"Colonel Torine knows how things are done, sir. I didn't order him… And Fernando, my cousin, understands the situation, sir."
"And that's about it, Castillo?" the President asked.
"Yes, sir. Except to say, Mr. President, how deeply I regret the loss of Sergeant Kranz, and how deeply I regret having failed in the mission you assigned."
The President did not immediately respond. He looked into Castillo's eyes a moment as he considered that statement, then said, "How do you figure that you have failed, Castillo?"
"Well, sir, the bottom line is that I am no closer to finding the people who murdered Mr. Masterson and Sergeant Markham than I was before I went looking for Mr. Lorimer. Mr. Lorimer is now dead, and we'll never know what he might have told us if I hadn't botched his…"
"Repatriation?" the President offered.
"Yes, sir. And Sergeant Kranz is dead. I failed you, sir."
"Charles," the President said, "what about the long-term damage resulting from Major Castillo's failure? Just off the top of your head?"
"Mr. President, I don't see it as a failure," Secretary Hall spoke up.
"The director of national intelligence has the floor, Mr. Secretary. Pray let him continue," the President said, coldly.
"Actually, Mr. President, neither do I," Montvale said. "Actually, when I have a moment to think about it, quite the opposite."
"You heard him," the President pursued. "This man Lorimer is dead. We have no proof that Natalie can take to the UN that he was involved in the oil-for-food scandal or anything else. And Castillo himself admits that he's no closer to finding out who killed Masterson and the sergeant than he ever was. Isn't that failure?"
"Mr. President, if I may," Montvale said cautiously. "Let me point out what I think the major-and that small, valiant band of men he had with him-has accomplished."
"What would that be?"
"If we accept the premise that Mr. Lorimer was involved in something sordid, and the proof of that, I submit, is that he sequestered some sixteen million dollars…"
Montvale looked to Castillo for help.
"Fifteen point seven, sir," Castillo offered.
"… Close enough for Washington. Some sixteen million U.S. dollars in Uruguay, and that parties unknown tracked him down to Uruguay and murdered him to keep him from talking. After they abducted Mrs. Masterson and later murdered her husband."
"So what, Charles?" the President demanded.
"I don't seem to be expressing myself very well, Mr. President," Montvale said. "Let me put it this way. These people, whoever they are, now know we're onto them. They have no idea what the major may have learned before he went to South America; they have no idea how much Lorimer may have told him before they were able to murder him. If they hoped to obtain the contents of Lorimer's safe, they failed. And they don't know what it did or did not contain, so they will presume the worst, and that it is now in our possession. Or, possibly worse, in the possession of parties unknown. They sent their assassins in to murder Lorimer, and what we, what the major and his band, gave them was six dead assassins and an empty safe. And now that we know we're onto them, God only knows how soon it will be before someone comes to us…"
"And rats on the rats, you mean?" the President asked.
"Yes, sir, that's precisely what I mean. And I'm not talking only about identifying the Masterson murderers- I think it very likely that the major has already 'rendered them harmless'-but the people who ordered the murders. The masterminds of the oil-for-food scandal, those who have profited from it. Sir, in my judgment, the major has not failed. He has rendered the country a great service, and is to be commended."
"You ever hear, Charles, that great minds run on similar paths? I had just about come to the same conclusion. But one question, Charles: What should we do with the sixteen million dollars? Tell the UN it's there and let them worry about getting it back?"
"Actually, sir, I had an off-the-top-of-my-head thought about that money. According to the major, all it takes is Lorimer's signature on those documents, whateverthey're called, that the major brought back from the hideaway to have that money transferred anywhere."
"But Lorimer's dead," the President said.
"They have some very talented people over in Langley, if the President takes my meaning."
"You mean, forge a dead man's signature and steal the money? For what purpose?"
"Mr. President, I admit that when I first learned what you were asking the major to do, I was something less than enthusiastic. But I was wrong, and I admit it. A small unit like the major's can obviously be very valuable in this new world war. And if sixteen million dollars were available to it, sixteen million untraceable dollars…"
"I take your point, Charles," the President said. "But I'm going to ask you to stop thinking off the top of your head."
