President Clendennen didn’t reply.
“The mission was launched almost immediately, Mr. President, as you know.”
“And we were at the brink of a nuclear exchange,” President Clendennen said pointedly.
“That didn’t happen, sir.”
“I noticed,” the President said, thickly sarcastic. “So, what happened to Castillo for rubbing the nose of the CIA in chemical-biological waste?”
“Right after the President ordered the secretary of Defense to immediately have an operation laid on to take out the Fish Farm, he told Castillo that OOA was dead, had never existed, and that what Castillo was to do was make himself scarce until his retirement parade, and after that to disappear from the face of the earth.”
“And?”
“Castillo and the military personnel who had been assigned to OOA were retired at Fort Rucker, Alabama, with appropriate panoply on January thirty-first. There was a parade. Everyone was decorated. Castillo and a Delta Force warrant officer named Leverette, who took Colonel Hamilton into the Congo and then got him out, got their third Distinguished Service Medals.
“And then, in compliance with their orders, they got into the Gulfstream and disappeared from the face of the earth.”
“You mean you don’t know where any of these people are? You don’t even know where Castillo is?”
“I know they went from Fort Rucker to Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans, and from there to Cancún.”
“And from Cancún?”
“I simply do not know, Mr. President.”
“Find out. The next time I ask, be prepared to answer.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“And where are the Russians?”
“I don’t know, Mr. President. I do know that the President told the DCI that the attempt to cause them to defect was to be called off, and that he was not even to look for them.”
“Why the hell did he do that?”
“I would suggest, Mr. President, that it was because the information they provided about the Congo was true.”
The President considered that, snorted, and then said, “Well, Charles, that seems to be it, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, it would seem so.”
“Thank you for coming to see me. We’ll be in touch.”
[THREE]
Old Ebbitt Grill
675 15th Street, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
1530 2 February 2007
No one is ever really surprised when a first- or second-tier member of the Washington press corps walks into the Old Ebbitt looking for someone.
For one thing, the Old Ebbitt is just about equidistant between the White House—a block away at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue—and the National Press Club—a block away at 529 14th Street, N.W. It’s right down the street from the Hotel Washington, and maybe a three-minute walk from the Willard Hotel, whose lobby added the term “lobbyist” to the political/journalistic lexicon.
Furthermore, the Old Ebbitt’s service, menu, ambiance, and stock of intoxicants was superb. The one thing on which all observers of the press corps agreed was that nothing appeals more to the gentlemen and ladies of the Fourth Estate than, say, a shrimp cocktail and a nice New York strip steak, plus a stiff drink, served promptly onto a table covered with crisp linen in a charming environment.