There was a chorus of "Thank you, sir."

"Well, I suppose if you castrate too many bulls," General McNab said, "you're going to get gored, sooner or later. Don't let the doork.n.o.b hit you in the a.s.s on your way out."

General Naylor looked askance at General McNab.

General Miller took his son to one side for a private word.

General Wilson took his grandson and Castillo to one side for a private word. General Wilson had known all along that Castillo was the natural father of his grandson. The boy and Castillo had learned of their real relationship only recently.

"Sir," Randolph Richardson III asked, "where are you going?"

"Randy, I just don't know."

"Am I ever going to see you again?"

It took Castillo a moment to get rid of the lump in his throat.

"Absolutely, positively, and soon," he managed to say.

Randy put out his hand.

Castillo shook it.

f.u.c.k it!

He embraced his son, felt his son hug him back, and then let him go.

He wanted to say something else but this time the lump in his throat wouldn't go away.

"Your mother's waiting lunch for us, Randy," General Wilson said, and led the boy back toward the Caravan.

Gulfstream 379 broke ground about four minutes later. It flew to Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans, where it took on fuel and went through Customs and Immigration procedures, and then flew to the seaside resort city of Cancun on Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula.

Colonel Jake Torine and Captain d.i.c.k Sparkman, who had been retired that day from the USAF with considerably less panoply-each had received a FedEx package containing their retirement orders and their Distinguished Service Medals-were already there. Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley, USMC, had received a similar package from the Department of the Navy.

The Gulfstream refueled, Torine and Sparkman took off for Las Vegas, where the plane came to be parked in one of the AFC hangars until a decision about its future could be reached.

At the moment, Gulfstream 379 was leased "dry" from Gossinger Consultants, a wholly owned subsidiary of Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H., of Fulda, Germany, which had bought the aircraft from Lopez Fruit and Vegetables Mexico, a wholly owned subsidiary of Castillo Agriculture, Inc., of San Antonio, Texas, whose president and chief executive officer was Fernando Lopez, and whose corporate officers included one Carlos Castillo.

That status would have to be changed, Two-Gun Yung had announced, no matter what decision was reached about the offer of "those people" in Las Vegas.

At Cancun Airport International several hours later, CWO5 Leverette (Retired) and Sergeant Major Davidson (Retired) boarded a Mexicana flight to Mexico City. There, Leverette, now traveling on a Honduran pa.s.sport under another name, would board a Varig flight to So Paulo, Brazil, and Davidson, traveling under his own name on an Israeli pa.s.sport, would board a Mexicana flight bound for Lima, Peru.

Castillo had watched the takeoff of the Mexicana flight to Mexico City from the tarmac on the cargo side of the Cancun airfield. Then he had climbed into a Peruaire 767 cargo plane.

The 767 had flown up that morning from Santiago, Chile, with a mixed cargo of Chilean seafood and Argentine beef, citrus fruits and vegetables. The food was destined for Cancun Provisions, Ltda., and would ultimately end in the kitchen of The Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort, and in the galleys of cruise ships which called at Cancun.

PeruaireCargo, Cancun Provisions, Ltda., The Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort, and at least four of the cruise ships were owned-through a maze of dummy corporations, genuine corporations, and other ent.i.ties at least twice as obfuscatory as the ownership of Gulfstream 379-by a man named Aleksandr Pevsner.

In the late Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Pevsner had been simultaneously a colonel in the Soviet Air Force and a colonel in the KGB, responsible for the security of Aeroflot worldwide.

When the KGB was faced with the problem of concealing its wealth- hundreds of billions of dollars-from the people now running Russia, who were likely to put it in the state treasury, they decided that the wealth-much of it in gold and platinum-had to be hidden outside Russia.

And who better to do this than Colonel Aleksandr Pevsner? He knew people-many of them bankers-all over the world.

Pevsner resigned from the Air Force, bought several ex-Soviet Air Force cargo aircraft at distress prices, and soon began a profitable business flying Mercedes automobiles and other luxury goods into Moscow. The KGB's gold, platinum, precious stones, and sometimes cash-often contained in fuel barrels-left Moscow on the flights out.

For the latter service, Pevsner had been paid a commission of usually ten percent of the value. His relationship with the KGB-its First Chief Directorate now the SVR-had soured over time as the SVR had regained power under Vladimir Putin. The new SVR had decided that if Pevsner were eliminated, he could not tell anyone where their money had gone, and they might even get back some of the commissions they had paid him.

