The shooters

III

[ONE]

Signature Flight Support, Inc.

Baltimore-Washington International Airport Baltimore, Maryland 2205 1 September 2005 A black Chevrolet sedan with a United States Customs and Border Protection Service decal on the door and four identical dark blue GMC Yukon XL Denalis were waiting for the Gulfstream III when it taxied up to the Signature tarmac.

Two uniformed customs officers got out of the Chevrolet sedan and walked across the tarmac toward the aircraft. Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., in civilian clothing, slid gingerly out of the front seat of the first Yukon in the line, turned and retrieved a crutch, stuck it under his arm, and moved with surprising agility after them.

As soon as the stair door opened into place, one of the customs officers, a gray-haired man in his fifties, bounded quickly up it, then stopped, exclaimed, "Jesus Christ!" and then backed up so quickly that he knocked the second customs officer, by then right behind him, off the stairs and then fell backward onto him.

Max appeared in the door, growling deeply and showing an impressive array of teeth. Madchen moved beside him and added her voice and teeth to the display.

Castillo appeared in the door.

"Gentlemen," he said, solemnly, "you have just personally witnessed the Office of Organizational Analysis Aircraft Anti-Intrusion Team in action."

The gray-haired customs officer gained his feet, glared for a moment at the stair door, and then, shaking his head, smiled.

"Very impressive, Colonel," he said, finally.

"They're okay, Max," Castillo said, in Hungarian. "You may now go piss."

Max looked at him, stopped growling, went down the stairs, and headed for the nose gear. Madchen went modestly to the other side of the fuselage.

"You all right?" Castillo said.

"What the hell kind of dogs are they?" the gray-haired customs officer asked.

"Bouvier des Flandres," Castillo said.

The customs officer shook his head. "What do they weigh?" he asked.

"Max has been known to hit one-thirty-five, Madchen maybe one-ten."

"You understand, Colonel, sir," Miller said, "that you may now expect these gentlemen to really search your person and luggage?"

"What I'm hoping you'll say, Colonel," the customs officer said, "is that you're going to show me evidence that you passed through customs someplace else."

"No," Castillo said. "We were going to do that at Hurlburt Field, but the hurricane got Hurlburt. We refueled at Fort Rucker, but we have to do the customs and immigration here."

"Everybody aboard American?"

"No," Castillo replied, and waved them onto the Gulfstream. "No more surprises, I promise."

"Welcome to the United States," the large customs officer said when he had stepped into the cabin. "Or welcome home, whichever the case may be. There would be a band, but I have been led to believe that everybody would prefer to enter the United States as quietly as possible. What we're going to do is collect the American passports and run them through the computers in the main terminal. Then-presuming the computer doesn't tell us there are outstanding warrants on anybody-they will be returned to you and you can be on your way."

He looked around the cabin and continued: "I just learned that some of you are not American citizens, which means that we'll have to check your visas. I think we can run them through the computers without any trouble, but I think we'd better have a look at them before we try to do that. Understood?"

When there were nods, he pulled a heavy plastic bag from his pocket and finished his speech: "And if any of you are carrying forbidden substances, not only mood-altering chemicals of one kind or another but raw fruits and vegetables, any meat product not in an unopened can-that sort of thing-now is the time to deposit them in this bag."

"As my patriotic duty," Castillo said, "I have to mention that the cigarettes that Irishman has been smoking don't smell like Marlboros."

He pointed. The customs officer looked.

"And I've seen his picture hanging in the post office, too," the customs officer said, and walked to the man with his hand extended. "How are you, Jack? And what the hell are you doing with this crew?"

"Hoping nobody sees me," Inspector Doherty said. "And what are you doing in a uniform?"

"The director of National Intelligence suggested it would be appropriate."

"Say hello to Edgar Delchamps," Doherty said. "I'll vouch for him. Use your judgment about the others. Ed, this is Chief Inspector Bob Mitchell."

The men shook hands.

"You're with the bureau?" Mitchell asked.

"Ed's the exception to the rule about people who get paid from Langley," Doherty said. "When he shakes your hand, Bob, you get all five fingers back."

"Actually, I'm with the Fish and Wildlife Service," Delchamps said.

Mitchell chuckled.

The other customs officer handed Mitchell several passports.

"Take a look at these, Inspector," he said. "When was the last time you saw a handwritten, non-expiring, multivisit visa signed by an ambassador?"

"It's been a while," Mitchell said. He looked at the passports and added, "An Argentine, a German, and two Hungarians. All issued the same day in Buenos Aires. Interesting. I'd love to know what's going on here."

"But you were told not to ask, right?" Doherty said. "Sorry, Bob."

"We also serve who look but do not see or ask questions," Mitchell said. "Well, I think I had better run these through the computer myself. I'm sure all kinds of warning bells and whistles are going to go off."

"Thank you, Mr. Mitchell," Castillo said.

"I always try to be nice to people I feel sorry for, Colonel," Mitchell said.

"Excuse me?"

"I bear a message from our boss, Colonel. The ambassador said, quote, Ask Colonel Castillo to please call me the minute he gets off the airplane, unquote."

"Oh. I see what you mean."

"That's the first time I can remember the ambassador saying 'please.'"

"That's probably because he's not my boss," Castillo replied. "He just thinks he is."

"That's probably even worse, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," Castillo agreed.

Mitchell smiled and nodded.

"Okay, this'll take ten or fifteen minutes. You can start unloading whatever you have to unload."

"Thank you," Castillo said.

"Consider it your hearty meal for the condemned man," Mitchell said, shook his hand, and went to the stair door.

Castillo turned to Miller.

"So where do I find a secure phone?"

"There's one in your Yukon."

"I said a secure phone."

"And I said, Colonel, sir, 'In your Yukon,'" Miller said, and made a grand gesture toward the stair door.

Miller motioned for Castillo to precede him into the backseat of one of the dark blue Yukons. Then, not without difficulty, he stowed his crutch, got in beside him, and closed the door.

There was a telephone handset mounted on the rear of the driver's seat in the Yukon. Except for an extraordinarily thick cord, it looked like a perfectly normal handset.

"That's secure?" Castillo asked.

"Secure and brand-new," Miller replied. "A present from your pal Aloysius."

"Really?"

"He called up three or four days ago, asked of your general health and welfare, then asked if there was anything he could do for us. I told him I couldn't think of a thing. He said he had a new toy he thought you might like to play with, one in its developmental phase."

Miller pointed at the telephone.

"So yesterday, I was not surprised when the Secret Service guy said there were some people from AFC seeking access to your throne room in the complex. I was surprised when they came up to see that one of them was Aloysius in the flesh."

