The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  “That’s the way,” the President said.

  Well, Castillo thought, suppressing a smirk, that ends your hope of being able to clear people for the Finding, doesn’t it, Mr. Ambassador?

  Wait. What the hell are you being so smug about, hotshot?

  Montvale just saved your ass.

  “Come to think about it,” the President said, thoughtfully, making Castillo wonder if he was about to change his mind, “that’s a good way to handle the whole expert question. If Castillo decides he needs an expert from somewhere else—the NSA, for example, or State, or Homeland Security—we’ll run them past you or the appropriate secretary, who will relay my order to them that nothing goes back where they came from, and then run them over to Castillo. He may be able to get what he wants out of them without having to tell them why and thus about the Finding. And he’s the only one who can make that decision.”

  “That’ll work,” Matt Hall said. It was the first time he had said anything.

  “I’ll handle the intelligence community personally, Mr. President,” Montvale said.

  The President looked at him and nodded but didn’t respond directly.

  “Anyone else got anything?” the President asked.

  There was a chorus of “No, sir”s.

  “Get some rest, Charley,” the President said, finally. “Get to bed early. I can’t afford to have you burn out. And I think you’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The President thought he saw something on Castillo’s face and asked, smiling naughtily, “What makes me think you have other plans for the evening, Don Juan?”

  “Sir…”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Actually, sir, I thought I would go by my office, pick up Major Miller, and go to the Army-Navy Club to…” At the last moment, Castillo had enough presence of mind to change the next words from drink our supper to “have our supper.”

  “Yeah,” the President said, unconvinced. “Good hunting, Colonel.”

  The President got up and walked out of the Oval Office through the doorway leading to his private working office. He was gone before any of the others could rise to their feet.

  Sure, she has a name. Elizabeth Schneider.

  And I still haven’t called her. Or, worse, even thought of calling her.

  What the hell is the matter with me?

  [TWO]

  Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo and Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., did not go to the Army-Navy Club as Castillo had announced to the President of the United States that they would do.

  Instead—with Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF, and Special Agent Jack Britton in tow—they went right around the corner from the White House, to 15th Street NW. There, at the Old Ebbitt Grill (est. 1856), they sat at the massive dark mahogany bar and dined on hot roast beef sandwiches au jus with steak fries (Miller and Torine) and linguini with white clam sauce (Castillo) and red clam sauce (Britton), washing it all down with Heineken beer from the tap.

  By ten o’clock, all four were in beds—alone and asleep—in Herr Karl Gossinger’s suite in the Motel Monica Lewinsky, the management having obligingly made up one of the couches in the sitting room into a bed for Special AgentBritton.

  Although the thought that he should telephone Miss Elizabeth Schneider had occurred to Charley Castillo, he had not made an attempt to do so, having reasoned that it was too late—particularly for him. He was about to crash, and crash hard, and thus in absolutely no condition to participate in a long apologetic and explanatory conversation.

  I’ll call tomorrow, he had thought, then buried his head in his pillow.

  If I don’t get distracted and forget again.

  He had then groped in the dark for his cellular on the bedside table, found it, dialed its own number, and after the mechanized female voice answered that he was being transferred into voice mail he left the message, “Call Betty, you heartless bastard.”

  Then he pushed the END button, returned the phone to the table, and finally crashed.

  [THREE]

  Office of Organizational Analysis

  Department of Homeland Security

  Nebraska Avenue Complex

  Washington, D.C.

  0825 11 August 2005

  “Welcome home, Chief,” Mr. Agnes Forbison, deputy chief for administration of the Office of Organizational Analysis, greeted Castillo as he led Torine, Miller, and Britton off of the elevator. “Or would you prefer that I now call you ‘Colonel’?”

  “I’d prefer that you call me Charley, Agnes.”

  She walked to him and kissed his cheek.

  “We’ve been over that,” she said, evenly. “You are now too important to be addressed by your nickname. So, which do you prefer?”

