"Sir, I'm sure the secretary would tell you that I'm at your disposal."

"Well, I'll ask him anyway. But you might want to start packing. I've just been told the wife of our deputy chief of mission was kidnapped early last night. I want to know how and why that happened, and I want to know now, and I don't want to wait until whoever's in charge down there has time to write a cover-his-a.s.s report. Getting the picture?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

After a moment, Charley realized the President had hung up.

Agnes waited for a report.

"He wants me to go to Buenos Aires," Charley replied, obviously thinking that over. "It seems somebody kidnapped the deputy chief of mission's wife. He wants me to find out about it. He's apparently laboring under the misconception that I'm some kind of a detective."

"You're not bad at finding missing airplanes, Sherlock."

"Jesus, Agnes, that's a big emba.s.sy. They probably have ten FBI agents, plus CIA spooks, plus Drug Enforcement guys . . . not to mention the State Department's own security people."

"But the President doesn't know any of them, Charley. And he knows you. Trusts you," Agnes said, and then added, "But to b.u.t.tress your argument, there's also a heavy hitter Secret Service guy in Buenos Aires. Name of Tony Santini. He's an old pal of Joel's. The reason I know is that once a month or so he sends Joel twenty, twenty-five pounds of filet mignon steaks on the courier plane. They're in a box marked TISSUE SAMPLES."

"Maybe I can tell the boss that, and get Joel's pal to find out what happened. I really don't want to go down there."

What I really want to do is go to Glynco, Georgia- wherever the h.e.l.l that is-and see how ex-Sergeant Betty Schneider is doing in Secret Service school.

"I understand, Mr. President," the secretary of Homeland Security said into the red phone. "Consider Charley gone." He laid the telephone back in the cradle and turned to Castillo.

Matthew Hall was a large man-his Secret Service code name was "Big Boy"-with a full head of hair. While he usually presented the image of a dignified senior government officer with the means to employ a good tailor, right now he looked a little rumpled.

His necktie was pulled down, and his collar b.u.t.ton open. His suit needed pressing, and his beard was starting to show.

His appearance was temporary. As soon as the Citation had landed at Andrews Air Force Base, he had come to the Nebraska Complex to check on what was going on before going home. An hour from now, he would be freshly shaven, in a crisply starched white shirt and a freshly pressed suit.

"No go, Charley," Hall said. "He doesn't want it to get out that he's taking a personal interest."

"Yes, sir."

"Sir, what about Tony Santini?" Joel Isaacson asked. "He could probably be helpful as h.e.l.l to Charley. You want me to give him a heads-up?"

Hall had told the President that Isaacson-a tall, slim, forty-year-old very senior Secret Service agent who was head of Hall's security detail and had once been number two on the presidential detail-had said he had a good friend in Buenos Aires, a Secret Service agent who could probably report on the kidnapping more quickly than Castillo possibly could. The President had been unimpressed.

"Santini?" Hall asked. "That's your friend's name?"

Isaacson nodded. "He and I-and Tom-go way, way back. Tony's down there working funny money."

Secret Service agent Tom McGuire, a large, red-haired Irishman, had also come from the presidential detail to protect Hall.

"You trust him to keep his mouth shut?"

Isaacson raised his hands in a gesture suggesting "dumb question."

"Sorry, Joel," Hall said. "Okay, give him a heads-up. And find out how Charley can quietly get in touch with him."

"If I'm to do this quietly, sir," Charley asked, "can I go as Gossinger?"

Hall considered that a moment, too, before replying.

"Your call, Charley."

Secretary Hall had decided about six months earlier- political correctness be d.a.m.ned-that he needed a male a.s.sistant, preferably unmarried. He was constantly on the move all over the country and sometimes outside it. He almost always flew on a Cessna Citation X. The airplane belonged to the Secret Service, which had been transferred from the Treasury Department to Homeland Security after 9/11.

Hall almost always traveled with Joel Isaacson and Tom McGuire. They often left for where they were goingin the wee hours of the morning, and/or came back to Washington at the same unG.o.dly hour.

