W Griffin - Hunters

That's interesting. Mister Castillo and Major Miller. We're both majors. And this guy has to know that.

What did Dick say on the phone? "Get used to it, hotshot. You now really are a hotshot."

"I don't," Castillo said, smiling. He put out his hand. "I don't think we've met, have we? I'm Charley Castillo."

The Secret Service agent gave him a firm but very quick handshake, and said, "Special Agent Dulaney, sir."

Castillo looked at Miller and saw that he was smiling at him.

Special Agent Dulaney spoke to his lapel microphone.

"Don Juan is out. No luggage. We're on our way."

"I'll push the cripple, Dulaney," Castillo said.

"Yes, sir. The Yukon's right outside, sir."

"What happened to the Pride of the Marine Corps?" Miller asked as they moved through the airport.

"Vic D'Allessando arranged to stash him at Bragg until I figure out what to do with him." "How much help do you need to get into this?" Castillo asked when they were at the Yukon.

"None. But you can put the wheelchair in," Miller said.

He came nimbly off the wheelchair, stood on one leg, pulled the door open, and then sort of dove into the rear. Castillo saw that the middle seat had been folded flat against the floorboard, and, when he looked again, Miller was already sitting up in the far backseat, his leg stretched out in front of him on the folded down seat.

"Now is when you put the wheelchair in," Miller said.

"Can I help you with that, sir?" Special Agent Dulaney asked.

"I'm all right, thanks," Castillo said, some what struggling with collapsing the wheelchair.

Sixty seconds later, Miller asked, "You're not very good at that, are you?"

"There's a lever on the side here, sir, that lets you fold it," Special Agent Dulaney said. "Let me show you."

"Thank you," Castillo said and got in the Yukon.

Thirty seconds later, the Yukon pulled away from the curb.

Special Agent Dulaney spoke again to his lapel microphone.

"Don Juan aboard. Headed for the nest."

"Who is he talking to?" Castillo asked, softly.

"I asked him that," Miller said. "He said, 'The Secret Service has a communications system,' and then I said, 'Yeah, but who are you talking to?' And he said, 'The communications system.'"

"Well, ask a dumb question," Castillo said, grinning. Then he added, "You didn't have to ride all the way out here, Dick."

"I had my reasons. Two of them, to be precise. The first was that it was a pleasant change from my usual routine, which is to go from the hotel to the Nebraska Avenue Complex, then back again, sometimes stopping off at the lobby bar on the way home to have a drink to recuperate from my journey."

"And the second?"

"I thought you might have had it in your head to stop off in the lobby bar en route to the room tonight."

"You're psychic! And I'll even buy."

"And I thought I should warn you what you're liable to find in there if you do," Miller said, paused, then added, "The former CIA regional director for Southwest Africa."

"No kidding?"

"Yes, indeed. I was having a little nip about this time night before last in the lobby bar when I sensed death rays aimed at me. I looked around and there she was, Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson, in the flesh. And very nice flesh it was, I have to admit, spilling out of her dress."

"So what happened?"

"Nothing happened. She was with a fellow I strongly suspect was not Mr. Wilson. He was even younger than you or me."

"You're sure she made you?"

"The death rays made it clear that she did. They froze my martini solid. I had to chew it, like ice cubes."

"Well, she probably blames you for getting her fired."

"That thought occurred to me," Miller said, "shortly followed by a possible worse scenario, that she didn't get fired."

"You think that's possible?"

"You know the agency better than I do," Miller said. "Firing somebody is an admission that the agency is less than perfect."

"Can we find out? Maybe ask Tom McGuire to ask a few discreet questions?"

"I'm way ahead of you, Charley," Miller said. "As a devout believer in Know Thy Enemy, the first thing the next morning, I called Langley, identified myself as chief of staff to the chief of the Office of Organizational Analysis…"

"You're not kidding, are you?"

"Oh, no," Miller said. "And I asked, did they happen to have an employee named Patricia Davies Wilson and, if so, what was she doing for them?"

"And they told you?"

"Has anyone told you, Chief, that we now have a 'contact officer' in most of the important agencies, under orders to give us anything we ask for?"

"No, nobody told me."

"You should spend more time in the office, Chief. All sorts of things are happening. But your question was, 'And they told you?' Yes, they did. And what they told me-you're going to love this-is that Mr. Wilson is a senior analyst in the South American Division's Southern Cone Section."

"Jesus Christ!"

"Yeah," Miller said. "Where, one would presume, she would have access to everything that the agency hears-more important, does-down there."

"Well, I'll have to do something about that," Castillo said, almost to himself.

"Short of rendering her harmless, Charley, what?"

"I don't know. But I don't want that woman's nose in what's happened down there or what may happen."

"Her nose doesn't bother me nearly as much as her mouth."

"Did you say anything to anybody?"

Miller shook his head.

"I'll go see Matt Hall first thing in the morning," Castillo said.

"First thing late tomorrow afternoon," Miller said. "He's in Saint Louis, and from there he's going to Chicago. He's due back here at five-thirty. There's a reception at the White House-command performance for him."

"Okay, first thing late tomorrow afternoon," Castillo said. "Damn! I'm on my way to Europe and I wanted to see Betty in Philadelphia before I left. Now I either don't get to see her or I leave a day later."

"Does this mean you're not going to buy me a drink?"

"I will buy you two drinks," Castillo said. "Maybe more."

"In the lobby bar?"

"As I recall that encounter, we were the innocent victims. Why should we be afraid of running into the villain in a bar?"

"Come on, Charley! You know damned well why."

"I have the strength of ten, because in my heart I'm pure. I am not going to let that 'lady,' using the term loosely, run me out of a bar."

Miller snorted. [TWO] Office of Organizational Analysis Department of Homeland Security Nebraska Avenue Complex Washington, D.C. 0825 4 August 2005 Mr. Agnes Forbison, deputy chief for administration of the Office of Organizational Analysis, Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., chief of staff to the chief of the Office of Organizational Analysis, and the chief himself, Major C. G. Castillo, were standing on the carpet in just about the center of the latter's office. Major Miller was supporting himself on a massive cane.

It was an office befitting a senior executive of the federal government. There was an oversized, ornately carved antique wooden desk, behind which sat a red leather, high-backed "judge's chair."

On the desk were two telephones, one of them red. It was a secure line, connected to the White House switchboard. There were two flags against the wall, the national colors and that of the Department of Homeland Security. In front of the desk were two leather-upholstered straight-backed chairs. There was a coffee table, with two chairs on one side of it and a matching couch on the other. There were two television sets, each with a thirty-two-inch-wide screen, mounted on the walls.

"And that completes the tour," Mr. Forbison said. "Say, 'Good job, Agnes.'"

Mr. Forbison, a GS-15-the highest rank in the General Service hierarchy-was forty-nine, gray-haired, and getting just a little chubby.