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  "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.

  "And how's the knee?"

  "Time will tell," Miller said, disgustedly, then asked, "Well, how did it go with the President?"

  "Well, I don't think we'll all wind up in Alaska counting snowballs," Castillo announced.

  "You really didn't think something like that was going to happen, did you, Charley?" Torine asked.

  "Actually, I bear a message from the commander in chief," Castillo said. "Quote, Good job. Thank you, End quote."

  "What did you expect, Charley?" Torine pursued.

  "We lost Kranz and they blew Lorimer away before we could talk to him," Castillo said. "How does that add up to a 'good job'?"

  "You found the sonofabitch," Miller said. "And, in doing so, removed the threat to the Mastersons. That's a good job, Charley. In my book or anybody else's."

  "Can Britton and I go home now, Gringo?" Fernando asked. "To try to salvage what we can from the ashes of our marriages?"

  "Is that all the President had to say?" Torine as
ked.

  "Montvale was there," Castillo said.

  "And?"

  "Hall and Natalie Cohen," Castillo said.

  "How effusive was the ambassador in his praise for our little undertaking?" Torine said.

  Castillo chuckled. "Actually, he called you-us-'the major and his small, valiant band of men.'"

  "No kidding?" Torine said. "Well, I can live with that."

  "He actually tried to take us-the Office of Organizational Analysis-over."

  "Oh, shit!" Torine said.

  "He didn't get away with it," Castillo said. "The President cut him off in midsentence."

  "Leaving us where?" Miller asked.

  "We're still in business," Castillo said. "The President was very clear about that." He looked at Miller. "Colonel Torine's brought you up to speed on everything, right, Dick?"

  Miller nodded.

  "David, we have something with Lorimer's signature on it, don't we?" Castillo asked.

  Yung nodded.

  "Well, as soon as possible, take it over to Langley," Castillo said. "That means right now. Something with Lorimer's signature on it, and the bearer bonds or whatever the hell they're called."

  "Why?" Yung asked.

  "So the agency's finest forgers can put Lorimer's signature on the bearer bonds and we can grab the money. It's now our operating budget."

  "Lovely idea," Torine said. "Fifteen-point-seven million is a nice little operating budget. But what are you going to do when Montvale finds out about it? And he will."

  "Actually, it was his idea," Castillo said. "Admittedly while he was still thinking he could bring us under his benevolent wing."

  "Where am I supposed to put it?" Yung said.

  "Good question," Castillo said.

  "I've got an account in the Cayman Islands," Yung said. "At the Liechtensteinische Landesbank."

  "You've got what?" Castillo asked, incredulously. "A pillar of the FBI, an expert in uncovering money laundering, and you're hiding your own money from the IRS in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank in the Cayman Islands?"

  Yung was not amused.

  "It was an investigative tool, Major," he said. "I opened the account both to see how that could be done and so that I could be kept abreast of any changes in their banking laws. As a depositor, I could ask questions that I could not ask otherwise."

  "That's even better," Castillo said, delightedly. "The FBI has money in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank in the Caymans. Is nothing sacred anymore?"

  "What the hell is that?" Britton asked. "Lickten-what?"

  "Liechtenstein is a little country-run by a prince-about twenty miles long and five miles wide between Switzerland and Austria," Castillo said. "Landesbank means 'state bank.' The Liechtensteiners make their money growing cows and banking other people's money."

  "Actually, the funds in the bank are mine," Yung said. "Using my own money to open the account was easier than trying to get permission-and, of course, the money itself-from the FBI."

  "And how much of your own money are you sequestering in your Liechtensteinische Landesbank account?"

  "Twenty-five hundred dollars."

  "How hard is it to open an account?" Castillo asked.

  "Actually, it's quite simple. All they ask is a reference from your home banker and a cashier's check or a wire deposit. They won't take cash deposits," Yung answered.

  "Well, then, that's what we'll do. But I want to get that money out of Uruguay before they find out Lorimer is dead."

  "Bertrand," Yung corrected him. "The funds are in Bertrand's name."

  "Okay. Bertrand," Castillo said. "Are any questions going to be asked when your secret little account suddenly grows by fifteen-point-seven million?"

  "I'm not sure I want to do that," Yung said.

  "Answer the question," Castillo said. "Is that going to make waves?"

  "No questions are ever asked and they have stricter bank secrecy laws than even Switzerland. But, for the obvious reasons, I am uncomfortable transferring Bertrand's funds into my account."

  "Then why did you tell us about your account?" Torine asked with a tone of impatience in his voice.

  "I was going to suggest that you look into opening an account there. What Castillo's asking me to do is commit a felony. I'm an FBI agent, dammit!"

  "Jesus H. Christ!" Torine said. "FBI rule number one: Always cover your ass. Right?"

  "What I'm ordering you to do is carry out an order of the President of the United States," Castillo said.

  "I don't believe you have the legal authority to give me an order. I'm in the FBI. I don't work for you."