Aloysius Francis Casey (Ph.D., Electrical Engineering, MIT) was a small, pale-faced man who customarily dressed in baggy black suits. He also was the founder, chairman of the board, and principal stockholder of the AFC Corporation. AFC had a vast laboratory and three manufacturing facilities that provided a substantial portion of worldwide encrypted communications to industry in the form of leased technology.

During the Vietnam War, then-Sergeant Casey had served with distinction as the commo man on several Special Forces A-Teams. He had decided, immediately after the First Desert War, that it was payback time. Preceded by a telephone call from the senior U.S. senator from Nevada, he had arrived at Fort Bragg in one of AFC's smaller jets and explained to then-Major General Bruce J. McNab that, save for the confidence that being a Green Beanie had given him, he would almost certainly have become either a Boston cop-or maybe a postman-after his Vietnam service.

Not that Casey found either occupation wanting.

Instead, he said, his Green Beanie service had given him the confidence to attempt the impossible. In his case, he explained, that meant getting into MIT without a high school diploma on the strength of his self-taught comprehension of both radio wave propagation and cryptographic algorithms.

"A professor," Casey had said, "took a chance on a scrawny little Irishman with the balls to ask for something like getting into MIT and arranged for me to audit classes. By the end of my freshman year, I got my high school diploma. By the end of my second year, I had my BS. The next year, I got my master's and started AFC. By the time I got my doctorate two years later, AFC was up and running. The professor who gave me my chance-Heinz Walle-is now AFC's vice president of research and development. I now have more money than I can spend, so it's payback time."

General McNab had asked him exactly what he had in mind. Dr. Casey replied that he knew the Army's equipment was two, three years obsolete before the first piece of it was delivered.

"What I'm going to do is see that Special Forces has state-of-the-art stuff."

General McNab said that was a great idea, but as Sergeant/Dr. Casey must know, procurement of signal equipment was handled by Signal Corps procurement officials, over whom Special Forces had absolutely no control.

"I'm not about to get involved trying to sell anything to those paper-pushing bastards," Dr. Casey had said. "What I'm going to do is give you the stuff and charge it off to R amp;D."

General McNab was never one to pass up an opportunity, and asked, "It sounds like a great idea. How would you suggest we get started?"

Dr. Casey had then jerked his thumb at General McNab's aide-de-camp, Second Lieutenant C. G. Castillo, who had met Dr. Casey's Lear at Pope AFB.

Because General McNab had better things to do with his time than entertain some [expletive deleted] civilian with friends in the [expletive deleted] U.S. Senate any further than buying the [expletive deleted] lunch, Lieutenant Castillo had taken Dr. Casey on a helicopter tour of Fort Bragg and Fayetteville, North Carolina, until lunchtime.

By the time they landed on the Officers' Club lawn, Dr. Casey had learned the young officer had earned both the pilot's wings and Combat Infantry Badge sewn to his BDU jacket and decided he was one tough and smart little sonofabitch.

"What about me taking the boy wonder here back to Vegas with me after lunch? He can see what we have and what you need, and we can wing it from there."

"Charley," General McNab had ordered Lieutenant Castillo, "go pack a bag. And try to stay out of trouble in Las Vegas."

"Aloysius had this put in?" Castillo asked, picking up the handset.

"You're not listening, Colonel, sir," Dick Miller said. "Aloysius put it in with his own freckled fingers."

"White House," the handset announced.

"Jesus!" Castillo said.

"I'm afraid he's not on the circuit," the White House operator said. "Anyone else you'd like to speak to?"

"This line is secure?" Castillo asked, doubtfully.

"This line is secure."

"I'll be damned!"

"If you keep up the profanity, you probably will be, Colonel."

"How do you know I'm a Colonel?" Castillo said.

"Because this link is listed as Colonel Castillo's Mobile One," the operator said, "and because the voice identification circuit just identified you as Colonel Castillo himself."

"I will be damned."

"It's amazing, isn't it?" the operator said. "And aside from Major Miller, you're the first call we've handled. Even my boss is amazed. Can I put you through to someone, Colonel? Or are you just seeing how it works?"

"Ambassador Montvale on a secure line, please."

"Montvale."

"Good evening, sir. Castillo."

"Didn't take you long to find a secure line, did it, Charley? You've been on the ground only twelve minutes."

"Well, I'm using the one in my Yukon."

"Then this is not a secure line?"

"The White House assures me it's secure, sir."

"In your truck?"

"Yes, sir. Don't you have a secure line in your vehicle?"

There was a pause, which caused Castillo to smirk at the mental image he had of the face that Montvale was now making.

"We'll talk about that when I see you," Montvale said. "How long is it going to take you to get to your Alexandria house?"

"Well, I think we can leave here in fifteen minutes or so. And then however long it takes to get to the house. I've never been there."

"Who's with you, Charley?" Montvale asked, and then before Castillo could answer, went on: "Bring everybody with you who might know something about the possible compromise."

"I gather that you mean, sir, to the house in Alexandria?"

"Are there any problems with that?"

"None, sir, except-"

"You and I are meeting with the President at eight o'clock tomorrow morning," Montvale interrupted. "I don't want to meet him unprepared. Any problems with that?"

"Inspector Doherty was just on the phone to his wife, telling her he'd be right home."

"Well, I especially want to see him. Have him call her back and tell her he's being delayed. I want everybody at your house."

"Excuse me, Mr. Ambassador, but isn't there an agreement between us that you don't give me orders?"

"For the moment, there is," Montvale said, icily. "Let me rephrase. I'll be grateful, Colonel, for the opportunity to meet with you and everybody with knowledge of the possible compromise at your earliest convenience. Say in approximately one hour in Alexandria?"

"I'll do my best to have everyone there as soon as possible, Mr. Ambassador."

There was a click on the line as Montvale hung up without saying anything else.

Castillo put the handset in its cradle.

"I didn't see Doherty using his cellular," Miller said.

"Either did I," Castillo said.

"You just like to pull the tiger's tail, right?"

"If I don't, Dick, I'd find myself asking permission to take a leak."

"Yeah," Miller said thoughtfully after a moment. Then he asked, "What has to go to the complex?"

"Not that much. One filing cabinet just about full of paper. And then a dozen external hard drives. What do I do about the weapons?"

"I'd take them to the house," Miller said.

"Okay," Castillo said.

"You heard all this, Stan?" Miller asked the Secret Service driver.

"Uh-huh. I'll take care of it."

"Somebody'll have to sit on the filing cabinet and the hard drives," Castillo said. "Unless we can get everything into the vault tonight."