Both Mrs. Kensington and Mrs. Forbison were married and not thrilled with the idea of flying on half an hour's notice to, say, Spokane, Washington, at half past five in the morning with no hint of when they'd be coming back to feed their husbands or play with their grandchildren.

Moving down the staff structure, Hall had taken maybe a dozen female administrative types with him on thirty or more trips, women with job t.i.tles like "senior administrative a.s.sistant." While all had been initially thrilled with the prospect of personally working for the secretary, none of them had kept at it for long.

Primarily, the ones who weren't married had boyfriends, and they all had grown accustomed to the federal government's eight-to-five, Monday-to-Friday workweek, and its generous day-off recognition of holidays. Hall worked a seven-day week, with an exception for, say, Christmas.

Moreover, having some female in the confines of the Citation X cabin posed problems. For one thing, Matt Hall believed with entertainer Ed McMahon that alcohol-especially good scotch-was G.o.d's payment for hard work. With a female in the cabin, that meant he had to drink alone, and he didn't like that.

Joel Isaacson and Tom McGuire couldn't drink with him if a senior administrative a.s.sistant-or someone of that ilk-was on the plane. Both were fully prepared to lay down their lives for the secretary, both as a professional duty and because they had come to deeply admire Hall. But as a practical matter, once the local security detail had loaded them on the Citation and they'd gotten off the ground and were on their way home, having a belt-or two-with the secretary in no way reduced-in their judgment and the secretary's-the protection they were sworn to provide.

But what they could not afford was Miss Whateverhername rushing home to her boyfriend's pillow to regale him with tales of the secretary and his security detail sucking scotch all the way across the country while they exchanged politically incorrect and often ribald jokes.

When General Allan Naylor, the Central Command commander-in-chief, had been a captain in Vietnam, Matt Hall had been one of his sergeants. They had remained friends as Naylor had risen in the Army hierarchy and Hall had become first a congressman and then governor of North Carolina and then secretary of Homeland Security.

Their relationship was now professional as well. Central Command, de facto de facto if not if not de jure, de jure, was the most important operational headquarters in the Defense Department. It controlled Special Operations, among many other things. The President had made it clear that whatever the secretary of Homeland Security wanted from Central Command he was to have, and if that violated procedure or regulations, either change the procedures or regulations, or work around them. was the most important operational headquarters in the Defense Department. It controlled Special Operations, among many other things. The President had made it clear that whatever the secretary of Homeland Security wanted from Central Command he was to have, and if that violated procedure or regulations, either change the procedures or regulations, or work around them.

Hall and Naylor talked at least once a day on a secure communications link-sometimes a half dozen times a day when world events dictated-and they met as often as that worked out.

At a mixed business and social meeting, over drinks in the bar of the Army-Navy Club in Washington, Hall had confided in Naylor his problem traveling with females, and almost jokingly asked if Naylor happened to know of some young officer-male and unmarried-he could borrow as an a.s.sistant.

"Aside from carrying your suitcase and answering your phone, what else would he have to do?"

"It would help if he could type, and had decent table manners."

"Anything else?"

"Seriously?" Hall asked, and Naylor nodded.

"Handle his booze, know how to keep his mouth shut," Hall furnished. "And since this is a wish list, maybe speak a foreign language or two. Especially Spanish."

"How about one who speaks Spanish like a Spaniard?"

"You've got somebody?"

Naylor nodded. "Just back from Afghanistan. He's on the five-percent list for lieutenant colonel. They've been wondering where to a.s.sign him."

"How come you know a lowly major?"

"I've known this fellow a long time. West Pointer. Green Beret. About as bright as they come."

"And I can have him?"

Naylor nodded.

"Why?"

"Maybe because I like you, and maybe because I think he'd learn something working for you. If he doesn't work out, you can send him back."

Major Carlos Guillermo Castillo, Special Forces, had shown up at the Nebraska Complex three days later. In uniform, which displayed an impressive row of decorations and I-Was-There ribbons, plus a Combat Infantry Badge and a set of Senior Army Aviator wings. The latter surprised Hall, as Naylor hadn't mentioned that Castillo was a pilot.

