“Once the materiel and our people are safely aboard our Tanzanian Air Freight and Gorilla Transport 727 and en route to the U.S. of A., Colonel Castillo will have to abandon his search for interesting seashells on the sandy beaches of Cozumel, Mexico, or whatever else he’s doing with Tom and Susan down there, and return to the United States to lay evidence before the President of what the evil Iranians and the Russians are really doing on what CIA intel heretofore labeled a fish farm.”
“Sir,” Castillo said, “there is really no reason I couldn’t go as far as Uganda with DeWitt, and run the op from there.”
“I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Colonel, but since you insist on muddying the waters: Yes, there is. The primary reason, of course, is that I say you can’t.”
“I’ll just bet among the many other secrets our
“No, he never said a word.”
McNab looked at Delchamps. “Tell me, Edgar, why do I think those two deserve each other?”
“Because at the stroke of midnight, you change from being a kindly friend of man and mentor of the world into an ogre, and it’s already five past the witching hour?”
“True,” McNab said. “Charley, if that ‘locate but do not detain’ that the FBI has out on you changes, as I suspect it might, to ‘put him in the bag,’ this whole op goes out the window. I’m surprised you can’t figure that out all by yourself.
“Second, or thirdly, or whatever, you are going to have to keep in touch with Edgar and Darby so that the guy who runs your newspapers and that Hungarian character really give them—us—everything they’ve got on the Germans sending materiel down there. The more of that you can lay before the President, the better.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The more astute of you may have noticed we have a few little problems as yet to be resolved. One of these is how do we get Charley and Susan—and, of course, her brother as chaperone—down to sunny Cozumel, since I am offering ten-to-one that some FBI agent is at this minute at the Pensacola airport watching the Gulfstream to see if he shows up. And I don’t think we can count on them not knowing who Karl Gossinger is, either.”
He exhaled audibly.
“But . . . this is enough for tonight. Try to have some useful suggestions in the morning.”
He banged his fist on the table.
“Meeting adjourned. Go in peace.”
[TWO]
The Malaga Suite
Portofino Island Resort & Spa
Pensacola Beach, Florida
0620 7 January 2006
Castillo, carrying fresh linen and his toilet kit, quietly closed the door of the second, unused bedroom of the suite, then turned to head for its bathroom. He immediately saw that the bedroom in fact was in use.
Max was stretched out—not curled up—on the bed.
“Don’t let me disturb you, buddy. I am in my kindly don’t-wake-the-weary-sleepers mood.”
Charley had not disturbed Svetlana, who was soundly asleep in the master bedroom. He had thought—but of course did not tell her—that the way she slept was like Max slept: completely limp, sort of melting into the sheets and mattress.
Max took him at his word, closed his eyes—the only part of him that had moved when Castillo came into the room—and went back to sleep.
Castillo moved to the bathroom, where on the sink he found a coffeemaker beside a hair dryer. He got the coffeemaker going, then performed his morning ablutions, which included shaving under the running water of the shower.
The coffee was ready when he was finished, and tasted as bad as he had been afraid it would.
The options were calling room service, or drinking it. Calling room service would mean a waiter would eventually appear and make enough noise to wake Svet. Perhaps worse, there was no guarantee the room-service coffee would taste any better than what he had.
He left the bathroom, carrying both the coffeepot and a plastic mug, and headed for the balcony that overlooked the beach.
Max followed.
It was a beautiful day. A little chilly, but going back in their bedroom for one of the terry-cloth robes probably would wake Svet. And there were no robes in the second bathroom; he had looked.
He took another sip of the coffee, grimaced as he swallowed, set down the cup, and then, resting his hands on the balcony railing, looked down at the beach.
A group of sturdy souls in T-shirts and shorts were double-timing down the beach, headed by Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab.
Immediately, memories came to him of Second Lieutenant Castillo jogging after Brigadier General McNab all over picturesque Fort Bragg. General McNab was a devotee of physical conditioning in general and early-morning jogging in particular.
“I wonder how I got excused from this morning’s jaunt?” he asked Max, who didn’t reply.
He had just acquired the answer—
“That, Max, is either the FBI or, more than likely, someone McNab sent to summon me for the morning run.”
Castillo worried more than a little about the former possibility—particularly as it might apply to Svetlana— while he rushed to open the door before the chimes bonged again and awoke her.
He pulled it open.
“Good morning, sir,” a trim, dark-haired young man of fourteen said. He wore khaki pants and an obviously brand-new T-shirt bearing Naval Aviator wings and the legend U.S. NAVAL AVIATION MUSEUM.
“Did I wake you, sir?” Randolph J. Richardson IV said politely.
“No, Randy. I had to get up to answer the doorbell. Come on in.”
They somewhat formally shook hands.
“Thank you, sir.”
Max put his front paws on Randy’s shoulders and enthusiastically lapped his face.
“You’re with your dad?” Castillo asked.
“He had to come here to get wheels to meet some guy at the airport.”
“Yes, that’s right. I’d forgotten.”
“I told him that you had called and said you wanted to introduce me to General McNab.”
“Why did you do that, Randy?”
“Otherwise, he wouldn’t have brought me over here.”
“Why did you want to come over here?”
“I have a couple of questions, sir.”
Castillo waved the boy onto a couch.
“Have you had your breakfast?”
