The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  I’ll be a sonofabitch!

  “And as soon as the colonel comes over here so General Naylor and I can put his new shoulder boards on him,” the President said, motioning for Castillo to join him, “I will have a few words to say.”

  The photographer came out of his corner, one camera up and its flash firing. Castillo, without thinking about it, came to attention next to the President.

  “How do we get the old ones off?” the President asked, tugging at Castillo’s shoulder boards.

  “Let me show you, Mr. President,” General Naylor said. He handed something to the President and put his hands on Castillo’s shoulders.

  Castillo glanced down to see what Naylor had handed the President.

  Of course, light bird’s shoulder boards.

  But they’re not new.

  Christ, they’re his.

  Castillo felt his eyes water.

  “And these slip on this way,” Naylor said, demonstrating.

  The photographer bobbed around, clicking the shutter of his Nikon every second or so as the President got one shoulder board on and then Naylor got the other one on, and as they stood side by side, and then as the President and then Naylor shook Charley’s hand, and then as the others in the room became involved. Charley’s hand was shaken by the director of National Intelligence and the secretary of defense. His cheek was kissed by the First Lady, the secretary of state, and Mr. Hall. A final series of photos including everyone was taken.

  “And now I have something to say,” the President said. “As some of you may know, I am the commander in chief. Until the promotion of Colonel Castillo came up, I naïvely thought that meant I could issue any order that I wanted and it would be carried out. I learned that does not apply to the promotion of officers.

  “When Colonel Castillo found and returned to our control the 727 the terrorists had stolen in Angola—when the entire intelligence community was still looking for it, when we learned how close the lunatics had actually come to crashing it into the Liberty Bell in downtown Philadelphia after the entire intelligence community had pooh-poohed that possibility—I thought that a promotion would be small enough reward for Castillo’s extraordinary service to our country.

  “Then-Major Castillo had already been selected, Matt Hall told me, for promotion to lieutenant colonel, not only selected but selected for quick promotion because of outstanding service.

  “So I asked General Naylor, ‘How soon can I promote him?’ and General Naylor said, in effect, that I couldn’t, that it doesn’t work that way. Well, I thought that might well be because General Naylor and Colonel Castillo have a close personal relationship and He didn’t want it to look like Charley was getting special treatment. So I went to the chief of staff of the Army and said I knew of an outstanding major, a West Pointer, and a Green Beret, like the chief of staff, who not only had been selected for promotion to lieutenant colonel on what I now knew to be the ‘five percent list’ but had rendered a great service to his country, and I would like to know why he couldn’t be promoted immediately. And the chief of staff said that it didn’t work like that, and, as a West Pointer and a Green Beret, the major to whom I was referring would understand that. The clear implication being, so should the commander in chief.

  “So the commander in chief backed off, except to phone General Naylor, and order him the moment he learned that the slowly grinding wheels of the Army promotion system had finally ground out that it was time to promote Major Castillo to let me know immediately. Which he did the day before yesterday.”

  He turned to Castillo, shook his right hand, and put his left on Castillo’s shoulder.

  “So you, Colonel Castillo, are going to have to be satisfied with better late than never. Congratulations, Charley.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  There was polite laughter, applause, and another round of handshaking.

  “Over the objections of the secretary of state, who fears that after one drink I will give the country away to our guests tonight, we will now toast Colonel Castillo’s new rank,” the President said.

  A white-jacketed steward appeared with a tray of champagne glasses and distributed them.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the President said, his glass raised, “Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo.”

  The President had just put his glass to his lips when a steward motioned that he had a telephone call.

  “Natalie and I have been expecting that,” the President said. “Will you excuse us, please?”

  He and the secretary of state left the room.

  General Naylor walked up to Charley.

  “Thank you for the shoulder boards, sir,” Charley said.

  “My pleasure, Colonel,” Naylor said. “And if you have no further need for your old ones, Allan’s on the major’s list.”

  “I’d be honored to have Allan wear them, sir.”

  Ambassador Montvale joined them. He laid an almost paternal hand on Castillo’s shoulder.

  “I think you were genuinely surprised by this, weren’t you, Colonel? I agree with the President that it’s overdue.”

  An alarm bell went off in Castillo’s mind:

  Why is this sonofabitch charming me?

  Because the President made that little speech? Set up this ceremony in the first place?

  No. He wants something. What?

  He doesn’t want me complaining about his goddamned liaison officer. That’s what it is. He knows that right now, the President is in a mood to give me just about anything I ask for.

  If I don’t bite the bullet now about that—and doing so now would ruin this “we’re all pals” ambiance—by the time I get back, and God only knows when that will be—I’ll permanently be stuck with Mr. Truman Ellsworth.

  “General Naylor told me a long time ago that waiting for a promotion is like watching a glacier,” Castillo said. “For a long time, absolutely nothing—and then all of a sudden a great big splash.”

  Montvale and Naylor chuckled.

  What’s that line from Basic Tactics 101?

  The best defense is a good offense.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Charley said, “I’d like a few minutes of your time, if that would be possible.”

  Naylor’s surprise was evident on his face.

