"And?"
"Castillo and the military personnel who had been assigned to OOA were retired at Fort Rucker, Alabama, with appropriate panoply on January thirty-first. There was a parade. Everyone was decorated. Castillo and a Delta Force warrant officer named Leverette, who took Colonel Hamilton into the Congo and then got him out, got their third Distinguished Service Medals.
"And then, in compliance with their orders, they got into the Gulfstream and disappeared from the face of the earth."
"You mean you don't know where any of these people are? You don't even know where Castillo is?"
"I know they went from Fort Rucker to Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans, and from there to Cancun."
"And from Cancun?"
"I simply do not know, Mr. President."
"Find out. The next time I ask, be prepared to answer."
"Yes, Mr. President."
"And where are the Russians?"
"I don't know, Mr. President. I do know that the President told the DCI that the attempt to cause them to defect was to be called off, and that he was not even to look for them."
"Why the hell did he do that?"
"I would suggest, Mr. President, that it was because the information they provided about the Congo was true."
The President considered that, snorted, and then said, "Well, Charles, that seems to be it, doesn't it?"
"Yes, sir, it would seem so."
"Thank you for coming to see me. We'll be in touch."
[THREE]
Old Ebbitt Grill 675 15th Street, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1530 2 February 2007 No one is ever really surprised when a first- or second-tier member of the Washington press corps walks into the Old Ebbitt looking for someone.
For one thing, the Old Ebbitt is just about equidistant between the White House-a block away at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue-and the National Press Club-a block away at 529 14th Street, N.W. It's right down the street from the Hotel Washington, and maybe a three-minute walk from the Willard Hotel, whose lobby added the term "lobbyist" to the political/journalistic lexicon.
Furthermore, the Old Ebbitt's service, menu, ambiance, and stock of intoxicants was superb. The one thing on which all observers of the press corps agreed was that nothing appeals more to the gentlemen and ladies of the Fourth Estate than, say, a shrimp cocktail and a nice New York strip steak, plus a stiff drink, served promptly onto a table covered with crisp linen in a charming environment.
This is especially true if the journalist can reasonably expect that someone else-one of those trolling for a favorable relationship with the press lobbyists from the Willard, for example-would happily reach for the check.
Roscoe J. Danton-a tall, starting to get a little plump, thirty-eight-year-old who was employed by The Washington Times-Post-was, depending on to whom one might talk, either near the bottom of the list of first-tier journalists, or at the very top of the second tier.
Roscoe walked into the Old Ebbitt, nodded at the ever affable Tony the Maitre d' at his stand, and walked on to the bar along the wall behind Tony. He continued slowly down it-toward the rear-and had gone perhaps halfway when he spotted the people he had agreed to meet.
They were two women, and they were sitting at a banquette. The one he had talked to said that he would have no trouble spotting them: "Look for two thirtyish blondes at one of the banquettes at the end of the bar."
The description, Roscoe decided, was not entirely accurate. While both were bleached blonde, one of them was far closer to fiftyish than thirtyish, and the younger one was on the cusp of fortyish.
But there being no other banquette holding two blondes, Roscoe walked to their table.
Roscoe began, "Excuse me-"
"Sit down, Mr. Danton," the older of the two immediately said.
The younger one patted the red leather next to her.
Roscoe Danton sat down.
"Whatever this is, I don't have much time," he announced. "There's a press conference at four-fifteen."
"This won't take long," the older one said. "And I really think it will be worth your time."
A waiter appeared.
The older woman signaled the waiter to bring what she and her companion were drinking, and then asked, "Mr. Danton?"
"What is that you're having?"
"A Bombay martini, no vegetables," she said.
"That should give me courage to face the mob," he said, smiled at the waiter, and told him, "The same for me, please."
The older woman waited until the waiter had left and then reached to the fluffy lace collar at her neck. She unbuttoned two buttons, put her hand inside, and withdrew a plastic card. It was attached with an alligator clip to what looked like a dog-tag chain. She pressed the clip, removed the card, more or less concealed it in her hand, and laid it flat on the tablecloth.
"Make sure the waiter doesn't see that, please," she said as she withdrew her hand.
Danton held his hand to at least partially conceal the card and took a good look at it.
The card bore the woman's photograph, the seal of the Central Intelligence Agency, a number, some stripes of various colors, and her name, Eleanor Dillworth.
It clearly was an employee identification card. Danton had enough experience at the CIA complex just across the Potomac River in Langley, Virginia, to know that while it was not one of the very coveted Any Area/Any Time cards worn by very senior CIA officers with as much elan as a four-star general wears his stars in the Pentagon, this one identified someone fairly high up in the hierarchy.
He met Miss Dillworth's eyes, and slid the card back across the table.
The younger blonde took a nearly identical card from her purse and laid it before Danton. It said her name was Patricia Davies Wilson.
"I told them I had lost that when I was fired," Mrs. Wilson said. "And kept it as a souvenir."
Danton met her eyes, too, but said nothing.
She took the card back, and put it in her purse.
"What's this all about?" he finally asked when his silence didn't elicit the response it was supposed to.
Miss Dillworth held up her finger as a signal to wait.
The waiter delivered three Bombay Sapphire gin martinis, no vegetables.
"That was quick, wasn't it?" Eleanor Dillworth asked.
"That's why I like to come here," Patricia Davies Wilson said.
The three took an appreciative sip of their cocktails.
"I was asking, 'What's this all about?'" Danton said.
"Disgruntled employees, Mr. Danton," Patricia Davies Wilson said.
"Who, as you know, sometimes become whistleblowers," Eleanor Dillworth said, and then asked, "Interested?"
"That would depend on what, or on whom, you're thinking of blowing the whistle," Danton replied.
"I was about to say the agency," Patricia Davies Wilson said. "But it goes beyond the agency."
"Where does it go beyond the agency?" Danton asked.
"Among other places, to the Oval Office."
"In that case, I'm fascinated," Danton said. "What have you got?"
"Have you ever heard of an intelligence officer-slash-special operator by the name of Carlos Castillo?" Eleanor Dillworth asked.
Danton shook his head.
"How about the Office of Organizational Analysis?"
He shook his head, and then asked, "In the CIA?"
Dillworth shook her head. "In the office of our late and not especially grieved-for President," she said.
"And apparently to be kept alive in the administration of our new and not-too-bright chief executive. But that's presuming Montvale has told him."
"What does this organization do? What has it done in the past?"
"If we told you, Mr. Danton, I don't think you would believe us," Eleanor Dillworth said.
Danton sipped his martini, and thought: Probably not.
Disgruntled employee whistleblowers almost invariably tell wild tales with little or no basis in fact.