By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  Furthermore, the entire lock was going to have to be replaced, which would take some time, and, if Herr Gossinger had no objections, probably the best thing to do was move him to another suite of rooms.

  Herr Gossinger had no objections.

  The assistant manager went to the telephone, conferred with the front desk about available rooms, and then told whoever he was talking to to immediately send bellmen, plural, to Herr Gossinger’s room.

  “Fifteen-thirty-four is available, Herr Gossinger,” he said. “It is a very nice suite not far from here. Perhaps you would like to check your property to make sure you have everything?”

  As Castillo went through his luggage, the assistant manager paid close attention. Castillo wondered if this was simply a manifestation of his great professional interest in a guest’s potential problems or whether he had other reasons.

  Castillo reported that he seemed to have everything.

  By that time, there were three bellmen hovering by the door. The assistant manager snapped his fingers and pointed. The bellmen carried Castillo’s possessions out of the suite and down the corridor to 1534, which was identical to 1522, and placed everything in the new room where it had been in the old.

  The assistant manager apologized once again for the inconvenience Herr Gossinger had been caused and suggested, in almost a whisper, that if the locks had been of German manufacture this probably wouldn’t have happened.

  Castillo finally got rid of him, and plugged his laptop into the high-speed Internet connection.

  There were two e-mail messages in his mailbox at castillo.com. One was from Fernando, who had obviously received the enlarge-the-size-of-your-member advertisement Castillo had forwarded to him, and had replied:

  THEY DON’T SEND ME ADVERTISEMENTS LIKE THIS, BECAUSE THE WHOLE WORLD KNOWS I DON’T NEED SOMETHING LIKE THIS. MAYBE YOURS WOULD GROW TO A NORMAL SIZE IF YOU DON’T ABUSE IT SO MUCH.

  The second message had no subject and only “herewith” as the message. It contained, however, a 203-kb download.

  Castillo downloaded it, then signed off before going through the decryption process. It was simple. All he had to do was type “bullshit” and then press ENTER.

  Miller’s satburst appeared, and below it the analysis he had prepared and not sent.

  SECRET

  SATBURST 03 LUANDA 23 MAY 2005

  FOR REGDIR SWAFRICA

  SOURCES AT POLICIA NACIONAL LUANDA CONFIRM THAT SERGEI NOSTROFF (RUSSIAN NATIONAL AND KNOWN ASSOCIATE OF VASILY RESPIN, ALLEGED ARMS DEALER) AND PAOLO WALLI (ANGOLAN NATIONAL SUSPECTED OF VARIOUS CRIMINAL ACTIVITIES) ARE KNOWN TO HAVE BEEN IN LUANDA IN PAST WEEK. PRESENT WHEREABOUTS OF EITHER ARE UNKNOWN.

  UNDERSIGNED SUGGESTS POSSIBILITY THAT BOTH MAY BE INVOLVED WITH DISAPPEARANCE OF LA- 9021. RESPIN REPORTED TO OWN AT LEAST TWO AND POSSIBLY THREE BOEING 727 AIRCRAFT. LA-9021 MAY BE FLOWN ELSEWHERE, POSSIBLY TO SHARJAH, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, WHERE RESPIN CONTROLS THREE OR MORE AIRLINES EITHER FOR USE WITH FALSE IDENTITY NUMBERS, OR TO BE STRIPPED OF USABLE PARTS FOR OTHER AIRCRAFT.

  STRONGLY RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE AND WIDESPREAD USE OF SATELLITE, AWACS, OTHER SURVEILLANCE ASSETS, AND HUMINTEL ON ALL POSSIBLE ROUTES BETWEEN LUANDA AND SHARJAH, AND OTHER POINTS IN MIDDLE EAST.

  MORE TO FOLLOW. STACHIEF LUANDA

  That should have been enough, Castillo thought when he read the satburst, of interest to anyone wondering what possibly could have happened to the missing 727.

  And it certainly should have been sent to Secretary Hall.

  And then he read the six pages of what Miller had written but not sent.