"I think I'll have somebody sit on the vault, Colonel, after we get everything inside."

"Thank you," Castillo said.

[TWO] 7200 West Boulevard Drive

Alexandria, Virginia 2325 1 September 2005 The first impression Castillo had of the new property was that it was a typical Alexandria redbrick two-story home. The exception being, perhaps, the size of its lot; the front lawn was at least one hundred yards from West Boulevard Drive.

But his first impression changed as the Yukon rolled up the driveway.

Castillo saw that the rise in the lawn concealed both a circular drive in front of the house and a large area in front of the basement garage on the right. There was another Yukon XL parked there, and a Buick sedan, but there was still room enough for the three Yukons in the convoy to park easily.

The Yukon's probably Montvale's. He's too exalted to drive a lowly Buick, particularly since a Yukon with a Secret Service driver from the White House pool is the status symbol in Washington.

And if it is his, he's waiting for me in the living room, in the largest chair, finally having succeeded in summoning me to the throne room.

As the first Yukon reached the house, the triple garage doors opened one by one. The Secret Service driver of Castillo's Yukon drove inside the garage and the other two followed suit. The doors began to close.

The garage ran all the way under the house. There was room for three more Yukons. And some other vehicles. The walls were lined with shelves, and on them were old cans of paint, coils of water hose, and other things that people stored in garages.

Well, Miller told me that the kids of the people who owned this place had removed the valuable stuff.

Paint cans and water hoses don't count as valuable stuff.

There were two familiar faces standing at the foot of an extraordinarily wide basement-to-house stairway. One of them, a large, red-haired Irishman, was Secret Service Supervisory Special Agent Thomas McGuire, who had joined the Office of Organizational Analysis at its beginning. The other was Mrs. Agnes Forbison, a gray-haired, getting-just-a-little-chubby lady in her late forties who had been one of then-Secretary of Homeland Security Matt Hall's executive assistants and who also had joined OOA at its beginning. Her title now was OOA's deputy chief for administration.

Well, the Buick is probably Agnes's and the Yukon Tom's.

So where is the ambassador?

Castillo got out of the Yukon and walked to them.

He and McGuire shook hands. Agnes kissed his cheek.

"Montvale?" Castillo asked.

"I expect he'll be here shortly," Agnes said, and then, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!"

Max and Madchen had been freed from one of the other Yukons and made right for them.

"This is Max and his lady friend, Madchen," Castillo explained.

Agnes squatted and rubbed Max's ears.

"Pretty puppy," she said.

Madchen shouldered Max out of the way.

"And you, too, sweetheart!" Agnes added, now rubbing Madchen's ears.

Tom McGuire eyed both animals warily.

"Montvale's meeting us here," Castillo said.

"You didn't think he would be waiting for you, did you, Chief?" Agnes said, looking up at him, and then added, "We bought everything we could think of. Except, of course, dog food."

"If you bought a rib roast, that'd do," Castillo said.

Agnes stood up.

"You want a look around before the ambassador gets here?" she asked.

"Please," Castillo said. "How many beds do we have?"

"How many do you need?"

"That many," Castillo said, pointing to the others, who were now standing around the Yukons. "Less Doherty, who'll probably go home."

Agnes used her index finger to count Colonel Jake Torine, USAF; First Lieutenant Edmund Lorimer, USA; Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC; Sergeant Major John K. Davidson, USA; Colonel Alfredo Munz; Edgar Delchamps; Special Agent David W. Yung of the FBI; Sandor Tor; and Eric Kocian.

"Not counting Inspector Doherty," she computed aloud, "that's nine, plus you and Dick. That's a total of eleven. No problem. There's six bedrooms all with double beds. One of you will actually be alone."

"That would be me, madam," Eric Kocian announced, advancing on her. "The sacrifices I am willing to make to contribute to this enterprise do not include sharing a bedroom."

"Mrs. Forbison, Eric Kocian," Castillo said.

"I am charmed, madam," Kocian said, taking the hand Agnes extended and raising it to his lips.

From the look on her face-the pleased look-I think it's been some time since she has had her hand kissed.

"I hope you will not take offense, madam," Kocian went on, "if I say I have urgent need of a restroom, preferably one inside?"

"We'll put you in my room, Billy," Castillo said. "I'll bunk with Miller."

"Splendid!" Kocian said.

"Has this place got a fenced backyard?" Castillo asked.

"Uh-huh," Agnes said.

"If you'll show me that, I'll put Max and Madchen out, and Tom can show the old gentleman to his quarters-"

"Old gentleman!" Kocian snorted.

"-and then we can get everybody settled in before we have to face the dragon."

Agnes's tour of the house ended in a small study. Bookcases lined three of its walls. A stuffed mallard and two stuffed fish-a trout and a king mackerel-were mounted on the remaining wall. There were a few books scattered on the shelves, mostly ten-year-old and older novels. Windows opened to the left and rear. Through it, Castillo saw that floodlights around a decent-sized swimming pool had been turned on. Max was happily paddling about in the pool while Madchen stood on the side and barked at him.

The study was furnished with a small desk, a well-worn blue leather judge's chair, and a soiled, well-worn chaise lounge, none of which had obviously struck the heirs as worth taking.

There was a telephone on the desk, but Castillo didn't pay much attention to it until it buzzed and a red light began to flash on its base. Then he saw the thick cord that identified it as a secure telephone.

Agnes picked it up.

"C. G. Castillo's line," she said, then, "Yes, the colonel is available for Ambassador Montvale," and handed him the phone.

"Castillo."

"Charles Montvale, Colonel. We will be at your door in approximately five minutes."

"I'm looking forward to it, sir," Castillo replied, and then, when a click told him that Montvale had hung up, added, "about as much as I would visiting an Afghan dentist with a foot-powered drill."

Agnes looked at him.

"I gather you're speaking from experience?"

"Painful experience," Castillo said. "With both."

"How do you want to handle this?"

"I will receive the ambassador in here, where he will find me carefully studying my computer, which I will close when he enters. Have everybody but Kocian, Tor, Bradley, and, of course, Lieutenant Lorimer in the living room. We'll have to bring chairs from the kitchen or someplace else for them, I guess."

The living room had a beamed ceiling, a brick fireplace, and hardwood floors. There were two small and rather battered carpets that the children of the former owner also had apparently decided were not of value to them. Marks on the floor showed where the valuable carpets had lain, and marks on the wall showed where picture frames had hung.

