The Hunters (Presidential Agent 3)

“In other words, you told him I’m crazy?”

“In effect. I didn’t use those words. I told him you were sent home from Afghanistan for some well-deserved rest. I implied that on the plane from Afghanistan you had decided your number was about up and, that being the case, you were going to have some fun before you met the grim reaper. Fun that you were going to pay for with your personal wealth, something you had never done before. Another indication of an overstressed mind.

“And I told him that it was at this point that the West Point Protective Association came into play, in the person of General Allan Naylor. I told him that Naylor didn’t know what to do with you. He could not give you, in your current state of mind, the command of a battalion to which you were entitled. The way you were drinking and chasing wild, wild women, you would soon be relieved of any command you were given…”

“Jesus! Is that part true?”

“…and he was reluctant to have you hospitalized for psychological problems because that on your records would keep you from ever becoming a general.”

Montvale paused when he saw the look on Castillo’s face, then added: “That was an original thought of mine. Getting you psychiatric help never occurred to General Naylor.

“What I told Whelan was that Naylor went to Secretary Hall, who had been decorated for valor and wounds while serving under Naylor in Vietnam and was thus a fellow warrior who knew how even the best of men sometimes reach their limits…”

“Oh, my God!”

“…and asked him if he could find something for you to do until you got some rest. Which Hall, of course, agreed to do. And Naylor also arranged for Miller, whose life you had saved, to be placed on outpatient status at Walter Reed so that he could look after you.”

Castillo, shaking his head in disbelief, said nothing.

“So far, you’re still stressed…”

“You mean crazy,” Castillo said, bitterly.

“…but you seem to be improving. General Naylor hopes that soon you will be able to return to normal duty in the Army. The Army has done what it could to help a distinguished warrior, the son of an even more distinguished warrior.”

“And Whelan swallowed this yarn?”

“He had no trouble at all accepting that there were good reasons—touching reasons—for your having gone over the edge,” Montvale said.

Castillo gave him an exasperated look.

“But what’s important comes next,” Montvale said. “Two things. First, Whelan said, ‘I’ve written a lot of stories that people tell me have ruined people’s lives and I’ve done it with a clear conscience and I’ll do it again. But I’m not going to ruin this young man’s life simply because some bitch comes to me with a half-cocked story and an agenda.’

“Whereupon I asked him, in surprise, ‘A woman gave you this story?’

“‘I knew damned well she had an agenda beyond getting on the right side of me,’ Whelan said. ‘I knew it.’

“‘Has this lady aname?’

“‘She’s in the agency,’ Whelan said. ‘She and her husband both work for the agency. Her name is Wilson. I forget his first name, but hers is Patricia. Patricia Davies Wilson. That’s to go no further than this room.’

“‘Of course not,’ I readily agreed. ‘You think…what was her name?’

“He obligingly furnished it again: ‘Wilson, Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson.’

“I asked, ‘You think Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson had an agenda?’

“‘She did,’ Mr. Whelan replied. ‘I have no idea what it was, but it was more than just cozying up to me. She’s fed me stuff before. A lot of—most of it—was useful. I thought of her as my private mole in Langley.’

“Whereupon I sought clarification: ‘You say you thought of Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson as your private mole in the Central Intelligence Agency?’

“He took a healthy swallow of wine—in fact, drained at least the last third of a glass—and said, ‘Yes, I did. I’ve gotten a half dozen good stories out of her. There’s a lot of things going on at Langley that the public has the right to know. Stories that don’t help our enemies. But a story about somebody who’s been burned out doing his duty and is teetering on the edge is not a good story. I write hard news, not human interest. Damn her!’”

“So what happens now?”

“I don’t know what Whelan’s going to do to her, but I know what I did,” Montvale said. “I had my technicians erase all but the last minute or so of that recording—anything that could identify you—and then personally took it over to Langley and played it for John Powell.”

“And the DCI didn’t ask you who Whelan’s story was supposed to be about or how you just happened to record their conversation?” Castillo asked.