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“Come to think about it,” the President said, thoughtfully, making Castillo wonder if he was about to change his mind, “that’s a good way to handle the whole expert question. If Castillo decides he needs an expert from somewhere else—the NSA, for example, or State, or Homeland Security—we’ll run them past you or the appropriate secretary, who will relay my order to them that nothing goes back where they came from, and then run them over to Castillo. He may be able to get what he wants out of them without having to tell them why and thus about the Finding. And he’s the only one who can make that decision.”
“That’ll work,” Matt Hall said. It was the first time he had said anything.
“I’ll handle the intelligence community personally, Mr. President,” Montvale said.
The President looked at him and nodded but didn’t respond directly.
“Anyone else got anything?” the President asked.
There was a chorus of “No, sir”s.
“Get some rest, Charley,” the President said, finally. “Get to bed early. I can’t afford to have you burn out. And I think you’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
The President thought he saw something on Castillo’s face and asked, smiling naughtily, “What makes me think you have other plans for the evening, Don Juan?”
“Sir…”
“What’s her name?”
“Actually, sir, I thought I would go by my office, pick up Major Miller, and go to the Army-Navy Club to…” At the last moment, Castillo had enough presence of mind to change the next words from drink our supper to “have our supper.”
“Yeah,” the President said, unconvinced. “Good hunting, Colonel.”
The President got up and walked out of the Oval Office through the doorway leading to his private working office. He was gone before any of the others could rise to their feet.
Sure, she has a name. Elizabeth Schneider.
And I still haven’t called her. Or, worse, even thought of calling her.
What the hell is the matter with me?
[TWO]
Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo and Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., did not go to the Army-Navy Club as Castillo had announced to the President of the United States that they would do.
Instead—with Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF, and Special Agent Jack Britton in tow—they went right around the corner from the White House, to 15th Street NW. There, at the Old Ebbitt Grill (est. 1856), they sat at the massive dark mahogany bar and dined on hot roast beef sandwiches au jus with steak fries (Miller and Torine) and linguini with white clam sauce (Castillo) and red clam sauce (Britton), washing it all down with Heineken beer from the tap.
By ten o’clock, all four were in beds—alone and asleep—in Herr Karl Gossinger’s suite in the Motel Monica Lewinsky, the management having obligingly made up one of the couches in the sitting room into a bed for Special AgentBritton.
Although the thought that he should telephone Miss Elizabeth Schneider had occurred to Charley Castillo, he had not made an attempt to do so, having reasoned that it was too late—particularly for him. He was about to crash, and crash hard, and thus in absolutely no condition to participate in a long apologetic and explanatory conversation.
I’ll call tomorrow, he had thought, then buried his head in his pillow.
If I don’t get distracted and forget again.
He had then groped in the dark for his cellular on the bedside table, found it, dialed its own number, and after the mechanized female voice answered that he was being transferred into voice mail he left the message, “Call Betty, you heartless bastard.”
Then he pushed the END button, returned the phone to the table, and finally crashed.
[THREE]
Office of Organizational Analysis
Department of Homeland Security
Nebraska Avenue Complex
