W Griffin - Hunters

Cabinet members such as himself, Secretary Hall had once only half jokingly told Castillo, could not afford to be seen sitting twiddling their thumbs on chairs outside the Oval Office, like schoolboys having been sent to the principal's office for disciplining. It was bad for their public image.

Castillo was surprised when Montvale didn't keep them waiting. His secretary-or executive assistant, whatever she was-went directly to Montvale's door and opened it the moment she saw them walking into the outer office.

"Colonel Castillo and two other gentlemen are here," the secretary said.

Castillo didn't hear a reply, but a moment later, the secretary said, "Go right in, please, gentlemen."

Castillo went in first, aware that a Pavlovian reflex had kicked in, trying-and almost succeeding-to make him march in, salute, stand at attention, and bark: "Lieutenant Colonel Castillo reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador," Castillo said.

"Hello, Charley," Montvale said.

He acknowledged Torine by saying, "Colonel," then looked at Britton.

"I like that," Montvale announced with a smile. "Pink and yellow and blue go well together. But you don't bring up what usually comes to mind when someone says, 'Secret Service.'"

"I try to put the emphasis on the 'secret' in Secret Service, Mr. Ambassador," Britton said.

"On a scale of one to ten, Britton," Montvale said, his tone suddenly serious, "what's your take on the chances of a nuclear weapon being detonated in Philadelphia anytime soon?"

"Point-zero-zero-one, Mr. Ambassador," Britton responded immediately.

"That answer sounded rehearsed."

"Your question was expected, Mr. Ambassador."

"Colonel Castillo told you to expect it?"

"No. But I didn't think you were calling me down here to discuss my wardrobe."

"Now I know why Colonel Castillo likes you," Montvale said. "You're about as much of a self-confident wiseass as he is. Now you and Colonel Torine please step out for a moment-actually, it's probably going to be a bit longer than that-while I have a private word with the colonel. Tell Jo-Anne no calls except from the President personally, and to get you some coffee."

"Yes, sir," Britton said. "Thank you."

"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador," Torine said and turned and followed Britton out.

Montvale waited until the door had closed.

"You understand, I hope, Charley, how much rides on Britton's-and thus your-assessment of the threat that there is a SADM somewhere around Philadelphia?"

"I've talked to some other people, sir. It-"

Montvale shut him off by raising his hand like a traffic cop.

"Hold that until the briefing," he said.

"I thought this was the briefing," Castillo said. It was more of a question.

"Right now we have to talk about your eleven-hundred-dollar-a-day love nest in the Mayflower Hotel," Montvale said.

"Sir?"

"That's how Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter C. Harry Whelan, Jr., of The Washington Post described it. No. What Harry actually said when he called Secretary Hall and told him he intended to make certain allegations in a story and wanted, in fairness, to get his version before it was published, he was in 'Motel Monica Lewinsky.'" He paused, then added with a thin smile, "He has a flair for colorful phrases."

"What sort of allegations?"

"That an Army officer by the name of Castillo who is an agent of the Defense Intelligence Agency is whooping it up on the taxpayer's dollar in the Mayflower and elsewhere all over the world."

Oh, shit!

"Where'd that come from? I never was assigned to the DIA."

"Think about it a moment," Montvale ordered, "and tell me the first name that comes to mind."

Three seconds later, Castillo said, "Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson."

Montvale nodded.

"Goddamn her!"

"Hell hath no fury like the female scorned, I understand. You might want to write that down to think about the next time you experience the sinful lusts of the flesh and are about to throw caution to the winds and, with it, your career, the mission you've been given by the President, and the many-all unpleasant to contemplate-manifestations of that."

"The next time? What next time? I'm blown. The problem now is how to keep the Finding operation from being blown with me. I'm blown, that's it. The most I can hope for is that I will be allowed to resign for the good of the service and go hide somewhere before this reporter can find me. Once I'm out of the service, I don't have to even talk to this guy -if he could find me-and I don't think he'll be able to do that. All the Army has to do is say they're way ahead of the reporter, and the guy with the love nest has already been allowed to resign and they have no idea where former Lieutenant Colonel Castillo is. And, by the way, he was never assigned to the DIA." He paused. "Does General Naylor know about this?"

Montvale nodded.

"He won't like it, but between him and Schoomaker I can be out of the Army and out of Washington by noon tomorrow."

Montvale just looked at him.

"Is Edgar Delchamps here yet?" Castillo said.

Montvale nodded.

"Then what I suggest, sir, is that you keep him under wraps until you can recommend to the President that he turn the Finding operation over to him."

"Why would I want to do that, Colonel?" Montvale asked, softly.

"It's the only way I can think of to keep the Finding operation from being blown. He's privy to just about everything, but there's no way that he can be tied to me, the Finding operation, or anybody else I've been working with. Once I'm gone and he's got the Finding operation, I can meet him someplace and give him everything he doesn't already have. The Finding operation doesn't have to go down the toilet with me."

"And why in the world," Montvale asked, "knowing what's happened, would Mr. Delchamps take on that responsibility? If I were he, I'd think I was being set up as the fall guy. He would reason that Mr. Whelan is not going to let this story go just because he can't find you."

"He's a pro, Mr. Ambassador. He knows the risks of doing something that has to be done. He's been doing it a long time. He'll take the job. And more than likely do a better job with it than I've been doing."

"Let me get this straight, Castillo. What you are saying you want to do is quietly fold your tent and steal away into anonymity. Pay for your carnal sins with, so to speak, professional suicide?"

"I wouldn't put it quite that way, Mr. Ambassador, but, yes, I suppose. I disappear and the Finding operation goes on. I don't have any better ideas."

"Fortunately, I do."

"Sir?"

"Fortunately, I do," Montvale repeated. "More precisely, did."

"Whatever you want me to do, sir," Castillo said.

"Let me tell you what I did, Colonel. When Secretary Hall called me to tell me C. Harry Whelan, Jr., wanted to talk about your eleven-hundred-dollar-a-day love nest, I suggested that he invite Mr. Whelan to luncheon with both of us the next day in his private dining room at the Nebraska Avenue Complex."

What?

"Sir?"

"Telling him that I would tell him everything there. I further suggested that he put Major Miller back into his uniform and wheelchair-the last time Miller came here to tell me what you were up to, he was wearing civilian clothing and using canes-two of them-which naturally aroused one's sympathy, but not as much as a fully uniformed wounded hero in a wheelchair would-and that he advise Major Miller of the situation and invite him to take lunch with us.

"I told Secretary Hall that Mr. Whelan was known to be fond of oysters, grilled Colorado trout avec beurre noir, and an obscure California Chardonnay-Judge's Peak. I told Secretary Hall that if he could handle the oysters and the trout, I would send over a case of the Judge's Peak.