The Secret Service Agent failed to uphold the traditions of his service. Surprise, even disbelief, was written all over his face as he stepped out of the way.
The President was not in the Oval Office. Secretary of State Natalie Cohen and Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall were. They were seated side by side on one of the pair of matching couches that faced each other across a coffee table.
Hall got to his feet and offered his hand to them each in turn.
Then he asked Britton, "I don't believe you know Secretary Cohen, do you, Jack?"
"No, sir," Britton said.
The secretary of state stood up and offered her hand to Britton.
"Secretary Hall has been telling me what you did before joining the Secret Service," she said. "I'm very pleased to meet you."
"It's an honor to meet you, Madam Secretary," Britton said.
She walked to Castillo, kissed his cheek, and said, "Hello, Charley. How are we doing with the repatriation of Mr. Lorimer's remains?"
"They're in a funeral home in New Orleans, Madam Secretary," Castillo said. "Special Agent Yung accompanied them from Uruguay. I spoke with him a couple of hours ago." He paused, then went on, "He's got an out-of-channels message for you from Ambassador McGrory. He's supposed to deliver it personally…"
"That's odd, Charley," she said. "Do you know what it is?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Let's have it."
"Ambassador McGrory believes Mr. Lorimer was a drug dealer-in his alter ego as Jean-Paul Bertrand, antiquities dealer-and that a drug deal went bad at his estancia and he was murdered and the sixteen million dollars stolen."
"My God, where did he get that?" she exclaimed.
"He apparently figured that out all by himself. He confided his theory in Ambassador Silvio."
She shook her head in disbelief.
"Unfortunately," Castillo went on, "there's a clever Uruguayan cop, Chief Inspector Ordonez of the Policia Nacional, who's pretty close to figuring out what really happened."
That got everyone's attention.
Castillo continued, "And he's also positively identified one of the Ninjas we killed as Major Alejandro Vincenzo of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia-"
"One of the what, Charley?" the President of the United States asked as he came into the room. "Did you say 'Ninjas'?"
"Sir, that's what we're calling the people who bushwhacked us at Estancia Shangri-La."
The President looked at him strangely.
"Sir, they were wearing balaclava masks and black coveralls," Castillo added, some what lamely. "Ninjas-that's what they looked like."
"Well, I want to hear about that, of course," the President said. "But first things first."
He walked to Britton and offered him his hand.
"You're Special Agent Britton, right?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. President."
"I like your jacket," the President said. "What's your assessment of the possibility of a nuclear device being detonated in Philadelphia anytime soon? On a scale of one to ten?"
"When he briefed me, Mr. President," Montvale said, "Britton said, 'Point-zero-zero-one.'"
God, you're clever, Montvale, Castillo thought. By answering for Britton, you've painted yourself as really being on top of everything.
"Is that right?" the President asked Britton. "You think the threat is that negligible?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I'm relieved. I'll want to hear why you think so, of course. But that will wait until I get things organized in my mind." He looked at Castillo. "That means I want to hear everything, Charley, starting from the moment you left the White House, what was it, a week ago?"
"Six days, Mr. President. It seems like a lot longer, but it was only six days ago."
"Charley," the President said, "I want to hear everything you think has affected-or might affect-execution of the Finding. I'll decide what's important."
"Yes, sir," Castillo said and immediately decided to leave out the first thing that had happened after he left the White House that had indeed had a bearing on the Finding-his some what-strained conversation with Montvale at the Army-Navy Club.
"Sir, I went to Paris…" he began as he thought he saw a look of relief on Montvale's face. "My God, you really got around, didn't you?" the President said fifteen minutes later when Castillo had finished. "You must be exhausted."
"I am kind of beat, sir."
"Sum it up for me, Charley. Where are we?"
"We know a lot more, Mr. President, than we knew when I left here-that a Cuban was involved, for example, and that there's probably a connection with the KGB-but I don't know what any of it really means."
The President turned to the secretary of state.
"What do you make of the Cuban, Natalie?"
"If there wasn't a positive identification, Mr. President, I'd have trouble believing it. I just don't know."
"Can we tweak Castro's nose with that? Now or later?"
"If the Cubans sent him to Uruguay-and we don't know, or least have no proof of, that-by now they know he's dead," the secretary of state said. "So far as embarrassing the Cubans, I don't think so, sir. If we laid this man's body on Kofi Annan's desk in the Security Council chamber, the Cubans would deny any knowledge of him and the delegate from Venezuela would introduce a resolution condemning us for blaspheming the dignity of the UN."
The President's face showed what he thought of the secretary-general of the United Nations and of the organization itself.
"They've washed their hands of Lorimer, right?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," Secretary Cohen said. "One of Annan's underlings issued a brief statement regretting the death of Mr. Lorimer, but-we invited them-they're not even sending someone to his funeral."
"So what are you going to do next, Charley?" the President asked.
"Well, tomorrow morning, sir, I'm going to assemble what information we have-all the disconnected facts we have, both here and in Buenos Aires-and start to try to make some sense of it."
"Need any help?" the President asked. "Anything you need to do that?"
Before Castillo could reply, Ambassador Montvale said, "In that connection, Mr. President, I'm going to call DCI Powell personally and tell him that he is to provide to Mr. Delchamps everything that Colonel Castillo asks for."
"That's the CIA man from Paris?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"Why are you calling Powell personally? I've already ordered that the CIA-that everybody-give Charley whatever he asks for. And now Delchamps works for Charley, right?"
"Mr. Delchamps is about as popular in Langley as is Colonel Castillo, Mr. President. And then there's the matter of our not having informed the CIA-or, for that matter, others, including the FBI-of your Finding. I thought my personal call would be useful."
The President looked thoughtfully at Montvale, then at Castillo.
"And Charley's not likely to win any popularity contest in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, either, is he?" the President said, then paused in thought. "Let me make some contribution to this."
The President walked to his desk, punched several buttons on his telephone without lifting the handset, then sat and leaned back in his high-backed leather chair.
"Yes, Mr. President?" the White House switchboard operator's voice came over the speakerphone.
"Get me Mark Schmidt, please," the President said.
Less than twenty seconds later, the voice of the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation came over the speakerphone.
"Good afternoon, Mr. President."
The President wasted no time on the social amenities.
"Mark, what I need is a good, senior FBI agent," he said.
"There's no shortage of them around here, Mr. President. May I ask why?"
"Someone who knows his way into the dark corners over there, Mark. Someone who's really good at putting disassociated facts together. Someone, now that I think about it, who probably works pretty closely with you and will be able to get you on the phone if he needs some help."
"Inspector Jack Doherty of my staff meets those criteria, Mr. President. It would help, sir, if I knew exactly what you need."