car. Plus about that many in his front door, picture window, etcetera. They used automatic Kalashnikovs.”
“What’s this got to do with him getting taken off the Vice President’s protection detail?”
There was a just-perceptible pause before Isaacson said, “Think about it, Charley. These people try to take him out again when he’s on duty, then the Vice President becomes collateral damage.”
“Stupid question. Sorry. Britton didn’t understand?”
“What he didn’t understand was being brought here. Standard procedure when something like this happens. Gets them out of the line of fire.”
“That made him mad?”
“What made him mad was being told that he was going to be placed on administrative duties in—I forget where; probably Saint Louis—until the matter is resolved. When he heard that, the kindest thing he had to say to the supervisor on duty downtown was that the supervisor could insert the whole Secret Service into his anal orifice. That’s when they brought him to me.”
“What’s Jack want to do?”
“He wants to go back to Philly and play Bat Masterson with the people who shot at his wife,” Isaacson said.
“This is probably the wrong thing to say, but I can understand that.”
“You’re right. It is the wrong thing to say. Charley, I assumed responsibility for them. The big brass are determined he will not go back to Philadelphia; they wanted to hold him—them—as material witnesses to an assault on a federal officer.”
“Can they do that?”
“They could her. What I told the supervisor was that they were going to have a hard time convincing a judge that a member of the Vice President’s protection detail—and a highly decorated former Philly cop—was going to vanish so that he wouldn’t have to testify against the bad guys who had tried to whack him and his wife. That’s when they turned them over to me. They’d rather that I be responsible for putting this little escapade on the front page of
When Castillo didn’t immediately reply, Isaacson went on: “Or for a headline in
“So that’s the priority? Keeping egg off the face of the Secret Service?”
“That, and keeping Jack out of jail.”
“What am I supposed to do with them?”
“Convince him that going back to Philly would be stupid, then put them on ice someplace until this can be worked out.”
“Personally, I’ll do anything I can for Jack. But why me?”
“Because the chief of the Secret Service has been told that any inquiries he wishes to make about OOA will have to go through me.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Indeed. Merry Christmas, Charley. Please don’t tell me what you decide to do with them; that way I’ll truthfully be able to say I don’t know where they are when I’m asked. And I will be asked.”
“Jesus Christ!” Castillo said again.
But no one heard him.
The legend on the screen now read: CALL TERMINATED.
III
[ONE]
7200 West Boulevard Drive
Alexandria, Virginia
1445 25 December 2005
“Not more bad news, I hope, Carlos?” Dona Alicia asked as Castillo took what Davidson referred to as the “paterfamilias seat” at the head of the table.
Castillo looked at her and had the first not-unpleasant thought he’d had in the last five minutes:
“There’s some good news,” he said. “And . . .”
“Let’s have that first,” Dona Alicia said. “The good news.”
“Okay. Jack Britton and his wife will appear here shortly.”
“Oh, good!” Tom McGuire said. “You’ll like them, Dona Alicia. Particularly her. Great sense of humor. As my sainted mother used to say, she’s the kind of girl who can make a corpse sit up in his casket at the funeral and start whistling.”
“Tom, that’s terrible,” Dona Alicia said, but she was smiling.
“And the bad news, Ace?” Delchamps asked.
“They have been wrapped in the protective arms of the Secret Service.”
McGuire’s smile vanished. He liked Britton. He had recruited him for the Secret Service.
“Why?” he asked softly.
“Isaacson told me that that’s standard procedure when a special agent is attacked. As is taking a member of the Protection Service off the detail and assigning him administrative duties.”
“Somebody attacked Jack?” Davidson asked.
“And Sandra,” Castillo confirmed. “Sixteen bullet holes in his new Mazda convertible. And that many more in the picture window of his house.”
“Oh, my God! How terrible!” Dona Alicia said.
“The African-American Lunatics?” David W. Yung asked.
Dona Alicia looked at him in confusion.
“Who else?” Castillo said.
“Where are they sending him?” McGuire said. Before Castillo could reply, he added, surprised, “They want to keep him here?”
“They wanted to send them to Saint Louis, or someplace like that.”
“And?” McGuire pursued.
“When they told him that, Jack said something very, very rude to the supervisor who told him, and then said he was going back to Philadelphia. That’s when he was turned over to Joel.” He paused. “And then Joel turned him over to me.”
McGuire grunted. “Philadelphia’s not an option,” he said. “And I don’t know about here. There’s a train from Union Station to Philadelphia about every hour.”
“Nuestra Pequena Casa,” Delchamps suggested. “Better yet, Shangri-La.”
McGuire considered that a moment, then nodded. “That’d do it.”
Dona Alicia’s face showed that she didn’t understand any of what had been said.
“Ace, you think your lady friend would go along with one more legal attache in Buenos Aires or Montevideo?” Delchamps asked.
“Probably. But asking her on Christmas Day?”
“Good point,” Delchamps said.
“Let’s get them down there and worry about that later,” McGuire said. “Worst case, they make us bring them back.”
“Why don’t we wait and see what kind of a frame of mind Jack’s in before we do anything?” Davidson asked.
“If I could repeat in mixed company what he told the Secret Service supervisor, Jack, that would give you a good idea,” Castillo said. “But for the moment, would someone please pass me the cranberry sauce?”
