The Hunters Page 5

  This had endeared Castillo to the president but not to the CIA, the FBI, and the rest of the intelligence community, whose annoyance with him was directly proportional to the amount of egg the various directors felt they had on their faces.

  “That’s the first time I heard that,” Montvale said.

  “What part of ‘Let Charley finish’ didn’t you understand, Charles?”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. President,” Montvale said.

  “Let me take it, Charley,” the President said. “Perhaps there will be fewer interruptions that way. In a nutshell, Charles, there is no legal action of any kind against this fellow underway in an American court. He made contact with Charley shortly after I gave Charley the job of finding out why no one else in our intelligence community could find it. He was very helpful. He wanted something in return.”

  “I’ll bet,” Montvale said.

  “Pevsner told Charley he thought the agency—which had quietly contracted for his services over the years—was trying to arrange his arrest by one of the countries that hold warrants for his arrest so that he could be locked up and his CIA contracts would not come to light. He went so far as to say he thought the agency would like to terminate him with extreme prejudice. Now, I know we don’t do that anymore, but the man was worried.

  “As a small gesture of my appreciation, I authorized Charley to tell him that I had ordered the DCI and the director of the FBI—this is before you became director of National Intelligence—to cease all investigations they might have underway and to institute no new investigations without my specific permission. What Pevsner thought was happening was that the CIA was looking for him abroad and the FBI inside the United States. If they located him, they would either arrest him here on an Interpol warrant or furnish his location to one of the governments looking for him.

  “Such stay-out-of-jail status to continue so long as Pevsner does not violate any law of the United States and with the unspoken understanding that he would continue to be helpful.”

  “And has this chap continued to be helpful?” Montvale asked.

  “He got me access to the helicopter I used to fly to Estancia Shangri-La,” Castillo said.

  “He’s in Argentina?”

  “I don’t know where Pevsner is at this moment,” Castillo said. “I ran into Howard Kennedy in Buenos Aires and he arranged for the helicopter.”

  That’s not an outright lie. I just twisted the truth. For all I know, Alek might be in Puente del Este, Uruguay, not in Argentina.

  “And Kennedy is?”

  “A former FBI agent who now works for Pevsner,” the President said.

  “And what was he doing in Argentina?”

  “He accompanied a 767 loaded with objets d’art sent by the Saudi royal family from Riyadh for the King Fahd Islamic Cultural Center in Buenos Aires and took back to Riyadh a load of polo ponies and saddles and other polo accoutrements for the royal family,” Castillo said.

  “The airplane no doubt owned by Pevsner?” Montvale asked.

  “Probably, sir. I didn’t ask.”

  “And this Kennedy fellow just turned over a helicopter to you because you asked him? Is that what you’re saying, Major Castillo?”

  “I would bet that he did so with Mr. Pevsner’s permission, sir, but I didn’t ask about that, either.”

  “I must say, Mr. President, that I find this whole situation amazing.”

  “What is it they say, Charles, about politics making strange bedfellows?”

  “I don’t understand why this Kennedy fellow was concerned that the FBI agent saw him,” Montvale said.

  “Kennedy is obviously paranoid,” the President said. “He thinks the FBI is still looking for him, despite my specific orders that the search be called off, and that if they find him they will terminate him.”

  “That’s absurd!”

  “Oh, I agree. For one thing, terminating him would be illegal,” the President said.

  “Why would they want to?”

  “Well,” Castillo said, “Kennedy thinks—he was a senior agent in the Ethical Standards Division of the FBI before he left—it’s because he knows where all the FBI’s skeletons are buried.”

  “Charley,” the President said, “correct me if I’m wrong, but wouldn’t the secrecy provisions of the Finding extend to anything connected with what you were doing down there? I mean, even to who any of your people saw anywhere?”

  “I made that point to Mr. Yung, sir.”

  “Well, that should do it,” the President said. “But since the subject came up, Charles, why don’t you check with the CIA and the FBI to make sure they haven’t forgotten my specific orders? If they have, I’d really like to hear about it.”

  “I can’t believe they would ignore any presidential order, Mr. President.”

  “Check, Charles, please,” the President said.

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Charley, I didn’t hear you say whether you found anything useful at this fellow’s estancia.”

  “Sir, we found an address book, a coded address book. Agent Yung said it looks to him like a fairly simple code and that it should be breakable.”

  “That’s underway?”

  “No, sir. I came right here from the hotel, sir. And…”

  “And what?”

  “And frankly, sir, I thought it would be better to see if I still have a job, before going over to Fort Meade to—”

  The President cut him off with a raised hand. “All you found at the estancia was this address book?”

  “No, sir. We found written confirmation of what Agent Yung believed was the money Mr. Lorimer had in Uruguayan banks.”

  “A good deal of money? More than he could reasonably have socked away for a rainy day?”

  “Fifteen-point-seven million dollars, Mr. President.”

  “What sort of evidence?” Ambassador Montvale asked. “Bankbooks? Certificates of deposit? What?”

  The President flashed Montvale a very cold look, then looked at Castillo.

