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“I’m sure he would have liked to,” Montvale said. “But he was torn between humiliation that I had personally brought him credible evidence that Mr. Whelan had a mole in the agency and anger with himself that he hadn’t done more to the lady after I personally had sent Truman Ellsworth over there to subtly warn them—after our conversation at the Army-Navy Club—that they had a problem with Mr. Wilson.”
“You’re sure this guy is not going to write about me?”
“I’m sure he’s not. He told meso.”
“Because he feels sorry for the overstressed lunatic?”
“That’s part of it, certainly. And part of it is that Whelan thinks of himself as a loyal American. Patriotism is also a actor.”
“Isn’t patriotism supposed to be the last refuge of a scoundrel?” Castillo asked, bitterly.
“You’re the one who needed the refuge, Colonel. If the scoundrel shoe fits, put it on.”
“It fits,” Castillo said. “I guess I’m supposed to thank you, Mr. Ambassador…”
“You’re welcome, but don’t let it go to your head. I was protecting the President, not you.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
Montvale looked at his watch.
“I’d really hoped—so I would have no surprises when you brief the President…”
Brief the President? Where the hell did that come from?
“…and the others…”
What others?
“…that you and Britton would be able to bring me up to speed about these people in Bucks County, on everything, but we don’t seem to have the time. We’re due to be over there in ten minutes and I need to visit the gentlemen’s rest facility before we go.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I have to say this, Colonel, not a word vis-à-vis Mr. Whelan.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I wonder what the President’s going to think about the stylish Mr. Britton,” Montvale said, then rose from behind his desk and waved for Castillo to precede him out of the office.
XIV
[ONE]
The Oval Office
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, D.C.
1555 10 August 2005
The Secret Service agent standing just outside of the Oval Office—a very large man attired in a dark gray suit carefully tailored to hide the bulk of the Mini Uzi he carried under his arm—stepped in front of Charles W. Montvale, blocking his way.
“Excuse me, Director Montvale,” he said, politely. He nodded once, indicating Jack Britton, who still was wearing his pink seersucker jacket, yellow polo shirt, light blue trousers, and highly polished tassel loafers. “I don’t know this gentleman.”
“Show him your Secret Service credentials, Agent Britton,” Montvale ordered. “Quickly. We don’t want to keep the President waiting.”