  “I give up,” Castillo said. “You choose.”

  “‘Chief’ has a nicer ring to it,” she said. “This town is too full of colonels. No offense, Colonel Torine.”

  “None taken,” Torine said.

  She looked at Britton. “I like your jacket, Jack.”

  “Thank you,” Britton said. “It’s all I’ve got to wear. I hadn’t planned to come to Washington.”

  “What’s first, Agnes?” Castillo asked.

  “Well, there’s already someone in my office waiting to see you,” she said as she led the way to the door of Castillo’s office—marked PRIVATE NO ADMITTANCE—slid what looked like an all-white credit card through the reader mounted by the lock, then pushed the door open and handed the card to Castillo.

  They all followed her through the open door.

  “First is getting me back to Pennsylvania,” Britton said.

  “First is credit cards,” Agnes corrected him. “You wouldn’t want to leave home without your American Express card, would you, Jack?”

  “I’ve got an American Express card,” Britton said.

  “Not one of these, you don’t,” Agnes said. “They came in yesterday.”

  She went to Castillo’s desk, opened a drawer, and collected what looked like half a dozen Platinum American Express cards. She handed one card to Britton and others to Castillo and Torine and put the rest back in the drawer.

  “Miller’s already got one and so do I,” she said.

  Britton examined his.

  “What the hell is Gossinger Consultants, Inc.?” he asked.

  “Well, I needed a name of a nongovernmental organization to spend Lorimer’s money,” she said. “And that seemed reasonably appropriate. The cards are coded so no questions will be asked in case somebody wants to buy a lot of airplane gas.”

  “That’s aviation fuel, Agnes,” Castillo said, smiling. “You’re amazing.”

  “I told you I was going to be useful,” she said. “And the Riggs Bank is going to get us checks on the Gossinger Consultants account as soon as they can. Which may mean today but probably means in three or four days. You all have to sign signature cards and I have to get them back to the bank before you can write checks.”

  She turned to Torine.

  “Gossinger Consultants is now the official owner of the Gulfstream,” she said. “And Signature Flight Support at BWI is going to direct bill the corporation for hangar space, maintenance, aviation fuel, and so forth.”

  “Yesterday, I had to give them Charley’s credit card,” Torine said.

  “It probably hasn’t worked its way through the bureaucracy,” she said. “I’ll give them a call and switch over the charge.”

  “We have a corporation?” Castillo asked.

  “A Delaware corporation, and a post office box,” Agnes replied.

  She looked at Britton again.

  “Where in Pennsylvania?”

  “Bethlehem.”

  “How far is that, do you know?”

  “I’d guess a hundred and fifty miles, maybe a little more.”

  “You want to take the Amtrak to Philadelphia and have the Secret Service pick you up there? Or have a Yukon take you from here? I think that would probably be
a little quicker.”

  “And there’s already three Yukons from the Philadelphia office in Bethlehem,” Britton said. “Is getting one here going to be any trouble?”

  “None at all. Just as soon as you sign the signature thing, I’ll call.”

  “Thank you,” Britton said.

  “Charley,” Torine said, “would you have any problem after I make sure the paperwork on the Gulfstream is all done and things are set up with Signature if I went home for a couple of days?”

  “No. I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere for seventy-two hours anyway. But I never know.”

  “Yeah, I know you never know,” Torine said. “If you need me, I’ll have someone fly me back here.”

  “Go ahead,” Castillo said. “The both of you. And thank you, the both of you.”

  “What now, Agnes?” Castillo asked after Torine and Britton had left.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Chief, and we’ll have a cup of coffee while I tell you what else is going on?”

  “You want some coffee, Dick?” Castillo asked.

  “I’m coffee’d out.”

  “Why don’t you get on the horn and see if anything’s new in Buenos Aires?”

  “It’s half past seven down there,” Miller replied. “Is anybody going to be awake?”

