"Surprising most of us, the romance continued after Jack went off to Notre Dame on a basketball scholarship. They were married, against the wishes of both families, two weeks after Jack graduated. Our sole objections were that Betsy had not completed her degree-she's a year younger than Jack-and that they were too young. Their argument, to which we finally acquiesced, was they would be separated again by his professional athletic career."
He paused and smiled. "Betsy, I strongly suspect, was fully aware of the tales of the off-court activities of the Celtics, and was determined that she would not lose Jack to some adoring-what's the phrase?-'basketball groupie.' If Jack was going to Boston, so was she."
Fernando and Castillo chuckled.
"And then, of course, Jack's career ended prematurely when he was struck by the beer truck. I hoped he would come home to work the plantation. He said he would the day I announced my retirement, and not before.
"The ambassador suggested he take the entrance examination for the foreign service, and we all thought this was a splendid idea. The world, as they say, is growing smaller every day, and by the time I was ready to retire, Jack would be fluent in more languages than French and English, and the fruits of their union would have been exposed to experiences they would not have if they went to the nuns and brothers here.
"And, with one exception, until this outrage occurred, their lives were going as well as my wife and I, and Ambassador and Mrs. Lorimer, could have wished. That exception was the unpleasantness that developed between Jack and Jean-Paul Lorimer."
Castillo, about to take a sip of his drink, stopped. "Over what?" he asked.
"At first, we thought it was differing political views, but on second thought, we realized that it almost certainly was more than that. It went back to their days at Saint Stanislaus, and had other causes." Masterson paused. "What I'm doing is what my wife would call 'airing the dirty family linen.' But you said 'anything at all.' Should I continue?"
"Yes, sir, please," Castillo said.
"Shortly after Jack joined the foreign service, he was posted to Paris. My wife and I went to see them. They had an apartment on the Quai Anatole France… Do you know Paris, Mr. Castillo?"
"Yes, sir."
"I can find my way from the Arch of Triumph to the Place de la Concorde without a guide," Fernando said.
"Facing the River Seine from the Place de la Concorde," Masterson said, "just across the river is a row of apartment buildings on the Quai Anatole France. Do you know where I mean?"
"Yes, sir," Fernando said.
"The high-rent district," Castillo said.
Masterson nodded. "And Jack and Betsy-who was very pregnant-were ensconced in an upper-floor apartment in one of the more expensive buildings on the Quai Anatole France. He was so junior in the foreign service that government quarters were not made available to him; they paid a rental allowance instead, and you were supposed to find yourself someplace to live.
"What Jack and Betsy found was a lovely apartment, from which one could see the Bateaux-Mouches on the Seine, the Place de la Concorde… and it was priced accordingly.
"I questioned Jack about the wisdom of his flaunting his affluence. His response was that everyone knew of that incredible settlement he'd been given, and that it would be hypocrisy to pretend they were not extremely well-off. Later in his career he became more discreet.
"In any event, he and Betsy gave a party for us. Jean-Paul Lorimer was also in Paris. He had resigned from the State Department some months before-later I learned that was shortly after he learned Jack would be sent to Paris-and joined the UN. When my wife learned that he had not been invited to the party becausehe and Jack had had words, my wife prevailed upon Betsy to include him.
"I don't think Jean-Paul had been in the apartment ten minutes before he said something that Jack construed as anti-American. It quickly became ugly, very ugly. Betsy was in tears. Cutting that short, Jack threw him-literally threw him-out of the apartment. As far as I know, that's the last time they ever saw one another.
"At first we thought it was a question of their political differences-Jack's mother always said that Jack was more chauvinistically patriotic than Patrick Henry-but on reflection, we realized that it went back as far as Saint Stanislaus."
"I don't think I follow you, sir," Castillo said.
