“It’s always a pleasure, General Naylor,” he said.
Then he turned to Castillo, shook his hand, and patted his shoulder.
“This turned out better than either of us thought it would, didn’t it?” he asked. “Keep in touch, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
Montvale walked out of the room and Naylor and Castillo sat down.
“Jesus Christ!” Charley said. “Why does his being so cheerful, charming, and accommodating make me so uncomfortable?”
“Maybe because you weren’t asleep when they were lecturing about never under estimating your enemy?”
Castillo chuckled.
“I’m sorry I said that,” Naylor said thoughtfully a moment later. “That was a hell of a session, but I’m not so sure he doesn’t mean exactly what he said. The bottom line is that he got what he wanted.”
“Which was?”
“If you succeed, he can claim credit. If you fail, he can say it wouldn’t have happened if you worked for him.”
Castillo grunted.
“And he was right,” Naylor went on. “You do need his influence and authority. The FBI and the CIA—and everybody else—are afraid of him. And with good reason. Once it becomes known, as it soon will, that he’s standing behind you, people will think very carefully before knifing you in the back.”
“I thought I had the President standing behind me,” Castillo said.
“You do. But the President is a decent fellow. The ambassador, on the other hand, is well known as a follower of the Kennedy philosophy.”
“Sir?”
“Don’t get mad, get even,” Naylor said. “He is not a man to be crossed. But on the other hand, I think he’s a man of his word.”
Castillo looked at his wristwatch.
“I’ve got to change out of my uniform and get out to Dulles,” he said. “But before I do, I really would like another drink.”
“After that, we both need one,” Naylor said. “But there’s one thing you have to do before that.”
“Sir?”
Naylor took out his cellular telephone and punched an autodial number.
“Allan Naylor, Doña Alicia,” he said a moment later. “I’m sitting here in the Army-Navy Club in Washington with Lieutenant Colonel Castillo and we thought we’d call and say hello.
There was a pause.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s what I said.”
He handed the cellular to Castillo.
“Your grandmother would like a word with you, Colonel.”
An hour and a half later, as Air France flight 9080 climbed to cruising altitude somewhere over Delaware, Herr Karl Gossinger, the Washington correspondent of the Tages Zeitung, accepted a second glass of champagne from the first-class cabin attendant—and suddenly startled her by bitterly exclaiming, “Oh, shit!”
It had just occurred to him that he had not only not gone to see Special Agent Elizabeth Schneider in her hospital bed but had not even called her to tell her why he couldn’t.
[TWO]