W. Griffin: The Hostage

Hall considered that a moment, too, before replying.

"Your call, Charley." Secretary Hall had decided about six months earlier- political correctness be damned-that he needed a male assistant, preferably unmarried. He was constantly on the move all over the country and sometimes outside it. He almost always flew on a Cessna Citation X. The airplane belonged to the Secret Service, which had been transferred from the Treasury Department to Homeland Security after 9/11.

Hall almost always traveled with Joel Isaacson and Tom McGuire. They often left for where they were goingin the wee hours of the morning, and/or came back to Washington at the same ungodly hour.

Both Mrs. Kensington and Mrs. Forbison were married and not thrilled with the idea of flying on half an hour's notice to, say, Spokane, Washington, at half past five in the morning with no hint of when they'd be coming back to feed their husbands or play with their grandchildren.

Moving down the staff structure, Hall had taken maybe a dozen female administrative types with him on thirty or more trips, women with job titles like "senior administrative assistant." While all had been initially thrilled with the prospect of personally working for the secretary, none of them had kept at it for long.

Primarily, the ones who weren't married had boyfriends, and they all had grown accustomed to the federal government's eight-to-five, Monday-to-Friday workweek, and its generous day-off recognition of holidays. Hall worked a seven-day week, with an exception for, say, Christmas.

Moreover, having some female in the confines of the Citation X cabin posed problems. For one thing, Matt Hall believed with entertainer Ed McMahon that alcohol-especially good scotch-was God's payment for hard work. With a female in the cabin, that meant he had to drink alone, and he didn't like that.

Joel Isaacson and Tom McGuire couldn't drink with him if a senior administrative assistant-or someone of that ilk-was on the plane. Both were fully prepared to lay down their lives for the secretary, both as a professional duty and because they had come to deeply admire Hall. But as a practical matter, once the local security detail had loaded them on the Citation and they'd gotten off the ground and were on their way home, having a belt-or two-with the secretary in no way reduced-in their judgment and the secretary's-the protection they were sworn to provide.

But what they could not afford was Miss Whateverhername rushing home to her boyfriend's pillow to regale him with tales of the secretary and his security detail sucking scotch all the way across the country while they exchanged politically incorrect and often ribald jokes.

When General Allan Naylor, the Central Command commander-in-chief, had been a captain in Vietnam, Matt Hall had been one of his sergeants. They had remained friends as Naylor had risen in the Army hierarchy and Hall had become first a congressman and then governor of North Carolina and then secretary of Homeland Security.

Their relationship was now professional as well. Central Command, de facto if not de jure, was the most important operational headquarters in the Defense Department. It controlled Special Operations, among many other things. The President had made it clear that whatever the secretary of Homeland Security wanted from Central Command he was to have, and if that violated procedure or regulations, either change the procedures or regulations, or work around them.

Hall and Naylor talked at least once a day on a secure communications link-sometimes a half dozen times a day when world events dictated-and they met as often as that worked out. At a mixed business and social meeting, over drinks in the bar of the Army-Navy Club in Washington, Hall had confided in Naylor his problem traveling with females, and almost jokingly asked if Naylor happened to know of some young officer-male and unmarried-he could borrow as an assistant.

"Aside from carrying your suitcase and answering your phone, what else would he have to do?"

"It would help if he could type, and had decent table manners."

"Anything else?"

"Seriously?" Hall asked, and Naylor nodded.

"Handle his booze, know how to keep his mouth shut," Hall furnished. "And since this is a wish list, maybe speak a foreign language or two. Especially Spanish."

"How about one who speaks Spanish like a Spaniard?"

"You've got somebody?"

Naylor nodded. "Just back from Afghanistan. He's on the five-percent list for lieutenant colonel. They've been wondering where to assign him."

"How come you know a lowly major?"

"I've known this fellow a long time. West Pointer. Green Beret. About as bright as they come."

"And I can have him?"

Naylor nodded.

"Why?"

"Maybe because I like you, and maybe because I think he'd learn something working for you. If he doesn't work out, you can send him back." Major Carlos Guillermo Castillo, Special Forces, had shown up at the Nebraska Complex three days later. In uniform, which displayed an impressive row of decorations and I-Was-There ribbons, plus a Combat Infantry Badge and a set of Senior Army Aviator wings. The latter surprised Hall, as Naylor hadn't mentioned that Castillo was a pilot.

He was also surprised at his appearance. He didn't look Latin. He was blue-eyed, fair-skinned, and Hall suspected his light brown hair had once been blond.

Hall, who had a CIB of his own, liked what he saw.

"Major, would it offend you if I called you 'Carlos'?"

"Not at all, sir. But I'd prefer 'Charley,' sir."

"'Charley' it is. And-so people don't start asking 'who's that Army officer working for Hall?'-I'd like you to wear civvies. A suit, or a sports coat with a shirt and tie. Is that going to pose a problem?"

"No, sir."

Hall had stopped himself just in time from saying, "Don't go out and spend a lot of money on civvies; this may not work out."

Instead, he asked, "You're going to try to get in the BOQ at Fort Myer?"

"Sir, I'm on per diem, and I've spent more than my fair share of time in BOQs. I thought I'd look for a hotel, or an apartment."

"Up to you," Hall had said, "but-frankly, this may not work out for either of us-I wouldn't sign a lease on an apartment right away."

"Yes, sir. A hotel."

"If such a thing exists, try to find a reasonably priced hotel near the White House-you might try the Hotel Washington. I spend most of my time in the OEOB, which means you will, too."

"Yes, sir."

Hall had risen and put out his hand.

"Welcome aboard, Charley. You come recommended by General Naylor, and with that in mind, and from what I've seen, I think you're going to fit in very well around here. Get yourself settled-take your time, do it right- and when you're finished, come to work."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." When Hall went to his OEOB office at nine the next morning, Castillo was there, waiting for him. In a gray suit, black wingtip shoes, a crisp white button-down shirt, and a red-striped necktie, none of which, Hall knew, had come off the racks at Sears, Roebuck.

Good, he looks like a typical bureaucrat, Hall thought, and then changed that assessment. No. Like a successful Capitol Hill lobbyist or lawyer.

Castillo said he'd found a hotel not far from the White House and the OEOB.

"One you can afford?" Hall asked, with a smile.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then, if you're ready to go to work, I'll have Mrs. Kensington show you how we throw away the taxpayers' money."

Three days later, when Hall was dictating to Mary-Ellen, Castillo appeared at the door and said he had a little problem.

"What's that?"

"I need some kind of a title, sir. I got the feeling you didn't want the military connection, so I don't say 'Major. ' When somebody asks me what I do here, I've been saying, 'I work in Secretary Hall's office.' "