The Hostage

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Okay,” McNab said, offered the sergeant his hand, and then turned to the others. “Okay, you clowns, get your asses out of low gear and get in the goddamn truck!” He turned back to the mess sergeant. “Oh, I really miss the old Army!”

  The mess sergeant—now known as the dining facility supervisor—smiled broadly and followed them out of the dining facility.

  [THREE]

  Near Richmond, Virginia 0840 26 July 2005

  “Washington Center,” Fernando Lopez—who was now in the right seat—said into his throat microphone. “Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five for direct Reagan National. We have special clearance Six-Dash-A-Dash-Two-Seven. Estimate Reagan in one zero minutes.”

  “Lear Zero-Seven-Five, you are cleared to Reagan Airport. Begin descent to five thousand feet at this time. Contact Reagan approach control on 122.7 at this time.”

  “Thank you, Washington Center,” Fernando said, and switched frequencies. “Reagan approach control, Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five.”

  “Zero-Seven-Five, Reagan. We have you on radar. Maintain current heading, airspeed, and rate of descent. Report when at five thousand feet.”

  “Reagan, Zero-Seven-Five understands maintain airspeed, heading, and rate of descent, reporting when at five thousand.”

  Fernando turned to Torine, who was in the pilot’s seat—Castillo was now kneeling between them—and announced, “Now that, gentlemen, is the way a real pilot does it. He calls somebody important in Washington and makes sure he has a landing clearance before he takes off, thus ensuring—”

  “Lear Zero-Seven-Five, Reagan approach control.”

  “What now?” Fernando wondered aloud.

  “We have a saying in the Air Force, Fernando,” Torine said. “Counteth not thy chickens until the eggs hatcheth.”

  “Reagan, Zero-Seven-Five,” Fernando replied after keying the TRANSMIT button.

  “Zero-Seven-Five, in-flight advisory. Be advised that U.S. Air Force C-37A Tail Number Zero-Four-Seven— that’s a Gulfstream—entered United States airspace at one five past the hour.”

  Castillo had a sudden mental image of Special Agent Schneider wrapped in white sheets and bandages lying on the hospital configuration bed in the Gulfstream. His throat was suddenly tight and his eyes watered. He turned so that no one would see.

  “Reagan,” Fernando said. “Zero-Seven-Five acknowledges in-flight advisory. Furthermore, Zero-Seven-Five is at five thousand. I have the field in sight.”

  “Lear Zero-Seven-Five, change to Reagan tower, 119.1, at this time.”

  “Lear Zero-Seven-Five, roger.”

  Fernando switched frequencies. “Reagan tower, Lear Zero-Seven-Five, over.”

  “Reagan National clears Lear Zero-Seven-Five as number two to land, after the Delta 737 on Final.”

  XIV

  [ONE]

  Office of the Secretary Department of Homeland Security Nebraska Avenue Complex Washington, D.C. 0925 26 July 2005

  Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., was sitting behind Major C. G. Castillo’s desk when Castillo, Torine, and Lopez walked in. Miller was wearing civilian clothing, a single-breasted, nearly black suit. His left leg was encased in a thick white cast from his toes to well past his knee. His toes peeked out the bottom of the cast, which was resting on the desk.

  “Forgive me for not rising,” Miller said. “I honestly try to be humble, but it is very difficult for someone of my accomplishments.”

  Castillo shook his head. “How’s the leg?”

  “Let me ask you a question first,” Miller said. “Dare I hope to have the honor of serving in some humble capacity within the Office of Organizational Analysis?”

  “Why not?” Castillo replied.

  “In that case, Chief,” Miller said, “how does it look? As if I am about to run the four-hundred-meter hurdles?”

  “What we should do, Colonel,” Castillo said to Torine, “is hold him down and paint those ugly toenails flaming red, and then listen to him trying to explain that he really likes girls.”

  “Speaking of the gentle sex,” Miller said, “Jack Britton called from MacDill about ten minutes ago. He said the Gulfstream was about to take off for Philadelphia about five minutes ago. Quote, Betty is resting comfortably, and the pilot estimates Philadelphia at eleven-thirty, end quote.”

