By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)
Page 234
Castillo poured whiskey in a glass.
“How long were you General McNab’s aide?” Brewster asked.
“Too long,” Charley said. “Twenty-two months. Long enough to know that when he finds out I spent the night in the VIP quarters, he will have something unpleasant to say.”
Brewster chuckled.
“How about you?”
“It’s supposed to be for a year,” Brewster said. “Another two months.”
“And then?” Castillo said, handing him the glass of whiskey. “I suppose there’s ice and water, but I drink mine neat.”
“Neat’s fine,” Brewster said, then added: “I put in for Special Forces. Maybe I’ll get lucky and make the cut.”
Castillo’s cellular phone rang.
“Hello?”
There was a buzz and then a click.
Castillo put the telephone back in his shirt pocket.
“Bad connection?” Captain Brewster asked.
No, that was probably from a renegade FBI agent who works for a Russian arms dealer who wants (a) to know where I am and (b) that I be impressed with his ability to find that out.
Castillo nodded and said, “I’ll bet it rings again in a minute.”
He pressed the TIMER button on his watch and then tipped glasses with Brewster.
Then he took the telephone out again and pressed an autodial button.
Screw Kennedy. When he calls back, my voice mail can answer—and I bet he won’t leave a message, even to let me know he knows where I am.
“Yes?” the woman’s voice answered.
“Is this my favorite female law enforcement officer?”
“Not now. Call back in ten minutes,” Sergeant Betty Schneider replied, curtly.
“Is something wrong?” Castillo asked. Even as he spoke the words, he knew she had broken the connection and he was speaking to a dead telephone.
What the hell! Has something gone wrong with Dick?
“Favorite female law enforcement officer?” Captain Harry Brewster asked with a knowing smile.
The look Captain Brewster got from Major Castillo told him he had crossed a dangerous line.
Castillo took a sip of his drink.
The last thing I need is liquor. My brain is already slipping gears. Jesus, I called the SWC instead of XVIII Airborne Corps!
On the other hand, as keyed up as I am I’ll never get to sleep tonight without a little sauce to slow me down.
And even if Dick is at this moment being roasted over a slow fire by the African American Lunatics in Philadelphia, there is not a goddamned thing I can do about it in Fort Bragg.
He took another sip and had just taken the glass from his lips when the telephone rang again.