Solez?"

"He was one of them, but he wouldn't tell me anything. But he's how I found out where you were."

Castillo glanced at Solez, who motioned to maintain his innocence, then looked back at Lorimer.

"He told you where we were?" Castillo said.

Lorimer shook his head. "I followed him and that kid with the.45 out here from the embassy."

Solez and Bradley, who had been posted to the embassy before they had been drafted by Castillo, had been assigned to make daily-sometimes twice-daily-errand runs from Nuestra Pequena Casa to the embassy specifically and to Buenos Aires generally. The theory was they were familiar faces and would attract the least attention.

Castillo looked at Solez, whose face now showed pain.

Castillo was tempted to let it go, but changed his mind. Getting followed was inexcusable.

"No rearview mirrors on the Trafic, right, Ricardo?" Castillo asked.

"Jesus Christ, Carlos, I'm sorry."

His embarrassment-shame-was clear in his voice.

"He's pretty good, Colonel," Lorimer said. "He led me up and down every back street between here and Palermo."

"But you're better, right?"

"Yes, sir. I guess I am."

"Okay. So you're here. Why?"

"A friend of mine, a DEA agent, got kidnapped about a week ago. I need some help to get him back. I figured you were the guy who could help, maybe the only one," Lorimer said.

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you got the bad guys who kidnapped Jack the Stack's wife and whacked him."

"What if I told you I have no idea what you're talking about?"

"Sir, I would expect you to say just that," Lorimer said. "But, sir, with respect, you better get used to the idea that the cat's out of the bag. I even heard of what went down and I'm pretty low down on the pay scale. And in Paraguay."

Castillo looked at Delchamps.

"Write this down, Ace," Delchamps said. "There's no such thing as a secret."

"Oh, shit!" Castillo said, and shook his head. Then he turned to Lorimer.

"Lieutenant Lorimer, I am Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, Special Forces, U.S. Army."

"Yes, sir."

"I inform you herewith that I am here operating on the authority of a Presidential Finding…"

"Yes, sir."

"Close your mouth until I'm finished, Lieutenant. You are advised herewith that each and every aspect of this operation is classified Top Secret Presidential. From this moment on, you will not discuss with anyone what you think you may have learned, or what you think you may have surmised, about anything connected with this operation. That includes the names of personnel, and the location of personnel or facilities, and what I or anyone connected with this operation may or may not have done. Any breach of these instructions will result in your trial by General Court-Martial-at which, trust me, you will be found guilty-and being placed in solitary confinement at probably Leavenworth until the details of this operation are no longer of interest to anyone. You run off at the mouth, and you'll wish the RPG had got all of you. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

He's got it. His face is white. And I feel like a shit.

"You heard what he said, Ace, about the cat being out of the bag?" Delchamps asked, but it sounded to Castillo like a statement.

"Edgar, butt out," Castillo said.

"I was thinking about collateral damage," Delchamps said. "Who's he been talking to? Which of them has been running at the mouth? What are you going to do about shutting them up?"

There I go again, underestimating Delchamps!

"Let's go to the house," Castillo said, gesturing. "You, Ed, and Tony and-somebody go inside and get Sieno."

"Which one, Colonel?" Davidson asked.

"Both of them," Castillo ordered. "And, Jack, sit on Lieutenant Lorimer here. If he even looks like he's thinking of taking off, shoot him in his good leg."

There were two suites of rooms on the second floor of Nuestra Pequena Casa, each containing a large bedroom, a walk-in-closet, and a bathroom. The Sienos occupied the larger of the two. Castillo had taken the slightly smaller one for himself.

Castillo's bedroom had one chair-at a dressing table-and a chaise lounge. Susanna Sieno-a trim, pale-freckled-skin redhead who did not look like what came to mind when "an officer of the clandestine service of the CIA" was said-took the dressing table chair. Delchamps and Paul Sieno sat side by side on the chaise lounge. Solez wordlessly asked permission to sit on the edge of the bed. When Castillo nodded, and he had, Tony Santini sat beside Solez.

Castillo leaned against the wall by the door, and after a moment said, "The word that comes to mind is 'compromised'…goddammit!"

"It happens, Ace," Delchamps said.

