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“Given you how?”
“Through Major Castillo.”
“I’m having a hard time understanding this, Mr. President, ” Beiderman said. “What’s in it for Pevsner? Why should we trust a man like that?”
“I think we’d better take it from the top,” the president said.
Beiderman nodded.
“Have a drink, Fred,” Hall said. “You’re probably going to need one, and, when you write your memoirs, I’d rather you didn’t recall that we were drinking and you weren’t.”
Beiderman looked at Hall and then at the president, who was holding his Maker’s Mark, then shrugged.
“Why not?”
The president pressed the button that would summon the steward and then looked at Beiderman.
“When I became annoyed that no one in the entire intelligence community—no one, mind you—seemed to be able to locate the airplane stolen in Angola,” the president began, “I called in Natalie and Matt and . . .”
[TWO]
303 Concord Circle Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania 1731 9 June 2005
The "Yes, sir” that Major C. G. Castillo said to his cellular telephone was more a reflex action than a reply to Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall. Castillo had heard the click of the breaking connection a split second after Hall had said, “I’ll have to get back to you, Charley.”
As he slipped the telephone into his shirt pocket, he saw that Major General H. Richard Miller, Sr., had come into the corridor where Charley had gone to take the call after leaving the living room.
“I was not trying to overhear your call, Major,” the general said. “But I would like a word with you in private.”
“Major”? What is he up to now?
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
General Miller opened a door and motioned Charley ahead of him. Inside was a small, book-lined, very neat study. There were a dozen framed photographs on the bookcase shelves. One was of the general—then a colonel—and Major Colin Powell, obviously taken in Vietnam. There were three photographs of Dick Miller. One was of him in dress uniform standing with his father at West Point taken— Castillo knew; he had taken the picture—just before the final retreat parade. A second showed Miller getting his captain’s bars from General Miller and the third showed General Miller, now retired and in civilian clothing, pinning on Dick’s major’s leaves.
“This will do,” General Miller said, closing the door. “Please feel free to use my office for any further calls.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ll understand, Major, that I am not asking for information that may be classified.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You are obviously in command here and I would like to offer to help with whatever it is you’re doing.”
“That’s very kind of you, General, but I can’t think of a thing.”
“I understand,” General Miller said. “Thank you for your time, Major Castillo.”
He turned and started to open the door.
Fuck it! If you can’t trust a West Point two-star whose grandfather was at San Juan Hill with the 10th Cavalry . . .
“General, now give me a minute, please,” Castillo said.
General Miller turned around.
“What I’m about to tell you, sir, may not be shared with anyone without my express permission,” Castillo said. “Mine or Dick’s.”