He was also surprised at his appearance. He didn't look Latin. He was blue-eyed, fair-skinned, and Hall suspected his light brown hair had once been blond.

Hall, who had a CIB of his own, liked what he saw.

"Major, would it offend you if I called you 'Carlos'?"

"Not at all, sir. But I'd prefer 'Charley,' sir."

"'Charley' it is. And-so people don't start asking 'who's that Army officer working for Hall?'-I'd like you to wear civvies. A suit, or a sports coat with a shirt and tie. Is that going to pose a problem?"

"No, sir."

Hall had stopped himself just in time from saying, "Don't go out and spend a lot of money on civvies; this may not work out."

Instead, he asked, "You're going to try to get in the BOQ at Fort Myer?"

"Sir, I'm on per diem, and I've spent more than my fair share of time in BOQs. I thought I'd look for a hotel, or an apartment."

"Up to you," Hall had said, "but-frankly, this may not work out for either of us-I wouldn't sign a lease on an apartment right away."

"Yes, sir. A hotel."

"If such a thing exists, try to find a reasonably priced hotel near the White House-you might try the Hotel Washington. I spend most of my time in the OEOB, which means you will, too."

"Yes, sir."

Hall had risen and put out his hand.

"Welcome aboard, Charley. You come recommended by General Naylor, and with that in mind, and from what I've seen, I think you're going to fit in very well around here. Get yourself settled-take your time, do it right- and when you're finished, come to work."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

When Hall went to his OEOB office at nine the next morning, Castillo was there, waiting for him. In a gray suit, black wingtip shoes, a crisp white b.u.t.ton-down shirt, and a red-striped necktie, none of which, Hall knew, had come off the racks at Sears, Roebuck.

Good, he looks like a typical bureaucrat, Hall thought, and then changed that a.s.sessment. Hall thought, and then changed that a.s.sessment. No. Like a successful Capitol Hill lobbyist or lawyer. No. Like a successful Capitol Hill lobbyist or lawyer.

Castillo said he'd found a hotel not far from the White House and the OEOB.

"One you can afford?" Hall asked, with a smile.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then, if you're ready to go to work, I'll have Mrs. Kensington show you how we throw away the taxpayers' money."

Three days later, when Hall was dictating to Mary-Ellen, Castillo appeared at the door and said he had a little problem.

"What's that?"

"I need some kind of a t.i.tle, sir. I got the feeling you didn't want the military connection, so I don't say 'Major. ' When somebody asks me what I do here, I've been saying, 'I work in Secretary Hall's office.' "

"That makes you sound like a clerk," Mary-Ellen said. "n.o.body will pay any attention to you."

Hall smiled at her. He had noticed that Mary-Ellen had liked Charley from the first day.

"Okay, Mary-Ellen, what do you suggest?"

"Executive a.s.sistant," Executive a.s.sistant Kensington replied immediately. "That has a certain je ne sais quoi je ne sais quoi in the upper echelons of the Washington bureaucracy." in the upper echelons of the Washington bureaucracy."

"But he's not an executive a.s.sistant," Hall had protested.

"He is if you say so, boss. And who's to know?"

"By the power invested in me by myself," Hall said, "you are decreed to be my executive a.s.sistant. Go forth and do good work."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Castillo replied to Hall. He turned to Mary-Ellen and added, "Et merci mille fois, madame." "Et merci mille fois, madame."

Hall had picked up on that.

"You speak French, do you, Charley?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any other languages?"

"Yes, sir."

Hall made a come-on gesture.

Charley hesitated, and Hall added, "Modesty does not befit an executive a.s.sistant. Which ones?"

"Russian, sir. And Hungarian. German. Some Arabic. Several others."

"Jesus Christ!"

"Languages come easy to me, sir."

"They don't to me," Hall confessed. "You have plans for the evening, Charley?"

"No, sir."