"The green-eyed monster, Mr. Castillo. Jealousy," Masterson said. "Jean-Paul is three years older than Jack. Saint Stanislaus's football team leaves something to be desired, but they have always had a first-rate basketball team. Jean-Paul didn't earn a place on the team until he was a senior. Jack made it as a ninth-grader. They played together, in other words. Jack immediately became the star. The Celtics-and others-made their first offers to him when he was still at Saint Stanislaus, and they were not doing so as their contribution to affirmative action.
"And then came the scholarship to Notre Dame. Jean-Paul went to Spring Hill, where he didn't attempt varsity sports, and where his academic career was unspectacular. Jack's skill on the basketball court, on the other hand, gave a new meaning to the term 'Black Irish,' and academically he did well enough to earn a Phi Beta Kappa key.
"Then came his contract for all that money from the Celtics, and shortly thereafter he was struck by the beer truck. The enormous settlement he received from that exacerbated, my wife and I came to realize, the resentment Jean-Paul-but not, I hasten to add, his father and mother-harbored for our being far better off than the Lorimers.
"Jean-Paul followed his father into the foreign service. His initial assignment was to Liberia. When Jack went into the foreign service, his first assignment was Paris. I later learned that he believed I had something to do with that. I did not, if I have to say so.
"Jean-Paul resigned from the foreign service and joined the United Nations and was assigned to Paris. Where he found Jack and Betsy in the apartment on the Quai Anatole France."
"Wow!" Castillo said.
"That said, Mr. Castillo," Masterson went on, "I cannot believe that Jean-Paul could possibly have anything to do with Jack's murder. Nor can I imagine Jean-Paul being involved in anything illegal. He is one of those people who go through life trying to bend the rules to their advantage, but who simply don't have the courage, if that's the word, to break them."
"Maybe drugs are involved?" Fernando said. "That's a murderous business."
"I find that impossible to accept, even as a remote possibility, Mr. Lopez," Masterson said. "Might it have something to do with our involvement in Iraq?"
"I don't think that's likely, sir," Castillo said.
"Giving my imagination free rein," Masterson asked, "could it be that Jean-Paul has somehow annoyed the Israelis? Their intelligence agency… Mossad? Something like that?"
"Mossad," Castillo confirmed. "Formally, the Institute for Intelligence and Special Tasks."
"Mossad has a certain reputation for ruthlessness," Masterson finished.
"Maybe," Castillo blurted. He collected his thoughts. "All the shooters-of Mr. Masterson, Sergeant Markham, and Special Agent Schneider-were firing Israeli-manufactured nine-millimeter ammunition."
He heard himself. Jesus, motormouth, why did you say that?
"I shouldn't have said that," he said quickly. "My brain isn't functioning. All that proves is that Israel manufactures a lot of ammunition. It's unlikely that Mossad Special Task shooters would use traceable ammunition on a job like this."
"Probably not," Masterson agreed. "But now that I think about it, I don't think that Israeli involvement in this should be dismissed out of hand."
"On the other hand," Castillo went on thoughtfully, "since so much Israeli ammo is around, so readily available, maybe Mossad would use it. Why not?"
"Which appears to point right back to Jean-Paul Lorimer and his connections with the French," Masterson said, "as the key to this."
"Yes, sir, it looks that way. With a little bit of luck, I should be in Paris before our embassy closes tomorrow. Not that the embassy being close
d matters. The CIA station chief will just have to give up his cinq a sept."
Masterson chuckled. "You have been in Paris, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"What the hell is a sank… whatever you said?" Fernando asked.
"You could call it 'recreation on the way home from the office,'" Castillo said, and Masterson chuckled again. "It means five to seven. Something like a noonie in the United States."
Fernando shook his head. Masterson chuckled again.
"How well did you know my son, Mr. Castillo?"
"Not well," Castillo said. "But I liked what I saw."
"And that explains your enthusiasm to find these people?"
"That's part of it, sir. The other part is personal. I also really want to find the people who shot Special Agent Schneider and Sergeant Markham."
"Do you think the rest of the government is going to share your enthusiasm? Or will this just fade into memory?"
"I can't speak to enthusiasm, sir, but I expect cooperation."