There had been a number of deaths, almost entirely of SVR agents, and Pevsner was now living with his wife and daughter in an enormous mansion on a several-thousand-hectare estate in the foothills of the Andes Mountains, protected by a security force Castillo called Pevsner's Private Army.

The mansion-which had been built during World War II-bore a remarkable similarity to Carinhall, Reichsmarschall Hermann Goring's estate in Germany. Not really joking, Pevsner and Castillo said it had probably been built by either admirers of the Number Two n.a.z.i-or even for for Goring-when the n.a.z.i leadership was planning to keep n.a.z.ism alive under the Operation Phoenix program by fleeing to Argentina. Goring-when the n.a.z.i leadership was planning to keep n.a.z.ism alive under the Operation Phoenix program by fleeing to Argentina.

Castillo had met Pevsner-more accurately, Pevsner had arranged to meet Castillo-when Castillo thought Pevsner was a likely suspect in the disappearance of the 727 from Aeroporto Internacional Quatro de Fevereiro in Luanda, Angola.

Pevsner had learned of Castillo's suspicions from his chief of security, a former FBI agent. Castillo had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from the men's room of the Hotel Sacher in Vienna and taken to the Vienna Woods at gunpoint.

On meeting Castillo, Pevsner decided the wisest path for him to follow was to help Castillo find the missing aircraft. He really didn't like to kill people unless it was absolutely necessary-incredibly, he was a devout Christian-and killing Castillo would certainly draw more American attention to him and his business enterprises.

The missing airplane was found with his help, and there was no sudden burst of activity by the Americans looking into Pevsner and his affairs.

But the real reason Pevsner was able to feel he had really made the right decision not to kill Castillo came when Pevsner was betrayed by the former FBI agent, who set up an a.s.sa.s.sination ambush in the bas.e.m.e.nt garage of the Sheraton Pilar Hotel outside Buenos Aires.

The team of SVR a.s.sa.s.sins found themselves facing not only Janos, Pevsner's ma.s.sive Hungarian bodyguard, but a number of members of the OOA, who had learned what was about to happen.

In the brief, if ferocious, firefight which ensued, Janos was seriously wounded and all four of the SVR would-be a.s.sa.s.sins had been killed. One of the Russians had been put down by Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, with a headshot at thirty meters' distance from Lester's Model 1911A1 .45 ACP pistol.

That had, of course, made Aleksandr Pevsner think of Charley Castillo as a friend, but there had been another unexpected development. Shortly after they had been struck with Cupid's arrow, Sweaty had told her Carlos that the reason they had wanted to come to Argentina was because she and her brother had a relative living there. They were cousins. His mother and the mother of Sweaty and Tom were sisters. They didn't know where he was, and she hoped her Carlos would help her find him.

His name, Sweaty had said, was Aleksandr Pevsner.

Behind the flight deck of the PeruaireCargo 767 there was a small pa.s.senger area equipped with a table, a galley, and six seats which could be converted to beds at the press of a switch.

Castillo sat down beside Sweaty, and a stewardess showed him a bottle of Argentine champagne, her eyes asking if it met his pleasure. He nodded and she poured champagne for him and Sweaty and for Tom Barlow and Two-Gun.

"Randy came to my retirement parade," Castillo told Sweaty. "He asked if he was ever going to see me again."

"Oh, my poor Carlos," Sweaty said, and took his hand and kissed it.

Max, who seemed to understand his master was unhappy, put his paws on Castillo's shoulders and licked his face.

The PeruaireCargo 767 flew nonstop from Cancun to Santiago, Chile.

For some reason, the Chilean immigration and customs officials, who had a reputation for meeting all incoming aircraft before the doors were open, were not on the tarmac.

Castillo, Sweaty, Tom, Two-Gun, and Max were thus able to walk directly, and without attracting any attention, from the 767 to a Learjet 45 which was conveniently parked next to where the 767 had stopped. The Learjet began to taxi the instant the door had closed.

A short time later, it landed at the San Carlos de Bariloche airport in Argentina, just the other side of the Andes Mountains. Coincidentally, the Argentine immigration and customs authorities, like their brothers in Santiago, seemed not to have noticed the arrival of the Learjet. No one saw its pa.s.sengers load into a Mercedes sedan and, led and trailed by Mercedes SUVs, drive off.

Forty-five minutes later, Charley was standing on the dock on the edge of the Casa en el Bosque property and looking out across Lake Nahuel Huapi.

"What are you thinking, my darling?" Sweaty asked, touching his cheek.

