The shooters pa-4

by W. E. B Griffin

  Truman C. Ellsworth was executive assistant to Montvale. He had worked for Montvale in a dozen different positions in government over the years. Montvale had tried to send him to work as liaison officer between the office of the director of National Intelligence and the Office of Organizational Analysis.

  Recognizing this as an attempt to plant a spy in his operation, Castillo had declined the offer, and had to threaten that he would appeal it to the President to keep Ellsworth out of OOA. For this and other reasons-as Ellsworth seemed to be personally offended that the OOA did not come under Montvale's authority-Castillo knew he was not one of Ellsworth's favorite people.

  His first reaction was suspicion-What's the bastard up to here?-but what Montvale was suggesting made sense. The less conspicuous he was, the better.

  "That makes sense, Mr. Ambassador," Castillo said.

  "I think so," Montvale said, and the connection was broken.

  They all ordered country ham and eggs for breakfast. When Castillo was finished with his, he collected the ham scraps and silver-dollar-sized bone and put them onto a napkin.

  "For the beast?" the Secret Service driver asked, and when Castillo nodded, added his to the napkin. And then Miller added his. The napkin now was full to the point of falling apart.

  In the Denali, Max sniffed the offering. He then delicately picked up one of the pieces of bone. There was a brief crunching sound, and then he picked up another, crunched that, and then picked up the third.

  "I wonder," the Secret Service man asked softly, "how many pounds of pressure per square inch that took?"

  "Try not to think what he would have done to your arm had you tried to disturb my sleep," Castillo said.

  [TWO]

  Office of the Chief

  Office of Organizational Analysis

  Department of Homeland Security

  The Nebraska Avenue Complex

  Washington, D.C. 0745 4 September 2005 "Good morning, Chief," OOA Deputy Chief of Administration Agnes Forbison greeted Castillo. "And hello again, Max. Where's your sweetheart?"

  "That's right," Castillo said. "You've met Max. Madchen is in the family way, and resting at the Motel Monica Lewinsky. It's a long story…"

  "What are you going to do with him?"

  "I don't really know," Castillo admitted. He switched to Hungarian. "Say hello to the nice lady, Max."

  Max looked at him, then walked to Agnes, sat down, and looked up at her.

  Agnes scratched his ears.

  "What did you say to him?" she asked.

  "I told him you had a pound of raw hamburger in your purse."

  "I don't, Max," Agnes said to him. "But if you're going to be here for long, I'll pick some up at lunch." She looked at Castillo. "Is he? Going to be here for long?"

  Castillo told her how he had come into temporary possession of Max. Agnes smiled and shook her head.

  "Well, maybe he's just what you need, Chief. Every boy should have a dog. And it looks to me that he's not all that upset about getting the boot from his happy home."

  Max had returned to Castillo and was now sitting beside him, pressing his head against Castillo's leg.

  "He's an excellent judge of character," Castillo said.

  "The intelligence community is gathering in the conference room," Agnes said. "Is there anything you need besides a cup of coffee before you go in there?"

  She put action to her words by going to a coffee service on a credenza behind her desk and getting him a cup of coffee.

  "Thank you, ma'am," Castillo said, and then asked, "What do we hear from Jake Torine?"

  "He called five minutes ago. Over one of those new radios you got in Vegas."

  "What did he have to say?"

  "They just took off from Buenos Aires. That translates to mean that he'll be in Baltimore in about ten hours."

  "I can't wait that long," Castillo said, thoughtfully. "And Jake'll be beat when he gets here."

  "Wait that long for what?"

  "I have to go to Fort Rucker."

  "You want to go commercial-which may be difficult because of the hurricane-or are you in your usual rush?"

  "What's the other option?" he asked as Dick Miller walked in.

  "OOA now has a contract with ExecuJet," she said, "who promise to provide service at the airport of your choice within an hour, then transport you to any airport of your choice within the United States in unparalleled luxury and comfort."

  "Two questions. Isn't that 'unparalleled luxury and comfort' going to be painfully expensive? And how do you think-what did you say, ExecuJet?-feels about dogs?"