"I thought perhaps other, higher priorities might be involved," Masterson said. "Or perhaps that when you turn over the rock, there will be worms some might wish had remained concealed. Perhaps in the national interest."
"When I was on Air Force One with the President just now, Mr. Masterson, he ordered Ambassador Montvale, the director of national intelligence, and the secretary of state to give me anything I asked for, and I intend to ask the CIA for everything they have on Lorimer. And I'm going to ask the FBI and the DIA and the DEA, the state department's bureau of intelligence and research, and the post office and the department of agriculture and anybody else I think might possibly have a line on him."
"Would a reward for information, as substantial as necessary, and offered either publicly or privately, be of any use, do you think?"
"I don't think that will be necessary, sir."
"Please keep it in mind, Mr. Castillo, that if something…"
"I appreciate that, sir, and I will."
"Is there anything else you'd be willing to tell me?"
"I can't think of anything else, sir."
"Then perhaps we should go out to the plantation before our being missing really attracts attention."
"Sir, about the plantation," Castillo said. "I'd really like to get out of here first thing in the morning, and we have to think about getting Fernando back to San Antonio-"
"Fernando's not going back to San Antonio," Fernando interrupted. "Fernando's always wanted to go to Paris in the middle of the summer. Somebody once told Fernando you can't find a Frenchman in Paris in July. Just think, all that beauty and no Frenchmen."
Masterson chuckled. "You sound like my son, Mr. Lopez." He turned to Castillo. "I really wish you would spend the night at the plantation, if for no other reason than I think Betsy will be pleased to see that I share her confidence in you."
Jesus H. Christ!
"I can only hope, sir, that her, and your, confidence in me is justified."
Which almost certainly won't be. [TWO] Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina 0715 26 July 2005 "Pope approach control, Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five," Colonel Jake Torine called into his throat mike.
"Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five, Pope."
"Pope, Seven-Five. Do you have us on radar?"
"Affirmative, Seven-Five."
"Estimate Pope in seven minutes. Approach and landing clearance, please."
"Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five, be advised Pope is closed to civilian traffic."
Colonel Torine turned to Major C. G. Castillo, who was in the left seat.
"What now, O Captain, my captain?" he asked.
"I thought we'd be cleared," Castillo said.
"Always check," Torine said. "Write that down, Charley."
"You guys aren't very good at things like this, are you?" Fernando Lopez, who was kneeling between the seats, asked innocently, earning him the finger from Major Castillo.
Colonel Torine switched to TRANSMIT.
"Pope, Seven-Five has been cleared to land at Pope. Verify by contacting Lieutenant General McNab at Special Operations Command."
"Seven-Five, we have no record of clearance-"
"And while you're doing that, give us approach and landing clearance, please. This is Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF. Acknowledge." It proved impossible for the airfield officer of the day, Major Peter Dennis, USAF, to immediately find anyone at the Air Force base who could confirm or deny that Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five had permission to land. Neither could he immediately establish contact with General McNab.
With great reluctance, but seeing no other alternative, Major Dennis telephoned Major General Oscar J. Winters, USAF, Pope's commanding general, at his quarters, where the general was having his breakfast, and explained what had happened.
Major General Winters was fully aware that paragraph one of the mission statement of Pope Air Force Base stated in effect that Pope was there to provide support to Fort Bragg and the major Army units stationed thereon. Furthermore, he knew that Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, U.S. Army, was wearing the hats of both the commanding general, XVIII Airborne Corps, and the commanding general, U.S. Army Special Operations Command, and thus also had command control of the 82nd Airborne Division (which was under XVIII Airborne Corps) and the U.S. Army Special Warfare School (which was under the Special Operations Command).
He was also aware of General "Scotty" McNab's well-earned reputation for unorthodoxy, and of his legendary temper. And there was, General Winters knew, an Air Force officer, a colonel, named Jacob Torine. Why Torine would be flying a civilian Bombardier/Learjet 45XR Winters had no idea, except that Torine had spent much of his career as an Air Commando, and Air Commandos were about as well known for unorthodoxy as were members of the Army's Special Forces.
