The Hunters (Presidential Agent 3)

“I told him that he already had, that you and Gossinger were one and the same…”

“Jesus Christ!”

“…and that you were born out of wedlock and never knew your father. That your mother was a teenage German girl whose name was Gossinger.”

“You had no right to get into that!” Castillo flared. “That’s my personal business.”

“I had, of course, considered your personal business, before I decided I had to deal with Whelan, and concluded that protecting the president of the United States, certain members of his cabinet, and finding out who the people who murdered Masterson are and dealing with them was the most important thing and far outweighed any momentary embarrassment you might feel. You get the picture, Colonel? If you had kept your male member behind its zipper when you should have, you and I would not be sitting here, would we?”

Goddamn him…he’s right!

“No, sir. We would not. I apologize for the outburst.”

“Fuck the outburst, Castillo. Apologize for not thinking!”

“Yes, sir. No excuse, sir.”

Montvale looked coldly at Castillo for a moment, then went on, conversationally, the anger gone from his voice.

“So I told Mr. Whelan that your father was a teenage American helicopter pilot who died for our country in Vietnam without ever knowing he had a son. And, of course, that Warrant Officer Junior Grade Jorge Alejandro Castillo was a true hero, a legend in Army Aviation, in the Army.

“I could tell from the look on his face that while he was impressed, he thought I was laying it on a little thick. Of course I wasn’t through.

“I asked him if he knew General Naylor and of course he said he did. And then I told him how General Allan Naylor becomes involved in the saga of Lieutenant Colonel Castillo.”

“I really don’t want to know what else you told this man, but I realize I should know.”

“Yes, you should,” Montvale said. “I told Mr. Whelan that when you were twelve, your mother, the sole heiress to the Gossinger fortune—I told him I was sure he knew that the Tages Zeitung newspaper chain was owned by Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft G.m.b.H.; he nodded, although I’ll bet he was hearing that for the first time—was diagnosed with a terminal illness. I told him your mother went to the U.S. Army—specifically, to then-Major Allan Naylor, who was stationed nearby—and asked for help to find her son’s father in the United States and told him why.

“I told him that Allan Naylor told me he promised some what reluctantly to see what he could do, as he had no respect for an officer who would leave a

love child behind him, and was concerned about what would happen when a man of such low character came into the fortune the boy would inherit.

“And, of course, that when he did look into it, he learned that your father was a posthumous recipient of the Medal of Honor, and, not only that, but the only son of a distinguished and equally wealthy family in San Antonio. The question then became would the Castillos, who traced their Texas lineage back to two men who fell beside Davy Crockett and the other heroes of the Alamo, accept their son’s illegitimate German son?”

Castillo’s anger began to build again. “Why the hell did you tell him all this? I don’t want any pity.”

“Well, then you’re not going to like the rest of this,” Montvale said. “By the time I was through, I was nearly in tears myself about poor Charley Castillo.”

“Oh, shit!” Castillo said, softly.

“I told him that that hadn’t turned out to be a problem. That your grandmother took one look at the picture of you that Naylor had shown her and said, ‘He has my Jorge’s eyes,’ and was on a plane to Germany that night.

“I then painted a touching picture of this poor, illegitimate, parentless boy being suddenly thrust into an alien culture with nothing to hang on to but memories of his late mother and the legend of his heroic father, of his going to West Point and then to war, determined to be worthy of his hero father. I went over your list of decorations…”

“Mr. Ambassador,” Castillo interrupted, “I don’t think that’ll keep this guy from writing just about what he started to write in the first place. In fact, it would appear that he now has a bigger story…”

“If you’ll indulge me, Colonel,” Montvale said, icily, “I’ll tell you how I did just that.”

“Sorry.”

“I ended your touching life story by telling him that you stole a helicopter in Afghanistan to save Miller’s crew at great risk not only to your career but your life itself.”

“Oh, boy!”

“Hearing that, Mr. Whelan really fixed the hook in himself. ‘Mr. Ambassador,’ he asked, ‘forgive me, but wasn’t that a crazy thing to do?’

“Whereupon I looked at him sadly and said, ‘Precisely. It was an insane, irrational act. Major Castillo had gone to the well of his resources once too often and found it dry. Everybody has a breaking point and Castillo had reached his.’”