There were four red leather armchairs and a matching couch that also had apparently missed the cut, although they looked fine to Castillo. Another stuffed trout was mounted above the fireplace, and there was some kind of animal hoof-maybe an elk's, Castillo guessed-converted into an ashtray that sat on a heavy and battered coffee table scarred with whiskey glass rings and cigarette burns.

Castillo had decided he probably would have liked the former owners. He was already feeling comfortable in their house.

"Ambassador Montvale, Colonel," Agnes announced from the study door five minutes later.

Castillo closed the lid of his laptop and stood up.

"Please come in, Mr. Ambassador," he said.

Montvale wordlessly shook his hand.

"I haven't had a chance to make this place homey," Castillo said. "The chaise lounge all right? Or would you rather sit in that?"

He pointed to the judge's chair.

"This'll be fine, thank you," Montvale said, and sat at the foot of the chaise lounge.

It was a very low chaise lounge. Montvale's knees were now higher than his buttocks.

"Getting right to it, Charley," Montvale said. "How bad is the compromise situation?"

"I think it's under control."

"I'd be happier if you said you're confident it's under control."

"Think is the best I can do for now. Sorry."

"Tell me what's happened, and then I'll tell you why it's so dangerous."

"We were all watching Hurricane Katrina on the television when Corporal Bradley marched in with a guy at gunpoint, a guy Max had caught coming through the fence-"

"Max?" Montvale interrupted. "Who the hell is Max?"

Castillo walked to the window and pointed.

Less than gracefully, Montvale got to his feet, joined him at the window, and looked out.

Max had tired of his swim, climbed out of the pool, and in the moment Montvale looked out, was shaking himself dry.

"You could have said, 'Our watchdog,' Charley," Montvale said disapprovingly. Then curiosity overwhelmed him. "God, he's enormous! What is he?"

"They are Bouvier des Flandres. There's a pretty credible story that Hitler lost one of his testicles to one of them when he was Corporal Schickelgruber in Flanders. It is a fact that when he went back to Flanders as Der Fuhrer he ordered the breed eliminated."

"Fascinating," Montvale said as he walked to the judge's leather chair and sat down. "It is also a fact that when Hitler was a corporal he was Corporal Hitler. That Schickelgruber business was something the OSS came up with during World War Two. It's known as ridiculing your enemy."

"Really?" Castillo said, then thought: You sonofabitch, you grabbed my chair!

Well, I'll be goddamned if I'm going to sit on that chaise lounge and look up at you.

Castillo leaned on the wall beside the window and folded his arms over his chest.

"Trust me," Montvale said. "It's a fact. Now, getting back to what happened after that outsized dog caught the guy…"

"He turned out to be an assistant military attache in our embassy in Asuncion, Paraguay. First Lieutenant Edmund Lorimer. Formerly of Special Forces, now of Intelligence. One of his pals, a DEA agent-"

"Name?"

"I can get it from Lorimer, if it's important to you."

"Lorimer? Any connection with our Lorimers?"

"Just a coincidence."

"Where is this chap?"

"Upstairs."

"Go on."

"Well, Lorimer is clever. He put together all the gossip, and when the drug guys kidnapped his DEA agent pal, he decided that Colonel Costello-getting my name wrong was about the only mistake he made-was just the man who could play James Bond and get back his pal. And he came looking for me. And found me."

"Charley, how would you go about getting this DEA agent back?"

"I don't know how-or if-that could be done. And I haven't given it any thought because it's none of my business."

"You have no idea how pleased I am that you realize that," Montvale said. "It is none of your business, and I strongly recommend you don't forget that."

Castillo didn't reply, but his face clearly showed that Montvale's comment interested him.

Montvale nodded in reply, indicating that he was about to explain himself.

"Senator Homer Johns came to see me several days ago," Montvale said. "The junior senator from New Hampshire? Of the Senate Intelligence Committee?"

Castillo nodded to show that he knew of Johns.

"He told me that the day before he had spoken with his brother-in-law…" Montvale paused for dramatic effect, then went on. "…who is the President's envoy plenipotentiary and extraordinary to the Republic of Uruguay, Ambassador Michael A. McGrory."

He paused again.

"I think I now have your full attention, Charley, don't I?"

Castillo chuckled and nodded.

"This is not a laughing matter," Montvale said, waited for that to register, and then went on: "There are those who think McGrory owes his present job to the senator. His career in the State Department had been, kindly, mediocre before he was named ambassador to Uruguay.

"The senator said he was calling to send his sister best wishes on her birthday. In the course of their conversation, however, the ambassador just happened to mention-possibly to make the point that there he was on the front line of international diplomacy, proving he indeed was worthy of the influence the senator had exercised on his behalf-the trouble he was having with the Uruguayan Foreign Ministry.

"Specifically, he said that shortly after a drug dealer, one Dr. Jean-Paul Lorimer, an American employed by the UN, had been assassinated on his estancia, the deputy foreign minister had made an unofficial call on him, during which he as much as accused the ambassador of concealing from him that the assassins were American Special Forces troops."

"Ouch!" Castillo said.

"Indeed," Montvale replied. "According to Senator Johns, the ambassador proudly related how he had dealt with the situation. McGrory apparently threw the deputy foreign minister out of his office. But then Johns-the senator said his curiosity was piqued-had a chat with the Uruguayan ambassador here in D.C., who assured him Lorimer's murder had been thoroughly investigated by the Uruguayan authorities, who were convinced that it was drug related, as was the death of another American, one Howard Kennedy, who was found beaten to death in the Conrad Hotel in Punta del Este. The ambassador told the senator, off the record, that there was reason to believe Kennedy was associated with your good friend Aleksandr Pevsner, who he had heard is in that part of the world, and that Pevsner was probably behind everything."

"And what do you think Senator Johns believes?" Castillo asked.

"I don't know what he believes. I think he suspects that something took place down there that his brilliant brother-in-law doesn't know, something that the government of Uruguay would just as soon sweep under the rug. And I suspect that the senator would love to find out that the President sent Special Forces down there."

"He didn't. He sent me."

"That's splitting a hair, Charley, and you know it. The question, then, is is your operation going to be blown?"

"I don't think so-"

"There's that word 'think' again," Montvale interrupted.

"I don't think there will be any trouble starting in Uruguay," Castillo said. "The head of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policia Nacional, Chief Inspector Jose Ordonez-I thought I told you this."

"Tell me again," Montvale said.

"Ordonez was at the Conrad when we got there. He actually took us to see the bodies-"

"Bodies? Plural?"

