“You lost a lot of blood, Charley, and your leg was a mess. Delchamps took one look at you in Formosa and decided you were in no shape for a ten-hour flight to the States. So he flew you here.”
“And where is he?”
“He went on the Gulfstream with Timmons, Mullroney, and the guys from the 160th.”
“Lester?”
“He took out the guy who shot you, and then started dragging you to the chopper. I was right.”
He went into his pocket and came out with a small clear plastic zip-top disposable bag. He handed it to Castillo. It held three bullets, one fairly intact, the other two distorted.
“That’s 9×39mm, PAB-9. I suppose the beat-up ones are the ones that did the damage to your leg.”
“I didn’t even hear any firing, and I thought I took two hits, not three.”
“These are the rounds the FSB uses in their—suppressed—AS VAL Special Purpose Assault Rifle. Odd that a bunch of drug dealers would have weapons like that, isn’t it?”
“We were up against Russians?”
“Maybe. Maybe Cubans. Dead men tell no tales, and after Duffy got there and found his two guys full of holes from these things, that’s all that was left.”
“He took out everybody?”
Leverette nodded. “And then blew everything up,” he said. “Spectacular! It looked like something from a Rambo movie. All kinds of secondary detonations. I was surprised nobody got hurt. Or the choppers.”
“Our guys get involved?”
Leverette shook his head. “There was a moment—the first word was that you’d bought the farm—when I thought they would. But Jack Davidson stopped it.”
“And you,” Castillo said. It was a statement, not a question.
“What the hell, I’m a W-Five and Jack’s just a lousy sergeant major.”
“Where is he?”
“He and Lester are trying to sneak Max in here.”
“He’s still here? Why?”
“The Almighty has spoken.”
“McNab?”
Leverette nodded.
“The verbal orders of our leader were ‘You don’t let that sonofabitch out of your sight until you can get him up here so I can ream him…a new rectal orifice.’ Or words to that effect.”
Castillo shook his head.
“You know the general, Charley. Any shooter gets shot, it’s his fault for not shooting first.”
The door opened, and was held open by a nurse.
A slight young man wearing dark glasses and tapping his way carefully with a white cane then entered, holding a very large dog on a leash.
Castillo grinned.
Lester, if those at Quantico could only see the Pride of the Marines now…
The dog, whining, very carefully put his feet on the bed and then licked first Colonel Castillo’s left hand, then his face.
“It’s all right, nurse,” Sergeant Major Jack Davidson said. He was wearing a white nylon surgeon’s smock and had a stethoscope hanging around his neck. “I cleared it with the chief of staff. And actually, canine saliva has a certain germicidal quality.”
The nurse shook her head but left, letting the door slowly close by itself.
[THREE]
Room 142
Hospital Británico
Avenida Italia 2420
Montevideo, Uruguay
1650 24 September 2005
The very tall, well-dressed, somewhat ascetic-looking man entered the room without knocking and found himself facing a nice-looking teenage boy in a gray suit—who was holding a .45 ACP pistol aimed at his crotch. Beside the boy was the largest dog the man had ever seen, showing an impressive array of teeth and growling deeply.
The man quickly put up his hands.
“You must be Corporal Bradley,” the man said.
“Who the hell are you?” Castillo demanded.
“My name is Frank Lammelle, Colonel. I’m the DDCI. Ambassador Montvale suggested I come to see you.”
“You have any identification, sir?” Bradley demanded.
“It’s okay, Lester,” Castillo said. “I don’t think he’s making that up.”
“May I put my hands down?”
Castillo nodded.
“And would you give the colonel and me a few minutes alone, please, Corporal?”
“Go get a Coke or something, Lester,” Castillo ordered.
When the door had closed after Bradley, Lammelle said, “That looks very uncomfortable, Colonel.”
“Until ten o’clock this morning, they had me literally twisting in the wind. That was worse.”
“And now?”