  Miller saw Castillo’s face, and when he spoke again, his tone of voice was that of a concerned friend. “I’m really sorry about that, Charley.”

  Castillo nodded.

  “I told Tom McGuire,” Miller went on, “and he’s arranging for the aircraft to be met by a suitable Secret Service delegation.”

  Castillo nodded again, then asked, “How’d you hear about the Office of Organizational Analysis?”

  “Secretary Hall showed it to me and Mrs. Forbison when we came in this morning,” Miller said, then looked at Torine and added, “He said you’d been drafted, Colonel . . .”

  “Given temporary duty, actually,” Torine said.

  “. . . but he didn’t say anything about you, Fernando.

  How much about Charley’s new exalted status do you know?”

  “Consider him in. All the way,” Castillo ordered.

  “Can you do that?” Miller asked.

  “There’s a story that when General Donovan started the OSS—before he was General Donovan, when he was a civilian they called him ‘colonel’ because he’d been one in the First World War—he was paid a dollar a year. So hand Fernando a dollar and consider him on the payroll. I think I can do that.”

  “According to Hall, you can do just about anything you want to,” Miller said. “So that makes”—he counted on his fingers—“three of us. You, the Texan, and me. Anybody else?”

  Castillo turned to Torine and said, “We were talking about shooters in Argentina with General McNab. Jack Britton would make a good one.”

  Torine nodded his agreement.

  “Where’s Joel?”

  “With Hall at the White House.”

  “Tom McGuire?”

  “On his way here from Langley with your . . . modified . . . German passport. He also has your new American passport.”

  “When he gets here, I’ll ask him if . . .” He stopped as Mrs. Agnes Forbison walked into the room.

  The somewhat plump executive assistant to the secretary of Homeland Security walked up to Castillo and put her arms around him.

  “I’m so sorry about Betty Schneider,” she said. “Did Dick tell you she’s on the way to Philadelphia?”

  “Just now.”

  “What were you going to ask the boss?” she asked, as she turned to smile at Torine and Fernando.

  “I’m going to ask Tom if I can have Jack Britton. I’d like to send him back to Buenos Aires as soon as possible.”

  “You mean for the Office of Organizational Analysis?”

  Castillo nodded.

  “If you ask Tom, he will ask Joel. Joel will probably say yes, but if he doesn’t, you’ll go to the boss, who I know will give him to you. So consider it done.”

  “Okay, that’s four,” Miller said.

  “I can think of two more people you could really use,” Mrs. Forbison said.

  “Who?”

  “Tom, for one.”

  “I don’t think that Tom would like taking orders from me,” Castillo replied, “or that Hall would go along with that.”

  Mrs. Forbison seemed to be collecting her thoughts, and it was a moment before she responded.

  “Charley,” she said, “you need to learn to make better use of soft intel sources, and executive assistants such as myself are as good as it gets. Tom confided in me that he would really like to be in on this. Among your arguments for getting him—and there are many—is that you really need someone who knows his way around the dark alleys of federal law enforcement. He told me that, too.”

  Charley raised an eyebrow, both impressed at her ability to have her finger on the pulse of the department and disappointed in
himself at having forgotten that she had her finger on said pulse. “Okay, I’ll ask. I’d love to have Tom. And all Hall can say is no. Or probably ‘hell, no.’”

  “Let me handle the boss,” Mrs. Forbison said.

  “Good luck. Who else?”

  “Me.”

  Castillo looked at her in genuine surprise.

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Well, you know how busy I am here keeping the furniture polished against the remote possibility that the secretary will bring somebody here to dazzle him with his elegant official office. We both know—more important, the boss knows—that Mary-Ellen really runs things for him and that he doesn’t need both of us doing the same thing.”

  Castillo smiled at her.

