"Can you 'push the pedals satisfactorily'?" Castillo asked.
"I think so. I would hate to believe that all the fucking exercise I've been doing flexing the son of a bitch has been in vain. So what I've been thinking of doing is going to Tampa and see if I can't find reasonably honest work as a contractor."
"Flying worn-out Russian helicopters on some bullshit mission in the middle of now here?"
"The pay is good."
"What's wrong with staying right where you are?"
"Working for you?"
"Is something wrong with that?"
"It would look like-would be-cronyism."
"Think of it as affirmative action," Castillo said. "The Office of Organizational Analysis is offering employment to somebody who meets all the criteria. You're ignorant, physically crippled, mentally challenged, and otherwise unemployable."
"And black. Don't forget that."
"And black. I'll talk to McGuire. Maybe he can get you hired by the Secret Service."
"I don't think I could pass their physical."
"We'll work something out. I really hate to tell you this, but I need you, Dick."
"If I thought you really meant that, Charley…"
"Have I ever lied to you?"
"You really don't want me to answer that, do you?"
"In this case, I'm going to need somebody-you-to protect my back from this goddamned liaison officer Montvale is shoving down my throat. And that's the truth."
"You just can't say, 'Thank you just the same but I don't need a liaison officer'?"
"To Ambassador Charles Montvale, the director of National Intelligence? He's not used to being told no, especially when all he's trying to do is be helpful."
"What's he really after?"
"He doesn't like the whole idea of a presidential agent. If he can't take me over-and I'm sure he's working on that-he wants to put me out of business."
"So what? What are they going to do, send you back to the Army? What's wrong with that? Goddamn, I wish that was one of my options."
Castillo didn't respond to that. Instead, he asked, "When is all this going to happen?"
"I'll have thirty days from the time I'm restored to limited duty, which should be in the next week to ten days. I then have to tell them I'll accept permanent limited-duty status-which means I would wind up in a recruiting office or a mess-kit-repair battalion-or take the medical retirement."
"Then we have time," Castillo said. "Just forget that contractor bullshit, okay?"
Miller nodded.
"Thanks, Charley," he said.
"Jesus, that beer looks tempting," Castillo said.
"Give in," Miller said.
"I will. Stay there. I'll go get one. You want another?"
Without waiting for an answer, he went into the living room and to the wet bar. As he was taking two bottles of beer from the refrigerator, he heard the telephone ring and when he went back into the bedroom Miller was holding out a handset to him.
"Your guardian angel, saving you from temptation," Miller said.
Castillo took the phone. "Castillo," he said.
"Matt Hall, Charley."
"Yes, sir?"
"Two changes in the plan," Hall said.
What plan?
"Yes, sir?"
"I'll pick you up there at half past seven, not eight."
"Excuse me?"
"I said I'll pick you up at half past seven, not eight."
"Where are we going, sir?"
"To the White House. I told you."
Oh no you didn't. You told me that you were going to the White House. I was going to be on the Metroliner on the way to Philadelphia at seven-thirty.
"That message must have come through garbled, sir."
"Obviously," Hall said. There was a suggestion of annoyance in his tone. "And the second change is that the President wants you to wear your uniform."
"Excuse me?"
"The President said about ten minutes ago, quote, Tell Charley to please wear his uniform, end quote."
"What's that all about?" Castillo blurted.
"The commander in chief did not choose to share with me any explanation of his desire," Hall said. "The Seventeenth Street entrance, seven-thirty. Brass and shoes shined appropriately. Got to go, Charley."
The line went dead.
Castillo said, "Sonofabitch!"
"Good news, huh?"
Castillo didn't reply. He went to the walk-in closet.
Miller heard him say, "Thank you, West Point."
Castillo came out of the closet, carrying a zippered nylon bag.
"'Thank you, West Point'?" Miller parroted.
"Yeah," Castillo said. "The first thing I learned on the holy plain was that when you fuck up the only satisfactory excuse is, 'No excuse, sir.' The second thing I learned was to get your uniform pressed the minute you take it off because some sonofabitch will order you to appear in it when you least expect it and it had better be pressed."
"And in this case, the sonofabitch is the Honorable Matthew Hall? Why does he want you to put on your uniform?"
"Worse," Castillo said, as he unzipped the bag. "The President does."
"What's that about?"
"I have no fucking idea," Castillo said. "But like the good soldier I used to be, I will show up at the appointed place at the appointed hour in the prescribed uniform."
"What is the appointed place and the appointed hour?"
"Nineteen-thirty at the Seventeenth Street entrance, from which Hall will convey me to the White House for reasons unknown."
Castillo started taking off his clothing, laying his suit, shirt, and tie neatly on the bed so that he could change back into it as soon as he could get away from whatever the hell was going on at the White House. The lobby of the Mayflower Hotel runs through the ground floor from the Connecticut Avenue entrance to the Seventeenth Street entrance. The elevator bank is closer to Connecticut Avenue, and it is some distance-three-quarters of a city block-from the elevators to the Seventeenth Street entrance.
Nevertheless, Major C. G. Castillo, now attired in his "dress blue" uniform, saw her just about the moment he got off the elevator. She was wearing a pale pink summer dress and a broad, floppy-brimmed hat. He decided she was either waiting for someone to meet her there or was waiting, as he would be, for someone to pick her up.
She didn't see Castillo until he was almost at the shallow flight of stairs leading upward to the Seventeenth Street foyer and doors. Then she looked at him without expression.
When he came close, Castillo said, "Good evening, Mr. Wilson."
She said, softly but intensely, "I thought it was you, you miserable sonofabitch."
"And it's nice to see you again, too," Castillo said, put his brimmed uniform cap squarely on his head, and pushed through the revolving door onto Seventeenth Street, then walked to the waiting Secret Service GMC Yukon XL.
He did not look back at the lobby, but as the Yukon pulled away from the curb he took a quick look.
Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson still was standing there, her arms folded over her breasts, glaring at the Yukon.
He remembered what Miller had said about her death rays freezing his martini solid. [FOUR] The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 1950 4 August 2005 Castillo recognized the Marine lieutenant colonel standing just inside the door in the splendiferous formal uniform, heavily draped with gold braid and the aiguillettes of an aide-de-camp to the commander in chief. He had last seen him on Air Force One at Keesler Air Force Base in Mississippi. He even remembered his name: McElroy.
"Good evening, Mr. Secretary, ma'am," Lieutenant Colonel McElroy said to Secretary and Mr. Matthew Hall. "The President asks that you come to the presidential apartments."
Then he looked at Castillo, who thought he saw recognition come slowly to McElroy's eyes.
"And you're Major Castillo?" Lieutenant Colonel McElroy asked.
"Yes, sir," Castillo said and, smiling, pointed to his chest to the black-and-white name tag reading CASTILLO.