"That I just have, in compliance with orders, dropped off the face of the earth."

"Okay," Castillo said, "the motion to split the money and run having failed, we're still in business. But as what?"

"We're going to have to form a corporation," Two-Gun said.

"What are we going to call the corporation?" Castillo pursued.

"Do what Aloysius did. Use the initials," Sergeant Major (Retired) Davidson suggested. "The Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund becomes the LCBF Corporation."

"Second the motion," CWO5 Colin Leverette (Retired) said. "And then when everybody agrees, I can go fishing."

He and Davidson had made their way to Bariloche the day before. Their pa.s.sports had not attracted any unwelcome attention.

"Any objections?" Castillo asked, and then a moment later said, "Hearing none, the motion carries. It's now the LCBF Corporation. Or will be, when Two-Gun sets it up. Which brings us to Two-Gun."

"Uh-oh," Two-Gun said.

"I suggest we appoint Two-Gun, by any t.i.tle he chooses to a.s.sume, and at a suitable wage, as our money and legal guy. I think we should hire Agnes to keep running administration and keep Dianne and Harold on at the house in Alexandria."

Mrs. Agnes Forbison, a very senior civil servant (GS-15, the highest pay grade) had been one of the first members of OOA, as its chief of administration.

Dianne and Harold Sanders were both retired special operators. They had been thinking of opening a bed-and-breakfast when Uncle Remus Leverette told them Castillo needed someone to run a safe house just outside Washington. They had jumped at the opportunity, and Castillo had jumped at the opportunity to have them. He'd been around the block with Harold on several occasions, and Dianne, in addition to being an absolutely marvelous cook, was also an absolutely marvelous cryptographer.

"Okay," Leverette then said, "after we approve that, can I go fishing?"

Castillo said, "Then there's the final question: What do we do about the offer from those people in Las Vegas?"

"I was afraid you'd bring that up, Ace," Delchamps said. "I have mixed feelings about that."

"We told them we'd let them know today," Castillo said.

"No, they told told us us to let them know by today," Delchamps said. "I'm not happy with them telling us anything." to let them know by today," Delchamps said. "I'm not happy with them telling us anything."

"Call them up, Charley," Jack Britton said, "and tell them we're still thinking about it."

"Second the motion," Davidson said.

"Why not?" Castillo said. "The one thing we all have now is time on our hands. All the time in the world. Any objections?"

There were none and the motion carried.

"I'm going fishing," Leverette said, and grabbed his fly rod from where he'd left it on a table, then headed for the door.

[TWO].

Office of the Managing Editor The Washington Times-Post 1365 15th Street, N.W.

Washington, D.C.

1605 3 February 2007

The managing editor's office was across the newsroom from Roscoe Danton's office, substantially larger and even more crowded. The exterior windows opened on 15th Street, and the interior windows overlooked the newsroom. The latter were equipped with venetian blinds, which were never opened.

Managing Editor Christopher J. Waldron had begun smoking cigars as a teenager and now, at age sixty-two, continued to smoke them in his office in defiance of the wishes of the management of The Washington Times-Post The Washington Times-Post and the laws of the District of Columbia. His only capitulation to political correctness and the law had been the installation of an exhaust fan and a sign on his door in large red letters that said: KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING!!!! and the laws of the District of Columbia. His only capitulation to political correctness and the law had been the installation of an exhaust fan and a sign on his door in large red letters that said: KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING!!!!

This served, usually, to give him time to exhale and to place his cigar in a desk drawer before any visitor could enter and catch him in flagrante delicto in flagrante delicto, which, as he often pointed out, meant "while the crime is blazing."

There had been complaints made about his filthy habit, most of them from the female staff but also from those of the opposite and indeterminate genders, but to no avail. Chris Waldron was about the best managing editor around, and management knew it.

Roscoe Danton knocked on Waldron's door, waited for permission to enter, and, when that came, went in, closing the door behind him.

Chris Waldron reclaimed his cigar from the ashtray in his desk drawer and put it back in his mouth.

He raised his eyebrows to ask the question, Well? Well?

Danton said, "I am fully aware that I am neither Woodward nor Bernstein, but-"

"Thank you for sharing that with me," Waldron interrupted.

"-but I have a gut feeling I'm onto a big story, maybe as big as Watergate, and I want to follow it wherever it goes."

"And I had such high hopes that you'd really stopped drinking," Waldron said, and then made two gestures which meant, Sit down and tell me about it Sit down and tell me about it.