“Now I have to lie on my side.”
They looked at each other curiously.
“How did you know who Bradley was?” Castillo asked.
“Edgar Delchamps described him to me as a choirboy with a .45 who is seldom far from your side.”
Castillo smiled but didn’t say anything.
“Delchamps came to see me, and the DCI, immediately after he came from Saint Albans Hospital,” Lammelle said.
Castillo said nothing.
“You didn’t know he planned to do that?”
“No. But now that I think about it, I’m not surprised.”
“He told us an incredible, unsupportable, unbelievable tale about several members of the CIA having, so to speak, sold out.”
“Well, you don’t have to believe Delchamps if you don’t want to, Mr. Lammelle,” Castillo said, coldly and softly, “but I’m going to tell the President about those two bastards just as soon as I can get to Washington. I suspect he’ll believe me.” His voice changed tenor. “Jesus Christ, did Montvale send you down here to talk me into going along with a whitewash of those two traitorous sonsofbitches?”
“My mother always taught me it was bad form to speak ill of the dead,” Lammelle said.
“Excuse me?”
“We are both referring to Mr. Milton Weiss and Mr. Jonathon Crawford, are we not, Colonel?”
“I think of them as miserable CIA sonofabitch one and miserable CIA sonofabitch two.”
“I’m afraid that I’m the bearer of bad news, Colonel. Mr. Crawford and Mr. Weiss are no longer with us.”
“What did they do, catch a plane to the former Soviet Union?”
“They are deceased,” Lammelle said. “Mr. Crawford was found three days ago in his apartment in Asunción. He had apparently been strangled to death during a robbery. With a garrote, actually. A blue steel garrote.”
“And Weiss?”
“Mr. Weiss was found in his car in the parking lot at Langley yesterday morning. He died of a drug overdose. The needle was still in his arm—no, actually, it was in his neck—when his body was discovered.”
“How interesting.”
“Well, naturally, since Mr. Delchamps had raised these awful allegations against Mr. Weiss, our investigators had some questions for him.”
“And?”
“Apparently, Mr. Delchamps had been involved in a marathon poker game at the house he shares with you in Alexandria during the time the coroner tells us Mr. Weiss got his fatal injection. With some other CIA veterans, now mostly retired. They have a small informal organization; they call themselves The Dinosaurs.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Well, the CIA certainly is willing to take the word of such a group regarding who was where and when.”
“That’s probably a good idea.”
“Some of those Cold War warriors, The Dinosaurs, tell fascinating stories—they can’t be believed, of course—about what happened to traitors in their day.”
“Such as?”
“I really don’t like to get into this sort of thing, so let me just say it’s rumored they acted as judge, jury, and executioner when they were sure one of their number had sold out. Just a legend, I’m sure.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, aside from saying that I don’t think you could get arrested in Chicago for anything—Sergeant Mullroney has told
both the mayor and the President of your courageous dash through fierce small-arms fire carrying Special Agent Timmons on your back…”
“Oh, Jesus!”
“…that’s about all I have. I have to get to Buenos Aires.”
“Why?”
“Well, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, as it’s classified. Nevertheless, we’ve decided to beef up our operation in Asunción in light of what’s happened there. Mr. Darby is going there to help Mr. and Mrs. Sieno get things straightened out. I want to see them before they go.”
He put out his hand.
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Colonel, and I wish you a speedy recovery.”
[FOUR]
1040 Red Cloud Road
Fort Rucker, Alabama
1740 22 December 2005
Major General Harry Wilson, USA (Ret.), elected to park his Buick sedan on Red Cloud Road although he was fully aware that this was prohibited. There were several reasons he chose to do so, not the least of which was sitting next to him in the person of just-promoted Major General Crenshaw, the newly appointed post commander. Military Police only rarely ticketed post commanders for any nonfelonious breach of the law. Other reasons included that he and General Crenshaw had had several drinks on the flight from Texas, and he really could not handle more than one ounce of alcohol per hour.
