“Let me tell you what I did, Colonel. When Secretary Hall called me to tell me C. Harry Whelan, Jr., wanted to talk about your eleven-hundred-dollar-a-day love nest, I suggested that he invite Mr. Whelan to luncheon with both of us the next day in his private dining room at the Nebraska Avenue Complex.”
What?
“Sir?”
“Telling him that I would tell him everything there. I further suggested that he put Major Miller back into his uniform and wheelchair—the last time Miller came here to tell me what you were up to, he was wearing civilian clothing and using canes—two of them—which naturally aroused one’s sympathy, but not as much as a fully uniformed wounded hero in a wheelchair would—and that he advise Major Miller of the situation and invite him to take lunch with us.
“I told Secretary Hall that Mr. Whelan was known to be fond of oysters, grilled Colorado trout avec beurre noir, and an obscure California Chardonnay—Judge’s Peak. I told Secretary Hall that if he could handle the oysters and the trout, I would send over a case of the Judge’s Peak.
“When I sent the wine, I also sent a team of specialists from NSA to install microphones discreetly around the dining room, and to instruct Miller in their use.”
My God, he’s telling me he bugged Hall’s private dining room!
What the hell for?
“Miller, at my orders, was waiting in your office for me when I arrived at the Nebraska Avenue Complex. Mr. Whelan was already in the dining room with Secretary Hall. I shall long remember Miller’s response to my question, ‘What would you say Mr. Whelan’s frame of mind is?’
“Miller said, ‘Mr. Ambassador, his face looks like he’s happily looking forward to nailing all our nuts to the floor.’
“I then wheeled Miller, his knee again wrapped in far more white elastic gauze than was necessary, into the dining room. Whelan’s eyes lit up. They lit up even more when I introduced Miller as your roommate in the Motel Monica Lewinsky.
“Mr. Whelan said, ‘I’d like to hear about that. What happened to your knee, Major?’
“‘In good time, Harry,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you everything. But first I’d like, and I’m sure Major Miller would like, one of those.’
“Mr. Whelan was drinking a vodka martini. A large one…”
I don’t know where he’s going with this, Castillo thought, but he loves telling the tale.
“…made with Polish hundred-twenty-proof spirits. The waiter promptly poured martinis for Miller and myself. Ours were one hundred percent ice water with a twist of lemon and two speared cocktail onions.”
“You were trying to get him drunk?”
“Not drunk. Happy. One never knows what a drunk is liable to do,” Montvale said.
“And did you get him happy?”
“Oh, yes. First, I complimented him on his piece about Senator Davis in yesterday’s Post. The senator has been using an airplane just like yours, belonging to a corporation just awarded an enormous interstate highway construction contract, as if it were his own. That put Harry in a good mood.
“As did the first of what turned out to be three bottles of the Judge’s Peak, consumed along with some Chilean oysters.
“And then we had our lunch, the grilled trout with beurre noir, washed down with more of the Chardonnay. By then, Mr. Whelan was telling us of his journalistic career, how he’d started out on a weekly and worked his way up through The Louisville Courier-Journal to the Post. It was a long story, and, fascinated with this tale of journalistic skill and prowess, I naturally kept asking him for amplification.
“Meanwhile, the wine was flowing, and there had not been a mention of Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo.”
“And this reporter didn’t sense what was going on?”
“Eventually, he suspected he was being manipulated. Or he realized that he had been doing all the talking. In any event, he asked Miller, ‘I asked before what happened to your leg and never got an answer.’
“To which I quickly responded, ‘Major Miller suffered grievous wounds—he will shortly be retired—in Afghanistan. His helicopter was shot down.’
“Whelan jumped on that. ‘So what’s he doing here in this Office of Organizational Analysis? And, by the way, what is that? What does it do and for whom?’ Etcetera. One question after another.
“I asked him if he had ever heard of the West Point Protective Association,” Montvale went on. “To which he replied, ‘Of course I have. What about it? What’s Miller being protected from? And by whom?’
“At that point, I began to suspect I had him,” Montvale said. “I told him that actually Miller was doing the protecting. That was why he was sharing the apartment at the Mayflower.
“To which Whelan replied something to the effect that we were