  Mrs. Mary-Ellen Kensington, a GS-15 like Mrs. Agnes Forbison who also carried the title of executive assistant to the secretary of Homeland Security, maintained Hall’s small and unpretentious suite of offices in the Old Executive Office Building, near the White House. Hall spent most of his time there. He and the President were close personal friends, and the President liked to have him at hand when he wanted him.

  “Mrs. Kellenhamp,” Mrs. Forbison went on, “can supervise the furniture polishing as well as I can, and bringing her out here would also get her out of Mary-Ellen’s hair.”

  Mrs. Louise Kellenhamp, a GS-13 who carried the titleof deputy executive assistant, worked in the OEOB performing mostly secretarial-type duties.

  “You’ve given this some thought, haven’t you?” Castillo asked.

  “From the moment I realized the boss, whether he wanted to or not, was going to have to have his own intelligence people. And now that we have, thanks to the President, this ‘clandestine and covert’ Office of Organizational Analysis hiding in the Department of Homeland Security, it seems to me that you’re really going to need someone who knows her way around official Washington. And how to push paper around.”

  “What do we do with him?” Castillo asked, nodding toward Major H. Richard Miller, Jr. “Send him back to Walter Reed?”

  “Eventually, he’ll get out of that cast,” Mrs. Forbison said. “And if he behaves himself, he can try to make himself useful around here until he does.”

  “God spare us all from conniving bureaucrats,” Miller said piously.

  “You know I’m right, Charley,” Mrs. Forbison said.

  “You think you can talk the boss into this?” Castillo said.

  “Consider it done,” she said. “The next time the subject comes up, act pleasantly surprised when the boss says ‘I’ve had an idea, Charley, I’d like to run past you.’”

  “Mrs. Forbison, you’re marvelous,” Castillo said.

  “I know,” she replied. “Now that that’s settled, Chief, what’s on our agenda this morning?”

  “I brought a satellite radio, and an operator, from Fort Bragg. Like we did when we were hunting the stolen 727, the dish has to go on the roof, and the operator’s going to need a place to live,” Castillo said.

  “Dick,” Mrs. Forbison said, “if you’ll take care of the operator, I’ll deal with the building engineer. His delicate feelings were bruised the last time the chief put that thing on the roof.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Miller replied, smiling.

  “And I need the passports,” Castillo said.

  “They’re on the way,” Mrs. Forbison said. “Tom’s handling that.”

  “And I have to call Ambassador Silvio or Alex Darby—preferably both—on a secure line.” He looked at Miller. “McNab is sending equipment for six shooters down there. I want to make sure it doesn’t get lost.”

  “You’ll have to use the one on my desk for that,” Mrs. Forbison said. “I ordered one for you this morning, but it won’t be in until later today.”

  “You ordered one for me?” Castillo asked, surprised.

  “You’re now on the White House circuit, didn’t you know?”

  “No, ma’am, I didn’t.”

  “Well, you are. Anything else?”

  “We’ll need someplace to stay in Paris. The Crillon, if we can get in.”

  “Fancy,” Mrs. Forbison said.

  “And right next door to the embassy. Have them bill it to Gossinger. Four rooms.”

  “Let’s talk about that,” Mrs. Forbison said. “You, I can put on orders. The colonel, presumably, is already on orders?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Colonel Torine said.

  “But what about the other operator and Fernando?”

  “I’ll pick up the bill for the operator,” Castillo said. “Then he can pocket the per diem check he gets from Fort Bragg. And I’ll pick up Fernando’s bill, too.”

  “If we hire him as a temporary contract employee . . . maybe as an aircraft pilot . . . I can cut orders on him, too.”

  “Mrs. Forbison, at the risk of repeating myself, you’re wonderful,” Castillo said.

  “At the risk of repeating myself, Chief, I know. But you’re going to have to start calling me Agnes.”

  He looked at her but didn’t immediately reply.

  “Please don’t tell me—I already know—that I’m nearly old enough to be your mother. But you have just become a bureaucratic heavy, Chief, and bureaucratic heavies call their executive assistants by their first names.”

  “Whatever you say . . . Agnes,” Castillo said, and then asked, “What do I do about Secretary Hall?”

