“Dick,” Castillo said, “close and lock that behind you, will you, please?”
“I thought I heard you say ‘my office,’” DeBois said. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on here, Colonel?”
Castillo did not immediately respond.
He said, “Take the leash off Max, Phillips, and then see if you can raise the safe house.”
“Yes, sir.”
Max—as if he had understood what Castillo had ordered—sat down and allowed Phillips to remove the wire leash from his neck. Phillips went into the commo room. Max walked to Castillo and lay down at his feet.
Castillo met DeBois’s eyes.
“Sir, with respect, you are not here and never have been here. But if you had been here, everything you might have seen, heard, or intuited is classified Top Secret Presidential.”
DeBois’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t reply.
Phillips came to the door of the commo room and said, “We’re up, sir.”
“Sir?” Castillo said, and asked DeBois with his eyes to go ahead of him into the commo room.
Sergeant Neidermeyer handed Castillo the handset.
The screen flashed the legend SUSANNA SIENO.
Castillo pressed the speaker button, then said: “Good morning, Susanna.”
“How are things in our nation’s capital?”
“I just had an unpleasant session with one of your coworkers, a guy named Milton Weiss. Know him?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Is Eddie Lorimer around?”
“Right here, Colonel,” Lorimer’s voice came over the speaker.
“Colonel DeBois of DIA has been asking about you.”
“I guess that was bound to happen. Colonel DB’s one of the good guys, Colonel. What did you tell him?”
“Nothing, of course,” Castillo said. “Hold one, Eddie.”
He put his hand over the microphone.
“I’m sorry, Colonel,” Castillo said. “But that concludes your tour of the Office of Organizational Analysis.”
DeBois looked at him a long moment before he spoke.
“Thank you, Colonel Castillo. If you ever need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me.”
“Thank you, sir. And if you hear anything interesting, I’d be grateful if you’d pass it to Major Miller.”
DeBois nodded and walked out of the commo room. Castillo put the handset to his ear and turned off the speaker.
“Susanna, how long will it take to get just about everybody there? Including Darby and Santini? And Munz.”
“Probably the better part of two hours.”
“Well, it’s important. So will you set it up, please? Give me a call when everybody’s there.”
“Will do,” she said.
“Break it down, Neidermeyer,” Castillo said, and handed him the handset. “Stay loose. As soon as I’m finished with that call, we’re off.”
“Yes, sir.”
Castillo walked out of the commo room and sat down at his desk.
“You shut off the phones in the hotel?” he asked.
Miller shook his head.
Castillo picked up one of the telephones on his desk and punched one of the buttons on it.
“And how are you this bright and sunny morning, Uncle Billy?” Castillo asked in German.
“I probably shouldn’t admit this to you,” Eric Kocian said, “but I’m actually feeling pretty chipper. Mädchen and I took our morning constitutional past the White House. I was reminded of what people say about Paris.”
“Which is?”
“Beautiful city. If it wasn’t for the people, I’d love it. And then I came back to the hotel and had a word with the manager—”
“What didn’t you like?”
“I told him that once he provided a decent leather armchair with footrest, the accommodations would be satisfactory. And to continue to send the bill to Fulda.”
“Billy, what am I supposed to do with Max?”
“You were the one who sent Mädchen to him. As ye sow, so shall ye reap.”
“I’ve been thinking of sending him to my grandmother.”
“His broken heart would be on your conscience, Karlchen. Max took one look at you and—for reasons that baffle me—transferred his affections to you. But dogs choose their masters, you know, rather than the other way around.”
Castillo looked across his office. Max was lying on the carpet in front of the couch, his head between his paws, looking at him.
“Where was Sándor Tor when you took your walk this morning?”
“He insisted on going with me. He and an apparently deaf man from the Secret Service. He wears a hearing aid and keeps talking to his lapel.”
Castillo laughed, even though he knew he shouldn’t.
“You know why he’s there, Billy.”
“Even as much as they dislike me, I don’t think the FSB is going to try to shoot me in front of the White House.”
“Never underestimate your enemy. Write that down, Uncle Billy.”
“If you have nothing important to say, Karlchen, the hotel has at long last delivered our breakfast. They do a very nice corned beef hash with poached eggs. I suspect Mädchen will like it.”
“I’ve got to go out of town for a couple of days. We’ll resume this conversation when I get back.”
“Remember not to give Max more than one small piece of chocolate at a time. Too much chocolate gives him flatulence. Auf Wiedersehen, Karlchen.”
Castillo put the handset back in its cradle. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but didn’t. A red LED on another telephone was flashing. Castillo leaned to it to read the legend.
“Montvale,” he said, and reached for it.
“That didn’t take long, did it?” Miller asked.
“Good morning, Mr. Ambassador,” Castillo said. “Why do I think you’ve just been talking to Mr. Ellsworth?”
“He has a phone in his Yukon,” Montvale said. “Did you actually bring that dog to the meeting?”
“Actually, Max invited himself.”
“I gather the meeting wasn’t all that we hoped it would be?”
