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“You wouldn’t happen to have a green beret in a closet somewhere, would you, Mr. Castillo?”
“A souvenir of happier times, Colonel,” Castillo said.
Kilgore stood up.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Castillo. I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again. But on the other hand, you never know. We may bump into each other at an Association of USMA Graduates meeting and get to sing ‘Army Blue’ together.”
“Thank you, sir,” Castillo said.
“I left a number on your computer you can call if you need anything else,” Kilgore said.
He shook Castillo’s hand quickly but firmly and walked out of the office.
Castillo started to return to the conference room but Mr. Forbison put her head in the door.
“One more,” she said. “This one says from the Secret Service.”
That has to be Tom McGuire. Or maybe Joel Isaacson.
Castillo made a bring ’em on wave of his hand and went behind his desk, sat down, and started to shut down his laptop.
“Hello, Charley,” Special Agent Elizabeth Schneider said from the office door.
Castillo was to remember later that his first reaction was, “Oh, shit, not now!”
He got some what awkwardly to his feet and was aware of his awkwardness.
“I thought you’d still be in the hospital,” he said.
“I’ve been out for almost a week,” she said. “I’m on what they call ‘limited duty.’”
He looked at her carefully and noticed that although she appeared not to be a hundred percent—he thought he heard a catch to her speech, as if it was some what painful to speak—she was, by all appearances, well on the mend now, nearly three weeks after the ambush in Buenos Aires.
He then recalled from his experience in the first desert war and in Afghanistan that It was not uncommon for certain people to rebound some what quickly from trauma, particularly ones who had a young strong body on their side.
And Betty indeed had a young strong body.
Castillo crossed the room to her, thinking she expected to be kissed.
He put his hands on her arms and moved his face close.
She didn’t seem at all eager for his kiss, much less the passionate embrace he thought was likely.
That’s what’s known as a “chaste kiss.” As between aunt and dutiful nephew.
Oh, I know.
She’s pissed. And has every right to be.
“Baby, I tried to call you. I wanted to call before I went to Paris. I couldn’t. There just wasn’t time.”
I don’t want to get into a long explanation of what happened that night, my promotion ceremony and the conversation with Montvale at the Army-Navy Club.
“Not a problem, Charley,” Betty said.
She smiled some what awkwardly.
&nbs
