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“I didn’t know anybody went to Paris on purpose,” Miller said. “What are you going to do there?”
“Thank you for asking, and I’m not being sarcastic. I want everybody to know what I’m doing,” Castillo said. “The agency guy in Paris—Edgar Delchamps—is a good guy, a real old-timer. I’m going to ask him to go with me to Lorimer’s apartment. The embassy has been informed that I’m going to look after Lorimer’s property for Ambassador Lorimer. Then I’m going to tell him what happened at Lorimer’s estancia and see if he has any ideas who the guys who bushwhacked us were or who they were working for.
“Then I’m going to Fulda to make sure there’s no problems with all that money in my Liechtensteinische Landesbank account in the Caymans. Maybe there’s a better place to have it.
“Then I’m going to Budapest to see a journalist named Eric Kocian, who gave me some names of people in the oil-for-food business. I promised him I wouldn’t turn them over to anyone. I want to get him to let me use the names. See if we can figure out where I might have got them, other than from him. I’m also going to ask him to guess who was paying the guys who bushwhacked us.
“Then, maybe a quick stop in Vienna to see what I can pick up there about the guy who was murdered just before Lorimer decided to go missing. Before I come back here, I’m probably going to go to Uruguay and Argentina. I want to go through Lorimer’s estancia to see what I can come up with.
“Which reminds me of something else that I probably would have forgotten: Dick, get on the horn to somebody at Fort Rucker, maybe the Aviation Board, and find out the best panel and black boxes available on the civilian market for a Bell Ranger. Get a set of it, put it in a box, and ask Secretary Cohen to send it under diplomatic sticker to Ambassador Silvio in Buenos Aires.”
“What the hell is that all about?”
“You wouldn’t believe the lousy avionics in the Ranger I borrowed down there. The new stuff is payment for the use of the chopper. And it will be nice to have if I need to borrow the Ranger again.”
No one spoke for a moment, then Miller said, “Charley, those avionics are going to cost a fortune.”
“We’ll have a fortune in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank. So far as I’m concerned, that’s what it’s for.”
Miller gave him a thumbs-up.
“I’ll be in touch,” Castillo said and walked toward his office door.
He turned.
“Dick, can you come with me? Sure as Christ made little green apples, I’ve forgotten something.”
[THREE]
Room 404
The Mayflower Hotel
1127 Connecticut Avenue NW
Washington, D.C.
1630 4 August 2005
Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., was sprawled on the chaise longue in the master bedroom, his stiff leg on the chair, his good leg resting, knee bent, on the floor. A bottle of Heineken beer was resting in his hand on his chest.
Major C. G. Castillo was standing by the bed, putting clothing into a hard-sided suitcase.
“If I was just coming back here,” he said, “I could get by with a carry-on. But if I take just a carry-on, I’ll find myself in the middle of winter in Argentina.”
“And if you take the suitcase, it will be misdirected to Nome, Alaska,” Miller said, lifting his bottle to take a sip of beer. “It is known as the Rule of the Fickle Finger of Fate.”
Castillo closed the suitcase and set it on the floor.
“So tell me about that,” Castillo said, pointing to Miller’s leg. “What do they say at Walter Reed?”
“I am led to believe that my chances of passing an Army flight physical range from zero to zilch. I have been ‘counseled’ that what I should do is take retirement for disability. One bum knee is apparently worth seventy percent of my basic pay for the rest of my life.”
“Oh, shit,” Castillo said.
“What really pisses me off is that I have reason to believe that all I have to do to reactivate my civilian ticket—”
“Reactivate?”