Master Randolph Richardson IV was out of the Buick and up the lawn before either General Wilson or General Crenshaw could brief him on the best approach to the problems that were about to develop. Young Randy was holding something black and about the size of a shoe in his hand.
“Oh, shit!” General Wilson said.
“My thoughts exactly,” General Crenshaw said. “But I’ll deal with him.”
“He’s my son-in-law,” General Wilson said.
“But I write the officer’s efficiency report on the officer who writes his,” General Crenshaw said.
“Point taken,” General Wilson said. “You bring your animal and I’ll bring the dead birds.”
General Crenshaw opened the rear door and picked up a small animal more or less identical to the one Randolph Richardson IV had rushed to the door holding.
Generals Wilson and Crenshaw got to the door just as Lieutenant Colonel Randolph Richardson III opened it. His wife stood behind him.
“I made twenty takeoffs and landings,” young Randy announced, then held up the soft black object in his hands for inspection. “And look at this!”
“You did what?” Mrs. Richardson asked.
“What is that?” Lieutenant Colonel Richardson asked.
“His name is Goliath,” Randy answered. “General Crenshaw’s got his brother, David.”
“You did what?” Mrs. Richardson asked again.
“I made twenty takeoffs and landings in a Ryan PT-22,” her son answered.
“That isn’t one of those huge dogs Colonel Castillo had, is it?” Lieutenant Colonel Richardson asked.
“Not yet, Richardson,” General Crenshaw said. “Right now Goliath and David are what they call puppies.”
“Max had eight,” Randy said. “Or his…the girl dog did. Colonel Castillo gave General Crenshaw one and he gave me one.”
“How nice of him,” Lieutenant Colonel Richardson said, carefully choosing his words. “But I’m not sure we’ll be able to keep it, moving around the way we do.”
“Nonsense,” Generals Crenshaw and Wilson said, almost in unison.
“Every boy should have a dog,” General Crenshaw added.
“Teaches him character,” General Wilson agreed.
“A dog that size?” Lieutenant Colonel Richardson said.
“And Colonel Castillo gave one to a girl he knows in Argentina,” Randy said, “a girl my age he says he wants me to meet some time.”
“I would like to know what he means by twenty takeoffs and landings,” Mrs. Richardson said. “Not by himself, certainly.”
“What kind of an airplane?” Lieutenant Colonel Richardson said.
“A Ryan PT-22, open-cockpit tail dragger,” Randy announced with a pilot’s élan. “Hundred-and-sixty-horse Kinner five-cylinder radial. Cruises at about one thirty-five.”
“Colonel Castillo has such an airplane?” Lieutenant Colonel Richardson inquired. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one.”
“Uncle Fernando does,” Randy said, softly stroking Goliath.
“You remember Fernando, Beth?” her father said. “Charley’s cousin?”
She smiled somewhat wanly.
“You’re calling this man ‘Uncle Fernando’?” she said to her son.
“If he lets me fly his airplane,” Randy replied matter-of-factly, “I’ll call him anything he wants me to call him!”
“And what do you call Colonel Castillo?” his mother asked.
“He said that he’s not my uncle so I could call him either ‘sir’ or ‘Charley.’”
Beth exchanged a long look with her father.
“So this ‘Uncle Fernando’ took you for a ride in his airplane, did he?” Lieutenant Colonel Richardson inquired.
“No,” Randy explained somewhat impatiently. “Colonel Castillo taught me how to fly Uncle Fernando’s PT-22. I made twenty takeoffs and landings. I told you.”
“And you found nothing wrong with this, Dad?” Mrs. Richardson asked.
“Not a thing,” he said. “I’ve always thought of the Castillos as family. Haven’t you?”
• • •
For a complete list of this author’s books click here or visit
www.penguin.com/griffinchecklist
The Shooters Page 54
