“Your name Castingo?” the officer inquired after having been asked where a Secret Service airplane would be parked.
“Castillo,” Charley said.
“Whatever. Close enough. The arm is out for a guy who would probably ask about a Secret Service airplane,” the of ficer said. Then he looked at the sergeant. “They want him over at the unit.”
The unit turned out to be a small building at the end of one of the parking lots. The sergeant opened the rear door of the patrol car for Charley, and, after Charley grabbed his gear from the trunk, led him into the building.
It was, Charley saw, a small police station. There was a “desk”—an elevated platform—manned by a sergeant and a corporal, and, on one side of the room, there were two holding cells. The “bars” were made of chain-link fence, but since the cells were in sight of the desk sergeant it was unlikely that a prisoner could get through them unnoticed.
Joel Isaacson, the supervisory Secret Service agent in charge of Secretary Hall’s security detail, was leaning against the makeshift desk.
Charley walked toward him with the Highway sergeant on his heels. When Isaacson saw Charley, he smiled, then bent his head slightly toward the voice-activated microphone under his lapel.
“Tom,” he said. “Don Juan just walked in here.”
Castillo wondered how unlikely it was that the Highway sergeant, when reporting the successful delivery of the passenger to the airport, would fail to mention that he had been met by some kind of a federal agent, probably Secret Service, who referred to him as “Don Juan.”
“Hey, Charley,” Isaacson said. “Good timing. I don’t think I’ve been here five minutes. Your flying chariot awaits.”
“I didn’t expect to see you, Joel,” Castillo said as they shook hands.
“The FBI came through with that dossier the boss asked for,” Isaacson said. “On your new friend?”
Castillo nodded.
“The boss wants you to read it on our way to where we’re going. I’m to bring it back.”
“Okay.”
“And you’re in luck. The suitcase you left on the airplane the last time you were on it?”
Charley searched his memory.
Christ! I left my go-right-now bag on the secretary’s airplane the day I met the president and he gave me this job. The day Fernando picked me up in his new Lear and flew me to Texas to see Abuela.
Jesus, I’d forgotten all about it. How long ago was that? It seems like last year, but it was really only a couple of weeks ago. Less than two weeks: thirteen days.
“It’s still on the plane,” Joel said. “I tagged it inspected.”
“Thanks.”
“It could have been a bomb, Charley,” Isaacson said. “You’re lucky somebody didn’t take it to the end of the runway at Andrews and blow it up.”
“I forgot to tell anyone I left it on board,” Charley said.
“I’m not sore at you, Don Juan . . .”
Thanks a lot, Joel. The sergeant here might have missed “Don Juan” the first time.
“. . . egg is on my face. Don’t tell the boss.”
“Of course not.”
“You about ready to go?”
“Anytime,” Charley said. He turned to the Highway Patrol sergeant. “Thanks for the ride. I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” the sergeant said and then looked at Isaacson. “Why do you call him that? ‘Don Juan’? Can I ask?”