  “He said that he’d like you, if possible, to come by the OEOB before you leave.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Thirty minutes later, after having spoken with both Ambassador Silvio and Alex Darby; after being informed that the Hotel Crillon would be expecting all of them; after having received his new American passport and his German passport now bearing a departure stamp from the Republic of Argentina; and after having talked to Tom McGuire long enough to be convinced that McGuire really wanted to become a member of the Office of Organizational Analysis and was going to have no problems working under a man ten years his junior, Castillo shook hands with Dick Miller and then went to Mrs. Forbison’s office to say goodbye to her.

  She gave him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek and told him to be careful. He and Torine and Fernando were waiting for the elevator when Mrs. Forbison put her head in the corridor.

  “Call for you, Chief.”

  “If you keep calling me chief, we’re back to Mrs. Forbison. Who is it?”

  “Somebody who wants to talk about Jean-Paul.”

  “Jean-Paul Lorimer?”

  “All he said was Jean-Paul, Charley.”

  Castillo went into Mrs. Forbison’s office and picked up the telephone.

  “Castillo.”

  “You’ll have to remember to turn your cellular on,” Howard Kennedy said.

  “Jesus, it’s in my briefcase.”

  “Then it wouldn’t matter, would it, if it’s on or off?”

  “What’s up, Howard?”

  “You have really opened a can of truly poisonous worms with that pal of yours, the one you asked me to find.”

  “What kind of poisonous worms?”

  “The kind I have been absolutely forbidden to talk about on the telephone,” Kennedy said.

  “That bad?”

  “Worse than that bad. Where can we meet?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “As soon as I can go by the hotel and pack some clothes, and after a stop at Hall’s coffee shop on Pennsylvania Avenue, I’m going to get on an airplane for Paris.”

  “What flight?”

  “Air San Antonio, flight seventeen.”

  “Oh, really? Anybody I know coming with you?”

  “The same crew we had in Cozumel. You know both of them.”

  “Interesting. And where will you be staying in Paris?”

  “The Crillon.”

  “Lovely hotel. Unfortunately, too close for me to some former associates of mine who work close by.”

  Christ, I forgot to te
ll, or remind, Tom McGuire to find out what Special Agent Yung of the FBI is really doing in Montevideo! Castillo thought, then said, “What do you suggest?”

  “When did you say you’re leaving?”

  “As soon as we can.”

  “You can’t make it nonstop in that airplane, can you?”

  “No. We’re going to have to refuel at Gander, Newfoundland, and Shannon, Ireland. I figure it’s going to take us, factoring in two one-hour fuel stops, about ten hours.”

  “Well, it’s nearly half past four in Paris,” Kennedy said. “If you get off the ground in an hour, that would make it half past five. Five plus ten is three o’clock in the morning. Figure another hour at least to get through customs and immigration, to get to the Crillon from Le Bourget . . . Is that where you’re headed, Le Bourget?”

  “Yeah,” Castillo said.

  “It will be five o’clock when you get to the hotel from Le Bourget. Factor in another hour for delays, call it six. See you in the morning, Charley. We really do need to talk.”

  There was a change in the background noise, and Castillo realized that Kennedy had hung up.

  [TWO]

  Old Executive Office Building Seventeenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, NW Washington, D.C. 1120 26 July 2005

  “The President told me you’d had a little chat,” the Honorable Matthew Hall, secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, said. “You have any questions about that?”

  “One big one,” Castillo replied. “The soldier in me is uncomfortable not understanding my chain of command.”

  “The simple answer to that is that you answer to the President directly,” Hall said. “But I think I know what you’re asking. And proving that I’m learning to be a Washington bureaucrat, let me answer obliquely. When he came up with that finding, I wondered why I had been taken out of the loop. Then I realized I had not been. It all goes to deniability. I can now honestly answer, if someone asks, and someone inevitably will, either as a shot-in-the-dark fishing expedition or because this comes out, what’s my relationship to you, that we have none. You don’t work for me.