The Hostage (Presidential Agent 2)

"I think that's a very good idea," Masterson said. "Wha

t's that phrase they use in the advertising business? 'Brainstorm'? Where are they?"

"They're using the DEA office," Lowery said.

"We could use my office," Masterson said. "But it would probably be better if we went there."

Lowery stood up. He looked at Castillo. "I'll have my secretary bring your frequent visitor badge up there."

Castillo smiled at him and nodded.

"Excuse me," Masterson said. "Mr. Castillo… or do I call you 'Agent Castillo'?"

"Mister's fine, sir. Charley's better."

Masterson smiled at him.

"Okay, Charley. This is Alex Darby, our commercial attache. More important, my friend."

Darby offered Castillo his hand. There was curiosity in his eyes.

Is the friend-the-commercial-attache curious about the Secret Service being here? Or the CIA station chief?

"Hello, Mr. Castillo," Darby said.

"How do you do?" Charley replied.

Now there was the hint of a smile on Darby's thin lips.

What the hell does that mean? The Drug Enforcement Administration office-a large room with a dozen desks, and a large conference table, plus three smaller glass-walled offices-was on the third floor of the embassy.

The seven men seated around the conference table stood up when they saw Masterson come in.

Three of them are wearing shoulder holsters. Probably the DEA agents.

"Keep your seats," Masterson said with a wave and a smile.

There was a chorus of "Good morning, sir."

"I thought maybe if we all put our heads together," Masterson said, "and brainstorm the situation, we might be able to make some sense out of it. Is that all right with everybody?"

Another chorus, this time of "Yes, sir."

The man at the head of the table, one of those wearing a shoulder holster, stood up, clearly offering Masterson his seat. Masterson took it.

"This gentleman is Supervisory Special Agent Castillo, of the Secret Service," Masterson said, gesturing at Castillo and then offering his hand to one of the other men. "I'm presuming you're one of the FBI agents from Montevideo?"

"Yes, sir," the man said. "Special Agent Dorman, sir. And this is Special Agent Yung."

Special Agent Yung was Oriental.

Not Korean, Castillo judged. Or Japanese. Most likely Chinese.

Yung looked at Castillo with far greater interest than Dorman did.

"I'm presuming you know Mr. Santini, our resident Secret Service agent?" Masterson asked. Both FBI agents nodded.

"Well, I suppose the best place to start is at the beginning," Masterson went on. "And two things, gentlemen: One is that you're the experts. I have no experience with this sort of thing. And second, this will only work if you say almost anything that comes to mind. Okay, let's start with what I sort of suspect may be the beginning. Does anyone think there's anything but unfortunate coincidencein the three automobile accidents-the third on my way to meet my wife-I've been involved in in the past month or five weeks?"