"Plural. The other one was Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Zhdankov of the FSB's Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight against Terrorism. Delchamps told Ordonez who it was, and Ordonez made the point that Delchamps was wrong, that Zhdankov was a Czech businessman. Quietly, Ordonez said it would provide problems for him, and the Uruguayan government, if he had to start investigating the murders of a senior Russian intelligence officer and a man known to have close ties to Aleksandr Pevsner."

Now it was Castillo's turn to let what he had said sink in.

After a moment, Montvale nodded thoughtfully.

Castillo went on: "Ordonez then said his investigation of the bodies at Lorimer's estancia had made him believe that it was another drug deal gone wrong, that he doubted that any arrests would be made, and that for all practical purposes the case was closed. He added that he thought it would be a good idea for us to leave Uruguay right then and stay away until all the, quote, bad memories, unquote, had a chance to fade."

"And you think he knows the truth?"

"The first time I told you about this-and now I remember when I did-I told you that he's a very smart cop and has a very good idea of exactly what happened. That's why I-here comes that word again, sorry-think that we're safe as far as Uruguay is concerned."

"And in Argentina? You left bodies lying around there, too."

"Munz says he thinks the Argentine government would like the whole business-Masterson's murder in particular, but what happened in the Sheraton garage, too-forgotten. Munz-and I remember telling you this, too-says he thinks the Argentine government is perfectly happy to chalk up the Sheraton shooting to drug dealers; their alternative being investigating what Lieutenant Colonel Yevgeny Komogorov of the FSB was doing with a Uzi in his hand when he got blown away in the garage. They couldn't keep that out of the newspapers."

Montvale considered that, grunted, and asked. "Where is Munz?"

"In the living room with the others."

"Delchamps, too?"

"You said 'everybody,' Ambassador."

"Let's go talk to them," Montvale said, and then, as if remembering Castillo didn't like being ordered around, added: "I'd like confirmation of what you told me, Charley. No offense."

"None taken."

"Or would you rather ask them to come in here?"

Castillo pushed himself away from the wall and gestured toward the door.

The battered coffee table in the living room now held a bottle of Famous Grouse, a bottle of Jack Daniel's, and a cheap plastic water pitcher, telling Castillo the odds were that he now was entertaining everybody with his liquor stock from his vacated suite in the Mayflower Hotel.

"Keep your seats, gentlemen," Montvale ordered somewhat grandly and entirely unnecessarily, as nobody in the room showed the slightest indication of wanting to stand up for any reason.

They all looked at him, however, as he scanned the room and finally selected the fireplace as his podium. He was tall enough so that he could rest his elbow on the mantel. He was seeking to establish an informal, friendly ambience. He failed. Everyone knew what his relationship with Castillo was.

"The situation is this, gentlemen," Montvale began. "Senator Johns has an inkling of what went on in Uruguay and Argentina. Colonel Castillo tells me that he doesn't think the operation has been compromised. I'm concerned about a possible serious embarrassment to the President, and therefore I'd like to be sure that it's not going to blow up in our faces."

No one responded.

"Mr. Delchamps? Would you care to comment?"

Delchamps took a healthy swallow of his drink.

"I vote with Charley," he said simply. "Thirty minutes after the kid marched Lorimer into the living room, Charley ordered the shutdown, and we were out of Argentina within hours. Charley ordered what I thought were exactly the right actions to shut the mouths of anyone else who might be theorizing. But shit happens. This may get compromised. I just don't think it will."

Delchamps looked at the others in the room, who nodded their agreement.

Montvale chuckled.

"Did I say something funny?" Delchamps challenged.

"Oh, no. Not at all," Montvale said quickly. "What I was thinking was it's really a rather amusing situation. What we have in this room are very skilled, highly experienced intelligence officers, enjoying the confidence of the President, who were nonetheless forced to shut down their operation-what did you say, you were 'out of Argentina within hours'?-because of one unimportant little lieutenant who had no idea what he was sticking his nose into. You'll have to admit, that is rather amusing."

No one else seemed to find it amusing.

Delchamps took another swallow of his drink, looked thoughtful-if not annoyed-for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.

"Let me tell you about that unimportant little lieutenant, Mr. Montvale," he said, an edge to his tone.

"Please do," Montvale said sarcastically.

"Jack Doherty and I had a long talk with him on the trip from B.A.," Delchamps said. "It's not that he was running at the mouth…even willing to talk. What it was, Mr. Montvale, is that Jack and I, between us, have more experience pulling things from reluctant people than you are old."

Montvale's face showed no response to that.

"We started out to learn who he'd been running his mouth to," Delchamps went on, "and what he'd said. The first impression we got was that he had been listening, not running his mouth, and that was the impression we had when we finished. Right, Jack?"

"That's it," Doherty agreed. "He's one hell of a young man, Mr. Ambassador."

"Who talks too much," Montvale said, "and has come close to compromising your operation."

"Listen to what I'm saying, for Christ's sake!" Delchamps said.

"Just who do you think you're talking to?" Montvale demanded.

"Your name, I understand, is Montvale. Do you know who you're talking to?"

"I'll wager you're about to tell me," Montvale said, icily. "Something more, I mean, than that you're a midlevel officer of the CIA."

"I wondered how long it would take you to get around to that," Delchamps said. "Christ, you're all alike."

"Who's all alike?" Montvale challenged.

"What the good guys in the clandestine service call the 'Washington assholes,'" Delchamps said, matter-of-factly.

"I will not be talked to like that," Montvale flared. "'Washington asshole' or not, I'm the director of National Intelligence."

Delchamps smiled. "You won't be DNI long if this Presidential Finding blows up in your face. The President will feed you to Senator Johns. The term for that is 'sacrificial lamb.' You, Montvale, not Charley. Charley is not fat enough to be fed as a sacrificial lamb to the Senate committee on intelligence. They like large, well-known sacrificial lambs for the headlines and sound bites with their names."

They locked eyes for a moment, then Delchamps went on, calmly, "As I was saying, it is my professional assessment, and that of Inspector Doherty, that Lieutenant Lorimer did not, at any time, share with anyone anything that he suspected might be classified.

"What he did, as I said before, Mr. Montvale, was listen. And, with a skill belying his youth and experience, put together a rather complete picture of what Colonel Castillo has done in compliance with the Presidential Finding.

"And then he made a mistake, which, considering his youth and inexperience, is perfectly understandable. He's naive, in other words. He believed that there had to be someone in the system somewhere who would really care about his pal Timmons and do the right thing."

"The right thing?" Montvale repeated, drily.

"Do something but wring their hands."

"Such as?"

Delchamps ignored the question.

Instead, he said, "Let me paint the picture for you, Mr. Montvale. The Paraguayan authorities notified our ambassador that an embassy vehicle had been found parked against the fence surrounding Silvio Pettirossi International Airport, directly across the field from the terminal building.

