Then he pulled the curtain closed, took fresh linen from his bag, and started to undress. He was down to his Jockey shorts when the telephone rang.

"Hello?"

"Five minutes, in front of the hotel," Howard Kennedy said. "I'm in a black Mercedes."

"I expected no less of you," Castillo replied, even though halfway through the sentence he realized Kennedy had hung up. Ten minutes later-having decided that his need for a shave and a shower was more important than jumping to obey Kennedy's curt orders-Castillo walked across the empty lobby and out onto the Place de la Concorde.

There was no Mercedes in sight.

Not to worry. Kennedy might be pissed, but he wants to see me, and badly. He's not about to drive off, never to return.

Castillo turned right and walked toward the U.S. embassy. He had just reached the fence, where he was able to see the American flag flying in the courtyard, when he heard the squeal of tires.

He turned and saw a black Mercedes S600 sedan in front of the Crillon. The headlights flashed. Castillo walked-purposely slowly-back to it.

The front passenger window was down, but the door remained closed. Castillo leaned down, put his hands on the opening, and looked inside.

"Hello, handsome," he said to Kennedy, who was sitting behind the wheel. "Looking for a little action?"

"Goddamn you, Charley, get in the fucking car!"

Castillo opened the door and got in. Kennedy, with another squeal of tires, took off and then turned right onto the Champs-Elysees.

"Where are we going, Howard?"

"Unless you know someplace we can talk without being overheard, we're just going to drive around."

"You think my room in the Crillon is bugged?"

"I don't know for sure that it's not."

"Why all the concern?"

"How much do you know about Lorimer?"

"A little more than I knew when I first talked to you," Castillo replied. "There are people looking for him. They killed Masterson to make the point that they are willing to kill to find him."

"And do you know who these people are?"

"No. That's why I'm hunting Lorimer."

"Would it surprise you that some Russians are doing the same?"

"Nothing would surprise me."

"Or some Germans?"

"Same answer."

"Or some French? Or some former members of Saddam Hussein's regime? Or, for that matter, some people from Houston, Texas?"

"Get to the point, please, Howard. I'm not good at riddles."

"Your friend Lorimer was a bagman-maybe the head bagman-for that noble program called Oil for Food. Which means that he knows who got paid off. That's enough for any of the aforementioned people to take the appropriate steps to make him dead."

"Give me a minute to think that over."

A traffic cop stepped into the street and with a shrill burst from his whistle and an arrogant wave of his stiff arm stopped traffic. Kennedy, with a heavy foot, brought the Mercedes to a stop at the crosswalk. As Castillo watched the trickle of early-morning commuters making their way to cafes and then to work, he considered how Kennedy might-or might not-be trying to play him.

Tags: W.E.B. Griffin Presidential Agent Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net