By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“Those were your grandfather’s arguments, too. But he eventually came to see that General Naylor was right. Darling, there isn’t always logic in these things.”

Fernando threw his hands up in resignation.

“May I have some more of the Argentine brandy?” he asked.

“Of course.”

He got out of his grandfather’s chair, poured more brandy, raised the bottle to offer his grandmother more, which she declined, and then sat back down.

“Furthermore,” he started off, “the Gringo’s . . . sorry . . . Carlos is not really in the Army. He should be commanding a company at Fort Benning or someplace, playing golf, having dinner at the officers’ club, worrying about his AWOL rate, the next inspector general’s inspection, his next efficiency report, and living in quarters. That’s the Army.”

“He must be getting good efficiency reports. Excellent efficiency reports. According to General Naylor, he was promoted to captain on the five percent list, in other words, earlier than his peers, as an outstanding officer.”

“Instead, he’s living in an apartment in Washington and going to work in civilian clothing at the—do you know where?”

“At the Central Intelligence Agency,” she said. “Where he is in charge of providing special security for CIA personnel in dangerous overseas areas.”

“ ‘Special security’ means he’s running around Afghanistan protecting CIA agents ‘who can’t find their asses with both hands’—sorry, Abuela, that’s the words he used last night—while they’re looking for some Arab whose name I can’t even remember. Or pronounce.”

“Usama bin Laden,” she furnished. “A very dangerous man. A Saudi Arabian who hates everything American. The CIA—and General Naylor—believe he’s responsible for blowing up our embassies in Tanzania and Kenya last August. The State Department has placed a five-million-dollar bounty on his head.”

“My God, Abuela, you and Naylor have been having some interesting chats, haven’t you?”

“I’m getting a little tired, darling,” she said. “Would you be willing to take as a given that Carlos will not be getting out of the Army anytime soon and go from there?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I asked General Naylor if there was anything I could do to help and he said he thought it was unlikely that Carlos would come to me—or go to him—for any kind of help. But that he might go to you.”

Fernando exhaled audibly and then said, “Yeah.”

“What I want from you, Fernando, is this: Be there when Carlos needs you. Give him whatever he asks for. Your grandfather used to say that when people tell you they need a little help, they really mean money. The last thing Carlos will need is money—he has his own fortune and soon his share of ‘the business’—but it is possible he could find himself in—how did your grandfather phrase it?—‘a cash-flow problem,’ ‘a liquid-asset shortage.’ I think he would be uncomfortable if he had any idea I had any idea what’s he doing. So don’t tell him I know. If he does come to you, I want you to tell me. Will you do this for me?”

Fernando met his grandmother’s eyes for a moment.

“Of course I will,” he said, finally.

“One more thing,” she said. “Just before God took your grandfather, he told me that he still had one faint hope: that Carlos would meet some suitable young woman, fall in love, and decide that what he really wanted out of life was a wife and family. He said he was praying for that. I have been praying every night. Would you pray for that, too?”

Fernando nodded. For some reason, he didn’t trust his voice to speak.

XV

[ONE]

Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport Arlington, Virginia 0125 10 June 2005

While the Lear was still slowing down on its landing roll at DCA, Castillo punched an autodial button on his cellular telephone.

The call was answered on the second ring.

“Three-zero-six,” a man’s voice said.

Those were the last three digits of the number Castillo’s cellular phone had autodialed. It was the number of the supervisory Secret Service agent in charge of the secretary of homeland security’s personal security detail.

If someone dialed the number by mistake—or even was “trolling” for interesting numbers—the three-zero-six answer didn’t give much away.

“Mr. Isaacson, please,” Castillo said.