"In the backseat of the SUV, on the floor, was the body of one Franco Julio Cesar, thirty-nine years old, a Paraguayan national, employed as a chauffeur by the U.S. embassy. El Senor Cesar was dead of asphyxiation, caused by a metallic garrote having been placed around his neck by party or parties unknown-"

"This guy had been garroted?" Castillo interrupted. "A metal garrote?"

"Yeah, Ace, that's what the Paraguayan cops reported," Delchamps said.

"Is that of some significance?" Montvale asked.

Delchamps ignored him again.

"A check of embassy records revealed that Senor Cesar had been dispatched to drive Special Agent Byron J. Timmons, Jr., of the DEA to the airport. Nothing was known of Agent Timmons at that time.

"Late the next morning, however, a motorcycle messenger delivered an envelope to the embassy, which contained a color photograph of Special Agent Timmons. It showed him sitting in a chair, holding a copy of that day's Ultima Hora, one of the local newspapers. There were four men, their faces concealed by balaclava masks, standing with Special Agent Timmons. One of them held the tag end of a metallic garrote which was around Timmons's neck-one yank on that, and he'd wind up like el Senor Cesar."

"Sonofabitch!" Castillo muttered.

"There was no message of any kind," Delchamps went on. "At this point, the senior DEA agent in charge summoned Lieutenant Lorimer to his office. When Lorimer got there he found the consul general, who Lorimer suspected was in fact the CIA station chief, and the legal attache.

"They asked Lieutenant Lorimer, who was known to be Timmons's friend and who occupied an apartment immediately next to Timmons's, if he had any idea who might have kidnapped Special Agent Timmons.

"To which Lorimer replied, 'Gypsies? You know-blasphemy omitted-well who kidnapped him,' or words to that effect, and then asked, 'So what are we going to do about getting him back?' "To which the CIA station chief replied, 'The matter is, of course, being handled by the Paraguayan Capital Police Force, which has promised to notify us promptly of any developments, and there is every reason to believe that Timmons will be ultimately freed.' Or words to that effect.

"To which Lieutenant Lorimer replied, 'As a-blasphemy deleted-junkie you mean, providing we don't do our-blasphemy deleted-job.' At which point, after being admonished to get his emotions under control and ordered not to discuss the kidnapping with anyone, Lorimer was dismissed. And so he went looking for Colonel Costello, in the belief that this Costello was not your typical candy-ass."

"Ed, what's that about 'as a junkie'?" Castillo asked.

"Well, Ace, according to Lorimer-and Doherty agrees with me that Lorimer probably isn't making this up-the way things work down there-there have been four other kidnappings Lorimer says he knows about-what the bad guys do is snatch a DEA guy-or an FBI guy or a DIA guy-then let the embassy know he's alive. If shortly thereafter some heavy movement of cocaine goes off all right, they turn him loose. Payment for everybody looking the other way."

"But what's with the 'junkie'?" Castillo pursued.

"I'm getting to that. To show their contempt for gringos generally, and to keep their prisoner captive and quiet, by the time they turn him loose, his arm is riddled with needle tracks. He's lucky to have a vein that's not collapsed. They've turned him into a coke-sometimes a crack-junkie."

Castillo shook his head in amazement.

"And if their movement of drugs is interdicted?" he asked softly.

"According to Lorimer, there have been four kidnappings of DEA agents in Paraguay since he's been there-five, counting Timmons. Three have been turned loose, full of drugs. One was found dead of an overdose, shortly after about five hundred kilos-more than half a ton-of refined coke was grabbed in Argentina on a fruit boat floating down the Paraguay River."

"Not garroted?" Castillo asked.

Delchamps shook his head.

"Full of cocaine," he said.

"What happens to the ones who are turned loose?"

"They are quietly given the best medical attention available for drug addiction," Delchamps said, "'in anticipation of their return to full duty.'" He paused. "Want to guess how often that works?"

"Probably not very often," Ambassador Montvale said.

"And that doesn't bother you?" Castillo snapped.

"Of course it bothers me."

"But we have to look at the big picture, right?" Delchamps said, sarcastically. "DEA agents know their duties are going to place them in danger?"

Montvale nodded.

He said, "How likely do you think it is that this DEA agent-"

"His name is Timmons," Delchamps said.

"Very well," Montvale replied. "How likely do you think it is that Special Agent Timmons-and every other DEA agent, DIA agent-Lieutenant Lorimer, for example-and CIA officer in the embassy in Asuncion volunteered for the assignment?"

Delchamps looked at him for a moment, then said, "And that means Lorimer is an unimportant little lieutenant, and Timmons is an unimportant little DEA agent, right?"

"That was an unfortunate choice of words," Montvale said, "but isn't 'important' a relative term? Which would you say is more important, Mr. Delchamps: preserving the confidentiality of the Presidential Finding, the compromise of which would embarrass the President and just about destroy the fruits of the investigation you and Inspector Doherty and the others are about to complete, or sending an unimportant little lieutenant to a weather station in the Aleutian Islands for a year or two to make sure he keeps his mouth shut?"

Delchamps didn't reply.

Montvale went on: "Or which would be less wise: to send Colonel Castillo and his merry band to Paraguay to take on a drug cartel, which could carry with it, obviously, the very real risk of compromising the Finding, and, in addition, render the OOA impotent, or letting the people for whom Special Agent Timmons works in Paraguay deal with the matter?"

"No one is suggesting that Charley's guys go rescue Timmons," Delchamps said. "We all know that wouldn't work."

"I'm glad you realize that," Montvale said.

"Lorimer is not going to be sent to the Aleutian Islands," Castillo said, "or anything like that."

Both Montvale and Delchamps looked at him, surprised that he had gone off on a tangent.

"What are you going to do with him, Ace?" Delchamps asked after a moment.

"The first thing that comes to mind is to send him to Bragg. Let him be an instructor or something."

"That'll work?" Delchamps asked.

"I think so."

"I don't think that's a satisfactory solution," Montvale said. "How can you guarantee he won't do something irrational at Fort Bragg?"

"I can't. But since the decision about how to deal with him is mine to make, that's where he's going. He may in fact be an unimportant little lieutenant in your big picture, but in mine he's a dedicated soldier who did exactly what I would have done in the circumstances."

"You told me something like that before," Montvale said. "You remember my response?"

Castillo nodded. "Something to the effect that his having done what I would have done made you uncomfortable. The implication was that I'm also a loose cannon."

