“This is probably the wrong thing to say, but I can understand that.”
“You’re right. It is the wrong thing to say. Charley, I assumed responsibility for them. The big brass are determined he will not go back to Philadelphia; they wanted to hold him—them—as material witnesses to an assault on a federal officer.”
“Can they do that?”
“They could her. What I told the supervisor was that they were going to have a hard time convincing a judge that a member of the Vice President’s protection detail—and a highly decorated former Philly cop—was going to vanish so that he wouldn’t have to testify against the bad guys who had tried to whack him and his wife. That’s when they turned them over to me. They’d rather that I be responsible for putting this little escapade on the front page of The Washington Post.”
When Castillo didn’t immediately reply, Isaacson went on: “Or for a headline in The Philadelphia Inquirer: ‘Secret Service Agent Guns Down Area Muslims; Alleges They Tried to Kill Him and His Wife.’”
“So that’s the priority? Keeping egg off the face of the Secret Service?”
“That, and keeping Jack out of jail.”
“What am I supposed to do with them?”
“Convince him that going back to Philly would be stupid, then put them on ice someplace until this can be worked out.”
“Personally, I’ll do anything I can for Jack. But why me?”
“Because the chief of the Secret Service has been told that any inquiries he wishes to make about OOA will have to go through me.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Indeed. Merry Christmas, Charley. Please don’t tell me what you decide to do with them; that way I’ll truthfully be able to say I don’t know where they are when I’m asked. And I will be asked.”
“Jesus Christ!” Castillo said again.
But no one heard him.
The legend on the screen now read: CALL TERMINATED.
III
[ONE]
7200 West Boulevard Drive
Alexandria, Virginia
1445 25 December 2005
“Not more bad news, I hope, Carlos?” Doña Alicia asked as Castillo took what Davidson referred to as the “paterfamilias seat” at the head of the table.
Castillo looked at her and had the first not-unpleasant thought he’d had in the last five minutes: This is not classified. I won’t have to take Delchamps and McGuire into the office or, even worse, ask Abuela to leave the room so we can discuss it.
“There’s some good news,” he said. “And . . .”
“Let’s have that first,” Doña Alicia said. “The good news.”
“Okay. Jack Britton and his wife will appear here shortly.”
“Oh, good!” Tom McGuire said. “You’ll like them, Doña Alicia. Particularly her. Great sense of humor. As my sainted mother used to say, she’s the kind of girl who can make a corpse sit up in his casket at the funeral and start whistling.”
“Tom, that’s terrible,” Doña Alicia said, but she was smiling.
“And the bad news, Ace?” Delchamps asked.
“They have been wrapped in the protective arms of the Secret Service.”
McGuire’s smile vanished. He liked Britton. He had recruited him for the Secret Service.
“Why?” he asked softly.
“Isaacson told me that that’s standard procedure when a special agent is attacked. As is taking a member of the Protection Service off the detail and assigning him administrative duties.”
“Somebody attacked Jack?” Davidson asked.
“And Sandra,” Castillo confirmed. “Sixteen bullet holes in his new Mazda convertible. And that many more in the picture window of his house.”
“Oh, my God! How terrible!” Doña Alicia said.
“The African-American Lunatics?” David W. Yung asked.
Doña Alicia looked at him in confusion.
“Who else?” Castillo said.
“Where are they sending him?” McGuire said. Before Castillo could reply, he added, surprised, “They want to keep him here?”
“They wanted to send them to Saint Louis, or someplace like that.”
“And?” McGuire pursued.
“When they told him that, Jack said something very, very rude to the supervisor who told him, and then said he was going back to Philadelphia. That’s when he was turned over to Joel.” He paused. “And then Joel turned him over to me.”
McGuire grunted. “Philadelphia’s not an option,” he said. “And I don’t know about here. There’s a train from Union Station to Philadelphia about every hour.”
“Nuestra Pequeña Casa,” Delchamps suggested. “Better yet, Shangri-La.”
McGuire considered that a moment, then nodded. “That’d do it.”
Doña Alicia’s face showed that she didn’t understand any of what had been said.
“Ace, you think your lady friend would go along with one more legal attaché in Buenos Aires or Montevideo?” Delchamps asked.
“Probably. But asking her on Christmas Day?”
“Good point,” Delchamps said.
“Let’s get them down there and worry about that later,” McGuire said. “Worst case, they make us bring them back.”
“Why don’t we wait and see what kind of a frame of mind Jack’s in before we do anything?” Davidson asked.
“If I could repeat in mixed company what he told the Secret Service supervisor, Jack, that would give you a good idea,” Castillo said. “But for the moment, would someone please pass me the cranberry sauce?”
Special Agent and Mrs. Britton arrived fifteen minutes later. They were accompanied by four Secret Service agents. All of the men at the table stood when they came into the dining room.
“If you have any clout with the guards, Tom,” Sandra Britton said, “I’d really like to have a little something to eat before I’m strip-searched and put in my cell.”
“Sandra!” McGuire said uncomfortably.
She went on, unrepentant: “The only thing the prisoners have had to eat today is an Egg McMuffin as we began our journey and, for Christmas dinner, a hamburger in a Wendy’s outside Baltimore.”
She directed her attention to Castillo.
“You’re the warden, right, Colonel? When do I get my one telephone call? I just can’t wait to talk to the ACLU.”
“Just as soon as I introduce you to my grandmother,” Castillo said, laughing. “Abuela, this is Sandra Britton. Sandra, Doña Alicia Castillo.”
“I’m very happy to meet you,” Sandra said. “But what in the world is a nice grandmother doing sitting down with this company?”
“I told you you’d like her, Doña Alicia,” McGuire said.
“Or are you also under-arrest-by-another-name?” Sandra pursued.
“Sit down, my dear,” Doña Alicia said. “We’ll get you some dinner.”
“I understand why you’re a little upset, Sandra,” McGuire said.
“ ‘A little’?”
“My dear young woman,” Billy Kocian said. “I recognize in you not only a kindred soul, but someone else suffering velvet-cell incarceration at the hands of these thugs. May I offer you a glass of champagne? Or perhaps something stronger?”
“Both,” she said. “Who the hell are you?”
Kocian walked quickly to her and kissed her hand.
“Eric Kocian, madam. I am enchanted.”
“As well you should be, Billy,” Doña Alicia said.
“Pray take my seat, and I’ll get the champagne,” Kocian said.
“Hey, Jack!” Davidson said. “How goes it?”
Britton shook his head.
“Ginger-peachy,” he said. “How could it be otherwise?”
Kocian took a bottle of champagne from a cooler, poured some in a glass, and handed it to Sandra.