1035 10 August 2005
As he taxied the Gulfstream to the Lehigh Valley Aviatio
n Services’ tarmac, Castillo saw United States Secret Service Special Agent John M. Britton—brightly attired in a pink seersucker jacket, a yellow polo shirt, light blue trousers, and highly polished tassel loafers—leaning against the front fender of one of two black Yukons whose darkened windows identified them to Castillo as almost certainly Secret Service vehicles.
With Britton were three men—more sedately dressed—who Castillo thought were probably the local Secret Service.
Castillo parked the aircraft.
“You go deal with the welcoming committee,” Torine said. “I’ll do the paperwork and get us some fuel. Speaking of which, you want to give me your credit card?”
Castillo unstrapped himself, worked his way out of the pilot’s seat, gave Torine an American Express card, then went into the empty passenger compartment and opened the door and went down the stairs.
“Nice airplane,” Britton greeted him. “This is the first time I’ve seen it.”
“How are you, Jack?” Castillo said as they shook hands.
Britton made the introductions: “These are special agents Harry Larsen and Bob Davis, and their boss, Supervisory Special Agent Fred Swanson. They’re out of Philadelphia.”
“I’m an old pal of Isaacson and McGuire,” Swanson said as they shook hands.
“Then I guess you heard that my Secret Service credentials are a little questionable?”
“Yeah, and I also heard getting them for you was Joel’s idea,” Swanson said. “So you’re among friends, Colonel.”
“Call me Charley,” Castillo said. “I made light colonel so recently that when someone says it, I look around to see who they’re talking to.”
Swanson chuckled.
“And you know that Jack can hardly be called a grizzled veteran of the Secret Service?” Castillo went on.
“He told me. He also told me Joel recruited him, which makes him okay in my book—I know what Jack did in Philly, too. Isaacson told me that just when he was going to see if he would fit in the protection detail you grabbed him for whatever it is you do.”
“What did he—or anybody—tell you about that?”
“Joel was pretty vague. Britton has been a clam. And when I asked McGuire, he said you were the only guy who could decide we had the Need to Know.”
Castillo considered that, then nodded. “Okay. You do. The classification is Top Secret Presidential. But let’s wait until we’re out of here.”
“Where are we headed? The farm? There’s not much to see,” Britton said.
“I better see what there is,” Castillo said. “But first, Jake and I need a shower and a shave. And then breakfast. It’s been a long flight.”
“Where’d you come from?” Swanson asked.
“Buenos Aires and that’s classified.”
Swanson’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t say anything.
“We’re in the Hotel Bethlehem in Bethlehem,” Britton said. “It’s not the Four Seasons—no marble walls in the bathrooms—but there’s plenty of hot water and towels, and a nice restaurant, and it’s near where we’re going.”
“Fine.”
“I suppose this is also classified,” Britton said. “Yung called Miller from Washington, and Miller called me. Yung was in Miami about to load Lorimer’s body on a plane to New Orleans. He’s really anxious to talk to you.”
“And vice versa,” Castillo said.
“‘Lorimer’s body’?” Swanson parroted. “Can I ask who Yung is?”