By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“. . . and when they reported that Gossinger was in Washington, Mr. Pevsner asked me to personally take over. I put a lot of time in D.C. when I was with the bureau.”

Did taking over mean that you were going to personally apply the Indian beauty mark?

“Anyway, it wasn’t hard to find out that Gossinger was sharing Suite 404 in the Mayflower with a fellow named Carlos Castillo. For a bit, we thought that Castillo might be Gossinger’s playmate—a handsome Cuban or Tex-Mex might explain why Gossinger wasn’t married. And that might have been useful . . .”

He took a sip of water, then continued.

“. . . but then we found out, lo and behold, that Gossinger and Castillo were one and the same. And then we started asking about Señor Castillo. The first thing I thought then was that you were probably with the agency, but then I found out first that you’re an Army officer—a West Pointer, a Green Beret, an aviator—and then that you are Matt Hall’s special assistant. At that point, Mr. Pevsner decided we should have a talk with you . . .”

A talk-talk, as opposed to a beauty spot chat?

“. . . so we had someone call Herr Görner and tell him that Mr. Pevsner was willing to give Herr Gossinger an interview and here you are.”

“My original purpose in all this, Charley,” Pevsner said, “was—for that matter, still is—to keep the U.S. government off my back. And, of course, to keep my name out of the newspapers. I had nothing to do with stealing that old airplane in Angola. Where did you get that, anyway?”

“You had nothing to do with stealing the 727?”

“Absolutely nothing. For one thing, I have airplanes. Just last week, I bought another one—a nearly new 767 from an airline that went under in Argentina—and I don’t need an old 727. Particularly, I don’t need to steal one, which would attract the sort of attention I really don’t want from the U.S. government and a lot of other people.”

I’ll be damned. I believe him. Or is that because I had two beers in the Sacher, two hefty snifters of cognac on the Cobenzl, and two slivovitz here?

“Where did you get the idea I had anything to do with it?” Pevsner asked.

“Two of your people were seen in Luanda just before the airplane was stolen,” Castillo said.

“You don’t happen to remember their names, do you?” Kennedy asked, casually.

If I did, I wouldn’t give them to you.

“No,” Castillo said, simply. “I don’t.”

“Howard?” Pevsner said.

“I’ll look into it,” Kennedy said.

Jesus Christ, what did I just do? Cause two people I never met, never saw, to take a bullet in the forehead?

The conversation was interrupted by two waiters, who delivered a rich-looking meat-and-vegetable soup and two bottles of red wine.

“This one, Herr Barstein,” the waiter said as he poured a sip into Pevsner’s glass, “is Hungarian. The other is from the north of Italy. Definitely not a Chianti. Whichever is your pleasure will be a small gift from Drei Hussaren.”

As Pevsner raised the glass to his nose, he signaled with his finger for the waiter to give Castillo and Kennedy a taste. The waiter poured wine into their glasses.

Pevsner took a sip and nodded his approval.

“Very nice,” he said. “Now, let’s try the other one.”

The ritual was repeated for everyone, which required other glasses to be produced from a cabinet against the wall.

“Decisions, decisions,” Pevsner said. “What do you think, Karl?”

“I like the Hungarian,” Castillo said.

“So do I,” Pevsner said.

“I like the Italian,” Kennedy said. “The Hungarian’s a little too sweet for me.”

Well, Kennedy doesn’t apparently feel compelled to agree with the boss about everything.