  "Expensive, yes. But painfully, no. You did hear that there has been a substantial deposit to our account in the Caymans…right at forty-six million?"

  Castillo nodded. "Ill-gotten gains about to be spent on noble purposes," he said, mockingly solemn.

  "You're taking Max with you?"

  "Until I figure out what to do with him. Maybe my grandmother'd take care of him for me."

  "I don't think that's a viable option, Chief," she said drily.

  "And I'll have to take one of the new radios and our Sergeant Neidermeyer with me. Dick can work the radio here until we can get some more communicators up here from Bragg."

  "Once more, Colonel, sir," Dick Miller said. "Your faithful chief of staff is way ahead of you. We now have four communicators, five counting Sergeant Neidermeyer. General McNab said to be sure to tell you how much he now deeply regrets ever having made your acquaintance."

  "I'll give ExecuJet a heads-up," Agnes said. "Max won't be a problem. When do you want to leave?"

  "As soon as whatever happens in there is over," he said, nodding at the door to the conference room. "First, I want to hit the commo room."

  There were five young men in the small room off Castillo's office, which had been taken over as the commo room. There was something about them that suggested the military despite their civilian clothing-sports jackets and slacks-and their "civilian haircuts."

  No one called attention, but the moment Castillo pushed open the door all of them were on their feet and standing tall.

  "Good morning, Jamie," Castillo said to the young man closest to him, gesturing for the men to relax.

  "Welcome home, Colonel," Sergeant James "Jamie" Neidermeyer said.

  Neidermeyer, just imported from the Stockade at Bragg to run the OOA commo room, was a little shorter than Castillo, with wide shoulders, a strong youthful face, and thoughtful eyes.

  "Thank you, Jamie. Unfortunately, I won't be staying. Got your bag packed?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You don't have to leave our nation's capital, of course, Jamie. You could send one of these guys."

  Castillo put out his hand to the next closest of the young men.

  "My name is Castillo."

  "Yes, sir. Sergeant First Class Pollman, Colonel."

  As he repeated the process with the others, Max went to the near corner of the room and lay down, his eyes on Castillo and the room.

  "What do you guys think of our new radios?" Castillo asked.

  There was a chorus of "Outstanding, sir!" and "First class, sir!"

  "We just talked to Colonel Torine, sir," Neidermeyer said. "He was five minutes out of Buenos Aires."

  "Mrs. Forbison told me," Castillo said. "I guess Jamie has brought you up to speed on the new radios? And what we're doing here?"

  Another chorus of "Yes, sir."

  "Anyone got any family problems-girlfriend problems don't count-with working with us-here and elsewhere-for a while?"

  Another chorus, this time of "No, sir."

  "And everybody is on per diem, right? Which doesn't look like it's going to be enough for Washington?"

  This time it was apparent that all of them were reluctant to complain.

  "Mrs. Forbison will get you each an American Express credit card," Castillo said. "They will be paid by the Lorimer Charitable amp; Benevolent Fund, which understands the problems of a hardship assignment in W
ashington. Use them for everything-meals, your rooms, laundry-everything but whiskey and wild women. Save your per diem for the whiskey and wild women. There's a threat to go along with that: Make any waves that call any attention whatever to what's going on here and you will shortly afterward find yourself teaching would-be Rangers how to eat snakes, rodents, and insects in the semitropical jungle swamps at Hurlburt. Everybody understand that?"

  That produced another chorus, this time with smiles, of "Yes, sir."

  "Okay. I'm glad to have you. I know that Vic D'Alessando wouldn't have sent you if you weren't the best." He paused to let that sink in, then asked, "Questions?"

  "Sir, what kind of a dog is that?"

  "Max is a Bouvier des Flandres," Castillo said. "It has been reliably reported that one of his ancestors bit off one of Adolf Hitler's testicles during the first world war."

  That produced more smiles.

  "And you, Sergeant Phillips, are herewith appointed his temporary custodian. I've got to go sit around a table with some Washington bureaucrats, and I don't think Max would be welcome. Have we got anything we can use as a leash?"

