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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.