  I don’t know if this Russian arms dealer theory holds water—there’s no proof—but, goddammit, this should have been brought to the attention of everybody who could possibly check it out.

  What the hell’s going on here?

  He read it through again and then inserted what Miller had sent to him into the middle of a lengthy article he had written —mostly paraphrased from The American Conservative— for the Tages Zeitung a week before and encrypted the whole thing. He deleted Miller’s file, “shredding” it so it would not be recoverable from his laptop computer’s hard drive.

  Then he stood up and went to the window and looked down at the harbor and thought about what he should do next.

  He went to his suitcase and took a tissue-wrapped Temple Hall cigar from a white-painted box, and by the time he had gone through the ritual of carefully unwrapping it, clipping the end, and lighting it he had made up his mind.

  I told Otto Görner that I would file a story for the Tages Zeitung about the missing 727, and I will, including in it the rumor that the Russian arms dealer variously known as Vasily Respin and Aleksandr Pevsner is somehow involved.

  I’ll send a copy of the story to Hall. He’ll have to have it translated from the German, but he will, and discreetly, knowing that I would not have sent to him a copy of the story unless there was a reason.

  And when he gets to the part about Respin/Pevsner, he’ll understand what I meant about getting something I’m surprised he didn’t get.

  And at that point, he’ll try to find out who Dick Miller is, and, when he does, everything will make sense to him.

  I hope.

  He went to the laptop, opened the Word program, and began to type. It took him about thirty minutes to write about seven hundred words. He read it over a final time, then went on the Internet, entered Tages Zeitung’s e-mail address, put Hall’s private e-mail address in the BLIND COPY TO block, and sent the story.

  Then he sent a second e-mail to Hall to make sure, first, that he was doing what he could to cover Dick Miller’s tail, and also to make sure Hall understood what was going on.

  I BUMPED INTO AN OLD FRIEND, DICK MILLER, WHO WORKS FOR UNCLE CHARLEY. I TOLD HIM NOT TO MENTION TO UNCLE CHARLEY THAT WE HAD MET OR KNEW EACH OTHER, AS I’M NOT GOING TO HAVE TIME TO SEE UNCLE CHARLEY, AND I DON’T WANT TO HURT HIS FEELINGS. DICK GAVE ME SOMETHING I THINK YOU’LL BE REALLY SURPRISED YOU DON’T ALREADY HAVE. I’M BRINGING IT HOME WITH ME. SEE YOU VERY SOON. CHARLEY.

  He read it over, decided That should do it, and clicked on the SEND button. Then he picked up the telephone and told the hotel operator to connect him with British Airways.

  The British Airways representative told him their next flight to London would depart Luanda tomorrow, at 2305. If Mr. Gossinger really had to get to London and then Frankfurt am Main as soon as possible, there were of course other ways to do this, but, unfortunately, they required changing planes and airlines at least once.

  The British Airways representative spent fifteen minutes detailing other travel options available. The best of these alternate routes involved catching the once-a-week Air Chad flight to N’Djamena, which was conveniently departing Luanda at ten-fifty tonight, which would arrive at N’Djamena at five tomorrow morning. After a six-hour layover—which, unless he had a Chadian visa, and he didn’t, he would have to spend in the transient lounge at the airport—he could catch Egyptian Airways Flight 4044 to Cairo, where he would have his choice between three different flights to London, or, for that matter, to his ultimate destination, Frankfurt am Main. Presuming there was space on them. Making reservations in Luanda for flights departing from N’Djamena or Cairo sometimes was difficult.

  “Just make sure I have a seat on your flight to London tomorrow night, please,” Castillo said.

  “Our pleasure, Herr Gossinger.”

  Castillo decided that it was beer time, no matter what time the clock said it was, and went to the minibar under the television. The key was in the lock, which surprised him until he opened the door and found the minibar empty.

  I will just have to run the risk of running into Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson in the hotel bar, in which I will take the most remote table possible. Not only am I thirsty but the rumble in my stomach just reminded me that I didn’t have lunch.