  “Why don’t you sit down, kill a half hour with a cup of coffee, then get on the horn?”

  Miller shrugged. “Why not?”

  Agnes pushed a button on one of the telephones on Castillo’s desk and ordered coffee.

  Then she said, “There’s a man named Delchamps out there, Chief. He would like to see you at your earliest convenience but he wouldn’t tell me why.”

  “Great!” Castillo said. “Ask him to come in, and order another cup of coffee for him.”

  Agnes did so.

  Edgar Delchamps and the coffee came through the door at about the same time. The latter was borne by a very tall, very attractive African American woman in her early thirties.

  Castillo said, “Good morning, Edgar. I’m really glad to see you!”

  Delchamps nodded but said nothing.

  “Juliet,” Agnes said to the attractive woman, “this is the boss, Colonel Castillo. Colonel, Miss Knowles handles our classified files. She has a master’s in political science from Georgetown. She’s got several Top Secret clearances, but you’re going to have to think about clearing her for…”

  “Let me get to that later,” Castillo said. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Knowles…”

  “Please call me Juliet,” she said.

  “And I’ll need to talk with you later, but right now I have to speak with Mr. Delchamps.”

  “I understand, sir. It’s nice to meet you, too.”

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Castillo asked, “If she’s in charge of classified files and has a master’s degree from Georgetown, why is she running coffee?”

  “Well, Chief, it’s not in her job description,” Agnes said, “and she has her own office and her own administrative assistant, but, for some reason, every time Gimpy here asks for coffee Juliet seems to have time to bring it.”

  “If it was anybody but Gimpy,” Castillo said, “I’d say she was attracted to him. But what it probably is is morbid curiosity.”

  Miller gave him the finger.

  “Edgar, say hello to Mr. Agnes Forbison, who’s really the boss around here, and Gimpy, otherwise known as Major Dick Miller.”

  Delchamps nodded at both but said nothing to them.

  “I’d really like to see you alone, Colonel,” Delchamps said.

  He’s pissed about something, Castillo thought.

  “There’s a list of people here, Edgar—Agnes and Dick are on it—and you just went on it—who know everything that everybody else knows. What’s on your mind?”

  “I was at Langley yesterday, Colonel. One of the chairwarmers there had told me Ambassador Montvale had something for me to do and I was to report to him. So I went to see him. He was too busy to deal with someone unimportant like me, of course, but his flunky, Truman Ellsworth, who I’ve met before, told me to report to you for an extended period of temporary duty and that you would explain everything to me.”

  “And explain I will. Welcome aboard, Ed.”

  “Before you waste your breath on that, let me finish.”

  Castillo raised an eyebrow. “Okay, finish.”

  “I wanted you to be the first to know, Colonel, that later today I’m going over to Langley and sign my application for retirement, which is being typed up as we speak. They told me it takes about three weeks to complete the process and be officially retired. But I have a bucketful of accrued leave, so I’m going to be on leave until my retirement comes through.”

  Castillo took a moment to reply.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that maybe you’re a little annoyed about something.”

  Delchamps made a thin smile. “I told you in Paris, Ace, that I would let you know if I was interested in employment—I think you said ‘reasonably honest employment’—in Washington. That was not a yes. I don’t want to work here and I won’t.”

  “I need you, Ed,” Castillo said, simply. “I’m sorry if Montvale summarily ordered you to get on a plane…”

  “It wasn’t even Montvale,” Delchamps interrupted, disgustedly. “It wasn’t even his flunky, Ellsworth. It was some goddamned chairwarmer at Langley.”

  “…but yesterday—I was in Argentina—I realized how much I needed you and asked Montvale to bring you home.”

  Delchamps shook his head. “I realize that once you’ve been infected with Washington, Ace, the temptation to build an empire is nearly irresistible. But you know goddamned well I’ve given you—and would have continued to give you—everything I know or find out about these oil-for-food maggots…”

  “I’m not trying to build an empire!”