“I didn’t learn much that I didn’t already know.”
“So what’s next?”
“In case the President asks?”
“In case the President asks.”
“Well, I have to go to MacDill to see General McNab, and then to Fort Rucker to see about Hueys, and then to Mississippi to see if I can talk Ambassador Lorimer out of going to Uruguay.”
“Your plane is back already?”
“No. I’m going to travel in unparalleled luxury and comfort in an ExecuJet aircraft.”
“Which will not be able to land at either MacDill or Fort Rucker without making waves. Would you like to use my plane?”
“I’d love to use your plane. But what if you need it?”
“I’ll get something from Andrews.”
“Then I gratefully accept. Thank you.”
“It’ll be waiting for you in, say, thirty minutes. Keep in touch, Charley.”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
The line went dead.
“Do you think he’s loaning you his airplane because he likes you,” Miller asked, “or because he can now tell the President he loaned it to you?”
“You have a suspicious and devious mind, Major Miller. Have you ever considered a career in intelligence?”
“Charley, if you want—it would save you two hours—I can bring the people in Argentina up to speed. Unless there’s something I don’t know?”
“Bottom line: Make no waves.”
Miller nodded.
Castillo stood up and walked to the door of the commo room.
“Come on, Neidermeyer,” he said. “We’re off.”
[THREE]
MacDill Air Force Base
Tampa, Florida
1135 4 September 2005
The ground handlers wanded the Gulfstream V to a stop on the visiting aircraft ta
rmac. An Air Force master sergeant, who Castillo had decided was a combination of crew chief and steward, moved quickly to open the door.
Max, who had been lying in the aisle beside Castillo’s chair, greeted him at the door and went down the steps long before anyone could stop him.
Castillo looked out his window, vainly hoping that no one would be watching.
General Bruce J. McNab was marching toward the aircraft. Two officers, one middle-aged and the other younger, were on his heels. All were wearing the Army combat uniform, a loose-fitting garment of light green, gray, and tan camouflage material, worn with the jacket outside the trousers. All were wearing green berets.
One of McNab’s rather bushy eyebrows rose and his head moved toward the nose of the aircraft. Castillo couldn’t see what he was watching, but there was a very good chance he was watching Max void his bladder on the nose gear.
“Sorry, Colonel,” Neidermeyer said. “That sonofabitch is quick.”
“Not a problem,” Castillo said, as he pushed himself out of his seat. “General McNab would have found something to criticize anyway.”
When Castillo got to the door, he saw Max was sitting at the foot of the stair door, waiting for him. He went down the steps, faced General McNab, came to attention, and saluted crisply.
McNab returned it with a casual wave in the direction of his forehead.
“I was going to compliment you, Colonel,” McNab said, “on your recruiting poster appearance. But curiosity overwhelms me. Where did that animal come from?”
“Sir, I’m going from here to Rucker. I thought Class A’s would be a good idea.”
“And the animal?”
“That’s Max, sir. I’m keeping him for a friend.”
Neidermeyer came down the stairs.
“Jamie,” General McNab said. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that you will be judged by the company you keep?”
“Good afternoon, sir,” Neidermeyer said. “Good to see you, sir.”
“It won’t be afternoon for another twenty-four minutes,” McNab said. “But I’m glad to see you, too. Gentlemen, this is Sergeant Neidermeyer, one of the better communicators from the stockade. The splendidly attired officer is Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, and all the terrible things you have heard about him are true.”
The colonel walked around McNab and offered Castillo his hand.
“Tom Kingston, Castillo,” he said. “And I have to tell you that on the way here, the general told Inman”—he nodded toward the young officer—“that he hopes whatever you have that made you the best aide he ever had is contagious, because maybe he’ll get lucky and catch it.”
“Colonel Kingston,” General McNab said, “who betrays my confidential remarks at the drop of a hat, was wondering what you’re doing here, Charley. I couldn’t tell him. Are you going to tell him? Or are you going to let him stumble around in the dark?”
“This might not be the best place to get into that, sir.”
“Okay. Inman, take Sergeant Neidermeyer—and the airplane crew and that animal—somewhere nice for lunch. Eat slowly. When you’re finished, bring them by my quarters. By then, Colonel Kingston, Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, and I will probably be through saying unkind things about enlisted men and junior officers.”
“Yes, sir,” the aide said.
McNab made a Follow me gesture and started marching across the tarmac.
Mrs. Donna McNab kissed Castillo on the cheek before he was completely through the front door.
“Oh, it’s good to see you, Charley!”
“For God’s sake, don’t encourage him,” General McNab said. “I’m trying to get rid of him before he gets me in trouble again.”
“How long can you stay?” she asked, ignoring her husband.
“Maybe an hour and a half,” Castillo said.
“The Naylors will be really disappointed. They won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Me, too. It would have been great to see them.”
She looked at McNab and said, “Everything’s set up on the patio, darling. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt that this is important and will leave you alone.”
“Thank you. It is,” McNab said, made another Follow me gesture, and led Colonel Kingston and Castillo through the house and out back to a walled patio.