  [ELEVEN]

  The lobby newsstand offered the international edition of the Herald Tribune, which was published in Pa
ris. It was four days old. It also offered Le Matin and Paris Match, which were also published in Paris. They were two days old. He wondered if this was coincidental or whether the newsstand had two-day-old copies of the Trib hidden somewhere in order to promote sales of Le Matin and Paris Match.

  Then he saw, partially hidden behind a stack of the local newspaper, which was in Portuguese, Die Frankfurter Rundschau. It was yesterday’s paper.

  What is that, another manifestation of all-around Teutonic efficiency?

  He bought the Rundschau and took it with him into the bar, where he found a table that was not only deep inside but mostly behind a thick pillar. He could not see into the lobby and, therefore, someone in the lobby would not be able to see him.

  A waiter quickly came to the table and laid a bowl of cashews and a larger bowl of what looked like homemade potato chips before him.

  Castillo asked for a local beer and a menu.

  The waiter said he was sorry but not only was there no food service in the bar after four o’clock—it was now four-oh -five—there was no local beer, either. There were three kinds of French beer, and two kinds each of German, Holland, and English, plus one kind of American.

  “What time does the restaurant open?”

  “Half past five, sir.”

  “I’ll have a Warsteiner, please,” Castillo said as he scooped a handful of cashews from the bowl.

  Three Warsteiners and one bowl each of cashews and homemade potato chips later, as he was reading the Rundschau ’s nearly vitriolic opinion of the Social Democrats’ notions of fair severance pay, he sensed movement near him and lowered the Rundschau just in time to see Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson slipping into the banquet seat beside him.

  This is not a chance encounter, my love; you didn’t just happen to see me as you walked through the lobby. You were looking for me.

  “Hi,” she said, showing him a mouth full of neat white teeth.

  I had really forgotten how good looking you are. Watch yourself, Charley!

  “Hi, yourself,” he replied.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  “Not bad. Yours?”

  “I was out to the airport,” she said.

  “So was I,” he said.

  “You want to swap what you found out for what I found out?”

  “I think you would come out on the short end of that,” he said. “I didn’t really learn much that hasn’t already been written.”

  “Much, or nothing?” she asked.

  He didn’t have to answer. The waiter appeared with fresh bowls of cashews and homemade potato chips.

  “I can’t drink beer,” Patricia said, indicating his nearly empty glass. “It makes me feel bloated.”

  That’s my cue to suggest something for her to drink.

  “Somehow you don’t strike me as someone who drinks anything that comes with a paper parasol and a chunk of pineapple,” he said.

  She laughed, and there was something appealing about the laugh.

  “How do you feel about martinis as a reward for a day’s hard work?” she asked.

  “If I knew you better, I’d tell you what my boss says about martinis.”

  She laughed again, softly, shaking her head the way a woman does when something naughty is intimated, telling him she knew the joke.

  “Martinis, please,” she told the waiter. “Beefeater’s gin, if you have it.” She paused and looked at him. “Okay?”

  I don’t think I need a martini right now. But let’s see where this goes.

  “Fine,” he said.

  She smiled at him again.

  “I missed lunch,” Castillo said. “And I was five minutes late to get anything to eat in the bar. The restaurant opens at five-thirty.”

  “I tried to get something to eat at the airport,” she said, “and failed at that, too. It was supposed to be a chicken sandwich but somehow it didn’t look like chicken.”

  “As soon as the restaurant opens, I’m going to try my luck there,” he said. “Will you join me?”

  “I’d hoped you’d ask. I really am hungry.” She paused. “You were telling me what you’d found out.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” he said. “I belong to the get-your-own-story school of journalism.”

  As he spoke, he thought: That should light up her curiosity. Now she’ll really want to know what I’ve come up with.

  What if I show her the story?

  For some reason, she doesn’t want the Russian connection to come out. Maybe learning that I’m bringing it out in the open will make her worry a little.

  Or is it the hormones speaking? “Come up to my room, ma petit cherie, and I will show you my story.”

  “We’re not really competitors, Karl,” Patricia said. “I’m not trying to beat you into print. I work for Forbes, remember? ”

  “I bet that’s what you tell all the newspaper boys, that you’re not trying to beat them into print,” he said, tempering it with a smile.