"Okay, we shut down. We were going to the States anyway in a couple of days. Now we go now."

There were nods of agreement.

"I'd love to know how this happened," Castillo said.

"I'd say Uruguay," Susanna Sieno said.

Castillo looked at her, then made a come on gesture.

"The OK Corral shoot-out took place there," she explained. "And you jerked Dave Yung and Julio Artigas out of the embassy, which was sure to cause gossip in the embassy, and then they found Howard Kennedy's body in the Conrad in Punta del Este…"

"What's that got to with this Lieutenant Lorimer in Paraguay?" Castillo interrupted.

"The spooks and the cops in Asuncion find a lot of reasons to, quote, confer, close quote, with the spooks and the cops in Montevideo," she said. "Like the dentists who go to Hawaii for two weeks, all tax-deductible, to confer for two hours on how to drill a molar with caries."

Delchamps chuckled.

"I'm not sure I understand," Castillo said.

"I think Susanna is onto it, Ace," Delchamps said. "I'll put it in soldier terms for you. You know what R amp;R is, right?"

Castillo nodded. "Rest and Recuperation."

"Sometimes known as I amp; I, for Intercourse and Intoxication," Delchamps went on. "And we know how every second lieutenant is required to memorize, 'If indiscretions you must have, have them a hundred miles from the flagpole.'"

Castillo smiled. "Okay."

"I don't know anything about this, of course," Susanna Sieno said, "but my husband, who as far as I know never lies to me, says that healthy young men not lucky enough to be accompanied by their wives on an assignment to someplace like Asuncion have unsatisfied physical desires…"

"When you were in short pants, Ace, and I was in Moscow," Delchamps said, "I used to confer with my professional associates in Vienna every couple of months. It wasn't smart to accept the female companionship offered to horny young spooks by the KGB in Moscow. Getting the picture, or do I have to be more graphic and make you blush?"

"I'm getting the picture," Castillo said.

"So try this scenario on for size," Susanna Sieno said. "Agent X, of the firm, or the DIA, or the DEA, or the FBI, checks in with his peers at the embassy in Montevideo. This satisfies the requirements of his temporary-duty orders. He spends an hour in the embassy, and then it's off to the sandy beaches and the bikini-clad maidens of Punta del Este. So Agent X asks, 'Well, what's new, Willy?' "And Willy says, 'Nothing much here, but you heard about Jack the Stack Masterson getting whacked in front of his wife in Buenos Aires?' "And Agent X says, 'Yeah, what was that all about?' "And Willy says, 'God only knows, but what's interesting is that a Washington hotshot-I don't know this, but I heard that he's an Army officer sent by the President-has taken over the investigation.' "So Agent X goes back to Asuncion and tells this interesting story to the boys. And then Agent Y goes on R amp;R to Montevideo.

"'Willy, tell me about Jack the Stack's murder and the hotshot.' "To which Willy replies, 'I don't know much, but it's getting interesting. First, Dave Yung, one the FBI guys, gets jerked out of here and onto a plane for Washington. No explanation. And then, two days ago, right after Yung mysteriously disappeared, they find an American, who worked for the UN, and six guys all dressed like Ninjas, all dead at an estancia named-would you believe it?-Shangri-La. Nobody has a clue what that was all about.' "So Agent Y, his physical desires satisfied, goes back to Asuncion and tells his pal, Agent Z, what he heard in Montevideo. Agent Z then takes his R amp;R in Montevideo, where he asks Willy-or Tom, Dick, and Harry-'Tell me more about the six dead Ninjas and the UN guy.' "'Curiouser and curiouser,' he's told. 'Turns out the dead American was a drug dealer and Jack the Stack's brother-in-law. There's a very interesting rumor that a special operations team, probably run by the hotshot-he's an Army officer by the name of Costello; we found that out-whacked the Ninjas and maybe also the drug guy-his name was Lorimer-and then they jerked another FBI guy, Artigas, out of here. No explanation.'"

Susanna paused.

"End of scenario," she said after a moment.

"Good scenario," Castillo said.

"These are all bright, clever guys, Charley," she said. "Trained investigators."

"With diarrhea of the mouth," Castillo said.

"Nobody told them all this was Top Secret Presidential," Sieno said. "Call it shop talk."