  “Look at this goddamned office. It’s a bureaucrat’s throne room!”

  “Blame the office on Agnes. She said it was important. I don’t know my way around Washington and she does.”

  Agnes said, unruffled, “Yes, I do, and I make no apologies for trying to teach Charley the rules of the game.”

  Delchamps looked at her, looked as if he was going to respond, then changed his mind and looked back at Castillo.

  “Ace, what made you decide yesterday in Argentina that you needed me so badly that you were going to get me whether or not I liked it?”

  Agnes answered for him. “It probably started in Budapest where these people—I like your term ‘oil-for-food maggots’—tried to assassinate him.”

  Castillo looked at her.

  How the hell did she hear about that?

  I know. There’s a list here and she’s on it.

  “They tried to whack you?” Delchamps said.

  “They were trying to kidnap and/or whack my Budapest source. When their first attempt failed, they tried again. But I was in his apartment.”

  “And had to put down two of them,” Miller added.

  Delchamps looked at Castillo for confirmation.

  Castillo nodded slowly.

  “You’re a regular James Bond, aren’t you, Ace?” Delchamps said.

  “Indeed he is,” Miller said. “Ace even had the foresight to get a suppressed .22 from the agency guy in Budapest.”

  Castillo flashed Miller a dirty look.

  “I’m surprised he gave you any kind of a weapon,” Delchamps said. “He’s a real agency asshole.”

  “I noticed,” Castillo said. “It took Montvale personally to get him to open his weapons locker.”

  “How much does the asshole in Budapest know about this? Does he know about the two you took down?”

  Castillo shook his head. “I didn’t tell him anything.”

  “That was also smart of you, Ace,” Delchamps said. He paused in thought, then added, “You must be getting close.”

  “And they tried to whack an FBI agent who was with me at Lorimer’s estancia
—that was in Uruguay—and they were following around, threateningly, the former head of SIDE in Argentina, who was also at the estancia. And his family.”

  “What happened to your Budapest source?” Delchamps asked.

  “I moved him to Argentina, where two old pals of yours are sitting on him.”

  “What two old pals?”

  “Make that three,” Castillo said, and raised his eyebrows as he added: “Alex Darby and Mr. and Mr. Sieno.”

  Delchamps considered that a moment, then nodded and asked, “You’re sitting on the SIDE guy?”

  “I moved his family here. He’s still in Argentina, at a safe house with everybody else, trying to put all the pieces together. That’s what I need you here for, to help with that.”

  “How could I help with that?”

  “What if I told you Montvale told the President he was personally going to call DCI Powell to tell him you were coming over there and were to be given everything you asked for?”

  Delchamps considered that a moment, then said, “When I asked for the retirement forms yesterday, they seemed pretty happy about that. I guess the word is out.”

  “I don’t think so, Ed, not so soon,” Castillo said. “Montvale told the President that late yesterday afternoon.”

  “Well, I guess they were just happy to get rid of me, period,” Delchamps said. “Truth to tell, I was a little pissed about their eager cooperation.” He paused, and asked: “Can Montvale be trusted to do what he told the President he was going to do?”

  “Yeah,” Castillo said. “I trust him to do what he tells the President—in front of witnesses—he’s going to do.”

  Castillo went to his desk and picked up a telephone handset.

  “We up?” he said into it, and, after there was a reply, he looked at Delchamps and said, “Listen to this, Ed.”

  He then pushed the speakerphone button and said, “Open it up.”

  A young man’s voice, having made a fifty-four-thousand-mile trip through space, came over the speaker.

  “Corporal Bradley speaking, sir.”

  “Good morning, Lester,” Castillo said. “How long will it take you to get Mr. Sieno for me?”

  “She’s right here, Colonel. She just brought me my breakfast. Hold one, sir.”

  “Good morning, Colonel,” Susanna Sieno said. “You made it there, I guess?”