"I would suggest, Mr. President, that it was because the information they provided about the Congo was true."

The President considered that, snorted, and then said, "Well, Charles, that seems to be it, doesn't it?"

"Yes, sir, it would seem so."

"Thank you for coming to see me. We'll be in touch."

[THREE].

Old Ebbitt Grill 675 15th Street, N.W.

Washington, D.C.

1530 2 February 2007

No one is ever really surprised when a first- or second-tier member of the Washington press corps walks into the Old Ebbitt looking for someone.

For one thing, the Old Ebbitt is just about equidistant between the White House-a block away at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue-and the National Press Club-a block away at 529 14th Street, N.W. It's right down the street from the Hotel Washington, and maybe a three-minute walk from the Willard Hotel, whose lobby added the term "lobbyist" to the political/journalistic lexicon.

Furthermore, the Old Ebbitt's service, menu, ambiance, and stock of intoxicants was superb. The one thing on which all observers of the press corps agreed was that nothing appeals more to the gentlemen and ladies of the Fourth Estate than, say, a shrimp c.o.c.ktail and a nice New York strip steak, plus a stiff drink, served promptly onto a table covered with crisp linen in a charming environment.

This is especially true if the journalist can reasonably expect that someone else-one of those trolling for a favorable relationship with the press lobbyists from the Willard, for example-would happily reach for the check.

Roscoe J. Danton-a tall, starting to get a little plump, thirty-eight-year-old who was employed by The Washington Times-Post The Washington Times-Post-was, depending on to whom one might talk, either near the bottom of the list of first-tier journalists, or at the very top of the second tier.

Roscoe walked into the Old Ebbitt, nodded at the ever affable Tony the Maitre d' at his stand, and walked on to the bar along the wall behind Tony. He continued slowly down it-toward the rear-and had gone perhaps halfway when he spotted the people he had agreed to meet.

They were two women, and they were sitting at a banquette. The one he had talked to said that he would have no trouble spotting them: "Look for two thirtyish blondes at one of the banquettes at the end of the bar."

The description, Roscoe decided, was not entirely accurate. While both were bleached blonde, one of them was far closer to fiftyish than thirtyish, and the younger one was on the cusp of fortyish.

But there being no other banquette holding two blondes, Roscoe walked to their table.

Roscoe began, "Excuse me-"

"Sit down, Mr. Danton," the older of the two immediately said.

The younger one patted the red leather next to her.

Roscoe Danton sat down.

"Whatever this is, I don't have much time," he announced. "There's a press conference at four-fifteen."

"This won't take long," the older one said. "And I really think it will be worth your time."

A waiter appeared.

The older woman signaled the waiter to bring what she and her companion were drinking, and then asked, "Mr. Danton?"

"What is that you're having?"

"A Bombay martini, no vegetables," she said.

"That should give me courage to face the mob," he said, smiled at the waiter, and told him, "The same for me, please."

The older woman waited until the waiter had left and then reached to the fluffy lace collar at her neck. She unb.u.t.toned two b.u.t.tons, put her hand inside, and withdrew a plastic card. It was attached with an alligator clip to what looked like a dog-tag chain. She pressed the clip, removed the card, more or less concealed it in her hand, and laid it flat on the tablecloth.

"Make sure the waiter doesn't see that, please," she said as she withdrew her hand.

Danton held his hand to at least partially conceal the card and took a good look at it.

The card bore the woman's photograph, the seal of the Central Intelligence Agency, a number, some stripes of various colors, and her name, Eleanor Dillworth.

It clearly was an employee identification card. Danton had enough experience at the CIA complex just across the Potomac River in Langley, Virginia, to know that while it was not one of the very coveted Any Area/Any Time cards worn by very senior CIA officers with as much elan as a four-star general wears his stars in the Pentagon, this one identified someone fairly high up in the hierarchy.

He met Miss Dillworth's eyes, and slid the card back across the table.

The younger blonde took a nearly identical card from her purse and laid it before Danton. It said her name was Patricia Davies Wilson.

"I told them I had lost that when I was fired," Mrs. Wilson said. "And kept it as a souvenir."

Danton met her eyes, too, but said nothing.

She took the card back, and put it in her purse.

"What's this all about?" he finally asked when his silence didn't elicit the response it was supposed to.

Miss Dillworth held up her finger as a signal to wait.

The waiter delivered three Bombay Sapphire gin martinis, no vegetables.

"That was quick, wasn't it?" Eleanor Dillworth asked.

"That's why I like to come here," Patricia Davies Wilson said.

The three took an appreciative sip of their c.o.c.ktails.

"I was asking, 'What's this all about?'" Danton said.

