By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

A steady stream of cars, an occasional Audi or Porsche or Mercedes but mostly Volkswagens and other small cars, passed him as if he were standing still.

He told the burly guard—almost certainly a retired cop— at the entrance to the Tages Zeitung parking lot that his name was Gossinger and that he had an appointment with Herr Görner, which wasn’t exactly true but got him into the parking lot.

By the time he entered the building—which had been built in the late nineteenth century, destroyed in World War II, and then rebuilt to prewar specifications afterward—and went up the wide staircase to Otto’s office, Otto was standing at the head of the stairs waiting for him.

Otto Görner was a Hessian, but he looked like a post-card Bavarian. Plump, red-cheeked, and radiating gemütlichkeit. He was wearing a dark gray vested suit he’d probably had made in Berlin, but he would have looked just as much at home in lederhosen and a green

hat with a tassel waving a liter mug of beer.

“Ach, der verlorene Sohn,” Otto said. “You should have let me know you were coming. I’d have had someone meet you.”

You mean, you would have been waiting for the prodigal son at Rhine-Main.

“I rented a car, no problem,” Castillo said.

Otto put his arm around Castillo’s shoulders when Castillo reached the head of the stairs, hugged him briefly, and then waved him into the suite of executive offices.

The two women and one man in the outer office stood up as they entered. Castillo smiled and shook hands with each of them.

They knew who he was, and thought they knew what he did. He was the owner, and was the Washington correspondent, of the Gossinger G.m.b.h newspapers. Read: Play-boy /Remittance Man.

Otto followed him into his office and waved him into one of the leather armchairs facing his desk.

“I was just thinking about you, actually,” Otto said.

“I’m flattered.”

“I just got your monthly bill from the Mayflower,” Otto said. “I’ve got to come see you and see what all that money is buying.”

“On the other hand, you’re not paying me a salary,” Castillo said. “We should not forget that. Especially since you’re sending me all the way to Africa.”

“Is that where I’m sending you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What story is that?” Otto asked and then answered his own question. “That missing airplane? The missing 727?”

Castillo nodded.

“I’ve been following that yarn on Reuters,” Otto said. “Actually, I think we ran sort of a wrap-up in the Sunday editions.”

“Looks like a fascinating story,” Castillo said.

“Dare I hope that you will send something we can use?”

“Unless I am eaten by a lion, or wind up in some cannibal ’s pot, I intend to file daily.”

“When do you want to go?”

“I’m on British Airways Flight BA 077, departing Heathrow at seven thirty-five tomorrow night, and will arrive at Luanda at four-ten the next morning.”

“And we’re sending you first class, of course?”

“It’s a long flight, Otto.”

“You do know you’ll need a visa?”

“I got one in the States. One of their assistant consul generals couldn’t do enough for me.”