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“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.
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“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?”