Wise major generals, Air Force or Army, make every effort not to unreasonably antagonize lieutenant generals of their own or any other service.
General Winters instructed Major Dennis to grant Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five permission to land, but with the caveat that it be ordered to hold on the taxiway, where two Security Forces Humvees armed with.50 caliber machine guns should meet it prepared to take it under fire in case the sleek and glistening white civilian jet should turn out to be some sort of flying Trojan horse.
"I'll be right there, Major," General Winters said.
On the way to Base Operations in his Air Force blue Dodge Caravan, General Winters managed to get General McNab on his cellular phone.
"General McNab," he said, "we have just learned that a civilian Learjet is about to land at Pope, piloted by someone who says he is Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF, and that you can verify he has permission to land. I am on my way to the field."
General McNab's reply was succinct: "Well, I guess I better do the same. Thank you, Oscar. See you there." The Bombardier/Learjet 45XR had been sitting on the taxiway near the threshold of the active runway for about ten minutes when both Lieutenant General McNab and Major General Winters personally appeared there.
General McNab led the way, standing up in the front seat of an Army Humvee. He was a small, muscular, ruddy-faced man sporting a flowing red mustache. He was wearing a desert camouflage uniform, aviator sunglasses, and a green beret. General Winters followed in his Caravan. He was wearing a class A uniform.
When the Humvee stopped thirty feet from the Lear, General McNab jumped nimbly to the ground and walked up to the Lear, where he, hands on hips, looked up at the cockpit with all the arrogant confidence of General George S. Patton. A very large and muscular captain, similarly uniformed, got out of the Humvee and took up a position immediately behind General McNab.
Major General Winters and Major Dennis got out of the Caravan and walked up beside Lieutenant General McNab and the Green Beret captain.
The Lear's door unfolded, and Colonel Torine and Major Castillo, each wearing a suit and tie, deplaned. Both saluted crisply, which reassured Major Dennis, who reasoned if they weren't military they would not have done so.
; "Good morning, sir," Torine and Castillo said, almost in concert.
General Winters returned the salute crisply. General McNab returned it with a casual gesture in the direction of his head.
"I must confess, Oscar," General McNab said, "that these two are well known to me, and that the really ugly one is indeed Colonel Jake Torine."
McNab looked at Torine, and said, "I knew they wouldn't let an old man like you fly big airplanes much longer." He looked at Castillo. "And Major Castillo, daring to show his face at my door again."
General McNab turned to General Winters.
"Whenever I think that Captain Walsh is the worst aide-de-camp I have ever had, Oscar, I think of Major Castillo in that role and realize I am wrong. Castillo earned that appellation in perpetuity."
Captain Walsh smiled, and shook his head.
"As to why there is no record of their aircraft being granted permission to land here, I have no idea. I was notified by CentCom that they were coming. I am forced to conclude that either CentCom or the Air Force fucked things up again, as both are lamentably famous for doing."
"I'll look into it, General," Winters said.
"If I may offer advice without giving offense, Oscar, let sleeping dogs lie."
"No offense taken, General."
"Would it be possible for you to drag that airplane somewhere where it will be more convenient for them to get back in it after we've had some breakfast?"
"Certainly, sir. Colonel, do you need fuel?"
"No, sir. We're all right," Torine said.
"Castillo, once again demonstrating his remarkable ability to arrive at the wrong time, did so by arriving here just as Walsh and I finished our wake-up five-mile trot around Smoke Bomb Hill," General McNab said. "I require sustenance immediately after my morning five-miler. Otherwise, my wife accuses, I become ill-mannered."
"I understand, General," Winters said.
Fernando appeared at the Lear's door.
"Can I get off now without being blown away?" he asked.
"Aha," McNab said. "Unless I err, the owner of the airplane. You may not believe this, Oscar, but he was once a fairly competent captain of armor."
"How are you, General?" Fernando asked.
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