"Fifteen-point-seven, sir," Castillo offered.
"…Some sixteen million U.S. dollars in Uruguay, and that parties unknown tracked him down to Uruguay and murdered him to keep him from talking. After they abducted Mr. Masterson and later murdered her husband."
"So what, Charles?" the President demanded.
"I don't seem to be expressing myself very well, Mr. President," Montvale said. "Let me put it this way: These people, whoever they are, now know we're onto them. They have no idea what the major may have learned before he went to South America. They have no idea how much Lorimer may have told him before they were able to murder him. If they hoped to obtain the contents of Lorimer's safe, they failed. And they don't know what it did or did not contain, so they will presume the worst, and that it is now in our possession. Or, possibly worse, in the possession of parties unknown. They sent their assassins in to murder Lorimer and what we-what the major and his band-gave them in return were six dead assassins and an empty safe. And now that we know we're onto them, God only knows how soon it will be before someone comes to us."
"And rats on the rats, you mean?" the President asked.
"Yes, sir, that's precisely what I mean. And I'm not talking only about identifying the Masterson murderers-I think it very likely that the major has already 'rendered them harmless'-but the people who ordered the murders. The masterminds of the oil-for-food scandal, those who have profited from it. Sir, in my judgment the major has not failed. He has rendered the country a great service and is to be commended."
"You ever hear, Charles, that great minds run in similar paths? I had just about come to the same conclusion. But one question, Charles, is what should we do about the sixteen million dollars in the banks in Uruguay? Tell the UN it's there and let them worry about getting it back?"
"Actually, sir, I had an off the top of my head thought about that money. According to the major, all it takes is Lorimer's signature on those documents, whatever they're called, that the major brought back from the hideaway to have that money transferred anywhere."
"But Lorimer's dead," the President said.
"They have some very talented people over in Langley, if the President gets my meaning."
"You mean, forge a dead man's signature and steal the money? For what purpose?"
"Mr. President, I admit that when I first learned what you were asking the major to do, I was something less than enthusiastic. But I was wrong and I admit it. A small unit like the major's can obviously be very valuable in this new world war. And if sixteen million dollars were available to it-sixteen million untraceable dollars…"
"I take your point, Charles," the President said. "But I'm going to ask you to stop thinking off the top of your head."
"Sir?"
"The next thing you're likely to suggest is that Charley-and that's his name, Charles, not 'the major'-move the Office of Organizational Analysis into the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. And that's not going to happen. Charley works for me, period. Not open for comment."
Secretary Hall had a sudden coughing spasm. His face grew red.
Ambassador Montvale did not seem to suspect that Secretary Hall might be concealing a hearty laugh.
"Natalie, do you have anything to say before I send Charley out of here to take, with my profound thanks, a little time off? After he lets everybody in his apartment go, of course."
"I was thinking about Ambassador Lorimer, sir. He's ill and it will devastate him to learn what his son has been up to."
Ambassador Philippe Lorimer, Jean-Paul Lorimer's father, had retired from the Foreign Service of the United States after a lengthy and distinguished career after suffering a series of progressively more life-threatening heart attacks.
"Jesus, I hadn't thought about that," the President said. "Charley, what about it?"
"Sir, Mr. Lorimer is missing in Paris," Charley said. "The man who died in Estancia Shangri-La was Jean-Paul Bertrand, a Lebanese. I don't think anyone will be anxious to reveal who Bertrand really was. And I don't think we have to or should."
"What about his sister?" Natalie Cohen asked. "Should she be told?"
"I think so, yes," Charley said. "I haven't thought this through, but I have been thinking that the one thing I could tell Mr. Masterson that would put her mind at rest about the threats to her children is that I know her brother is dead and, with his death, these bastards…excuse me…these bad guys have no more interest in her or her children."
"And if she asks how you know, under what circumstances?" the President asked.
"That's what I haven't thought through, sir."
"You don't want to tell her what a despicable sonofabitch he was, is that it?"
"I suspect she knows, sir. But it's classified Top Secret Presidential."
"Would anyone have objections to my authorizing Charley to deal with the Masterson family in any way he determines best, including the divulgence of classified material?"
"Splendid idea, Mr. President," Ambassador Montvale said.
"Do it soon, Charley. Please," Natalie Cohen said.
"Yes, ma'am."
The President stood up and came around the desk and offered Castillo his hand.
"Thank you, Charley. Good job. Go home and get some rest. And then think where you can discreetly hide sixteen million dollars until you need it." [TWO] Room 404 The Mayflower Hotel 1127 Connecticut Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 2015 1 August 2005 When Major C. G. Castillo pushed open the door to his apartment-the hotel referred to room 404 as an "Executive Suite"; it consisted of a living room, a large bedroom, a small dining room, and a second bedroom-he found Colonel Jacob Torine sprawled on one of the couches watching The O'Reilly Factor on the FOX News Channel. Torine's feet were on the coffee table and his right hand was wrapped around a Heineken beer bottle, which rested on his chest.
Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, sat beside him, feet on the floor, holding a half-empty bottle of Coca-Cola. He was puffing on a large dark brown cigar.
Well, I may not get cashiered, Castillo thought. But if somebody sees him with that cigar, I'll certainly be charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor.
The obvious source of Bradley's cigar, Fernando Lopez, sat puffing on its twin across a chessboard from Special Agent David W. Yung, Jr., of the FBI. Special Agent Jack Britton of the Secret Service watched them with amused interest; it looked to him as if the kid was clobbering Lopez.
Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., in civilian clothing, sat in an armchair. His left leg, heavily bandaged, rested on the coffee table. Miller and Castillo had been classmates and roommates at West Point. They had served together several times during their careers, most recently with the "Night Stalkers," more formally known as the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment.
Everybody turned to look at Castillo.
"What happened to your cast?" Castillo asked, looking at Miller.
"They took pity on me and sawed it off. I am now down to two miles of rubberized gauze," Miller said.
"And how's the knee?"
"Time will tell," Miller said, disgustedly, then asked, "Well, how did it go with the President?"
"Well, I don't think we'll all wind up in Alaska counting snowballs," Castillo announced.
"You really didn't think something like that was going to happen, did you, Charley?" Torine asked.
"Actually, I bear a message from the commander in chief," Castillo said. "Quote, Good job. Thank you, End quote."
"What did you expect, Charley?" Torine pursued.
"We lost Kranz and they blew Lorimer away before we could talk to him," Castillo said. "How does that add up to a 'good job'?"
"You found the sonofabitch," Miller said. "And, in doing so, removed the threat to the Mastersons. That's a good job, Charley. In my book or anybody else's."
"Can Britton and I go home now, Gringo?" Fernando asked. "To try to salvage what we can from the ashes of our marriages?"