Black Ops

example, and Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., USA (Retired), a West Point classmate of Colonel Castillo and OOA’s chief of staff—had been turned loose by Castillo to be with them at Christmas.

[TWO]

One of the pair of wall-mounted telephones in the kitchen rang a little after two o’clock.

The young, muscular black Secret Service agent answered it.

Castillo wondered idly who was calling. Neither of the telephone numbers was listed in the phone book. Both rarely were used; everyone had their own cellular telephone or two. There were two secure telephones, one in what was Castillo’s bedroom and the other in what he called his office, an anteroom off the great big living room.

Castillo was surprised when the Secret Service agent held out the phone receiver to him, indicating the call was for him. He crossed the room, took the phone, and, after putting his hand over the mouthpiece, asked with his eyebrows who was calling.

“Mr. Gorner, Colonel. He’s on the list.”

Castillo nodded his thanks, and in German cheerfully said into the phone, “Merry Christmas, Otto!”

Nice that Abuela is here, Castillo thought, glancing across the room and making eye contact with her. She and Otto can talk.

“I hope you know where Billy Kocian is,” Gorner said by way of greeting, his voice completely devoid of Christmas bonhomie.

Castillo turned his gaze just slightly. “As a matter of fact, I’m looking at him.”

“Thank God!” Gorner exclaimed, his genuine relief evident in his tone. “There was no answer at the Mayflower.”

“Why do I think you’re not calling to wish him a Merry Christmas?” Castillo said.

“I’m calling first to tell you to make sure he’s safe.”

“He is. He frequently complains that he can’t go anywhere without being followed by two or more men who wear hearing aids and keep talking to themselves.”

Castillo expected to get a chuckle, if only a reluctant one. He didn’t.

“Gunther Friedler has been murdered,” Gorner went on, “his corpse mutilated.”

Who? Castillo thought.

Shit! Someone close to Billy obviously . . .

“Where are you?” Castillo asked quickly, his tone now one of growing concern.

The others in the kitchen picked up on that and Castillo’s body language, and had expressions that asked, What?

“In the office,” Gorner said.

“I’ll call you right back,” Castillo said. “I can’t talk from this phone.”

He put the handset in its cradle before Gorner could reply. He saw that Edgar Delchamps was looking at him. He nodded just enough to signal Delchamps to follow him, then left the kitchen to go to his office.

The anteroom was barely large enough to hold a small desk and a skeletal office chair, but the door to it could be closed and was thick enough to be mostly soundproof. Castillo picked up the telephone. It could be made secure when necessary, and came with earphone sets on long cords so that others could listen to the conversation. It also had a built-in digital recorder so that conversations could be replayed for any number of reasons.

He pushed the RECORD button, then dialed a long number from memory.

“Gorner.”

“Karl. Who is Gunther Fiedler?”

“Friedler,” Gorner corrected him. “He was a staff reporter.”

Castillo knew enough of the operations of the Tages Zeitung newspapers to know that a staff reporter was analogous to a reporter for the Associated Press or other wire service in that the reporter’s stories were fed to all of the Tages Zeitung newspapers, rather than to any individual paper.

“I don’t think I knew him,” Castillo said.

“Probably not,” Gorner said on the edge of sarcasm. “Billy did. Billy gave him his first job on the Weiner Tages Zeitung years ago. Billy was godfather to Peter, Gunther’s oldest son.”

“Great news on Christmas Day. Who killed him and why?”

“He was working on a story about German involvement in that oil-for-food obscenity. Does that give a hint, Mr. Intelligence Officer?”

Castillo’s face tightened.

“Otto, I’m about to tell you to call back when you have your emotions under control.”

“I want to tell Billy before somebody else does.”

“But you can’t do that, can you, unless I put him on the phone?”

There was a ten-second silence—which seemed much longer—before Gorner replied, “I suppose I am a little upset. Gunther was my friend, too. I put him on that story, and I just now came from his house. On Christmas Day, as you say.”

Castillo realized it was as much of an apology as he was going to get.

“Okay. Do they have any idea who killed him?”

“The police tried to tell me it was a fairy lovers’ quarrel. My God!”

“What was that about his body being mutilated?”

“I couldn’t count the stab wounds in his body.”

Delchamps, holding one can of an earphone set to his ear, touched Castillo’s shoulder, and when Castillo looked at him, handed him a slip of paper on which he had quickly written, That’s all?

Castillo nodded and said into the phone, “You said ‘mutilated’?”

“They cut out his eye. That’s what I mean by mutilated.”

Delchamps nodded as if he expected that answer.

“I don’t think you should tell Billy that,” Castillo said. “And in your frame of mind, I really don’t think you should talk to him at all.”

He let that sink in a moment, then went on: “If I put Billy on the phone, can you leave out the mutilation?”

“That wouldn’t work, Karl, and you know it. No matter what I tell him, he’s going to look into it himself. And just as soon as he gets off the phone with me, he’ll be on the phone himself. And he has a lot of contacts.”

Shit, Castillo thought, he’s right!

When Castillo didn’t reply, Gorner added, “And it’s already all over the front pages of the Frankfurt newspapers, the Allgemeine Zeitung and the Rundschau. And Berlin and Munich won’t be far behind. And as soon as Billy gets to reading his newspapers online, he’s going to find out. You can bet your ass on that.”

He paused again, then gave what he thought would be the headline: “ ‘Tages Zeitung Reporter Murdered. Police Suspect Gay Lovers Spat.’ Merry Christmas, Frau Friedler and family.”

Castillo was ashamed of the irreverent thought that popped into his mind—Is there no honor among journalists?—which immediately was replaced by another disturbing thought, which he said aloud: “Billy will want to go to the funeral.”

“Oh, God! I didn’t even think about that!”

“Right now, he’s surrounded by Secret Service agents. How am I going to protect him in Fulda?”

“Wetzlar,” Gorner corrected automatically. “He lived in Wetzlar. He’s from Wetzlar.” Another brief pause. “You can’t keep him there?”

Castillo didn’t reply.

In as many seconds as it takes Otto to hear what he just said, he will realize that the only way to keep Billy Kocian from doing whatever he wants to do is convince him he really doesn’t want to do it, and that’s