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“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 asked.
“Montvale was there,” Castillo said.