  Phillips opened a drawer in the table holding the radios and came out with a coil of wire from which he quickly fashioned a leash.

  He handed it to Castillo, who looped it to the D-ring of Max's collar and then handed the end of it to Sergeant Phillips.

  "Max, you stay," Castillo said, in Hungarian, and then switched back to English. "And while I'm gone, Jamie, make up your mind who's going with me."

  "Ever willing to make any sacrifice for the common good, Colonel," Neidermeyer said, "I will take that hardship upon myself."

  "Your call, Jamie."

  "Where we going, sir?" Neidermeyer said. "Buenos Aires?"

  "You like Buenos Aires, do you?"

  "It is not what I would call a hardship assignment, sir."

  "We're going to Rucker, Sergeant Neidermeyer. One more proof that a smart soldier never volunteers for anything."

  Castillo raised his arm in a gesture of So long and walked out of the radio room and into his office.

  Miller was sitting on the edge of his desk.

  "They're waiting for you," he said, nodding toward the door to the conference room. "You want me to come along?"

  "Please," Castillo said, and went to the door and opened it.

  Truman Ellsworth, a tall, silver-haired, rather elegant man in his fifties, was standing at a lectern set up at the head of the conference table.

  There were a dozen people sitting at the table, which had places for twenty. There were perhaps twice that number sitting on chairs against the walls, obviously subordinates of the people at the table, and not senior enough to be at the table.

  The only person Castillo recognized was Milton Weiss. He was sitting near one end of the table, between a man and a woman, obviously the CIA delegation.

  Castillo and Miller took seats halfway down the table across from Weiss, who looked at Castillo but gave no sign of recognition.

  "If I may have your attention, ladies and gentlemen," Ellsworth said. "Now that Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, who is the representative of the Department of Homeland Security, has joined us, we can get this under way."

  You pompous sonofabitch!

  Should I have brought a note from my mommy saying why I'm late?

  "My name is Truman Ellsworth. Ambassador Montvale had other things on his plate this morning and sent me to represent him. This is, as I said, an informal meeting, but in view of the sensitive material which may come to light, a Top Secret security classification is in place, and it is not to be recorded.

  "As I understand it," Ellsworth went on, "the attorney general and the DNI, Ambassador Montvale, are agreed that there may well be intelligence aspects to the kidnapping of a DEA agent in Paraguay, and that it behooves us to share, informally, what information we have which might shed light on the situation.

  "May I suggest that the principals identify themselves? Why don't we work our way around the table?"

  He sat down and nodded to a swarthy man on his right.

  "John Walsh, DEA," the man said.

  "Helena Dumbrowsky, State Department," a somewhat plump, red-haired woman announced.

  "Norman Seacroft, Treasury." He was a slight, thin man in a baggy suit.

  "Milton Weiss, CIA."

  "Colonel K. L. DeBois, DIA." The representative of the Defense Intelligence Agency was tall and wiry, and wore his hair clipped almost to the skull.

  "C. G. Castillo, Homeland Security."

  "Inspector Bruce Saffery, FBI." Saffery was a well-tailored man in his early fifties.

  Castillo thought: I wonder if he knows Inspector John J. Doherty?

  "Excuse me," Colonel DeBois said, looking at Castillo and holding up his index finger. "But didn't Mr. Ellsworth just refer to you as 'Lieutenant Colonel'?"

  Ellsworth, you sonofabitch. I'm not wearing a uniform. You didn't have to refer to me as an officer.

  And why do I think that wasn't an accident?

  "Yes, sir, I believe he did."

  "You're a serving officer?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And-presuming I'm allowed to ask-what exactly is it you do for the Department of Homeland Security, Colonel?"

  "Sir, I'm an executive assistant to the secretary."

  "How much do you know about the Office of Organizational Analysis?"

  "Aside from that we're using their conference room, sir, not much."

  "The reason I'm asking, Colonel, is that I was ordered to transfer one of my officers, a young lieutenant who was stationed in Asuncion, to the Office of Organizational Analysis."

