"Ed, what's that about 'as a junkie'?" Castillo asked.
"Well, Ace, according to Lorimer-and Doherty agrees with me that Lorimer probably isn't making this up-the way things work down there-there have been four other kidnappings Lorimer says he knows about-what the bad guys do is snatch a DEA guy-or an FBI guy or a DIA guy-then let the embassy know he's alive. If shortly thereafter some heavy movement of cocaine goes off all right, they turn him loose. Payment for everybody looking the other way."
"But what's with the 'junkie'?" Castillo pursued.
"I'm getting to that. To show their contempt for gringos generally, and to keep their prisoner captive and quiet, by the time they turn him loose, his arm is riddled with needle tracks. He's lucky to have a vein that's not collapsed. They've turned him into a coke-sometimes a crack-junkie."
Castillo shook his head in amazement.
"And if their movement of drugs is interdicted?" he asked softly.
"According to Lorimer, there have been four kidnappings of DEA agents in Paraguay since he's been there-five, counting Timmons. Three have been turned loose, full of drugs. One was found dead of an overdose, shortly after about five hundred kilos-more than half a ton-of refined coke was grabbed in Argentina on a fruit boat floating down the Paraguay River."
"Not garroted?" Castillo asked.
Delchamps shook his head.
"Full of cocaine," he said.
"What happens to the ones who are turned loose?"
"They are quietly given the best medical attention available for drug addiction," Delchamps said, "'in anticipation of their return to full duty.'" He paused. "Want to guess how often that works?"
"Probably not very often," Ambassador Montvale said.
"And that doesn't bother you?" Castillo snapped.
"Of course it bothers me."
"But we have to look at the big picture, right?" Delchamps said, sarcastically. "DEA agents know their duties are going to place them in danger?"
Montvale nodded.
He said, "How likely do you think it is that this DEA agent-"
"His name is Timmons," Delchamps said.
"Very well," Montvale replied. "How likely do you think it is that Special Agent Timmons-and every other DEA agent, DIA agent-Lieutenant Lorimer, for example-and CIA officer in the embassy in Asuncion volunteered for the assignment?"
Delchamps looked at him for a moment, then said, "And that means Lorimer is an unimportant little lieutenant, and Timmons is an unimportant little DEA agent, right?"
"That was an unfortunate choice of words," Montvale said, "but isn't 'important' a relative term? Which would you say is more important, Mr. Delchamps: preserving the confidentiality of the Presidential Finding, the compromise of which would embarrass the President and just about destroy the fruits of the investigation you and Inspector Doherty and the others are about to complete, or sending an unimportant little lieutenant to a weather station in the Aleutian Islands for a year or two to make sure he keeps his mouth shut?"
Delchamps didn't reply.
Montvale went on: "Or which would be less wise: to send Colonel Castillo and his merry band to Paraguay to take on a drug cartel, which could carry with it, obviously, the very real risk of compromising the Finding, and, in addition, render the OOA impotent, or letting the people for whom Special Agent Timmons works in Paraguay deal with the matter?"
"No one is suggesting that Charley's guys go rescue Timmons," Delchamps said. "We all know that wouldn't work."
"I'm glad you realize that," Montvale said.
"Lorimer is not going to be sent to the Aleutian Islands," Castillo said, "or anything like that."
Both Montvale and Delchamps looked at him, surprised that he had gone off on a tangent.
"What are you going to do with him, Ace?" Delchamps asked after a moment.
"The first thing that comes to mind is to send him to Bragg. Let him be an instructor or something."
"That'll work?" Delchamps asked.
"I think so."
"I don't think that's a satisfactory solution," Montvale said. "How can you guarantee he won't do something irrational at Fort Bragg?"
"I can't. But since the decision about how to deal with him is mine to make, that's where he's going. He may in fact be an unimportant little lieutenant in your big picture, but in mine he's a dedicated soldier who did exactly what I would have done in the circumstances."
"You told me something like that before," Montvale said. "You remember my response?"
Castillo nodded. "Something to the effect that his having done what I would have done made you uncomfortable. The implication was that I'm also a loose cannon."
"There is that matter of the Black Hawk helicopter you 'borrowed' in Afghanistan," Montvale said. "That might make some people think that way."
"Yeah, I'd agree with that," Delchamps said. "But on the other hand, the bottom line is the President doesn't think he is."
Montvale glared at him.
Delchamps went on: "I hate to be a party pooper, Mr. Montvale, but unless you want to kick the can around some more, it's now about one in the morning, and an old man like me needs his rest."
"Yes, and I would agree that we're through here," Montvale said. "Eight o'clock in the apartment, Colonel Castillo. Based on what you and these gentlemen have told me, I don't think we need concern the President that the Southern Cone operations may have been compromised, do you?"
"I don't think it has, or will be, Mr. Ambassador," Castillo said.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Montvale said. "Thank you for your time."
He nodded at all of them and walked out of the room.
[THREE]
The Breakfast Room
The Presidential Apartments
The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW Washington, D.C. 0755 2 September 2005 The only person in the breakfast room when the Secret Service agent opened the door for Ambassador Montvale and Lieutenant Colonel Castillo was Secretary of State Natalie Cohen, a small, slight, pale-skinned woman who wore her black hair in a pageboy cut.
She was standing by the window, holding a cup of coffee, as she watched the Presidential helicopter flutter down to the lawn. When she saw Montvale and Castillo, she smiled, set her coffee cup on a small table, and walked to them.
"I was hoping I'd have a moment alone with you, Charles," she said, "so that I could ask you where our wandering boy was."
"Natalie," Montvale said, as the secretary of State walked to Castillo and kissed his cheek.
"Welcome home, Wandering Boy," she said. "When did you get back?"
"Last night, Madam Secretary," Castillo said.
"We have a little problem, Charley," she said.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Katrina has put fifteen feet of water over Ambassador Lorimer's home in New Orleans," she said. "He and his wife are at the Masterson plantation-which is apparently just outside the area of mass destruction along the Mississippi Gulf Coast-and he called me to ask if I could give him the precise address of his late son's plantation-estancia-in Uruguay, at which he intends to live until he can move back into his house in New Orleans."
"Jesus!" Castillo said.
"When I told him I didn't have the address, he said that Mr. Masterson had told him that you know where it is, and asked how he could get in touch with you."
"At the risk of repeating myself, Madame Secretary," Castillo said, "Jesus!"
"May I reasonably infer from your reaction that there's a problem with this?"
"Yes, ma'am, there's a problem with that," Castillo said. "Why can't he just stay with the Mastersons?"
"That question occurred to me, too, but of course, I couldn't ask it. What's the nature of the problem?"
"What about the apartment in Paris?" Castillo said. "He inherited that, too."