"There is that matter of the Black Hawk helicopter you 'borrowed' in Afghanistan," Montvale said. "That might make some people think that way."

"Yeah, I'd agree with that," Delchamps said. "But on the other hand, the bottom line is the President doesn't think he is."

Montvale glared at him.

Delchamps went on: "I hate to be a party pooper, Mr. Montvale, but unless you want to kick the can around some more, it's now about one in the morning, and an old man like me needs his rest."

"Yes, and I would agree that we're through here," Montvale said. "Eight o'clock in the apartment, Colonel Castillo. Based on what you and these gentlemen have told me, I don't think we need concern the President that the Southern Cone operations may have been compromised, do you?"

"I don't think it has, or will be, Mr. Ambassador," Castillo said.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Montvale said. "Thank you for your time."

He nodded at all of them and walked out of the room.

[THREE]

The Breakfast Room

The Presidential Apartments

The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW Washington, D.C. 0755 2 September 2005 The only person in the breakfast room when the Secret Service agent opened the door for Ambassador Montvale and Lieutenant Colonel Castillo was Secretary of State Natalie Cohen, a small, slight, pale-skinned woman who wore her black hair in a pageboy cut.

She was standing by the window, holding a cup of coffee, as she watched the Presidential helicopter flutter down to the lawn. When she saw Montvale and Castillo, she smiled, set her coffee cup on a small table, and walked to them.

"I was hoping I'd have a moment alone with you, Charles," she said, "so that I could ask you where our wandering boy was."

"Natalie," Montvale said, as the secretary of State walked to Castillo and kissed his cheek.

"Welcome home, Wandering Boy," she said. "When did you get back?"

"Last night, Madam Secretary," Castillo said.

"We have a little problem, Charley," she said.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Katrina has put fifteen feet of water over Ambassador Lorimer's home in New Orleans," she said. "He and his wife are at the Masterson plantation-which is apparently just outside the area of mass destruction along the Mississippi Gulf Coast-and he called me to ask if I could give him the precise address of his late son's plantation-estancia-in Uruguay, at which he intends to live until he can move back into his house in New Orleans."

"Jesus!" Castillo said.

"When I told him I didn't have the address, he said that Mr. Masterson had told him that you know where it is, and asked how he could get in touch with you."

"At the risk of repeating myself, Madame Secretary," Castillo said, "Jesus!"

"May I reasonably infer from your reaction that there's a problem with this?"

"Yes, ma'am, there's a problem with that," Castillo said. "Why can't he just stay with the Mastersons?"

"That question occurred to me, too, but of course, I couldn't ask it. What's the nature of the problem?"

"What about the apartment in Paris?" Castillo said. "He inherited that, too."

"I suggested to the ambassador that he would probably be more comfortable in an apartment in Paris than on a ranch-an estancia-in Uruguay. His response to that suggested he's about as much a Francophobe as you are, Charley. He wants to go to the estancia and there's not much we can do to stop him. Except, of course, you talking him out of going down there. I asked you what the problem is?"

Castillo looked at Montvale, then raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Things happened down there, Natalie," Montvale said, "which suggested the possibility the Presidential Finding might be at risk of compromise. Castillo thinks, operative word thinks, that his shutting down his operation there has removed the threat. But Lorimer going down there would pose problems."

"Why, Charley?" the secretary asked simply. "More important, what things happened down there?"

"A too-clever young DIA officer assigned to our embassy in Asuncion has pretty well figured out what's taken place down there," Montvale answered for him.

"Oh, God!"

"Castillo has brought this young officer back with him, and intends to send him to Fort Bragg in what I think is the rather wishful belief that there he will keep what he has learned to himself."

"I've also taken steps to shut mouths in Montevideo, Buenos Aires, and Asuncion," Castillo said. "And I think the threat of compromise is pretty well reduced."

"Again the operative word is thinks," Montvale said. "Although I don't believe we should worry the President with the situation at this time."

"But Ambassador Lorimer going down there might change that?" she replied, and then, before anyone could answer, she asked, "Why, Charley?"

"There is a very clever Uruguayan cop, Chief Inspector Jose Ordonez, who has figured out just about everything that happened down there," Castillo said. "I talked with him in Punta del Este, right after they found the bodies of Howard Kennedy and Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Zhdankov of the FSB beaten to death in the Conrade-a plush hotel and casino. He said he believed Kennedy was a drug dealer, and Zhdankov the Czech businessman that his passport said he was. And that the bodies at Shangri-La, Lorimer's estancia, including Lorimer's, were also the result of a drug deal gone wrong, and that he doubted if anyone would ever be arrested. And then he suggested that I leave Uruguay as quickly as possible and not return until, quote, the bad memories had time to fade, unquote. Which, of course, I did."

"And Ambassador Lorimer going down there would possibly pull the scab off this?" she asked.

Castillo nodded.

"There's more, Natalie," Montvale said. "Senator Johns came to see me, and implied that he thinks his brother-in-law the ambassador was kept in the dark about a Special Forces team operating in Uruguay."

"God!" she said. "How bad is that?"

"At the moment, under control. But if Lorimer goes down there…"

"If Lorimer goes down where?" the President of the United States asked as he walked into the breakfast room heading for the coffee service.

"Good morning, Mr. President," the secretary of State, the director of National Intelligence, and Lieutenant Colonel Castillo said almost in unison.

"Good morning," the President said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. Then he turned. "I'm especially glad to see you, Charley. You have this wonderful ability to show up at the exact moment I need you. When did you get back?"

"Last night, Mr. President."

"'If Lorimer goes down there' what?" the President asked.

Natalie Cohen said, "Ambassador Lorimer's home in New Orleans is under the water, Mr.-"

"His and several hundred thousand other people's," the President interrupted. "My God, what a disaster!"

"-and he called me and asked for directions to his son's ranch in Uruguay in which, or at which, he intends to live until he can get back in his home."

"And that poses problems?"

"It may, sir," Montvale said.

"How bad problems?" the President asked.

"Not catastrophic, Mr. President," Montvale said, "but potentially dangerous."

"I can't imagine why the hell…yeah, now that I think about it, I can imagine why he'd want to go down there. Far from the mess in New Orleans, and it's cheap-right, Charley?-to live down there."

"Yes, sir, it is."

"If it's not going to cause catastrophic problems for us, I don't think it's any of our business what he does," the President said. "We have other problems to deal with. Aside from Katrina, I mean."

"Sir?" Natalie Cohen asked.

The President sipped his coffee, then said, "Two days ago, the mayor of Chicago called me. Now, I know you two are above sordid politics, but I'll bet Charley can guess how important Cook County is to me. Right, Charley?"