"Sir?"
"The next thing you're likely to suggest is that Charley-and that's his name, Charles, not 'the major'- move the Office of Organizational Analysis into the office of the director of national intelligence. And that's not going to happen. Charley works for me, period, not open for comment."
Secretary Hall had a sudden coughing spasm. His face grew red.
Ambassador Montvale did not seem to suspect that Secretary Hall might be concealing a hearty laugh.
"Natalie, do you have anything to say before I send Charley out of here to take, with my profound thanks, a couple of weeks off? After he lets everybody in his apartment go, of course."
"I was thinking about Ambassador Lorimer, sir. He's ill, and it will devastate him to learn what his son has been up to."
"Jesus, I hadn't thought about that," the President said. "Charley, what about it?"
"Sir, Mr. Lorimer is missing in Paris," Charley said. "The man who died in Shangri-La was Jean-Paul Bertrand, a Lebanese. I don't think anyone will be anxious to reveal who Bertrand really was. And I don't think we have to, or should."
"What about his sister?" Natalie Cohen asked. "Should she be told?"
"I think so, yes," Charley said. "I haven't thought this through, but I have been thinking that the one thing I could tell Mrs. Masterson that would put her mind at rest about the threats to her children would be that I knew her brother was dead, and with his death, these bastards… excuse me… had no more interest in her or her children."
"And if she asks how you know, under what circumstances?" the President asked.
"That's what I haven't thought through, sir."
"You don't want to tell her what a despicable sonofabitch he was, is that it?"
"I suspect she knows, sir. But it's classified Top Secret-Presidential."
"Would anyone have objections to my authorizing Charley to deal with the Masterson family in any way he deems best, including the divulgence of classified material?"
"Splendid idea, Mr. President," Ambassador Montvale said.
"Do it soon, Charley. Please," Natalie Cohen said.
"Yes, ma'am."
The President stood up and came around the desk and offered Castillo his hand.
"Thank you, Charley. Good job. Go home and get some rest. And then think where you can discreetly hide sixteen million dollars until you need it." [SIX] Room 527 Fifth Floor, Silverstein Pavilion Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania 3400 Spruce Street Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 2135 1 August 2005 "Hey, baby! I'm home."
"Oh, Charley!"
"How are you doing?"
"Look at me. My face looks like somebody attacked me with a baseball bat."
"You look beautiful. Can I kiss you?"
"You're sure you want to?"
"I'm sure I want to." Five minutes later, they stopped.
She smiled at him.
"What I was afraid you were going to do was come back from Europe, and walk in here and start that stupid Wiener schnitzel nonsense again. I like it better when you just say you love me."
"Oh, shit. I forgot."
"Forgot what?"
He went into his brief
case and came out with an aluminum foil-wrapped package.
"What's that?"
"Wiener schnitzel, the real thing. Except that this comes from Budapest, not Vienna. You get the best Hungarian gulyas in Vienna, but the best Wiener schnitzel comes from Budapest. Understand?"
She didn't reply. She simply took his hand and held it against her cheek. He saw that she was crying, but he knew it wasn't because she was unhappy.
AFTERWORD
One of the characters in this book was a Special Forces medic.
The Special Forces Association tries hard to keep up with former Green Berets. Sadly, this includes regularly publishing brief notices of their passing, giving their name, rank, where they served, as what, the highest medal (if any) for valor they were awarded, and the cause and date of their death. One such will appear for a Special Forces medic who died as I was finishing this book. It will read something like this:
WALTON, John. Sergeant. Vietnam. Medic. Silver Star. While piloting experimental aircraft. 27 June 2005.
In the case of Sergeant Walton, other obituaries published in newspapers around the world-often on the front page-were much longer, and made reference to the fact that he earned the Silver Star-the nation's third-highest award for valor-by saving the lives of fellow soldiers under fire.
And reported that the Wal-Mart executive, and son of the founder of Wal-Mart, died the eleventh-richest man in the world, with a fortune of $18.2 billion.
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