By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Looks like a fascinating story,” Castillo said.

  “Dare I hope that you will send something we can use?”

  “Unless I am eaten by a lion, or wind up in some cannibal ’s pot, I intend to file daily.”

  “When do you want to go?”

  “I’m on British Airways Flight BA 077, departing Heathrow at seven thirty-five tomorrow night, and will arrive at Luanda at four-ten the next morning.”

  “And we’re sending you first class, of course?”

  “It’s a long flight, Otto.”

  “You do know you’ll need a visa?”

  “I got one in the States. One of their assistant consul generals couldn’t do enough for me.”

  Otto snorted.

  “You can’t stick around a couple of days?” he asked.

  “I’d like to, Otto, but . . .”

  Otto shrugged.

  Not a word, not a single word, had ever been exchanged between them about what Castillo did. But that didn’t mean Otto didn’t know. He was a highly intelligent man and a good journalist. He knew but never asked questions.

  “That’s Luanda, Angola, right?” Otto asked.

  Castillo nodded.

  “You want me to let our embassy know you’re coming?”

  “That might be very helpful.”

  “You have a ticket to London?”

  “No. And I don’t have hotel reservations in Luanda, either. ”

  Otto picked up one of the telephones on his desk and told Frau Schröder to get Herr Gossinger to Heathrow in time to make British Airways Flight BA 077 to Luanda, Angola, at seven thirty-five the next night, first class, of course; and to see what she could do for him about some place to stay; and when she had done that, to send a message to the German embassy in Luanda, Angola, saying that Herr Gossinger was coming and requesting all courtesies. And to cancel all his appointments for the rest of the day—he and Herr Gossinger were going to Bad Hersfeld and she could reach him in his car or at das Haus im Wald.

  “We’re going to Bad Hersfeld, are we?” Castillo asked when Otto hung up.

  “I want you to see your godchild and the other children.”

  “Okay,” Castillo said and smiled. “I carry the greetings of Fernando.”

  That wasn’t true, of course. But if he had told Fernando where he was going, Fernando would have said, “Give my best to Otto.”

  “I am also godfather to one of Fernando’s rug rats, you know. Jorge.”

  “One of his what?”

  “His rug rats. He calls his children ‘the rug rats.’ ”

  “That’s terrible,” Otto said, but he laughed. “Rug rats! How is Fernando?”

  “Well. I think he’s still growing,” Castillo said. “He’s well. Working hard.”

  “You want something to eat before we go?” Otto asked.

  “I ate a large breakfast on the plane, thank you.”

  “And your grandmother?”

  “Very well, thank you. She spends most of her time at the hacienda, but not much gets by her. I saw her a couple of days ago.”

  “You will give her my best regards, Karl?”

  “Of course.”

  As they passed through the outer office, Otto turned to Castillo and said, “Give me the keys to the rental car, Karl.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can have someone turn it in. There’s no sense paying for it if you’re not going to be using it.” He paused, had a thought, and added: “Unless there is some reason I can’t take you to the airport?”

  I’d rather you didn’t. But how do I tell you no?

  “It’s a long ride back and forth to Frankfurt.”

  “Good. That will give us more time to be together.”

  “I left my luggage in the car,” Castillo said.

  “Frau Schröder, we’ll leave the keys to Herr Gossinger’s rental car with the guard,” Otto ordered. “Have someone turn it in.”

  Otto’s car was a black Mercedes S600, the big one, with a V-12 engine. It belonged, Castillo knew, to one of the companies. That way, it was considered essential transportation for an employee, deductible as a business expense, and not regarded as part of Otto’s taxable income.

  In the six days Fernando Castillo had been in Germany to meet and take his grandson home, he had seen enough of Otto Görner, who had been running the company since Hermann Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger and his son Wilhelm— Castillo’s grandfather and uncle—had died on the autobahn, to make the snap judgment that he should remain in charge for the time being.

  Grandpa told Carlos years later—when he’d gone home on Christmas leave during his final year at West Point and was about to turn twenty-one—that he’d, of course, had Otto investigated as quickly as he could. Grandpa said he trusted his snap character judgments only until he could get some facts to back them up.

  Otto had apparently stood up under that expensive close scrutiny because he had been running everything ever since.

  The estate had been complicated. Hermann von und zu Gossinger had intended to leave das Haus im Wald and twenty-five percent of his other assets to his daughter. The rest of his estate, less some bequests to faithful employees and Saint Johan’s Church, was to go to his son.

  But it was determined that Wilhelm had died first in that black Mercedes—and the implications thereof had not yet been decided by the courts when Erika von und zu Gossinger had died.

  “Typical Germanic gross absurdity, Carlos,” Grandpa had told him. “Everybody knew everything was going to come to you; you were everybody’s only living heir. Your uncle had neither wife nor children. That meant his estate would ultimately go to his nearest living relatives, your grandfather and your mother. Her will left everything to you.