"No excuse," Castillo said.

"It wasn't as if they were running off at the mouth in a bar," Delchamps said. "These guys were swapping gossip with people they knew had the same security clearances they did. Arguably, their sharing of such information could hold a kernel that would prove to be a missing piece of a puzzle they were working, one they otherwise would not have had…"

"That's not an excuse, Ed, and you know it," Castillo said.

"I didn't say it was right, Ace. I said I think it explains what happened. I think Susanna's right on the money. And it explains the young man with the titanium leg coming here. His pal got snatched and now he's desperate…"

"I didn't hear about that," Susanna said.

"What he said was his pal, a DEA agent, was snatched a week ago," Delchamps explained. "And, though he didn't say this, I'll bet nobody in Paraguay is doing anything at all to get him back that might annoy the host government in any way. So he came looking for John Wayne here."

"So the question then becomes 'What do we do about it?'"

"About getting the DEA guy back?" Delchamps asked.

"The DEA guy is not my problem," Castillo said.

"No, he's not," Delchamps said. "Write that down."

Castillo flashed him a cold look.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning for a moment there, Ace, I thought you were starting to think you really are John Wayne, flitting around the world righting wrongs," Delchamps said.

"My primary concern is making sure this operation isn't compromised any more than it already is," Castillo said.

"How are you going to do that?"

"Well, first we're going to get out of here. There's no reason we can't move it to the Nebraska Avenue Complex. Or is there?"

Delchamps shook his head.

"The Sienos, Tony, and Alex Darby will be here. Plus Bob Howell in Montevideo," Delchamps said. "They can handle anything that comes up with regard to this…" He gestured in the direction of the quincho.

Castillo nodded. Darby was the CIA station chief in Buenos Aires and Howell his counterpart in Montevideo.

"But what are you going to do about the guy downstairs?" Tony Santini asked. "You can't trust him to keep his mouth shut."

"Particularly since Charley's not going to rescue his pal from the bad guys," Susanna said.

"He goes with us," Castillo said. "Unless somebody's got a better idea?"

"Tony, who do you know in the embassy in Asuncion?" Delchamps asked.

"I've been up there, of course," Santini said. "But I don't have any pals there, if that's what you're asking."

"You're not alone," Susanna said.

Castillo and Delchamps looked at her. When she didn't respond, Delchamps asked, "Who's the station chief?"

"His name is White," Paul Sieno said. "Robert J. White."

Delchamps looked thoughtful a moment, then shook his head.

Susanna said: "He can't understand why someone like himself, who has kissed all the appropriate buttocks in Langley for years, gets assigned to Asuncion when troublemakers like Paul and Alex and me got to go to Buenos Aires."

"What about the military attache?" Castillo asked.

"He and the station chief are great pals," Santini said. "I don't think talking to them would work, Charley."

"And I don't want to go to the ambassador there, or involve Silvio any more than I already have," Castillo said, almost thoughtfully. "If this thing blows up in our faces, the less he knows the better."

Juan Manuel Silvio was the United States Ambassador to Argentina. He had put his career at risk to help Castillo to carry out the Presidential Finding.

"So?" Delchamps asked.

"So, I guess I have to go to the other ambassador."

The other ambassador was the Honorable Charles W. Montvale, the former deputy secretary of State, former secretary of the Treasury, and former ambassador to the European Union. And now the director of National Intelligence.

Castillo shook his head and said, "I now know how Lee felt at Appomattox Court House when he said, 'I would rather face a thousand deaths, but now I must go and treat with General Grant.'"

"Is he really that bad, Charley?" Susanna asked.

"Right now, Susie, I feel like a small white mouse about to be put into the cobra's cage," Castillo said.

He pushed himself away from the wall, walked to the bed, and gestured to Solez to give up his seat.

"You want some privacy, Ace?" Delchamps said.

"No. I want everybody to hear this," Castillo said, sat down on the bed, and punched the SPEAKER PHONE button on what looked like an ordinary telephone.

"Corporal Bradley speaking, sir," Lester's voice came over the speaker.

"Is the Local Secure LED lit, Lester?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get Major Miller on here, secure."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Ten seconds later, a male voice came very clearly over the speaker.

