“I don’t think I know him.”
“Good man, sir. He was in Caracas until recently. Did a fine job there.”
“Okay, if you say so. Send him. Tell him I ordered it and I’ll be in touch with him.”
“Yes, sir. May I ask what this is all about?”
“Not right now.”
“Should I have this man Miller report to Langley, Mr. Director? If so, to whom? If he asks why he’s being relieved, what may I tell him?”
“You don’t know, to answer that first. No. I don’t want him in Langley until I have a chance to chat with this Mrs. Wilson.”
“Yes, sir?”
“If he’s on temporary duty to us, that must be from someplace. Where do military people like that come from?”
“Usually either from the Pentagon, Mr. Director, or from Central Command. In this case—I’ll have to check—I should think it would be Central Command. Major Miller is Special Forces.”
Why am I not surprised to hear that?
“Well, find out and send him back where he came from. Say that he’s under investigation.”
“Yes, sir. Investigation concerning what?”
“Don’t say.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else, Mr. Director?”
“Secretary Hall of Homeland Security has an assistant named Castillo. I want to know about him. If we don’t have anything, make inquiry—very discreet inquiry—of the Civil Service Commission. They should have the results of his background investigation. If that doesn’t work, ask somebody we know we can trust in the FBI.”
“You have a first name on this fellow, Mr. Director?”
Hall called him “Charley.”
“It’s probably ‘Charles.’ ”
“I’ll get right on it, Mr. Director.”
“Thank you,” the DCI said and hung up.
Then he pulled his head out of the translucent shell over the pay phone and looked down the alcove to the lobby.
The security guys were waiting for him.
The DCI made a gesture toward the Connecticut Avenue entrance and the lead security man started to move in that direction.
[FOUR]
Apartment 6-B Rua Madre Dios 128 Luanda, Angola 0515 7 June 2005
The peculiar tinkle of the telephone that came with the apartment woke Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., quickly more as a strange sound than as a telephone. He rarely used the French-manufactured dial instrument. The cellular phone system was far more efficient.
He picked up the handset, which placed a brass conelike microphone before his mouth as well as the speaker against his ear.
Ten-to-one, it’s a wrong number.
“Hello,” he said.