  “If your grandfather had died first in that wreck, his estate would have been distributed according to the provisions of his will. But since your uncle was dead, his inheritance would have gone to your mother. But if your uncle died first, then his assets would be shared between his nearest living relatives, his father and your mother. But since his father was dead, it would go to your mother—who had already named you as her sole heir. It took fifty lawyers, five years, God only knows how many judges, and a hell of a lot of money to split those legal hairs, even though it didn’t matter a damn what any of the courts decided. The bottom line was that you were going to get it all when you turned twenty-one. And that happens on February the thirteenth.”

  “What am I going to do with it?” Carlos had asked.

  “If you’re smart, you’ll continue what I set up with Otto Görner. He gets a good salary, a lot of perks—including use of that house in Bad Hersfeld, a car, and an expense account our American IRS wouldn’t let me or you get away with, plus a percentage of the profits. He’s a hard worker, and honest, and about as smart as they come. I’ll continue to keep an eye on things for you if you’d like.”

  And he had, so long as he had lived.

  Now the family’s law firm kept an eye on things in Germany, and Fernando, who had taken a law degree after Desert Storm at Grandpa’s advice, kept an eye on them.

  Frau Helena Görner was a blonde Bavarian, but she didn’t look as if she belonged in a dirndl with her hair braided into pigtails. She was a svelte blonde—which made Castillo think of Patricia Wilson—who dressed in what Castillo thought of as Neiman Marcus, or maybe Bonwit Teller, clothing.

  When he went into the foyer of das Haus im Wald, and she kissed—or made smacking noises in close proximity to—his cheek, she smelled of expensive perfume.

  He had no idea what she really thought of him, and often wondered if she was pleased, displeased, or didn’t give much of a damn that he was godfather to her second son, Hermann Wilhelm, who had been named after both his grandfather and uncle.

  She was ten—maybe more—years younger than Otto. They had married when Castillo had been in his junior year in high school, and Otto—ever the businessman—had combined their honeymoon trip to America with a business confere
nce with Fernando Castillo in San Antonio.

  Abuela had liked her, and been receptive to the idea that his—and, of course, Fernando’s—spending their summer vacation in Germany would be a good idea.

  Abuela had told him, as he and Fernando were getting on the airplane to go to Germany, that Helena had told her that Otto had told her he had several times offered marriage to Erika von und zu Gossinger but that she had refused. And that Otto had always looked on Karl as a son.

  “If we knew you were coming, Karl,” Helena said, “I could have prepared something. Some of your old friends from Saint Johan’s or something.”

  Which is another reason I didn’t tell Otto I was coming.

  “Maybe the next time,” Castillo said. “But thanks anyway, Helena.”

  “Karl just came to see us and our rug rats,” Otto said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s what Fernando calls his children,” Otto said, visibly pleased with himself.

  “I don’t understand,” Helena said.

  Why doesn’t that surprise me?

  “How are Fernando and Maria?” Helena asked, electing to get off the subject of rug rats. “And your grandmother?”

  “All well, thank you, Helena. They send their best wishes.”

  “Well, let’s go out in back—the weather is wonderful; maybe spring has finally come—and have a glass of wine before lunch,” Helena said. “Or knowing you two, something stronger. The children . . .”

  “The rug rats, you mean,” Otto interrupted.

  “The children normally come home about four,” Helena said, not amused by either the term or her husband, “but sometimes they go off with their friends. I’ll call and make sure they come home.”

  Shit, I didn’t think to bring any of them a present. Among other things, I am a lousy godfather and sort-of uncle.

  Hell, I’ll give them money.

  He and Otto had just touched glasses dark with scotch when one of the servants handed him a walk-around telephone.

  “Frau Schröder, Herr Gossinger,” his caller announced. “I have booked you on British Airways . . .”

  “Hold one, please, Frau Schröder, I want to write this down.”

  He mimed a writing instrument to Otto, who handed him a leather-bound notebook and a gold felt-tip pen.

  “A journalist without a notebook?” Otto asked.

  “Go ahead, please, Frau Schröder,” Castillo said.

  “Herr Gossinger, I was unable to get you a first-class ticket to London . . .”

  “What do you have?”

  “I have a business ticket for you on British Airways Flight 907, leaving Frankfurt tomorrow afternoon at four-thirty and arriving in London at five-fifteen.”

  “Fine,” Castillo said.

  "I presume you have a ticket to Luanda?”

  "Yes, I do.”

  “In that case, Herr Gossinger, British Airways in Frankfurt will check your luggage through to Luanda if you wish.”

  “Great.”

  “I have made reservations for you at the Le Presidente Hotel, a small suite, in Luanda. It’s a Meridien Hotel. They will send a car to meet you at the airport and will bill us directly. ”

  “Frau Schröder, you are absolutely marvelous. Thank you very much.”

  “It is my pleasure, Herr Gossinger. The tickets will be at the British Airways counter at Frankfurt, and, now that you have approved the itinerary, I will inform the German embassy in Luanda that you are coming.”

  “Thank you very much, Frau Schröder.”

  “It is my pleasure. Have a pleasant trip, Herr Gossinger.”

