W. Griffin - The Hostage

Hall pushed the speakerphone button again.

"Good morning, Mark," Hall said cordially. "How are you?"

"What can I do for you, Matt?"

"You've seen the Presidential Finding vis-a-vis the Masterson assassination, right?" Hall asked, ignoring Schmidt's abruptness.

"As a matter of fact, no."

"Well, hell. That makes this a little difficult, Mark. Obviously I can't talk about it if you haven't seen it. So forget I mentioned it. Just take this as a routine request for information. If you don't mind a suggestion, you might ask the attorney general what's new."

"What sort of information do you need, Matt?" Schmidt said, his voice betraying his annoyance.

"Would it be easier for you if I called the attorney general? I don't want to put you on a spot."

"What information do you need, Matt?"

"You have an agent in the embassy in Montevideo. David William Yung, Junior. He's supposed to be working on money laundering. What I need to know is what he's really doing down there."

"What makes you so sure he's not doing what he says he's doing?"

"We're back to that area I can't talk about," Hall said. "Are you sure you don't want me to go to the attorney general with this? I know he's in the loop, and I'm surprised that you're not."

"I'll look into it, Matt," Schmidt said, "and get back to you."

"I need this information yesterday, Mark," Hall said. "So I have to ask, how long do you think it will take for you to get back to me?"

"I'll get back to you just as soon as I can. Probably this morning."

"I appreciate that, Mark. Thank you."

"Anytime, Matt."

Hall pushed the button, breaking the connection.

"See how it's done?" he asked. "I'll bet you two dollars to a doughnut that Schmidt is already trying to get the attorney general on the horn. The attorney general will tell him about the finding, and that he has to go along with it. Which will also make the point that I knew about it before he did, suggesting he's not as important as he likes to think he is."

"It's childish, isn't it?"

"Absolutely, but that's the way things work," Hall said. "Now that I've annoyed him, is there anybody else you'd like me to annoy?"

"Sir, when he calls back, could you ask him to contact the FBI people in Paris-and in Vienna, come to think of it-and ask them to give me whatever I need?"

"I will tell him that the chief of the Office of Organizational Analysis wants to make sure they know that when they are contacted, they will make any information they have on any subject available to him, and that they will probably be contacted by a man named Castillo." He paused, and then went on. "And I will contact Ambassador Montvale and tell him to do essentially the same thing vis-a-vis his CIA station chiefs in Paris and Vienna. And Montevideo, too, if you'd like."

"Thank you. It would probably be a good idea when you speak with Director Schmidt to ask him to tell the FBI in Montevideo to give me what I ask for."

Hall nodded his agreement.

"Anything else, Charley?"

"I can't think of anything else, sir."

"Let me run this past you," Hall said. "You're going to need someone to handle your paperwork, someone who knows her way around Washington. What would you think about me asking Agnes Forbison if she'd like to work with you?"

"I could really use her."

"I'll have a word with her as soon as I can," Hall said. [THREE] Over Wilmington, Delaware 1225 26 July 2005 They had been in the air only a few minutes when Castillo sensed the Lear had changed altitude from climbing-to-cruise-altitude to descent. There was only one reason he could think of for that; they were about to land.

Oh, shit, that's all I need! Red lights blinking on the panel! The goddamn bird is broke!

He got out of his seat, walked to the cockpit, and dropped to his knees between the pilot's and copilot's seats.

"What's going on?"

Fernando, who was in the left seat, looked over his shoulder.

"Please return to your seat, sir, and don't interfere with the flight crew in the performance of their duties."

"What's wrong with the goddamn airplane?"

Colonel Torine took pity on him.

"You really didn't want to go to Paris without saying goodbye to your girlfriend, did you, Charley?"

Castillo didn't reply.

"Does it make any real difference if we get to Paris at four in the morning, or five?" Torine went on. "I'll top off the tanks, get us something to eat en route, get the weather, and file the flight plan to Gander while the Secret Service runs you back and forth to the hospital."

When Castillo didn't reply to that, either, at least partially because he didn't trust himself to speak with the enormous lump in his throat, Torine went on: "Tom McGuire called and set it up."

Castillo laid a hand on Torine's shoulder, and then got off his knees and went back to his seat. [FOUR] Department of Oral and Maxillofacial Surgery Fifth Floor, Silverstein Pavilion Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania 3400 Spruce Street Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 1340 26 July 2005 As the Secret Service Yukon pulled up outside the hospital, the agent sitting beside the driver spoke into the microphone under his lapel.

"Don Juan arriving."

Fernando chuckled. Castillo gave him the finger. He wondered, now that he had been given a hell of a lot of power, if it would be enough to have the Secret Service change the code name Joel Isaacson had given him when he'd gone to work for Secretary Hall.

The Secret Service agent led them to the elevator bank, waved them inside, and then said, "Fifth floor, Mr. Castillo. We'll be right here."

A tall, stocky woman-visibly some kind of Latin- was standing in the lobby of the fifth floor when the elevator door opened. Her hair was drawn tight against her skull, and Castillo could see the flesh-colored speaker in her ear. He could also see a bulge on her left hip that was almost certainly a handgun.

"This way, please, Mr. Castillo. Special Agent Schneider has been put in five-twenty-seven."

"Muchas gracias," Castillo said. "Muy amable de su parte."

It wasn't hard to find room 527. There were two law enforcement officers sitting in folding chairs on either side of the door. One was wearing the motorcyclist's boots and other special uniform items of the Philadelphia Police Department's elite highway patrol. The other was a large and burly man in civilian clothing with the telltale ear speaker of the Secret Service in his ear.

As Castillo got close to the room, both of them stood.

Castillo glanced to his left and saw a glass-walled waiting room. There were more than a half dozen people in it. Castillo recognized three of them as Philadelphia police officers: Chief Inspector Fritz Kramer, the commander of the counterterrorism bureau; Captain Frank O'Brien, who headed the intelligence and organized crime unit and for whom Betty Schneider had worked as a sergeant; and Lieutenant Frank Schneider of the highway patrol, who was Betty's big and, it could be reasonably argued, somewhat overprotective brother.

There were also a couple who Castillo decided were Betty's parents, a clergyman, and several other people.

Well, what the hell did you expect? That it would be just the two of you?

He had what he realized was the vain hope that no one in the waiting room would see him.

The Secret Service agent at the door said, "Special Agent Schneider is in X-ray, Mr. Castillo. She should be back any moment. There's a waiting room…" He pointed.

"Any reason we can't wait in there?"

"No, sir."

Castillo and Fernando entered the room. The bed was mussed, but Castillo could see no other sign that Betty had been in the room.

And I didn't see Jack Britton in that waiting room. Where the hell is he?

He walked to the window and looked out into an interior courtyard, and turned only when he sensed the door to the room was opening.