  Torine started to say something, then changed his mind and looked at Castillo.

  Castillo said, "I suppose that's true, that you don't work for me. Right now, I guess your status is volunteer."

  "Major, I thought-still think-you were doing the right thing when you staged that operation to kidnap Lorimer from Estancia Shangri-La. That's why I went with you. But that's not going to go over well at the J. Edgar Hoover Building when they hear about it. The FBI is supposed to investigate kidnappings, not participate in them."

  "And you don't want to endanger your FBI career any more than you already have?" Torine asked, sarcastically.

  Yung considered that and then nodded.

  "Yung," Torine said, evenly, "if you're even thinking of running over to the J. Edgar Hoover Building and repeating even one word of this conversation or one detail of the operation we have just been on into some sympathetic FBI inspector's ear, I suggest you think again. That would constitute the divulgence of material classified Top Secret Presidential to persons not authorized access to such material. And that is a felony."

  Castillo added, "And that includes telling anybody you bumped into Howard Kennedy in Buenos Aires."

  Yung looked at him coldly.

  "Let me be brutal," Castillo said. "Supposing you went to the FBI and confessed all and it was decided for a number of reasons not to try you for unauthorized disclosure, are you really naive enough to think you'd be welcomed back like the prodigal son? Or is it more likely that you'd spend the rest of your FBI career investigating parking ticket corruption in Sioux Falls, South Dakota?"

  The look on Yung's face showed that Castillo had struck home.

  "Right now, the question seems to be that you don't think I have the authority to give you orders. Is that right?"

  "I don't believe you have that legal authority," Yung said.

  "What if I got it? Would that change things?"

  "How could you do that?"

  Castillo sat down on the couch next to Corporal Lester Bradley and picked up the telephone. He punched in a number from memory.

  "This is C. G. Castillo," he announced a moment later. "Is Secretary Hall still with the President?

  "Can you get him for me, please?

  "Charley, sir. Sorry to interrupt.

  "Yung would feel more comfortable dealing with that banking business we discussed earlier if he was assigned to the Office of Organizational Analysis and therefore under my orders. Is that going to be a problem?

  "The sooner the better, sir. By the time the banks open in the morning. Tonight would be even better.

  "He'll be with Miller. Here in my apartment, sir.

  "Yes, sir."

  There was a sixty-second period of silence.

  "Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.

  "No, sir. I'm going to go to Philadelphia and then to Biloxi. Maybe still tonight if there's a way to get from Philadelphia to Biloxi. In any event, as soon as I can, sir.

  "Yes, sir. I'll let you and Secretary Cohen know how that went as soon as I can.

  "Yes, sir, I will. Thank you very much, sir."

  Castillo put the handset back in the cradle and looked at Yung.

  "Secretary Hall tells me the President has put in a call to the director of the FBI. When he gets him, or his deputy, he will order that you be placed on duty with the Office of Organizational Analysis. Either the direc
tor or his deputy will call you here and tell you that. That will place you under my orders. Any questions?"

  Yung shook his head.

  "Let me take this opportunity to welcome you to the Office of Organizational Analysis, Mr. Yung," Castillo said, mock portentously. "We hope your career with us will last as long as the organization itself-in other words, maybe for the next two or three weeks."

  Torine laughed. Others chuckled.

  A smile-small but unmistakable-crossed Yung's lips.

  "Just as soon as I can-within a day or two-I will open another account in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank," Castillo said. "We'll get the money out of your account as soon as possible."

  Yung nodded.

  "You ever been to Langley, Yung?" Miller asked.

  Yung shook his head.

  "I'll take you over there," Miller said and then had a second thought: "Better yet, Charley, Tom McGuire knows his way around there better than I do."

  "You know where to find him?"

  Miller nodded.

  "Ask him to do that, please," Castillo said. "How hard is it going to be to get Vic D'Allessando on the horn?"

  Miller held out a cellular telephone. Castillo went and took it from him.

  "Autodial seven," Miller said.

  "I don't know when I'll be able to get to Biloxi," Castillo explained. "But I want to see Vic before I see the Mastersons."

  "It'll probably be in the very wee hours when we get there," Fernando said. "But if you go with me, I'll bet you'll get there sooner than if you went commercial."

  "I want to go to Philadelphia first," Castillo said.

  "So does Jack," Fernando said. "Jack's wife is with her mother in Philly. The planned itinerary is Reagan to Philly. Then, after you see your lady friend, Philly to Charleston, where we drop the colonel off. Then Charleston to San Antone. No problem to drop you off in Biloxi."

  "You're going to Charleston by way of Philadelphia?" Castillo asked Torine. "You can't catch a plane from here?"

  "The oldest member of this small, valiant band of men," Torine said, "having just returned from a tour of the world, is in no condition to pass through airport security, especially in possession of an Uzi and a case of untaxed brandy that I don't want to have to try to explain."