  “Certainly,” Montvale said. “Sometime tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Sir, just as soon as I can I’m going to be on a plane to Paris.”

  “You mean now?”

  “If that would be possible, sir.”

  “Actually, I’ve been wanting to have a private word with you, too,” Montvale said, thoughtfully. “And this would seem to be one of those fortuitous circumstances.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Castillo said.

  “Especially since General Naylor is here,” Montvale went on.

  “Excuse me?” Naylor said.

  “We could go to the situation room and use the bubble, but I’m afraid that the three of us going there would attract attention. Wouldn’t you agree, General? Someone would decide that something is going on that they should know about.”

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Naylor said, “my aide is waiting outside with a car to take me to Andrews. Just as soon as I can get away from here I’m going back to Tampa.”

  “So far as getting away from here is concerned,” Montvale said, “our role in tonight’s events is over. The President has moved on to other things on his agenda. And if something unexpected comes up, he knows how to find us. I really don’t want to waste the next couple of hours smiling at people I don’t really like.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Naylor confessed, smiling.

  “I know,” Montvale said. “The Army and Navy Club. We could talk there. Could I impose and suggest we go there?”

  “Mr. Ambassador, I really have to get back to Tampa,” Naylor said.

  “General, I just saved us from two hours—at least—of smiling at people we don’t like. Can’t you spare me thirty minutes? I’d really like for you
to be there when the colonel and I have our little chat.”

  “Yes, of course,” Naylor said.

  “Playing the game, I suggest we leave in our own vehicles,” Montvale said as they approached the portico.

  “Secretary Hall brought me here,” Castillo said. “May I ride with you, General?”

  “You can use the pool,” Montvale said.

  “Sir?”

  Montvale answered by speaking to one of the Secret Service uniformed police guards at the door.

  “We’ll need my car, General Naylor’s, and Colonel Castillo will need one from the pool,” he ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” the guard said. Then he spoke to his lapel microphone. “Send up Big Eye’s car, Tampa One’s car, and one from the pool for Don Juan.” Then he turned to Montvale. “They’ll be right here, sir,” he said.

  Thirty seconds later, a dark blue GMC Yukon XL pulled up.

  “I’ll wait for you in the lobby,” Montvale said to Naylor. “All right?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  As Montvale got in the Yukon, a dark blue Chevrolet Suburban pulled up behind it.

  A full colonel wearing the insignia of an aide-de-camp got out of the front passenger’s seat as a staff sergeant came out from behind the wheel to snatch the covers from the four-star bumper plates.

  Castillo, as a reflex action, saluted the colonel.

  “Jack, take the car to the Army-Navy Club,” Naylor said. “I’ll ride with Maj…Colonel Castillo.”

  “Yes, sir,” the colonel said.

  Another dark blue Yukon came up the drive and pulled in ahead of the Chevrolet as the sergeant put the covers back over Naylor’s four-star plates. A Secret Service agent got out of the front passenger’s seat and opened the rear door.

  Naylor climbed in and Castillo followed him. The Secret Service agent closed the door, got in front, and turned to look in the back.

  “Where to, sir?”

  “The Army-Navy Club, please,” Castillo said.

  “Yes, sir,” the Secret Service agent said and then spoke to his microphone. “Don Juan, with Tampa One aboard, leaving the grounds for the Army-Navy Club.”

  The Yukon started down the drive toward Pennsylvania Avenue.

  “‘Don Juan, with Tampa One aboard’?” Naylor parroted.

  “Don Juan is Joel Isaacson’s idea of humor,” Charley said.

  “Charley, I’ve got something to say. And I think I better say it before we get there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What I was thinking tonight—and don’t misunderstand me, you earned that promotion—was that I really wish I hadn’t sent you to work for Matt Hall.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I wonder if you mean that,” Naylor said. “This is pretty heady stuff, Charley. A Secret Service car, a Secret Service code name. I am reminded of Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North and that worries me.”

  Castillo didn’t reply.

  “I would have been much happier if your promotion meant you now would take command of some battalion,” Naylor said.

  “I would, too, sir. I didn’t ask for this job. And I asked to be relieved.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen and that’s what worries me,” Naylor said, then suddenly shifted subjects: “Do you have any idea why Montvale wants me at the club?” Then, before Castillo could reply, he asked another: “Why did you want to talk to him?”

  “I have no idea why he wants you there, but the reason I want to talk to him is because he sent me Truman Ellsworth to be his liaison officer—read spy…”

  “Truman Ellsworth is a former under secretary of state,” Naylor interrupted. “A liaison officer with that background?”

  “Yes, sir. I thought of that. And I don’t want him. I want to get rid of him now before he chains himself to my desk.”

  “I don’t think I have to tell you that Montvale is a powerful man. And a dangerous one.”

  “I’ve already figured that out,” Castillo said.

  “In North Africa,” Naylor said, almost to himself, “when Eisenhower sent Omar Bradley to Patton as his liaison officer—read spy—Patton outwitted Eisenhower by asking that Bradley be assigned as his chief of staff. That put Bradley under Patton’s orders. That kept him from communicating anything to Eisenhower without Patton knowing about it and not communicating anything Patton didn’t want communicated.”

