"They have some very talented people over in Langley, if the President takes my meaning."
"You mean, forge a dead man's signature and steal the money? For what purpose?"
"Mr. President, I admit that when I first learned what you were asking the major to do, I was something less than enthusiastic. But I was wrong, and I admit it. A small unit like the major's can obviously be very valuable in this new world war. And if sixteen million dollars were available to it, sixteen million untraceable dollars…"
"I take your point, Charles," the President said. "But I'm going to ask you to stop thinking off the top of your head."
"Sir?"
"The next thing you're likely to suggest is that Charley-and that's his name, Charles, not 'the major'- move the Office of Organizational Analysis into the office of the director of national intelligence. And that's not going to happen. Charley works for me, period, not open for comment."
Secretary Hall had a sudden coughing spasm. His face grew red.
Ambassador Montvale did not seem to suspect that Secretary Hall might be concealing a hearty laugh.
"Natalie, do you have anything to say before I send Charley out of here to take, with my profound thanks, a couple of weeks off? After he lets everybody in his apartment go, of course."
"I was thinking about Ambassador Lorimer, sir. He's ill, and it will devastate him to learn what his son has been up to."
"Jesus, I hadn't thought about that," the President said. "Charley, what about it?"
"Sir, Mr. Lorimer is missing in Paris," Charley said. "The man who died in Shangri-La was Jean-Paul Bertrand, a Lebanese. I don't think anyone will be anxious to reveal who Bertrand really was. And I don't think we have to, or should."
"What about his sister?" Natalie Cohen asked. "Should she be told?"
"I think so, yes," Charley said. "I haven't thought this through, but I have been thinking that the one thing I could tell Mrs. Masterson that would put her mind at rest about the threats to her children would be that I knew her brother was dead, and with his death, these bastards… excuse me… had no more interest in her or her children."
"And if she asks how you know, under what circumstances?" the President asked.
"That's what I haven't thought through, sir."
"You don't want to tell her what a despicable sonofabitch he was, is that it?"
"I suspect she knows, sir. But it's classified Top Secret-Presidential."
"Would anyone have objections to my authorizing Charley to deal with the Masterson family in any way he deems best, including the divulgence of classified material?"
"Splendid idea, Mr. President," Ambassador Montvale said.
"Do it soon, Charley. Please," Natalie Cohen said.
"Yes, ma'am."
The President stood up and came around the desk and offered Castillo his hand.
"Thank you, Charley. Good job. Go home and get some rest. And then think where you can discreetly hide sixteen million dollars until you need it." [SIX] Room 527 Fifth Floor, Silverstein Pavilion Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania 3400 Spruce Street Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 2135 1 August 2005 "Hey, baby! I'm home."
"Oh, Charley!"
"How are you doing?"
"Look at me. My face looks like somebody attacked me with a baseball bat."
"You look beautiful. Can I kiss you?"
"You're sure you want to?"
"I'm sure I want to." Five minutes later, they stopped.