There was a gas grill, a side table on which sat a plate of T-bone steaks and another of tomatoes, and a small patio table that seated four and had place settings for three.
“I will now be able to state that my former aide landed here for fuel, and I entertained him at lunch at my quarters,” McNab said. “Purely a social occasion.”
Castillo nodded his understanding.
“We are having steak and tomatoes,” McNab went on, “because I am on a diet that allows me all the meat I want to eat and small portions of fresh vegetables. While I am cooking the steaks, you can bring Kingston up to speed. Or as much speed as you feel appropriate.”
“Yes, sir,” Castillo said. “Colonel, I have to begin this with the statement that everything I tell you, or you intuit, is classified Top Secret Presidential.”
“Understood,” Kingston said. “Maybe it would clear the air a little, Colonel, if I told you that the secretary of Defense has called General McNab and instructed him to give you whatever you ask for, and that you would tell us only what you felt was appropriate.”
Castillo nodded.
He began, “A DEA agent named Timmons has been kidnapped in Paraguay. The President has promised the mayor of Chicago that he will get this guy back, and tasked me to do so…”
“…and there is one more problem,” Castillo said when he had finished explaining what he had planned and the problems he saw in doing it.
General McNab, his mouth full of steak, gestured for him to go on.
“The agency is apparently running an operation down there to catch these people in the act of bringing drugs into the States aboard cruise ships. They intend to seize the ship—ships, plural—under maritime law. A guy named Milton Weiss”—he paused to see if either McNab or Kingston knew of Weiss, and when both shook their heads, went on—“came to see me last night and as much as told me to butt out.”
McNab held up his hand as a signal to wait until he had finished chewing. That took at least ten seconds.
McNab then said, “That sort of operation, I would think—correct me if I’m wrong, Tom—would be run by the DEA or the Coast Guard or, for that matter, the Navy. They’ve got an ONI operation in Key West to do just that sort of thing.” He looked at Kingston, who nodded his agreement. “So what does Montvale have to say about this?”
“Montvale doesn’t know about it,” Castillo said.
“The agency is up to something like that and the director of National Intelligence doesn’t know about it?” McNab said.
“Maybe doesn’t want to?” Kingston asked.
“I don’t think he knows,” Castillo said. “He was there when the President gave me this job. He didn’t think it was a good idea. Neither did Natalie Cohen. I think if he—and now that I think of it—he or Natalie knew about this agency operation, one or the other or both would have used it as an argument to get the President to change his mind.”
“Unless, of course, they know the President well enough to judge that he was not in a frame of mind to change his mind,” McNab said.
“I don’t think he knows,” Castillo said. “I don’t think either of them do.”
“How did this Weiss character know what you’re up to?” Kingston asked.
Castillo told them about Delchamps, and then that Miller had eavesdropped on the session with Weiss, and that both were willing to go with him to the President.
McNab thoughtfully chewed another piece of beef, then said: “My advice, Charley, would be to obey the last lawful order you received, which was to go get the DEA guy back.”
“I was hoping you’d say that, sir,” Castillo said.
“That was advice, Charley. I’m not in
a position to give you orders.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. But thanks for the advice.”
“I hope it didn’t change your mind about anything.”
“No, sir. It did not.”
“Good. Maybe you did learn something after all during all those years you were my canapé passer.”
Castillo chuckled. As long as he had been McNab’s aide-de-camp, he had never passed a canapé to the general’s guests. McNab regarded the primary function of an aide-de-camp to be sort of an intern, an opportunity for a junior officer to see how senior officers functioned and learn from it.
He wondered if the young captain whom McNab had sent to feed Neidermeyer, Max, and the Gulfstream crew understood this.
McNab had never said anything to me. I had to figure it out myself; that was part of the training.
“Okay, Tom. What do you think?” McNab said.
And that’s something else I learned from Bruce J. McNab. I’d heard about it at the Point, but I learned it from him.
A wise officer gets—even if he has to force the issue—the opinions and suggestions of his subordinates before he offers his own, and, more important, makes any decisions.
That way, they say what they think, rather than what they think the boss wants to hear.
“Nothing, General, but how to get the Hueys down there black,” Kingston said, thoughtfully. “That does not pose much of a real problem—except the usual ones, time and money. Castillo wants this done yesterday.”
“With respect, sir, it’s not me who wants it done yesterday,” Castillo said. “But black outweighs time.”
“How about money?” Kingston asked.
“You tell me how much is wanted, and where, and Dick Miller will wire it within a matter of hours.”
“It would be impolitic of you, Tom,” McNab said, “to ask where he’s getting the money.”
“My concern is whether there’s enough.”
“There’s enough,” Castillo said.
“Charley has some experience with how much black costs,” McNab said. “So how do we get the Hueys down there, and exactly where do we send them?”
“Open for a wild hair?” Kingston asked.
McNab nodded.
“The Ronald Reagan,” Kingston said.
McNab pursed his lips thoughtfully.
The Shooters Page 26
