W Griffin - Hunters

"That'll work," Matt Hall said. It was the first time he had said anything.

"I'll handle the intelligence community personally, Mr. President," Montvale said.

The President looked at him and nodded but didn't respond directly.

"Anyone else got anything?" the President asked.

There was a chorus of "No, sir"s.

"Get some rest, Charley," the President said, finally. "Get to bed early. I can't afford to have you burn out. And I think you're going to have a busy day tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."

The President thought he saw something on Castillo's face and asked, smiling naughtily, "What makes me think you have other plans for the evening, Don Juan?"

"Sir…"

"What's her name?"

"Actually, sir, I thought I would go by my office, pick up Major Miller, and go to the Army-Navy Club to…" At the last moment, Castillo had enough presence of mind to change the next words from drink our supper to "have our supper."

"Yeah," the President said, unconvinced. "Good hunting, Colonel."

The President got up and walked out of the Oval Office through the doorway leading to his private working office. He was gone before any of the others could rise to their feet.

Sure, she has a name. Elizabeth Schneider.

And I still haven't called her. Or, worse, even thought of calling her.

What the hell is the matter with me? [TWO] Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo and Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., did not go to the Army-Navy Club as Castillo had announced to the President of the United States that they would do.

Instead-with Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF, and Special Agent Jack Britton in tow-they went right around the corner from the White House, to 15th Street NW. There, at the Old Ebbitt Grill (est. 1856), they sat at the massive dark mahogany bar and dined on hot roast beef sandwiches au jus with steak fries (Miller and Torine) and linguini with white clam sauce (Castillo) and red clam sauce (Britton), washing it all down with Heineken beer from the tap.

By ten o'clock, all four were in beds-alone and asleep-in Herr Karl Gossinger's suite in the Motel Monica Lewinsky, the management having obligingly made up one of the couches in the sitting room into a bed for Special AgentBritton.

Although the thought that he should telephone Miss Elizabeth Schneider had occurred to Charley Castillo, he had not made an attempt to do so, having reasoned that it was too late-particularly for him. He was about to crash, and crash hard, and thus in absolutely no condition to participate in a long apologetic and explanatory conversation.

I'll call tomorrow, he had thought, then buried his head in his pillow.

If I don't get distracted and forget again.

He had then groped in the dark for his cellular on the bedside table, found it, dialed its own number, and after the mechanized female voice answered that he was being transferred into voice mail he left the message, "Call Betty, you heartless bastard."

Then he pushed the END button, returned the phone to the table, and finally crashed. [THREE] Office of Organizational Analysis Department of Homeland Security Nebraska Avenue Complex Washington, D.C. 0825 11 August 2005 "Welcome home, Chief," Mr. Agnes Forbison, deputy chief for administration of the Office of Organizational Analysis, greeted Castillo as he led Torine, Miller, and Britton off of the elevator. "Or would you prefer that I now call you 'Colonel'?"

"I'd prefer that you call me Charley, Agnes."

She walked to him and kissed his cheek.

"We've been over that," she said, evenly. "You are now too important to be addressed by your nickname. So, which do you prefer?"

"I give up," Castillo said. "You choose."

"'Chief' has a nicer ring to it," she said. "This town is too full of colonels. No offense, Colonel Torine."

"None taken," Torine said.

She looked at Britton. "I like your jacket, Jack."

"Thank you," Britton said. "It's all I've got to wear. I hadn't planned to come to Washington."

"What's first, Agnes?" Castillo asked.

"Well, there's already someone in my office waiting to see you," she said as she led the way to the door of Castillo's office-marked PRIVATE NO ADMITTANCE-slid what looked like an all-white credit card through the reader mounted by the lock, then pushed the door open and handed the card to Castillo.

They all followed her through the open door.

"First is getting me back to Pennsylvania," Britton said.

"First is credit cards," Agnes corrected him. "You wouldn't want to leave home without your American Express card, would you, Jack?"

"I've got an American Express card," Britton said.

"Not one of these, you don't," Agnes said. "They came in yesterday."

She went to Castillo's desk, opened a drawer, and collected what looked like half a dozen Platinum American Express cards. She handed one card to Britton and others to Castillo and Torine and put the rest back in the drawer.

"Miller's already got one and so do I," she said.

Britton examined his.

"What the hell is Gossinger Consultants, Inc.?" he asked.

"Well, I needed a name of a nongovernmental organization to spend Lorimer's money," she said. "And that seemed reasonably appropriate. The cards are coded so no questions will be asked in case somebody wants to buy a lot of airplane gas."

"That's aviation fuel, Agnes," Castillo said, smiling. "You're amazing."

"I told you I was going to be useful," she said. "And the Riggs Bank is going to get us checks on the Gossinger Consultants account as soon as they can. Which may mean today but probably means in three or four days. You all have to sign signature cards and I have to get them back to the bank before you can write checks."

She turned to Torine.

"Gossinger Consultants is now the official owner of the Gulfstream," she said. "And Signature Flight Support at BWI is going to direct bill the corporation for hangar space, maintenance, aviation fuel, and so forth."

"Yesterday, I had to give them Charley's credit card," Torine said.

"It probably hasn't worked its way through the bureaucracy," she said. "I'll give them a call and switch over the charge."

"We have a corporation?" Castillo asked.

"A Delaware corporation, and a post office box," Agnes replied.

She looked at Britton again.

"Where in Pennsylvania?"

"Bethlehem."

"How far is that, do you know?"

"I'd guess a hundred and fifty miles, maybe a little more."

"You want to take the Amtrak to Philadelphia and have the Secret Service pick you up there? Or have a Yukon take you from here? I think that would probably be a little quicker."

"And there's already three Yukons from the Philadelphia office in Bethlehem," Britton said. "Is getting one here going to be any trouble?"

"None at all. Just as soon as you sign the signature thing, I'll call."

"Thank you," Britton said.

"Charley," Torine said, "would you have any problem after I make sure the paperwork on the Gulfstream is all done and things are set up with Signature if I went home for a couple of days?"

"No. I don't think I'll be going anywhere for seventy-two hours anyway. But I never know."

"Yeah, I know you never know," Torine said. "If you need me, I'll have someone fly me back here."

"Go ahead," Castillo said. "The both of you. And thank you, the both of you." "What now, Agnes?" Castillo asked after Torine and Britton had left.

"Why don't you sit down, Chief, and we'll have a cup of coffee while I tell you what else is going on?"

"You want some coffee, Dick?" Castillo asked.

"I'm coffee'd out."

"Why don't you get on the horn and see if anything's new in Buenos Aires?"

"It's half past seven down there," Miller replied. "Is anybody going to be awake?"

"Why don't you sit down, kill a half hour with a cup of coffee, then get on the horn?"