  Oh, shit! Lorimer!

  Castillo glanced at Truman Ellsworth and saw that he was looking at him. Ellsworth's face was expressionless, but he was looking.

  "His name is First Lieutenant Edmund J. Lorimer," DeBois pursued.

  "I just can't help you, Colonel," Castillo said.

  This meeting hasn't even started and I'm already lying through my teeth to a fellow officer who looks like a nice guy.

  "Perhaps you could ask Secretary Hall, Colonel Castillo," Ellsworth suggested, helpfully.

  Oh, you miserable sonofabitch!

  "Yes, I suppose I could do that," Castillo said. "I'll get back to you, Colonel, if I'm able to find out anything."

  "I'd appreciate it," DeBois said. "He's a nice young officer who lost a leg from above the knee in Afghanistan. I've been sort of keeping an eye on him."

  "I'll see what I can find out for you, sir, as soon as this meeting is over."

  "I'd really appreciate it, Colonel."

  "Why don't we start with you, Mr. Walsh?" Ellsworth said. "Exactly what happened in Asuncion?"

  Walsh took ten minutes to report in minute detail less than Castillo already knew. He didn't mention the garrote with which Timmons's driver had been murdered, just that he had been killed, means unspecified. Castillo decided he either hadn't been told how the driver had been killed, or had and didn't understand the significance.

  Without saying so in so many words, Walsh made it clear that he thought the DEA could get Timmons back by themselves, if certain restrictions on what they could do were relaxed.

  Mrs. Dumbrowsky of the State Department took the same amount of time to explain the excellent relations enjoyed by the United States with the Republic of Paraguay, expressed great admiration for the Paraguayan law-enforcement authorities, and made it clear without saying so in so many words that she strongly felt it would be a diplomatic disaster if a cretin like Walsh was allowed to destroy the aforesaid splendid relationship by going down there guns blazing and taking the law into his own hands.

  Mr. Seacroft of the Treasury Department somewhat jocularly said that while he wasn't much of an admirer of anything French, he did think it was hard to disagree with their criminal investigation philosophy of searching for the money, and announced that he was going to run everything he had through the computers again and see what came out
the other end.

  Castillo had glanced at Ellsworth several times during Mr. Seacroft's discourse. Castillo had seen from Ellsworth's look of utter contempt that he, too, knew that the French criminal investigation philosophy was Cherchez la femme-though their seeking of femme meant "women," not "money."

  Milton Weiss of the CIA said that he had to confess being a little surprised at the attention the kidnapping of Special Agent Timmons was getting. He had heard-unofficially, of course-that it was a not-uncommon occurrence-perhaps even common-and that in the end the drug thugs usually turned the kidnappee free.

  He implied that the agency had far more important things to do than worry about one DEA agent, who, it could be reasonably assumed, had some idea of what he was getting himself into when he first became a DEA agent and subsequently went to Paraguay. The CIA would, however, Weiss said, keep its ear to the ground and promptly inform everybody if it came up with something.

  It was Castillo's turn next.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I know nothing about this. I'm just here to listen and learn."

  And the truth here, if I'm to believe what I've heard from these people, is that I know more about this than anyone else.

  Except, of course, Weiss, and he's lying through his teeth.

  Making at least two of us here who are doing that.

  Colonel DeBois was next, and he immediately began to prove that he had come to the meeting prepared to share whatever knowledge the DIA had with the rest of the intelligence community.

  "I think I-the DIA-has more knowledge of the situation down there than maybe we should," he began. "The background to that is that our people there, the defense attache and his assistants, are encouraged to report informally on matters that come to their attention that are not entirely defense related but which they feel may be of interest to the DIA.

  "Lieutenant Lorimer, to whom I referred earlier, became friends with Special Agent Timmons, and from him learned a good deal about the DEA operations there, which Lorimer passed on to us. Timmons may well have crossed the 'need to know' line there, telling Lorimer what he did, but I think that area's a little fuzzy. If we're here to share intelligence, what's really wrong with our people in the field doing the same thing?"