"I think I have an idea, Mr. President," Castillo said.

"And knowing that, you'll all understand why I responded in the affirmative when the mayor asked me to do him a personal favor."

"Yes, sir," the three said, chuckling almost in unison.

"And when I heard what favor he was asking, I was glad that I had replied in the affirmative, because it pissed me off, too. If I'd known about this, I would have taken action myself."

"Known about what, Mr. President?" Montvale said.

"You're the director of National Intelligence, Charles," the President said, "so I am presuming you (a) know what's going on in Paraguay and (b) have a good reason for not telling me about it."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. President," Montvale said.

"You have any idea what I'm talking about, Natalie?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. President."

"Well, then, let me tell you," the President said. "What the drug cartel down there has been doing is kidnapping our agents and then either turning them into junkies or giving them fatal overdoses of what we euphemistically call 'controlled substances.' Are you learning this for the first time, Charles?"

"No, sir. Of course, I'm aware of the situation-"

"Natalie?"

"I've heard of the abductions, Mr. President, but not about the…uh…business of making the agents drug addicts."

"Charley, are you learning this for the first time now?"

"No, sir."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" the President said. "Sometime when we have time, Charles, we can have a long philosophical discussion of what the DNI should, or should not, pass on to the commander-in-chief, but right now all we have time for is dealing with the problem.

"I have come by my intelligence regarding this situation from His Honor the Mayor. It seems that his father, who was, you recall, His Honor the Mayor for a very long time, had a lifelong pal, one Francis "Big Frank" Timmons, who the current mayor told me his father said was one of the only two really honest cops in Chicago.

"The mayor told me that Big Frank Timmons called him and asked him for a favor. The mayor, who was bounced on Big Frank's knees as an infant and calls him 'Uncle Frank,' said 'Name it,' or something like that.

"Big Frank told the mayor that his son Byron-who is a captain on the Chicago Police Force-just had a visit from an official of the Drug Enforcement Administration, who told him that his son, Special Agent Byron J. Timmons, Jr., of the DEA, was missing from his assignment at the U.S. embassy in…whatever the hell the capital city is…in Paraguay…"

"Asuncion," Castillo furnished without thinking.

The President's face showed that he was not very grateful for the information.

"…and that the possibility he had been kidnapped had to be faced, although they had no proof of that."

Castillo exhaled audibly.

"What's with the deep breathing, Charley?" the President asked.

"Pardon me, Mr. President."

"What does it mean, Colonel?" the President demanded coldly.

"Sir, I don't know if the DEA man in Chicago knew this, but the embassy in Asuncion knew the day after Timmons disappeared that he had been kidnapped. They sent a photograph of him, surrounded by men in balaclava masks, and with a garrote around his neck."

"How long have you known about this?" the President asked.

"That Timmons had been kidnapped, about"-he paused and did the arithmetic-"thirty-six hours, Mr. President. I learned about the photograph being sent to the embassy about midnight last night, sir."

"And you, Charles?" the President asked.

"I learned of this incident for the first time last night, Mr. President, when Colonel Castillo did."

"And you, Natalie?"

"I'm hearing about this man…Special Agent Timmons…for the first time now, Mr. President. I'm sure the embassy made a report. I can simply presume it never made it to my desk."

"I guess not," the President said. "Well, it seems that Special Agent Timmons wrote his grandfather-who bounced the mayor on his knee, you will recall-about what was happening down there. He said there have been four such kidnappings. His makes five. So neither he nor Captain Timmons was very much impressed with what the DEA representative had told them. The word they used to describe it, forgive me, Madam Secretary, was 'bullshit.' At that point, Big Frank Timmons called the mayor."

"Mr. President," Montvale said, "just as soon as you're finished with us, I'll get on the telephone to our ambassador in Paraguay."

"No, you won't, Charles," the President said.

"Sir?"

"What I told the mayor was that I have an in-house expert for dealing with matters like this, and just as soon as I could lay my hands on him, I was going to tell him that his first priority was to get Special Agent Timmons back from these bastards."

"Sir, you don't mean Charley?" the secretary of State asked.

"Natalie, who else could I possibly mean?" the President said. But it clearly was more a statement than a question.

"Mr. President," she said, "I don't think that's a very good idea."

"Your objection noted," the President said.

"Mr. President, with all possible respect," Castillo said, "I don't know anything about dealing with something like this."

"How much did you know about finding a stolen airliner, Colonel? Or a missing UN official?"

"Sir, with respect, I know nothing about the drug trade…"

"I thought the way this works is the superior officer gives an order and the subordinate officer says, 'yes, sir,' and then does his goddamnedest to carry it out. Am I wrong?"

"Yes, sir," Castillo said.

"I'm wrong?"

"No, sir. I meant to say-"

"I know what you meant to say, Charley," the President said, and smiled. "And to assist you in carrying out your orders, the DNI and Secretary Cohen will provide you with whatever you think may be useful. As will the secretary of Defense and the attorney general. I will inform them of this just as soon as I can get to Andrews, where both are waiting for me. We're going to have a look at what Katrina has done." He paused. "Any questions?"

There was a chorus of "No, sir."

The President had another thought: "I'm going to call the mayor from Air Force One and tell him that I am sending you up there to talk to him and Big Frank and Captain Timmons and anyone else who needs reassurance that I'm doing everything in my power to right this wrong."

"Yes, sir," Castillo said.

"Wear your uniform," the President said. "I think they'll find that reassuring. My wife says you look like a recruiting poster in your uniform."

He gave his hand to Castillo, then walked out of the breakfast room with only a nod of his head to Montvale and Cohen.

"My God!" Natalie Cohen said when the door had closed after him.

Montvale shook his head, then walked to the window. Cohen followed him after a moment, and then Castillo did.

No one said a word until after the President had walked quickly across the lawn to the Sikorsky VH-3D and gotten aboard, and the helicopter had gone airborne.

"Colonel," Montvale said, breaking the silence, "by the time you return from Chicago, the experts on the drug trade will be waiting for you in your office. And I suggest you make the flight in my Gulfstream. You have just flown yours eight thousand miles. It-and you-must be tired."

"Thank you."

"Unnecessary," Montvale said. "While it might be a wonderful solution to this problem, if you were to crash and burn flying your own airplane, I fear the President would suspect I had something to do with it."

"I can't believe you said that, Charles," Natalie Cohen said, appearing genuinely shocked. She touched Castillo's arm. "Maybe you can reason with Ambassador Lorimer. I really don't think he should be going to Uruguay, especially now."

Castillo nodded.