  “I’ve heard that story,” Charley said.

  “I don’t think you want this fellow Ellsworth as your chief of staff,” Naylor said. “Ellsworth is not Bradley; he works for Montvale and that’s not going to change. And you’re not Patton, who had as many stars as Bradley. You’re a lowly lieutenant colonel and Ellsworth is…a former under secretary of state.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Castillo said.

  “The difference here is that Patton worked for Eisenhower. You don’t work for Montvale. But that’s what he’s after. If he can’t get that right now, he’ll use Ellsworth as your puppet master.”

  “That’s what it looks like to me, sir,” Charley agreed.

  “Goddamn it, I hate Washington,” Naylor said.

  V

  [ONE]

  The Daiquiri Lounge

  The Army and Navy Club

  901 Seventeenth Street NW

  Washington, D.C.

  2105 4 August 2005

  Ambassador Montvale was waiting for them in the lobby. They all walked up the stairs to the second floor, then into the Daiquiri Lounge, taking a table in the bar where Castillo knew he and General Naylor could smoke cigars.

  It immediately became apparent that before their conversation could begin, they were going to have to deal with other guests in the lounge.

  The commander in chief of Central Command was not only known to—that is to say, a friend of—half a dozen officers and their wives having after-dinner drinks there but, as one of the most powerful officers in the Army, was someone to whom it was necessary to “make manners.”

  Once the first old friend walked over to shake General Naylor’s hand, everyone else decided that it was not only all right for them to do so but expected of them.

  Each visit—however brief—required that both Ambassador Montvale and Lieutenant Colonel Castillo be introduced. And Lieutenant Colonel Castillo was not used to—and thus made a little uncomfortable by—being addressed by his new title.

  Finally, it was over, and the waiter, who had hovered in the background awaiting its end, came to the table.

  “Gentlemen, what can I get for you?”

  “I’m a scotch drinker,” Montvale answered, looking at Naylor. “Nothing fancy, no single malt. Something like Chivas Regal. That okay with you?”

  “Fine,” Naylor said.

  What is he trying to do, establish the pecking order by telling Naylor what to drink?

  And why did Naylor go along?

  Castillo looked at the waiter. “Yes, please,” he said.

  When the waiter had left, Montvale asked, “What are you going to do in Paris?”

  “Sir, I’m still looking for the people who murdered Mr. Masterson,” Castillo said.

  “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Maybe you should. Maybe there’s something I could do to help.”

  Castillo didn’t reply.

  “Well,” Montvale continued, “if you didn’t want my help, then what is it that you wish to talk about?”

  “Mr. Ellsworth, sir.”

  “Truman Ellsworth. A good man. What about him?”

  “I’m sure he is, but I don’t want a liaison officer.”

  “Oh! Right to the bottom line!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I could offer any number of reasons why a liaison officer who enjoys my trust could be very useful to you.”

  “I’m sure you could. But, thank you very much just the same, I don’t want Mr. Ellsworth.”

  “Because you think he would be spying on you for m
e?”

  Castillo didn’t reply. But he thought of something that might provide an excuse for him not to do so immediately.

  Maybe I’ll think of something.

  “Sir, excuse me. I have to make a call.”

  Montvale looked at him impatiently. Naylor looked at him curiously.

  Castillo punched an autodial number on his cellular telephone.

  “Dick,” he said a moment later, “I think I can make the 2330 Air France flight to Paris. Can you send my luggage—and the suit and shirt and tie I left on the bed, and my laptop case—to the Army-Navy Club? Just tell the driver to wait outside.”

  Castillo listened for a moment, then said, “Actually, I’m having a drink with General Naylor and Ambassador Montvale.” He paused. “Yes, I will. Thanks, Dick. I’ll check in from Paris.”

  He pushed the CALL END button and turned to General Naylor.

  “Major Miller’s compliments, sir,” he said.

  Naylor nodded.

  “What’s your objection to having Mr. Ellsworth work with you?” Montvale asked, resuming the conversation as if there had been no interruption.

  Castillo met his eyes for a moment.

  I might as well go down fighting.

  “I’ve been thinking about that, sir,” Castillo said. “I certainly can’t order you to do anything. But if you elect to keep sending Mr. Ellsworth to the Nebraska Complex, I’m afraid what he’s going to be doing is sitting in an office all day without very much to do at all.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Unless Mr. Ellsworth has access to the Presidential Finding establishing the Office of Organizational Analysis, there’s nothing I can tell him about what we’re really doing.”

  “That’s ridiculous and you know it,” Montvale snapped. “Ellsworth has had the highest-level security clearances for years.”

  Again Castillo didn’t reply and again Montvale took his meaning.

  “You’re not actually suggesting, Castillo, that you’re not going to give Truman Ellsworth the necessary security clearance, are you?”

  “Sir, I don’t see where Mr. Ellsworth has the Need to Know about the Presidential Finding and my mission.”

  “I’ll clear him for the Finding!”