“I think that’s Edgar’s call,” Castillo said.
“Alex to Fulda-slash-Marburg to deal with your guy there,” Delchamps said immediately. “Me to Vienna or Budapest or wherever the hell Uncle Billy is. Okay, Alex?”
Darby nodded.
It occurred to Castillo that it was the first time Delchamps had opened his mouth since the session began.
“Communications?” McNab said.
“There’s an AFC in Gorner’s office,” Castillo replied, “and I gave one to Sandor Tor.”
“We’re going to have to do something for Aloysius.” He looked at Woods. “Peter, send Mr. Casey a new green hat.”
Lieutenant Colonel Peter Woods smiled. “Yes, sir.”
“The one he has is a little ratty,” Castillo said.
“All communications to me go through D’Allessando,” McNab said. “From the moment I walk out that door, I don’t know where you are, or what you’re doing, or anything about you except that I agree you’re not playing with a full deck.”
“Yes, sir,” Castillo said.
“I presume you two are not going to need any help to get to Germany and wherever Kocian is.”
Delchamps and Darby nodded.
“And, Ace, I presume that the Benevolent Fund is going to benevolently provide these two dinosaurs with first-class tickets over there.”
“Absolutely, Edgar. How are you fixed for money?”
“Your credit’s good,” Delchamps said.
McNab looked at Castillo. “If you will be so good as to indulge me a moment longer, Colonel, a few loose ends to tie up. DeWitt and Uncle Remus and you will go back to Bragg with me. At Bragg—” He paused and turned to Hamilton. “How long since you’ve given a pecker-check, Colonel?”
“It’s, uh, been some time, General.”
Castillo couldn’t tell if Hamilton was pissed, amused, or had thought it was a straight question.
“Well, while we’re waiting for the pieces to come together, we’ll see if we can’t give you some practice. The pieces that have to come together are—this is yours, Uncle Remus—picking the Delta Force shooters.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And making sure Air Tanzania gets painted.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All that military crap, Uncle Remus. Shots, last wills and testaments, insurance, all of it. Phineas and Colonel Hamilton will be tied up teaching everybody all about Africa.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’d better work out of the Stockade.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can’t think of anything else. Can anybody?”
No one said a word.
“Now, Colonel Hamilton, thank you for your patience. Do you have any questions?”
“Oh, yes. Do I correctly infer you are planning an operation of some sort in the Democratic Republic of the Congo?”
“Yes, we are.”
“May I ask what type of operation?”
“We have reason to believe the Iranians, assisted by the Russians, have a chemical-slash-biological-warfare laboratory-slash-factory there, and we wish to get proof of that to show to the President before the bastards can do us any harm.”
“Frankly, sir, I’m delighted to hear that someone agrees with me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I passed that—the distinct likelihood of a bio-chem facility in the Congo—to the CIA some time ago. They looked into it and concluded that I was wrong; I thought they were.”
“Would you be good enough to amplify that, Colonel?” McNab asked.
“Well—” he began, then stopped. “How much do you know of the subject?”
“Virtually nothing,” McNab said.
“Well, as I said before, that’s my area of knowledge, in which I have some expertise. I try to keep an eye on it, so to speak. Some time ago, I noticed an anomaly in the production of certain chemicals, especially in Germany, suggesting to me that they were being either consumed in testing or stockpiled, or both.”
“What chemicals?” McNab asked softly.
“Would the names be of any use to you, sir?”
“What kind of chemicals?”
“In layman’s terms, those used in chemical and/or biological warfare. Forbidden under international treaties. Such as sarin. What really caught my attention was the increased production of DIC—diisopropylcarbodiimide.”
“Which is what?”
“In layman’s terms, it permits, to varying degrees, the storage of sarin in aluminum.”
“Such as a missile head?”
“Or a coffeepot. The point is: If the possession of sarin is against the law, why does one need anything aluminum in which to store it?”
“I take your point.”
“There were other areas which attracted my attention: unusual production, again in Germany and India, of the chemical precursors of the polypeptide family, the doxycyclines, trichothecenes, mycotoxins, and so on.”
“All poisonous substances?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And you informed the CIA?”
“I even suggested to them that if there was activity we should look into, it was taking place at the former German nuclear facilities on the Nava and Aruwimi rivers in the Congo, which is not far from Kisangani, which was formerly Stanleyville. You know, Henry Morton Stanley? ‘Doctor Livingstone, I presume?’ Stanleyville is where Stanley found Livingstone.”
“So I had heard,” McNab said. “Why did you think this?”
“Because both types of laboratory operations, nuclear and chemical, require large amounts of water, for cooling and other purposes. I think this is perhaps where the CIA got the idea the old German facilities are now a fish farm; the cooling tanks, etcetera, I suppose could be used for that purpose.”
“Who did you deal with at the CIA, Colonel? Do you remember his—or her—name?”
“I didn’t deal with anyone at the CIA. I just wrote it up, paper-clipped to it an inter-office memorandum saying it should be sent to the CIA, and put it in my out-box. I’m a scientist, not someone in the intelligence community.”
“So you don’t know if your reports ever got to the CIA?”
“I simply assume they did. I heard back—I forget how—of the CIA fish-farm theory.”
“Colonel,” McNab said, “just now you said you were a scientist. You’re wearing the caduceus of the Medical Corps . . .”
“I’m a physician.”
“And you’re wearing the eagles of a colonel, and you said you were West Point ’84, which would suggest you’re a soldier. Which is it, Colonel?”
“I am a serving officer, a West Pointer, a colonel, who also is a physician. And a bio-chemist, Ph.D. Oxford ’86. And a physicist, Ph.D., MIT ’93.”
McNab nodded. “I’m awed, and there is nothing that should be interpreted as sarcasm in that