"Disgruntled employees, Mr. Danton," Patricia Davies Wilson said.

"Who, as you know, sometimes become whistleblowers," Eleanor Dillworth said, and then asked, "Interested?"

"That would depend on what, or on whom, you're thinking of blowing the whistle," Danton replied.

"I was about to say the agency," Patricia Davies Wilson said. "But it goes beyond the agency."

"Where does it go beyond the agency?" Danton asked.

"Among other places, to the Oval Office."

"In that case, I'm fascinated," Danton said. "What have you got?"

"Have you ever heard of an intelligence officer-slash-special operator by the name of Carlos Castillo?" Eleanor Dillworth asked.

Danton shook his head.

"How about the Office of Organizational a.n.a.lysis?"

He shook his head, and then asked, "In the CIA?"

Dillworth shook her head. "In the office of our late and not especially grieved-for President," she said.

"And apparently to be kept alive in the administration of our new and not-too-bright chief executive. But that's presuming Montvale has told him."

"What does this organization do? What has it done in the past?"

"If we told you, Mr. Danton, I don't think you would believe us," Eleanor Dillworth said.

Danton sipped his martini, and thought: Probably not. Probably not.

Disgruntled employee whistleblowers almost invariably tell wild tales with little or no basis in fact.

He said: "I don't think I understand."

"You're going to have to learn this yourself," Patricia Wilson said. "We'll point you in the right direction, but you'll have to do the digging. That way you'll believe it."

"How do I know you know what you're talking about?" Danton challenged.

"Before I was recalled, I was the CIA's station chief in Vienna," Dillworth said. "I've been in-was in-the Clandestine Service for twenty-three years." in-the Clandestine Service for twenty-three years."

"Before that b.a.s.t.a.r.d got me fired," Patricia Wilson added, "I was the agency's regional director for Southwest Africa, everything from Nigeria to South Africa, including the Congo. You will recall the Congo is where World War Three was nearly started last month."

"'That b.a.s.t.a.r.d' is presumably this Mr. Costillo?"

"'Castillo,' with an 'a,'" she said. "And lieutenant colonel, not mister. He's in the Army."

"Okay," Danton said, "point me."

"You said you were going to the four-fifteen White House press conference," Dillworth said. "Ask Porky. Don't take no for an answer."

John David "Jack" Parker, the White House spokesman, was sometimes unkindly referred to-the forty-two-year-old Vermont native was was a little on the far side of pleasingly plump-as Porky Parker. And sometimes, when his responses to questions tested the limits of credulity, some members of the Fourth Estate had been known to make a little on the far side of pleasingly plump-as Porky Parker. And sometimes, when his responses to questions tested the limits of credulity, some members of the Fourth Estate had been known to make oink-oink oink-oink sounds from the back of the White House press room. sounds from the back of the White House press room.

"Okay, I'll do it. How do I get in touch with you if I decide this goes any further?"

Eleanor Dillworth slid a small sheet of notebook paper across the table.

"If there's no answer, say you're Joe Smith and leave a number."

[FOUR].

The Press Room The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

Washington, D.C.

1715 2 February 2007

"Well, that's it, fellows," Jack Parker said. "We agreed that these would last one hour, and that's what the clock says."

Ignoring muted oink-oink oink-oink sounds from the back of the room, he left the podium and headed for the door, where he was intercepted by Roscoe J. Danton of sounds from the back of the room, he left the podium and headed for the door, where he was intercepted by Roscoe J. Danton of The Washington Times-Post. The Washington Times-Post.

"Aw, come on, Roscoe, this one-hour business was as much your idea as anybody else's."

"Well, screw you," Danton said, loud enough for other members of the Fourth Estate also bent on intercepting Porky to hear, and at the same time asking with a pointed finger and a raised eyebrow if he could go to Parker's office as soon as the area emptied.

Parker nodded, just barely perceptibly.

Danton went out onto the driveway and smoked a cigarette. Smoking was prohibited in the White House, the rule strictly enforced when anyone was watching. And then he went back into the White House.

"What do you need, Roscoe?" Parker asked.

"Tell me about the Office of Organizational a.n.a.lysis and Colonel Carlos Costello. Castillo Castillo."

Parker thought, shrugged, and said, "I draw a blank."

"Can you check?"

"Sure. In connection with what?"

"I have some almost certainly unreliable information that he and the Office of Organizational a.n.a.lysis were involved in almost starting World War Three."

"One hears a lot of rumors like that about all kinds of people, doesn't one?" Parker said mockingly. "There was one going around that the Lambda Legal Foundation were the ones behind it; somebody told them they stone gays in the Congo."