"And how are things down in Buenos Aires on this miserable, blistering, humid afternoon in our beloved nation's capital?"

"Verify secure," Bradley's voice piped.

"Ah, the pride of the Marine Corps! The little green light is glowing brightly, Lester."

"Colonel, the line is secure. I believe Major Miller is the party answering."

"Thank you, Bradley," Castillo said. "Hey, Dick!"

"A sus ordenes, mi coronel," Miller said.

"Get Agnes on an extension, and then patch me through secure to the White House."

"I don't like the tone of your voice," Miller said, seriously. "Hold one, Charley."

Twenty seconds later, a female voice announced, "White House."

"You on, Agnes?" Castillo asked.

"Uh-huh," Mrs. Agnes Forbison, the deputy chief for administration of the Office of Organizational Analysis, said.

"You and Dick stay on the line," Castillo said. "Don't record or take notes, but pay attention."

"Why do I think I know what you're going to say next?" Agnes Forbison asked.

"White House," the female operator repeated.

"You're prescient, Agnes," Castillo said, and then, "Operator, this is Colonel Castillo. Will you get me Ambassador Montvale on a secure line, please?"

"Hold one, Colonel. It may take a moment. He's in the mountains with the boss."

Oh, shit!

Ten seconds later, a male voice came on.

"Ambassador Montvale's line."

"Colonel Castillo for Ambassador Montvale," the White House operator said. "The line is secure."

"The ambassador is with the President. I'm not sure he can be disturbed."

"Is that Mr. Ellsworth?" Castillo asked.

Truman C. Ellsworth had risen high in government service as Ambassador Montvale's trusted deputy. He was not an admirer of Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, whom he viewed as a threat to Montvale.

"Good afternoon, Colonel," Ellsworth said in his somewhat nasal voice.

"I have to speak to the ambassador. Your call, Mr. Ellsworth, as to if he can be interrupted when he's with the President."

There was no reply, but in five seconds another male voice, one somewhat impatient, came over the speakers.

"Yes?"

Ellsworth, you sonofabitch!

"This is Castillo, Mr. President. Sorry to bother you, sir. I was trying to get the ambassador."

"My line rang," the President said, and then corrected himself. "Flashed. How are you, Charley?"

"Very well, thank you, sir."

"You're in Argentina, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"What kind of television do you get down there?"

"We've been watching Fox and Deutsche Welle, Mr. President."

"So you know what's going on in New Orleans and along the Gulf Coast?"

"Yes, sir."

"We're watching. Hard to believe, isn't it?"

Un-fucking-believable, sir.

"Yes, Mr. President, it is."

"I want to see you as soon as you get back up here, Charley. When is that going to be?"

"Probably late tomorrow, sir."

"Okay. I'll see you then. Unless I'm down there overseeing this disaster. You find me, either way."

"Yes, sir."

"Charles," Castillo heard the President say, "it's Charley for you."

Ambassador Montvale came on the line a moment later.

"Good to hear from you, Colonel," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"Buy Mr. Ellsworth a new pair of glasses."

"Excuse me?"

"I can think of no reason but fuzzy eyesight for his pushing the President's button when he knew I wanted to talk to you, can you?"

"I'm sure that it was inadvertent."

"Oh, me too," Castillo said, sarcastically. "I can't imagine him doing it on purpose, hoping it would cause the President to be annoyed with me. It just has to be his glasses."

"What can I do for you, Charley?" Montvale asked, his annoyance clear in his voice.

"There's a risk of compromise down here that I want to stop before it goes any further."

"At this late date?"

"Yes, sir."

"What needs to be done?"

"Two things. First, please call the station chief in Paraguay and tell him that Alex Darby is coming to see him and will speak with your authority."

"My authority about what?"

"To tell his people to stop guessing between them what happened in Uruguay and here, and stop talking about it, period."

"Should I call the ambassador there?"

"Let's leave him out of it, if we can."

"Your call. But forewarned is forearmed, as you know."

"And then call Fort Meade and have the DIA immediately transfer First Lieutenant Edmund Lorimer, an assistant military attache at the embassy in Asuncion, to OOA."

"What's that about?"

