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“Not in the same league as you, Gringo.”
Castillo was about to ask him what the hell that was supposed to mean when Witherington appeared around the corner of the concrete-block building at the wheel of a white golf cart and there wasn’t time.
[FOUR]
Old Executive Office Building 17th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 1155 31 May 2005
Major C. G. Castillo, wearing a dark suit and tie not unlike that of th
e countless civilian staffers moving in a purposeful fashion up and down the hallways of the OEOB, stopped before an unmarked heavy wooden door and put a key in its lock.
Inside there was a small antechamber with nothing in it but a somewhat ragged carpet and, mounted more or less unobtrusively high above a second door, a small television camera.
Castillo rapped at one of the panels in the door and, a moment later, there was the buzz of a solenoid and when Castillo put his hand on the door it opened.
This was the private entrance to the office that Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall maintained in the old building across from the White House, which had once housed the State, War, and Navy departments—all three— of the federal government.
The secretary had seen who it was and pushed a button under his desk to unlock the door.
“I said twelve o’clock and here you are at eleven fifty- five,” Hall said. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Punctuality is a virtue, sir,” Castillo said. “I thought I told you that. Since it’s my only one, I work hard at it.”
Hall chuckled. “I’ve heard that chastity and temperance aren’t among your virtues,” he said. “What’s up, Charley?”
“I went to Baltimore and got UPS to show me one of their 727s. Their guy doesn’t think it will be used as a flying bomb against us here.”
“I hope he’s right,” Hall said.
“And then I came here—about forty-five minutes ago— and have worked my way maybe one-third down the stack of stuff Dr. Cohen’s memo got us.”
“And?”
“After page two, and considering the urgency of our conversation with the president, I thought what I should do is go over there, and the sooner the better.”
Hall considered that momentarily. After the secretary’s discussions in the Oval Office with the president and Natalie Cohen, then further discussions privately between Hall and Dr. Cohen, there was no question that the president was pissed and therefore no question that Castillo now had a blank check to carry out his mission.
“Okay,” he said. “Have them make the arrangements.”
“I’ve already done that, sir. I’m on a Lufthansa flight to Rhine-Main tonight.”
“You have to go through Frankfurt?”
“I want to give my boss at the Tages Zeitung a heads-up that he’s sending me to Luanda,” Charley said. “Then London to Angola on British Airways.”
“You think that’s necessary? Going as . . . what’s your name?”
“Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger,” Castillo said.
“That’s a mouthful. No wonder I can’t remember it.”
“Sir, I had the feeling that you really wanted me to be the fly on the wall on this job. That’s the best way to do it, sir, I submit, as a German journalist.”
“The less anyone knows what you’re doing, Charley, the better. There’s no sense in having it get out the president ordered this unless it has to come out.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Anything I can do for you before you go?” Hall asked, and then had a thought. “How are you going to get a visa for Angola on such short notice?”