  [FIVE]

  Heathrow Airport London, England 1915 3 June 2005

  The first-class lounge at Heathrow provided Internet access in nice little cubicles providing some privacy, but Castillo decided against sending his boss an e-mail announcing where he was and where he was going. For one thing, Secretary Hall knew where he was going and didn’t expect a step-by-step report. Instead, Castillo had a drink and watched the BBC television news until an attractive British Airways passenger service representative came and collected him and an ornately costumed, tall, jet-black couple he thought were probably from Nigeria for no good reason except they were smiling and having a good time.

  He also thought, perhaps unkindly, as they walked through the terminal to the boarding gate, that the Brits still had the class distinction business down pat and up and running. The passenger service rep had called him by name— including the von and the zu—in German. She had addressed the Africans, in French, as M’Sieu et Madame Le Ministre, which meant two things: that they were not Angolans, where the language was Portuguese, and that he was some sort of senior government official, which explained what they were doing in first class. The three of them were apparently the only first-class passengers.

  The business-class passengers were lined up ahead of them in the airway, under the care of another passenger service representative, looking like so many third-graders being led into the school library. There were, he guessed, twenty or twenty-five of them; it took some time for them to pass through the final ticket check, which, of course, was waived for the upper class. The lower class had already been herded into economy, which occupied most of the rear of the Boeing 777 fuselage.

  Once through the door and on the plane, three members of the cabin crew, under a steward, smilingly directed them left into the first-class compartment, which was in the nose.

  He didn’t intend to look to the right, into the business-class section, because he usually found himself looking at someone disappointed that he wasn’t either a movie star or an oil-rich Arabian prince traveling with a high-priced, usually very blonde mistress-of-the-moment.

  But he did look.

  And Patricia Wilson looked back at him.

  Jesus H. Fucking Christ! That’s the last fucking thing I need!

  Was that really her?

  You know goddamn well it was.

  Did she recognize me?

  Three to five she did. That wasn’t curiosity on her charming face; it was surprise.

  What the fuck do I do about this?

  The cabin attendant handed him a glass of champagne. Before he was half finished with it, the pilot ordered the cabin be prepared for flight.

  The seat of his pants and the sound of the engines cutting back told him that they were at cruising altitude even though the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign remained lit.

  That was explained when the door to the flight deck opened and the captain, a middle-aged man with a Royal Air Force mustache, came out and quickly disappeared into the toilet.

  Well, guess who forgot Rule 13? Piss before takeoff.

  Castillo unlatched his seat belt and went to the toilet door.

  When the captain came out, Castillo extended his business card.

  “I’ve got a little problem you can solve in about ten seconds, Captain.”

  The captain didn’t like being intercepted, but you don’t ignore—much less snap at—first-class passengers.

  “How may I help you?” he asked.

  “There’s a passenger in business, a fellow journalist, a very good-looking fellow journalist, Miss Patricia Wilson, who works for Forbes magazine. I would like very much to make this long flight in her company. Either move me back there or her up here.”

  The captain looked around the first-class compartment. Only three of the eighteen seats were occupied.

  He beckoned to the steward.

  “The steward will take care of your little problem for you, sir,” the captain said when the steward was within hearing range.

  “Thank you very much, Captain, I really appreciate your courtesy.”

  “Not at all,” the captain said. “Glad I could be of service. ”

  “I thought that was you,” Patricia Wilson said three minutes after the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign went off. “You’re going to Luanda?”

  “Is that where this thing is going?”

  “On the 727
story?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Me, too,” she said.

  You told me, you beautiful creature, that you were going to Berlin. Therefore, you were lying. Or are lying. Or both.

  What the fuck is going on here?

  Besides, that missing airliner is a breaking story. Forbes comes out every other week. They don’t do breaking stories.

  As if she had read his mind, Patricia Wilson said, “My editor wants an in-depth piece about sloppy air control in Africa, and I thought, Well, hell, why not start where they lost an airplane?”

  Good try, Patricia, but that’s bullshit.

  “Good idea,” Castillo said.

  [SIX]

  Le Presidente Hotel Largo 4 de Fevereiro Luanda, Angola 0605 4 June 2005

  There were a dozen or more black men in business suits and chauffeur’s caps holding cards with names lettered on them waiting for the passengers as they came out of customs at the airport. One of the cards read: PATRICIA WILSON.

  “I guess the hotel sent a car for me, too,” she said. “What do we do?”

  “I suspect you’ll have to pay for it anyway,” Castillo said, “and I suspect both cars will be small.”

  “And probably French?” she asked.

  “If yours breaks down—and it probably will—I’ll rescue you,” Castillo said. “And you can do the same for me.”

  “Call me later? I need the attentions of a beautician.”

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  He had put her into her car, a Citroën, and then followed his driver to a Mercedes. He wondered if that was random or whether the Meridien hotel chain had a policy: Germans get Mercedes, Americans get Citroëns.

  When he didn’t see her in the hotel lobby he was disappointed. He thought her driver had probably made much better time through the very early morning traffic in the small Citroën than he had in the larger Mercedes and that she was probably already in her shower. That triggered an immediate mental image.

  There’s no question about it. At this almost obscene hour of the morning my hormones are raging.

  And you know in your bones that this one is dangerous and that you should back off.