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“Thank you,” Castillo said and got in the Yukon.
Thirty seconds later, the Yukon pulled away from the curb.
Special Agent Dulaney spoke again to his lapel microphone.
“Don Juan aboard. Headed for the nest.”
“Who is he talking to?” Castillo asked, softly.
“I asked him that,” Miller said. “He said, ‘The Secret Service has a communications system,’ and then I said, ‘Yeah, but who are you talking to?’ And he said, ‘The communications system.’”
“Well, ask a dumb question,” Castillo said, grinning. Then he added, “You didn’t have to ride all the way out here, Dick.”
“I had my reasons. Two of them, to be precise. The first was that it was a pleasant change from my usual routine, which is to go from the hotel to the Nebraska Avenue Complex, then back again, sometimes stopping off at the lobby bar on the way home to have a drink to recuperate from my journey.”
“And the second?”
“I thought you might have had it in your head to stop off in the lobby bar en route to the room tonight.”
“You’re psychic! And I’ll even buy.”
“And I thought I should warn you what you’re liable to find in there if you do,” Miller said, paused, then added, “The former CIA regional director for Southwest Africa.”
“No kidding?”
“Yes, indeed. I was having a little nip about this time night before last in the lobby bar when I sensed death rays aimed at me. I looked around and there she was, Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson, in the flesh. And very nice flesh it was, I have to admit, spilling out of her dress.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing happened. She was with a fellow I strongly suspect was not Mr. Wilson. He was even younger than you or me.”
“You’re sure she made you?”
“The death rays made it clear that she did. They froze my martini solid. I had to chew it, like ice cubes.”
“Well, she probably blames you for getting her fired.”
“That thought occurred to me,” Miller said, “shortly followed by a possible worse scenario, that she didn’t get fired.”
“You think that’s possible?”
“You know the agency better than I do,” Miller said. “Firing somebody is an admission that the agency is less than perfect.”
“Can we find out? Maybe ask Tom McGuire to ask a few discreet questions?”
“I’m way ahead of you, Charley,” Miller said. “As a devout believer in Know Thy Enemy, the first thing the next morning, I called Langley, identified myself as chief of staff to the chief of the Office of Organizational Analysis…”
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“Oh, no,” Miller said. “And I asked, did they happen to have an employee named Patricia Davies Wilson and, if so, what was she doing for them?”
“And they told you?”
“Has anyone told you, Chief, that we now have a ‘contact officer’ in most of the important agencies, under orders to give us anything we ask for?”
“No, nobody told me.”
“You should spend more time in the office, Chief. All sorts of things are happening. But your question was, ‘And they told you?’ Yes, they did. And what they told me—you’re going to love this—is that Mr. Wilson is a senior analyst in the South American Division’s Southern Cone Section.”
