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“Yes, sir,” the colonel said.
Another dark blue Yukon came up the drive and pulled in ahead of the Chevrolet as the sergeant put the covers back over Naylor’s four-star plates. A Secret Service agent got out of the front passenger’s seat and opened the rear door.
Naylor climbed in and Castillo followed him. The Secret Service agent closed the door, got in front, and turned to look in the back.
“Where to, sir?”
“The Army-Navy Club, please,” Castillo said.
“Yes, sir,” the Secret Service agent said and then spoke to his microphone. “Don Juan, with Tampa One aboard, leaving the grounds for the Army-Navy Club.”
The Yukon started down the drive toward Pennsylvania Avenue.
“‘Don Juan, with Tampa One aboard’?” Naylor parroted.
“Don Juan is Joel Isaacson’s idea of humor,” Charley said.
“Charley, I’ve got something to say. And I think I better say it before we get there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What I was thinking tonight—and don’t misunderstand me, you earned that promotion—was that I really wish I hadn’t sent you to work for Matt Hall.”
“Me, too.”
“I wonder if you mean that,” Naylor said. “This is pretty heady stuff, Charley. A Secret Service car, a Secret Service code name. I am reminded of Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North and that worries me.”
Castillo didn’t reply.
“I would have been much happier if your promotion meant you now would take command of some battalion,” Naylor said.
“I would, too, sir. I didn’t ask for this job. And I asked to be relieved.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen and that’s what worries me,” Naylor said, then suddenly shifted subjects: “Do you have any idea why Montvale wants me at the club?” Then, before Castillo could reply, he asked another: “Why did you want to talk to him?”
“I have no idea why he wants you there, but the reason I want to talk to him is because he sent me Truman Ellsworth to be his liaison officer—read spy…”
“Truman Ellsworth is a former under secretary of state,” Naylor interrupted. “A liaison officer with that background?”
“Yes, sir. I thought of that. And I don’t want him. I want to get rid of him now before he chains himself to my desk.”
“I don’t think I have to tell you that Montvale is a powerful man. And a dangerous one.”
“I’ve already figured that out,” Castillo said.
“In North Africa,” Naylor said, almost to himself, “when Eisenhower sent Omar Bradley to Patton as his liaison officer—read spy—Patton outwitted Eisenhower by asking that Bradley be assigned as his chief of staff. That put Bradley under Patton’s orders. That kept him from communicating anything to Eisenhower without Patton knowing about it and not communicating anything Patton didn’t want communicated.”
“I’ve heard that story,” Charley said.
“I don’t think you want this fellow Ellsworth as your chief of staff,” Naylor said. “Ellsworth is not Bradley; he works for Montvale and that’s not going to change. And you’re not Patton, who had as many stars as Bradley. You’re a lowly lieutenant colonel and Ellsworth is…a former under secretary of state.”
“That’s what worries me,” Castillo said.
“The difference here is that Patton worked for Eisenhower. You don’t work for Montvale. But that’s what he’s after. If he can’t get that right now, he’ll use Ellsworth as your puppet master.”
“That’s what it looks like to me, sir,” Charley agreed.
“Goddamn it, I hate Washington,” Naylor said.
