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Delchamps looked at him for a moment, then said, "And that means Lorimer is an unimportant little lieutenant, and Timmons is an unimportant little DEA agent, right?"
"That was an unfortunate choice of words," Montvale said, "but isn't 'important' a relative term? Which would you say is more important, Mr. Delchamps: preserving the confidentiality of the Presidential Finding, the compromise of which would embarrass the President and just about destroy the fruits of the investigation you and Inspector Doherty and the others are about to complete, or sending an unimportant little lieutenant to a weather station in the Aleutian Islands for a year or two to make sure he keeps his mouth shut?"
Delchamps didn't reply.
Montvale went on: "Or which would be less wise: to send Colonel Castillo and his merry band to Paraguay to take on a drug cartel, which could carry with it, obviously, the very real risk of compromising the Finding, and, in addition, render the OOA impotent, or letting the people for whom Special Agent Timmons works in Paraguay deal with the matter?"
"No one is suggesting that Charley's guys go rescue Timmons," Delchamps said. "We all know that wouldn't work."
"I'm glad you realize that," Montvale said.
"Lorimer is not going to be sent to the Aleutian Islands," Castillo said, "or anything like that."
Both Montvale and Delchamps looked at him, surprised that he had gone off on a tangent.
"What are you going to do with him, Ace?" Delchamps asked after a moment.
"The first thing that comes to mind is to send him to Bragg. Let him be an instructor or something."
"That'll work?" Delchamps asked.
"I think so."
"I don't think that's a satisfactory solution," Montvale said. "How can you guarantee he won't do something irrational at Fort Bragg?"
"I can't. But since the decision about how to deal with him is mine to make, that's where he's going. He may in fact be an unimportant little lieutenant in your big picture, but in mine he's a dedicated soldier who did exactly what I would have done in the circumstances."
"You told me something like that before," Montvale said. "You remember my response?"
Castillo nodded. "Something to the effect that his having done what I would have done made you uncomfortable. The implication was that I'm also a loose cannon."
"There is that matter of the Black Hawk helicopter you 'borrowed' in Afghanistan," Montvale said. "That might make some people think that way."
"Yeah, I'd agree with that," Delchamps said. "But on the other hand, the bottom line is the President doesn't think he is."
Montvale glared at him.
Delchamps went on: "I hate to be a party pooper, Mr. Montvale, but unless you want to kick the can around some more, it's now about one in the morning, and an old man like me needs his rest."
"Yes, and I would agree that we're through here," Montvale said. "Eight o'clock in the apartment, Colonel Castillo. Based on what you and these gentlemen have told me, I don't think we need concern the President that the Southern Cone operations may have been compromised, do you?"
"I don't think it has, or will be, Mr. Ambassador," Castillo said.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Montvale said. "Thank you for your time."
He nodded at all of them and walked out of the room.
[THREE]
The Breakfast Room
The Presidential Apartments
The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW Washington, D.C. 0755 2 September 2005 The only person in the breakfast room when the Secret Service agent opened the door for Ambassador Montvale and Lieutenant Colonel Castillo was Secretary of State Natalie Cohen, a small, slight, pale-skinned woman who wore her black hair in a pageboy cut.
She was standing by the window, holding a cup of coffee, as she watched the Presidential helicopter flutter down to the lawn. When she saw Montvale and Castillo, she smiled, set her coffee cup on a small table, and walked to them.
"I was hoping I'd have a moment alone with you, Charles," she said, "so that I could ask you where our wandering boy was."
