"If you'll indulge me, Colonel," Montvale said, icily, "I'll tell you how I did just that."
"Sorry."
"I ended your touching life story by telling him that you stole a helicopter in Afghanistan to save Miller's crew at great risk not only to your career but your life itself."
"Oh, boy!"
"Hearing that, Mr. Whelan really fixed the hook in himself. 'Mr. Ambassador,' he asked, 'forgive me, but wasn't that a crazy thing to do?'
"Whereupon I looked at him sadly and said, 'Precisely. It was an insane, irrational act. Major Castillo had gone to the well of his resources once too often and found it dry. Everybody has a breaking point and Castillo had reached his.'"
"In other words, you told him I'm crazy?"
"In effect. I didn't use those words. I told him you were sent home from Afghanistan for some well-deserved rest. I implied that on the plane from Afghanistan you had decided your number was about up and, that being the case, you were going to have some fun before you met the grim reaper. Fun that you were going to pay for with your personal wealth, something you had never done before. Another indication of an overstressed mind.
"And I told him that it was at this point that the West Point Protective Association came into play, in the person of General Allan Naylor. I told him that Naylor didn't know what to do with you. He could not give you, in your current state of mind, the command of a battalion to which you were entitled. The way you were drinking and chasing wild, wild women, you would soon be relieved of any command you were given…"
"Jesus! Is that part true?"
"…and he was reluctant to have you hospitalized for psychological problems because that on your records would keep you from ever becoming a general."
Montvale paused when he saw the look on Castillo's face, then added: "That was an original thought of mine. Getting you psychiatric help never occurred to General Naylor.
"What I told Whelan was that Naylor went to Secretary Hall, who had been decorated for valor and wounds while serving under Naylor in Vietnam and was thus a fellow warrior who knew how even the best of men sometimes reach their limits…"
"Oh, my God!"
"…and asked him if he could find something for you to do until you got some rest. Which Hall, of course, agreed to do. And Naylor also arranged for Miller, whose life you had saved, to be placed on outpatient status at Walter Reed so that he could look after you."
Castillo, shaking his head in disbelief, said nothing.
"So far, you're still stressed…"
"You mean crazy," Castillo said, bitterly.
"…but you seem to be improving. General Naylor hopes that soon you will be able to return to normal duty in the Army. The Army has done what it could to help a distinguished warrior, the son of an even more distinguished warrior."
"And Whelan swallowed this yarn?"
"He had no trouble at all accepting that there were good reasons-touching reasons-for your having gone over the edge," Montvale said.
Castillo gave him an exasperated look.
"But what's important comes next," Montvale said. "Two things. First, Whelan said, 'I've written a lot of stories that people tell me have ruined people's lives and I've done it with a clear conscience and I'll do it again. But I'm not going to ruin this young man's life simply because some bitch comes to me with a half-cocked story and an agenda.'
"Whereupon I asked him, in surprise, 'A woman gave you this story?'
"'I knew damned well she had an agenda beyond getting on the right side of me,' Whelan said. 'I knew it.'
"'Has this lady aname?'
"'She's in the agency,' Whelan said. 'She and her husband both work for the agency. Her name is Wilson. I forget his first name, but hers is Patricia. Patricia Davies Wilson. That's to go no further than this room.'
"'Of course not,' I readily agreed. 'You think…what was her name?'
"He obligingly furnished it again: 'Wilson, Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson.'
"I asked, 'You think Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson had an agenda?'
"'She did,' Mr. Whelan replied. 'I have no idea what it was, but it was more than just cozying up to me. She's fed me stuff before. A lot of-most of it-was useful. I thought of her as my private mole in Langley.'
"Whereupon I sought clarification: 'You say you thought of Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson as your private mole in the Central Intelligence Agency?'
"He took a healthy swallow of wine-in fact, drained at least the last third of a glass-and said, 'Yes, I did. I've gotten a half dozen good stories out of her. There's a lot of things going on at Langley that the public has the right to know. Stories that don't help our enemies. But a story about somebody who's been burned out doing his duty and is teetering on the edge is not a good story. I write hard news, not human interest. Damn her!'"
"So what happens now?"
"I don't know what Whelan's going to do to her, but I know what I did," Montvale said. "I had my technicians erase all but the last minute or so of that recording-anything that could identify you-and then personally took it over to Langley and played it for John Powell."
"And the DCI didn't ask you who Whelan's story was supposed to be about or how you just happened to record their conversation?" Castillo asked.
"I'm sure he would have liked to," Montvale said. "But he was torn between humiliation that I had personally brought him credible evidence that Mr. Whelan had a mole in the agency and anger with himself that he hadn't done more to the lady after I personally had sent Truman Ellsworth over there to subtly warn them-after our conversation at the Army-Navy Club-that they had a problem with Mr. Wilson."
"You're sure this guy is not going to write about me?"
"I'm sure he's not. He told meso."
"Because he feels sorry for the overstressed lunatic?"
"That's part of it, certainly. And part of it is that Whelan thinks of himself as a loyal American. Patriotism is also a actor."
"Isn't patriotism supposed to be the last refuge of a scoundrel?" Castillo asked, bitterly.
"You're the one who needed the refuge, Colonel. If the scoundrel shoe fits, put it on."
"It fits," Castillo said. "I guess I'm supposed to thank you, Mr. Ambassador…"
"You're welcome, but don't let it go to your head. I was protecting the President, not you."
"Yes, sir. I understand."
Montvale looked at his watch.
"I'd really hoped-so I would have no surprises when you brief the President…"
Brief the President? Where the hell did that come from?
"…and the others…"
What others?
"…that you and Britton would be able to bring me up to speed about these people in Bucks County, on everything, but we don't seem to have the time. We're due to be over there in ten minutes and I need to visit the gentlemen's rest facility before we go."
"Yes, sir."
"If I have to say this, Colonel, not a word vis-a-vis Mr. Whelan."
"Yes, sir."
"I wonder what the President's going to think about the stylish Mr. Britton," Montvale said, then rose from behind his desk and waved for Castillo to precede him out of the office.
XIV
[ONE] The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 1555 10 August 2005 The Secret Service agent standing just outside of the Oval Office-a very large man attired in a dark gray suit carefully tailored to hide the bulk of the Mini Uzi he carried under his arm-stepped in front of Charles W. Montvale, blocking his way.
"Excuse me, Director Montvale," he said, politely. He nodded once, indicating Jack Britton, who still was wearing his pink seersucker jacket, yellow polo shirt, light blue trousers, and highly polished tassel loafers. "I don't know this gentleman."
"Show him your Secret Service credentials, Agent Britton," Montvale ordered. "Quickly. We don't want to keep the President waiting."
Britton exchanged a glance with Charley Castillo, then unfolded a thin leather wallet.