  “And what do you tell all the newspaper girls?” she countered.

  “That I’m lonely and my wife doesn’t understand me,” Castillo said.

  “You’re married?” she asked, sounding surprised.

  He smiled and shook his head.

  “That’s so they don’t immediately start thinking of marriage, ” he said. “A lot of women my age, unmarried women, regard an unmarried man my age as a challenge to be overcome. ”

  “You are a bastard, aren’t you?” she asked, laughing.

  “Absolutely,” he agreed. “And if they don’t believe I’m married, I have pictures of my cousin’s kids to show them.”

  She laughed and then said: “I am.”

  “You are what?”

  “Married.”

  “You’re not wearing a wedding ring,” he challenged.

  “You looked?” she asked, but it was a statement not a question.

  He nodded.

  “Then why did you . . . what? . . . confess that you’re single to me?”

  “Professional courtesy,” he said. “That’s why journalists and lawyers feel safe swimming in shark-infested waters.”

  She laughed again.

  The waiter delivered two enormous martinis.

  She touched the rim of her glass to his.

  “Here’s to you, even if you won’t show me your story and think I’m a shark.”

  “I didn’t say you were a shark,” he said.

  “That was the implication,” she said.

  “I meant to imply nothing of the sort,” Castillo said.

  “The hell you didn’t,” she said.

  “I know that you’ll find this hard to believe, but on more than one occasion I’ve had a story stolen from me by women nearly as good-looking as you. I’ve learned that when a woman—a good-looking woman—bats her eyes as me, I’m putty in her hands.”

  “You’re outrageous!” she laughed. “I can’t believe that any woman has ever taken advantage of you, Karl.”

  “I expected you would say something like that,” he said. “While you were batting your eyes.”

  “I was not,” she protested.

  “If you weren’t, then I can only hope you won’t,” he said. “I’m not sure I could resist.”

  She shook her head.

  “So what do you think happened to the 727?” she asked.

  “It was stolen by parties unknown for unknown purposes, ” he said. “It is alleged.”

  “You’re not going to tell me what you found out, are you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Tell me about Mr. Wilson,” he said, changing the subject. “Where is he now, home with the kiddies?”

  “No kiddies,” she said. “Do I look like the motherly type?”

  “Let me think about that,” he said.

  “I’m not,” she said.

  “And Mr. Wilson’s not the fatherly type, either?”

  “No, he’s not,” she said. “He’s somewhat older than I am. It was too late for us when we got
married.”

  “Somewhat older? How much older is ‘somewhat’?”

  “That’s none of your business!”

  “What does he do? Doesn’t he have a hard time with you rushing off to the four corners—in this case, to darkest Africa—in hot pursuit of a story?”

  “None at all,” she said. “He has his professional life and I have mine, and mine requires from time to time that I travel. He’s very understanding.”

  “Sounds like a nice arrangement,” Castillo said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I said. It sounds like a nice arrangement.”

  “Somehow, it didn’t come across that way. It sounded sarcastic.”

  “I think you’ll know when I’m being sarcastic,” he said, then added, “All I’m doing is trying to keep you off the subject of you wanting a look at my story.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “That didn’t work, either. All you’re doing is making me really curious,” she said.

  “Tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “As an olive branch. I think we’re in the same time zone here as Germany . . .”

  “We are,” she furnished.

  “The Tages Zeitung goes to bed at one in the morning. If we’re still up then, I’ll show you my story. If not, I’ll show it to you at breakfast.”

  “You seem pretty sure I’ll want to have breakfast with you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re thinking but what I had in mind was that we might still be here in the bar—not drinking martinis, of course, which would be likely to get either or both of us in trouble, but maybe coffee—at 1 A.M.—or that we could meet in the restaurant at, say, half past nine tomorrow morning.”

  “No, you weren’t,” she said.

  He looked at her a moment.

  “Okay, no, I wasn’t,” he said. “Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. Or, in your case, probably angry. What happens now? You storm out of the bar? With or without throwing what’s left of your martini in my face?”