W Griffin - Hunters

"I think we're supposed to cleverly deduce who he is right now."

"Shall I try to get him back and ask him?"

Gorner thought that over for a moment and then said, "No. Open it for Karl W. Gossinger. That'll raise fewer questions than if we opened it for Carlos Castillo." [FIVE] Penthouse C The Belle Vista Casino and Resort U.S. Highway 90 ("The Magic Mile") Biloxi, Mississippi 0835 2 August 2005 Vic D'Allessando, smiling and shaking his head, pointed to Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, who was sitting sound asleep in an armchair.

Castillo smiled and then motioned for D'Allessando to go into the bedroom. He followed him in and closed the door.

"Jesus Christ, he's just a kid," D'Allessando said. "You going to tell me what he's doing here?"

"I didn't know what else to do with him," Castillo said.

"Meaning?"

"He's seen too much, he's heard too much, he's done too much. He's either eighteen or nineteen and I wonder if he can keep his mouth shut."

"Oh," D'Allessando said.

"I couldn't leave him in Buenos Aires," Castillo went on. "He's in the Marine Guard detachment at the embassy. I think he was the clerk. The detachment is run by a gunnery sergeant-good guy-but a gunnery sergeant who's going to ask, the moment he sees him, 'Lester, my boy, where have you been and what have you been doing?'"

"Yeah," D'Allessando agreed.

"As a rule of thumb, Marine corporals, when a gunny asks a question, answer it," Castillo said.

"Even if some Army major has told them to keep their mouth shut," D'Allessando said. "And since you can't have the gunny knowing what went down… You have a problem, Charley."

"Yeah, compounded by the fact that Bradley not only saved my bacon but I really like him."

"Isn't his gunny going to wonder where the hell he is?"

"I told Alex Darby to tell the ambassador I exfiltrated Bradley with us. That'll hold off the gunny for a couple of days, but even if the ambassador and Darby tell the gunny not to get curious he will."

"So get him out from under the gunny. Get him transferred out. Can you do that?"

"Get him transferred where? 'Welcome to Camp Lejeune, Corporal Bradley. Where have you been, what have you been doing, and why have you suddenly been transferred here? What do you mean you can't tell me, it's classified Top Secret Presidential'?"

"Yeah," D'Allessando agreed again, chuckling. "Okay, stash him at Bragg. Call McNab and tell him the problem."

"A Marine corporal would stand out like a sore thumb at the Special Warfare Center."

"Not necessarily," D'Allessando said. "There's been some talk about taking some Marines-a lot of Marines, two or three thousand-into Special Operations. Another of Schoomaker's brainstorms, I think."

General Peter J. Schoomaker was chief of staff of the U.S. Army.

"Schoomaker's one of us, Vic," Castillo said.

"Yeah, I know. I knew him then, too. I was the armorer on his A-Team. Good guy. I wasn't saying it's a bad idea, just where I think it came from. Anyway, what they're doing right now is running some Marines-mostly from their Force Recon-through the Q course. So they can tell us what we're doing wrong, I guess. Anyway, we can stash the kid with them."

"Where Corporal Bradley would stand out like a sore thumb among the hardy warriors of Marine Force Recon," Castillo said. He chuckled. "Most of them have gone through that SEAL body building course on the West Coast and look like Arnold Schwarzenegger."

"That's my best shot, Charley. Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it. I'll call General McNab."

"I'll deal with McNab. Just leave the kid here with me. There will be a Special Ops King Air here around noon. I'll put him on it and it'll take him to Bragg."

"Thanks, Vic."

As they were walking out of the bedroom, there was a melodious chime and Vic D'Allessando walked to the door and pulled it open.

"Good morning, Mr. Masterson," he said. "Come on in."

"I'm sorry to be late," J. Winslow Masterson said. "It was unavoidable."

He was a very tall, very black sharp-featured man wearing a crisp, beautifully tailored off-white linen suit. He held a panama hat in his hand.

Castillo smiled as what his grandfather had said about linen suits-or, rather, about seersucker suits-popped into his memory: The reason I wear seersucker suits is, they come from the tailor mussed and people expect that. When I put on a linen suit, it's mussed in ten minutes and people come up to me sure that I know where they can find dope or whores or both.

"You're smiling, Charley," Masterson said, crossing the room with large strides to put out his hand. "There must be good news."

Castillo was finally able to get off the couch.

"Actually, sir, when I saw that beautiful suit I thought of something my grandfather said."

"I'd love to hear it," Masterson said.

Charley repeated his grandfather's trenchant comment.

Masterson laughed.

"Your grandfather had a way with words," he said. "Did you ever tell Mr. D'Allessando about Lyndon Johnson?"

"No, sir."

"Mr. Castillo had a magnificent bull registered as Lyndon Johnson. The animal, from the time it was a calf, had eaten heartily and therefore had droppings far above average…"

"No kidding?" D'Allessando said, laughing. "I didn't know you knew Charley's grandfather."

"Not as well as I would have liked," Masterson said. He looked expectantly at Castillo.

"Yes, sir. I have news. Whether it's good or not is a tough call."

"May I help myself to your coffee?" Masterson asked.

"Oh, hell, excuse me," D'Allessando said. "Let me get it for you."

"I'm old but I can still pour my own coffee, thank you just the same."

As he walked to the wet bar, Masterson saw Corporal Lester Bradley for the first time. Bradley was dozing in an armchair. Masterson looked curiously at Castillo.

"That's Corporal Bradley of the Marine Corps, sir," Castillo said.

That woke Bradley up. He erupted from the armchair, saw Masterson, and quickly came to attention.

D'Allessando smiled and shook his head.

"At ease, Corporal," Castillo said. "This is Mr. Masterson's father, Bradley."

"Yes, sir," Bradley said.

"Bradley was involved in the protection of the family in Buenos Aires," Castillo said.

"How do you do, Corporal?" Masterson said, advancing on Bradley with his hand extended. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

God, he's really a gentleman, Castillo thought. You'd never know from his face that's he's wondering what this boy could possibly have been doing on a protection detail. What he's doing is putting him at ease. That's class.

"How do you do, sir?" Bradley said.

"Please, sit down," Masterson said.

Bradley looked at Castillo, who signaled for him to sit down.

Castillo waited until Masterson had poured the coffee.

"Sir," he began, "the President has authorized me to tell you and Mr. Masterson anything I think I should. I'll tell you what I know and you can tell me how much I should tell her."

"Whatever you say."

"And I have to tell you, sir, that this is highly classified and is to go no further than yourself and Mr. Masterson."

"There are two ladies so identified," Masterson said.

"I will trust your judgment with regard to both. And as far as that goes, with regard to Ambassador and Mr. Lorimer."

"Thank you."

"Jean-Paul Lorimer," Castillo reported, "was shot to death by parties unknown at approximately 9:20 p.m. local time, 31 July, in Tacuarembo, Uruguay."

Masterson's eyebrows rose.

"You're sure of this?" Masterson said.

"Yes, sir, I was there," Castillo said. "As was Corporal Bradley. Bradley took out the men who killed Mr. Lorimer."

That got Masterson's attention. He looked first in uncontrollable surprise at Bradley and then shifted his curious look to Castillo. There was a question in his eyes. It hung in the air but was not asked.