"He was clever enough to learn my name and find the safe house. I don't want to leave him here."

"A troublemaker, in other words?"

"Mr. Ambassador, he's done nothing but what I would have done in his shoes."

"Why don't I find that comforting, do you suppose?"

Castillo ignored the response.

"We're shutting down here," Castillo went on, "just to be safe. We're just about finished here anyway. We ought to be in Washington sometime late tomorrow. I'm going to bring Lorimer with us."

"Come see me when you get here."

"Yes, sir. Of course."

"I'll get right on this."

"Thank you, sir."

Castillo waited until the White House operator, detecting that the telephone in Camp David had been hung up, asked, "Are you through, Colonel?"

"Break it down, please, thank you," Castillo said, and then, after a moment, "You heard that, Agnes? Dick?"

"Why do I think Mr. Ellsworth doesn't like you?" Agnes asked.

"With a little bit of luck, I can stop this before it gets any worse," Castillo said. "But I wanted you to have a heads-up if it goes wrong. I'll give you a call when we're a couple hours out of Baltimore. We're going to need three Yukons."

"They'll be there," Agnes said.

"Where do we live now, Dick?"

"I was about to call you about that," Miller said. "You know West Boulevard Drive in Alexandria?"

"Maybe. I think so."

"Agnes knows a real estate guy, and he put her onto a place at 7200 West Boulevard Drive. An old couple lived there, she died, and then a month later, three months ago, he did. Their kids didn't want it, and they want the money quick. They went through it and took out the valuable stuff, but what's left is nice."

"And the house?"

"You'll like everything about it but the price, boss," Agnes said.

"Which is how much? And why will I like it?"

"Right now you are renting it, furnished, for ten thousand a month, with an option to buy at $2,950,000 with the furniture, and I don't really know how much without."

"Done deal?"

"You told Dick to get you out of the Monica Lewinsky Motel right now, and yesterday would be better. Yeah, it's a done deal. I gave them a check two hours ago," Agnes said.

"On my account, I hope? I don't want the Lorimer Benevolent amp; Charitable Trust involved in this."

"You're paying for it," Agnes said. "But on that subject, we just got confirmation of that substantial deposit to the trust we've been expecting."

"Well, presuming we can keep that a secret, that's good news. Can I go to this place straight from the airport? And can I stash Lieutenant Lorimer there until I figure out what to do with him?"

"You can go there from the airport," Agnes said. "But there's no sheets or towels, food, etcetera. And yes, you can take somebody there. Six bedrooms, six baths. And it's off the road; nobody can look into the windows from the street. I told them to get a radio in there tomorrow, but it will probably be a couple of days before you have a secure White House telephone."

"Dick, can you get our stuff out of the Mayflower and over there before I get there? And stop by Sam's Club or someplace and buy sheets, etcetera, and food? Charge that to the Trust."

"Yes, sir, Colonel, sir. Dare I to presume that was an invitation to share your new quarters?"

"Yeah, but no guests of the opposite sex above the first floor," Castillo said. "We are going to be paragons of virtue in our new home."

Agnes laughed.

"That I'll have to see," she said.

Castillo had a new thought: "Who's going to take care of this place?"

"That's another problem I'm working on," Agnes said. "You're going to need a housekeeper and a yardman. At least. Dick said maybe we could put an ad in the Army Times and see if we could find a retired sergeant and his wife. Maybe they'd have security clearances."

"What would I do without you, Agnes?"

"I shudder to consider the possibility," she said.

"Unless you've got something else, we'll see you tomorrow," Castillo said.

"Can't think of anything that won't wait," she said.

When it became evident that Miller wasn't going to say anything, Castillo ordered, "Break it down, Lester."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Castillo hung up the phone.

"Okay," he said, "in the immortal words of General George S. Patton, let's saddle up and get this show on the road."

"I don't think Patton said that, Ace," Edgar Delchamps said.

"If he didn't, he should have," Castillo said.

"What about the steaks?" Susanna Sieno said.

"Fire should be ready about now," Paul Sieno added.

Castillo considered that a moment, then said, "Good idea, Susanna. 'An Army marches on its stomach.' I don't know if Patton said that or not. And I don't care-I'm hungry. Let's eat."