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The Old Executive Office Building
Washington, D.C.
1515 10 August 2005
Ambassador Charles W. Montvale’s office in the OEOB was not very impressive for the very powerful man the press had dubbed the “New Intelligence Czar.” It consisted of two small, sparsely furnished rooms and the first thing Castillo thought when he saw it was that it was even smaller than the OEOB offices of Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall.
There was a reason for this. Both Montvale and Hall had far larger and more ornately furnished offices elsewhere. The primary purpose of their OEOB offices was to provide them with a place to wait and take calls until time was found for them in the President’s schedule.
Cabinet members such as himself, Secretary Hall had once only half jokingly told Castillo, could not afford to be seen sitting twiddling their thumbs on chairs outside the Oval Office, like schoolboys having been sent to the principal’s office for disciplining. It was bad for their public image.
Castillo was surprised when Montvale didn’t keep them waiting. His secretary—or executive assistant, whatever she was—went directly to Montvale’s door and opened it the moment she saw them walking into the outer office.
“Colonel Castillo and two other gentlemen are here,” the secretary said.
Castillo didn’t hear a reply, but a moment later, the secretary said, “Go right in, please, gentlemen.”
Castillo went in first, aware that a Pavlovian reflex had kicked in, trying—and almost succeeding—to make him march in, salute, stand at attention, and bark: “Lieutenant Colonel Castillo reporting as ordered, sir!”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador,” Castillo said.
“Hello, Charley,” Montvale said.
He acknowledged Torine by saying, “Colonel,” then looked at Britton.
“I like that,” Montvale announced with a smile. “Pink and yellow and blue go well together. But you don’t bring up what usually comes to mind when someone says, ‘Secret Service.’”
“I try to put the emphasis on the ‘secret’ in Secret Service, Mr. Ambassador,” Britton said.
“On a scale of one to ten, Britton,” Montvale said, his tone suddenly serious, “what’s your take on the chances of a nuclear weapon being detonated in Philadelphia anytime soo
n?”
“Point-zero-zero-one, Mr. Ambassador,” Britton responded immediately.
“That answer sounded rehearsed.”
“Your question was expected, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Colonel Castillo told you to expect it?”
“No. But I didn’t think you were calling me down here to discuss my wardrobe.”
“Now I know why Colonel Castillo likes you,” Montvale said. “You’re about as much of a self-confident wiseass as he is. Now you and Colonel Torine please step out for a moment—actually, it’s probably going to be a bit longer than that—while I have a private word with the colonel. Tell Jo-Anne no calls except from the President personally, and to get you some coffee.”
“Yes, sir,” Britton said. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” Torine said and turned and followed Britton out.
Montvale waited until the door had closed.
“You understand, I hope, Charley, how much rides on Britton’s—and thus your—assessment of the threat that there is a SADM somewhere around Philadelphia?”
“I’ve talked to some other people, sir. It—”
Montvale shut him off by raising his hand like a traffic cop.
“Hold that until the briefing,” he said.