  “Sir, what Mr. Lorimer did was in effect loan the banks the money. What we took from the safe…I have them with me.”

  “You have what with you?” Montvale asked.

  “Let me ask the questions, Charles, please,” the President said and made a Give me whatever you have gesture to Castillo with both hands.

  Castillo some what awkwardly took a handful of colorfully printed documents from his briefcase and handed them to the President.

  The President glanced at them, then said, “You’re the linguist, Charley. I have no idea what these say.”

  “Sir, they’re certificates signed by officers of the banks involved, essentially stating that a payment on demand loan has been made by Mr. Lorimer to their bank and that the bank will honor—pay—these things, like checks, once Mr. Lorimer has endorsed them. Sort of like bearer bonds, Mr. President, but not exactly.”

  “And these are unsigned?”

  “Yes, sir. Right now they’re as good as an unsigned check,” Castillo said.

  “And we have no idea where—specifically, I mean—Lorimer got all that money, do we?” the secretary of state asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Castillo said. “I think—hell, I know—it’s oil-for-food proceeds, but I can’t prove it. What I was hoping was that we could tie it somehow to one of the names in the address book—assuming we can get that decoded—or to one or more of the names I got from another source.”

  “What other source?” Ambassador Montvale asked.

  “I’d rather not say, Mr. Ambassador,” Castillo said.

  “I’m the director of National Intelligence,” Montvale said, icily.

  “And I think Charley knows that,” the President said. “If he’d rather not say, I’m sure he has his reasons.” He paused. “Which are, Charley?”

  “Sir, I promised I would not reveal the identity of that source or share what he gave me without his permission.”

  “That’s absurd!” Montvale snapped. />
  “I was hoping to get his permission,” Castillo said. “Before I fucked up in Uruguay.”

  “You did say ‘screwed up in Uruguay, ’ didn’t you?” the President asked.

  “I beg your pardon,” Castillo said. “I’m very sorry, Madam Secretary.”

  “I’ve heard the word before, Charley,” Natalie Cohen said.

  “Is that about it, Charley?” the President asked.

  “Yes, sir. Except to say, Mr. President, how deeply I regret the loss of Sergeant Kranz and how deeply I regret having failed in the mission you assigned.”

  The President did not immediately respond. He looked into Castillo’s eyes a moment as he considered that statement, then said, “How do you figure that you have failed, Charley?”

  “Well, sir, the bottom line is that I am no closer to finding the people who murdered Mr. Masterson and Sergeant Markham and shot Agent Schneider than I was before I went looking for Mr. Lorimer. Mr. Lorimer is now dead and we’ll never know what he might have told us if I hadn’t botched his…”

  Castillo’s voice trailed off as he tried to find the right word.

  “Repatriation?” the President offered.

  “Yes, sir. And now Sergeant Kranz is dead. I failed you, sir.”

  “Charles,” the President said, “what about the long-term damage resulting from Major Castillo’s failure? Just off the top of your head?”

  “Mr. President, I don’t see it as a failure,” Secretary Hall spoke up.

  “The director of National Intelligence has the floor, Mr. Secretary. Pray let him continue,” the President said, coldly.

  “Actually, Mr. President, neither do I,” Montvale said. “Actually, when I have a moment to think about it, quite the opposite.”

  “You heard him,” the President pursued. “This man Lorimer is dead. We have no proof that Natalie can take to the UN that he was involved in the oil-for-food scandal or anything else. And Castillo himself admits that he’s no closer to finding out who killed Masterson and the sergeant than he ever was. Isn’t that failure?”

  “Mr. President, if I may,” Montvale said, cautiously. “Let me point out what I think the major—and that small, valiant band of men he had with him—has accomplished.”

  “What would that be?”

  “If we accept the premise that Mr. Lorimer was involved in something sor-did, and the proof of that, I submit, is that he sequestered some”—Montvale looked to Castillo for help—“how many million dollars?”

  “Fifteen-point-seven, sir,” Castillo offered.

  “…Some sixteen million U.S. dollars in Uruguay, and that parties unknown tracked him down to Uruguay and murdered him to keep him from talking. After they abducted Mr. Masterson and later murdered her husband.”

  “So what, Charles?” the President demanded.

  “I don’t seem to be expressing myself very well, Mr. President,” Montvale said. “Let me put it this way: These people, whoever they are, now know we’re onto them. They have no idea what the major may have learned before he went to South America. They have no idea how much Lorimer may have told him before they were able to murder him. If they hoped to obtain the contents of Lorimer’s safe, they failed. And they don’t know what it did or did not contain, so they will presume the worst, and that it is now in our possession. Or, possibly worse, in the possession of parties unknown. They sent their assassins in to murder Lorimer and what we—what the major and his band—gave them in return were six dead assassins and an empty safe. And now that we know we’re onto them, God only knows how soon it will be before someone comes to us.”

  “And rats on the rats, you mean?” the President asked.

