"And you can trust the people at Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H., to keep their mouths shut?" Montvale asked.
"Yes, sir," Castillo said, as the realization dawned, Jesus Christ, he knows about that, too. And he asked the question in absolutely fluent German.
Montvale switched back to English.
"Goddamn, he is good, isn't he, General?" Montvale asked.
Naylor didn't reply. Instead, he asked, "Am I permitted to ask, 'What money?'"
"You can ask, of course," Montvale said, smiling. "But getting an answer would depend on the colonel, as he correctly pointed out he and the President are the only ones with the key to the Finding. It would be a felony for me to tell you."
What's he doing now? Playing with me? With General Naylor? With both of us?
"General," Castillo said. "Lorimer had nearly sixteen million dollars in several banks in Uruguay. We took it over. It is now the operating fund for the Office of Organizational Analysis."
"How did you manage to do that?" Naylor asked.
"He doesn't need to know that, does he, Colonel?" Montvale asked.
"No, I don't," Naylor answered for him. "And I don't think I want to."
"I have access to business jets in Europe and in Brazil," Montvale said. "Would it facilitate your travel if I made them available to you?"
"It would probably draw attention to me," Castillo replied.
"They're agency assets, actually," Montvale said. "The agency owns two charter companies in Europe and one in Brazil. Sort of an aerial version of the Town Car limos that prowl the streets of Manhattan. I don't think taking a ride in one would draw undue attention to you. All I would really be doing-unless you needed a plane for more than carrying you from point A to point B-would be ensuring you went to the head of the line."
"Can I have a rain check?"
"When we shook hands, you got your rain check," Montvale said. "Good for as long as you hold up your end of our deal."
He took a large wallet from his jacket, took a card from it, and laid the card on the table. Then he took an electronic notebook from another pocket, consulted it, and wrote several numbers on the card. He handed the card to Castillo.
"By the time you get to France, the aerial limo services will understand that when you call, you go to the head of the line. The bottom number on there is mine. Use it if you ever need anything you think I can provide and can't get through to me through the White House switchboard."
"Thank you," Castillo said.
"Can you think of anything else I can do for you?" Montvale asked.
"Mr. Wilson is a now a senior analyst in the agency's South American Division's Southern Cone Section," Castillo said.
Montvale pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"I knew she managed not to get fired, but I didn't know that," he said. "We can't have that, can we?"
"Miller and I ran into her in the lobby of the Mayflower earlier tonight," Castillo said. "She called me a miserable sonofabitch."
"Well, I can see how she might feel that way," Montvale said. "I'll deal with it first thing tomorrow."
"Thank you."
"Anything else?"
"No, sir, I can't think of anything else."
"Well, in that case, I'm afraid I'm going to have to be going," Montvale said.
He stood up, drained his drink, and offered his hand to Naylor, who had risen to his feet.
"It's always a pleasure, General Naylor," he said.
Then he turned to Castillo, shook his hand, and patted his shoulder.
"This turned out better than either of us thought it would, didn't it?" he asked. "Keep in touch, Colonel."
"Yes, sir, I will."
Montvale walked out of the room and Naylor and Castillo sat down.
"Jesus Christ!" Charley said. "Why does his being so cheerful, charming, and accommodating make me so uncomfortable?"
"Maybe because you weren't asleep when they were lecturing about never under estimating your enemy?"
Castillo chuckled.
"I'm sorry I said that," Naylor said thoughtfully a moment later. "That was a hell of a session, but I'm not so sure he doesn't mean exactly what he said. The bottom line is that he got what he wanted."
"Which was?"
"If you succeed, he can claim credit. If you fail, he can say it wouldn't have happened if you worked for him."
Castillo grunted.
"And he was right," Naylor went on. "You do need his influence and authority. The FBI and the CIA-and everybody else-are afraid of him. And with good reason. Once it becomes known, as it soon will, that he's standing behind you, people will think very carefully before knifing you in the back."
"I thought I had the President standing behind me," Castillo said.
"You do. But the President is a decent fellow. The ambassador, on the other hand, is well known as a follower of the Kennedy philosophy."
"Sir?"
"Don't get mad, get even," Naylor said. "He is not a man to be crossed. But on the other hand, I think he's a man of his word."
Castillo looked at his wristwatch.
"I've got to change out of my uniform and get out to Dulles," he said. "But before I do, I really would like another drink."
"After that, we both need one," Naylor said. "But there's one thing you have to do before that."
"Sir?"
Naylor took out his cellular telephone and punched an autodial number.
"Allan Naylor, Dona Alicia," he said a moment later. "I'm sitting here in the Army-Navy Club in Washington with Lieutenant Colonel Castillo and we thought we'd call and say hello.
There was a pause.
"Yes, ma'am, that's what I said."
He handed the cellular to Castillo.
"Your grandmother would like a word with you, Colonel." An hour and a half later, as Air France flight 9080 climbed to cruising altitude somewhere over Delaware, Herr Karl Gossinger, the Washington correspondent of the Tages Zeitung, accepted a second glass of champagne from the first-class cabin attendant-and suddenly startled her by bitterly exclaiming, "Oh, shit!"
It had just occurred to him that he had not only not gone to see Special Agent Elizabeth Schneider in her hospital bed but had not even called her to tell her why he couldn't. [TWO] Suite 222 InterContinental Paris 3 rue de Castiglione Paris, France 1230 5 August 2005 The bellman placed Castillo's suitcase on the nicely upholstered stand next to the dresser, graciously accepted his tip, and left, pulling the door to the suite quietly closed behind him. Castillo made a beeline for the toilette, voided his bladder, then sat down on one of the double beds. He picked up the telephone and dialed a number from memory.
"United States embassy," a woman's pleasant voice answered.
"Monsieur Delchamps, s'il vous plait."
The Paris CIA station chief answered on the second buzz: "Delchamps."
"My name is Gossinger, Mr. Delchamps. Perhaps you remember we met recently in the Crillon?"
Delchamps hesitated just perceptibly.
"Oh, yes. Mr. Gossinger, is it? I've been expecting your call. You're in the Crillon again?"
"The Continental. I was wondering if you were free for lunch."
"Yes, I am. How does a hamburger sound?"
"You're not suggesting McDonald's?"
"No. What you get in McDonald's is a frenchified hamburger. You can still get a real hamburger in Harry's New York Bar. It's right around the corner from the Continental. You want to meet me in the lobby? I can leave here right now."
"A real hamburger sounds fine. I'll be waiting. Thank you."
"Your wish is my command, Herr Gossinger," Delchamps said and hung up. Delchamps-a nondescript man in his late fifties wearing a some what rumpled suit-came around the corner from the rue de Rivoli ten minutes later.
He offered Castillo his hand.
"Nice to see you again, Mr. Gossinger. How may I be of service?"
"Why don't we wait until we get to Harry's?" Castillo replied.
"Whatever you wish, sir," Delchamps said.
Castillo eyed him a moment. My chain is being pulled. What's he up to?
"The Continental has an interesting history, Mr. Gossinger," Delchamps said as they started down rue de Castiglione toward the Ritz and the Place de l'Opera. "Are you interested?"