W Griffin - Hunters

Castillo, shaking his head in disbelief, said nothing.

"So far, you're still stressed…"

"You mean crazy," Castillo said, bitterly.

"…but you seem to be improving. General Naylor hopes that soon you will be able to return to normal duty in the Army. The Army has done what it could to help a distinguished warrior, the son of an even more distinguished warrior."

"And Whelan swallowed this yarn?"

"He had no trouble at all accepting that there were good reasons-touching reasons-for your having gone over the edge," Montvale said.

Castillo gave him an exasperated look.

"But what's important comes next," Montvale said. "Two things. First, Whelan said, 'I've written a lot of stories that people tell me have ruined people's lives and I've done it with a clear conscience and I'll do it again. But I'm not going to ruin this young man's life simply because some bitch comes to me with a half-cocked story and an agenda.'

"Whereupon I asked him, in surprise, 'A woman gave you this story?'

"'I knew damned well she had an agenda beyond getting on the right side of me,' Whelan said. 'I knew it.'

"'Has this lady aname?'

"'She's in the agency,' Whelan said. 'She and her husband both work for the agency. Her name is Wilson. I forget his first name, but hers is Patricia. Patricia Davies Wilson. That's to go no further than this room.'

"'Of course not,' I readily agreed. 'You think…what was her name?'

"He obligingly furnished it again: 'Wilson, Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson.'

"I asked, 'You think Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson had an agenda?'

"'She did,' Mr. Whelan replied. 'I have no idea what it was, but it was more than just cozying up to me. She's fed me stuff before. A lot of-most of it-was useful. I thought of her as my private mole in Langley.'

"Whereupon I sought clarification: 'You say you thought of Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson as your private mole in the Central Intelligence Agency?'

"He took a healthy swallow of wine-in fact, drained at least the last third of a glass-and said, 'Yes, I did. I've gotten a half dozen good stories out of her. There's a lot of things going on at Langley that the public has the right to know. Stories that don't help our enemies. But a story about somebody who's been burned out doing his duty and is teetering on the edge is not a good story. I write hard news, not human interest. Damn her!'"

"So what happens now?"

"I don't know what Whelan's going to do to her, but I know what I did," Montvale said. "I had my technicians erase all but the last minute or so of that recording-anything that could identify you-and then personally took it over to Langley and played it for John Powell."

"And the DCI didn't ask you who Whelan's story was supposed to be about or how you just happened to record their conversation?" Castillo asked.

"I'm sure he would have liked to," Montvale said. "But he was torn between humiliation that I had personally brought him credible evidence that Mr. Whelan had a mole in the agency and anger with himself that he hadn't done more to the lady after I personally had sent Truman Ellsworth over there to subtly warn them-after our conversation at the Army-Navy Club-that they had a problem with Mr. Wilson."

"You're sure this guy is not going to write about me?"

"I'm sure he's not. He told meso."

"Because he feels sorry for the overstressed lunatic?"

"That's part of it, certainly. And part of it is that Whelan thinks of himself as a loyal American. Patriotism is also a actor."

"Isn't patriotism supposed to be the last refuge of a scoundrel?" Castillo asked, bitterly.

"You're the one who needed the refuge, Colonel. If the scoundrel shoe fits, put it on."

"It fits," Castillo said. "I guess I'm supposed to thank you, Mr. Ambassador…"

"You're welcome, but don't let it go to your head. I was protecting the President, not you."

"Yes, sir. I understand."

Montvale looked at his watch.

"I'd really hoped-so I would have no surprises when you brief the President…"

Brief the President? Where the hell did that come from?

"…and the others…"

What others?

"…that you and Britton would be able to bring me up to speed about these people in Bucks County, on everything, but we don't seem to have the time. We're due to be over there in ten minutes and I need to visit the gentlemen's rest facility before we go."

"Yes, sir."

"If I have to say this, Colonel, not a word vis-a-vis Mr. Whelan."

"Yes, sir."

"I wonder what the President's going to think about the stylish Mr. Britton," Montvale said, then rose from behind his desk and waved for Castillo to precede him out of the office.

[ONE] The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 1555 10 August 2005 The Secret Service agent standing just outside of the Oval Office-a very large man attired in a dark gray suit carefully tailored to hide the bulk of the Mini Uzi he carried under his arm-stepped in front of Charles W. Montvale, blocking his way.

"Excuse me, Director Montvale," he said, politely. He nodded once, indicating Jack Britton, who still was wearing his pink seersucker jacket, yellow polo shirt, light blue trousers, and highly polished tassel loafers. "I don't know this gentleman."

"Show him your Secret Service credentials, Agent Britton," Montvale ordered. "Quickly. We don't want to keep the President waiting."

Britton exchanged a glance with Charley Castillo, then unfolded a thin leather wallet.

The Secret Service Agent failed to uphold the traditions of his service. Surprise, even disbelief, was written all over his face as he stepped out of the way.

The President was not in the Oval Office. Secretary of State Natalie Cohen and Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall were. They were seated side by side on one of the pair of matching couches that faced each other across a coffee table.

Hall got to his feet and offered his hand to them each in turn.

Then he asked Britton, "I don't believe you know Secretary Cohen, do you, Jack?"

"No, sir," Britton said.

The secretary of state stood up and offered her hand to Britton.

"Secretary Hall has been telling me what you did before joining the Secret Service," she said. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

"It's an honor to meet you, Madam Secretary," Britton said.

She walked to Castillo, kissed his cheek, and said, "Hello, Charley. How are we doing with the repatriation of Mr. Lorimer's remains?"

"They're in a funeral home in New Orleans, Madam Secretary," Castillo said. "Special Agent Yung accompanied them from Uruguay. I spoke with him a couple of hours ago." He paused, then went on, "He's got an out-of-channels message for you from Ambassador McGrory. He's supposed to deliver it personally…"

"That's odd, Charley," she said. "Do you know what it is?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Let's have it."

"Ambassador McGrory believes Mr. Lorimer was a drug dealer-in his alter ego as Jean-Paul Bertrand, antiquities dealer-and that a drug deal went bad at his estancia and he was murdered and the sixteen million dollars stolen."

"My God, where did he get that?" she exclaimed.

"He apparently figured that out all by himself. He confided his theory in Ambassador Silvio."

She shook her head in disbelief.

"Unfortunately," Castillo went on, "there's a clever Uruguayan cop, Chief Inspector Ordonez of the Policia Nacional, who's pretty close to figuring out what really happened."

That got everyone's attention.

Castillo continued, "And he's also positively identified one of the Ninjas we killed as Major Alejandro Vincenzo of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia-"

"One of the what, Charley?" the President of the United States asked as he came into the room. "Did you say 'Ninjas'?"