  “Yes, sir, that’s precisely what I mean. And I’m not talking only about identifying the Masterson murderers—I think it very likely that the major has already ‘rendered them harmless’—but the people who ordered the murders. The masterminds of the oil-for-food scandal, those who have profited from it. Sir, in my judgment the major has not failed. He has rendered the country a great service and is to be commended.”

  “You ever hear, Charles, that great minds run in similar paths? I had just about come to the same conclusion. But one question, Charles, is what should we do about the sixteen million dollars in the banks in Uruguay? Tell the UN it’s there and let them worry about getting it back?”

  “Actually, sir, I had an off the top of my head thought about that money. According to the major, all it takes is Lorimer’s signature on those documents, whatever they’re called, that the major brought back from the hideaway to have that money transferred anywhere.”

  “But Lorimer’s dead,” the President said.

  “They have some very talented people over in Langley, if the President gets my meaning.”

  “You mean, forge a dead man’s signature and steal the money? For what purpose?”

  “Mr. President, I admit that when I first learned what you were asking the major to do, I was something less than enthusiastic. But I was wrong and I admit it. A small unit like the major’s can obviously be very valuable in this new world war. And if sixteen million dollars were available to it—sixteen million untraceable dollars…”

  “I take your point, Charles,” the President said. “But I’m going to ask you to stop thinking off the top of your head.”

  “Sir?”

  “The next thing you’re likely to suggest is that Charley—and that’s his name, Charles, not ‘the major’—move the Office of Organizational Analysis into the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. And that’s not going to happen. Charley works for me, period. Not open for comment.”

  Secretary Hall had a sudden coughing spasm. His face grew red.

  Ambassador Montvale did not seem to suspect that Secretary Hall might be concealing a hearty laugh.

  “Natalie, do you have anything to say before I send Charley out of here to take, with my profound thanks, a little time off? After he lets everybody in his apartment go, of course.”

  “I was thinking about Ambassador Lorimer, sir. He’s ill and it will devastate him to learn what his son has been up to.”

  Ambassador Philippe Lorimer, Jean-Paul Lorimer’s father, had retired from the Foreign Service of the United States after a lengthy and distinguished career after suffering a series of progressively more life-threatening heart attacks.

  “Jesus, I hadn’t thought about that,” the President said. “Charley, what about it?”

  “Sir, Mr. Lorimer is missing in Paris,” Charley said. “The man who died in Estancia Shangri-La was Jean-Paul Bertrand, a Lebanese. I don’t think anyone will be anxious to reveal who Bertrand really was. And I don’t think we have to or should.”

  “What about his sister?” Natalie Cohen asked. “Should she be told?”

  “I think so, yes,” Charley said. “I haven’t thought this through, but I have been thinking that the one thing I could tell Mr. Masterson that would put her mind at rest about the threats to her children is that I know her brother is dead and, with his death, these bastards…excuse me…these bad guys have no more interest in her or her children.”

  “And if she asks how you know, under what circumstances?” the President asked.

  “That’s what I haven’t thought through, sir.”

  “You don’t want to tell her what a despicable sonofabitch he was, is that it?”

  “I suspect she knows, sir. But it’s classified Top Secret Presidential.”

  “Would anyone have objections to my authorizing Charley to deal with the Masterson family in any way he determines best, including the divulgence of classified material?”

  “Splendid idea, Mr. President,” Ambassador Montvale said.

  “Do it soon, Charley. Please,” Natalie Cohen said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The President stood up and came around the desk and offered Castillo his hand.

  “Thank you, Charley. Good job. Go home and get some rest. And then think where you can discreetly hide sixteen
million dollars until you need it.”

  [TWO]

  Room 404

  The Mayflower Hotel

  1127 Connecticut Avenue NW

  Washington, D.C.

  2015 1 August 2005

  When Major C. G. Castillo pushed open the door to his apartment—the hotel referred to room 404 as an “Executive Suite”; it consisted of a living room, a large bedroom, a small dining room, and a second bedroom—he found Colonel Jacob Torine sprawled on one of the couches watching The O’Reilly Factor on the FOX News Channel. Torine’s feet were on the coffee table and his right hand was wrapped around a Heineken beer bottle, which rested on his chest.

  Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, sat beside him, feet on the floor, holding a half-empty bottle of Coca-Cola. He was puffing on a large dark brown cigar.

  Well, I may not get cashiered, Castillo thought. But if somebody sees him with that cigar, I’ll certainly be charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

  The obvious source of Bradley’s cigar, Fernando Lopez, sat puffing on its twin across a chessboard from Special Agent David W. Yung, Jr., of the FBI. Special Agent Jack Britton of the Secret Service watched them with amused interest; it looked to him as if the kid was clobbering Lopez.

  Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., in civilian clothing, sat in an armchair. His left leg, heavily bandaged, rested on the coffee table. Miller and Castillo had been classmates and roommates at West Point. They had served together several times during their careers, most recently with the “Night Stalkers,” more formally known as the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment.

  Everybody turned to look at Castillo.

  “What happened to your cast?” Castillo asked, looking at Miller.

  “They took pity on me and sawed it off. I am now down to two miles of rubberized gauze,” Miller said.