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"You on, Agnes?" Castillo asked.
"Uh-huh," Mrs. Agnes Forbison, the deputy chief for administration of the Office of Organizational Analysis, said.
"You and Dick stay on the line," Castillo said. "Don't record or take notes, but pay attention."
"Why do I think I know what you're going to say next?" Agnes Forbison asked.
"White House," the female operator repeated.
"You're prescient, Agnes," Castillo said, and then, "Operator, this is Colonel Castillo. Will you get me Ambassador Montvale on a secure line, please?"
"Hold one, Colonel. It may take a moment. He's in the mountains with the boss."
Oh, shit!
Ten seconds later, a male voice came on.
"Ambassador Montvale's line."
"Colonel Castillo for Ambassador Montvale," the White House operator said. "The line is secure."
"The ambassador is with the President. I'm not sure he can be disturbed."
"Is that Mr. Ellsworth?" Castillo asked.
Truman C. Ellsworth had risen high in government service as Ambassador Montvale's trusted deputy. He was not an admirer of Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, whom he viewed as a threat to Montvale.
"Good afternoon, Colonel," Ellsworth said in his somewhat nasal voice.
"I have to speak to the ambassador. Your call, Mr. Ellsworth, as to if he can be interrupted when he's with the President."
There was no reply, but in five seconds another male voice, one somewhat impatient, came over the speakers.
"Yes?"
Ellsworth, you sonofabitch!
"This is Castillo, Mr. President. Sorry to bother you, sir. I was trying to get the ambassador."
"My line rang," the President said, and then corrected himself. "Flashed. How are you, Charley?"
"Very well, thank you, sir."
"You're in Argentina, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"What kind of television do you get down there?"
"We've been watching Fox and Deutsche Welle, Mr. President."
"So you know what's going on in New Orleans and along the Gulf Coast?"
"Yes, sir."
"We're watching. Hard to believe, isn't it?"
Un-fucking-believable, sir.
