"There are a lot of lousy jobs in the Army, but right at the head of the list has to be aide-de-camp to Scotty McNab. That's probably even worse than being his deputy commander."

"I tried to think of it as an educational experience, sir."

General Gonzalez laughed.

"Harry, did you hear that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Write it down."

"Yes, sir."

"Harry, I want you to stay with Major Castillo. Give him a drink and then send him to bed. He looks worn-out and I suspect tomorrow is going to be very 'educational.' "

"Yes, sir."

[ONE]

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

2250 9 June 2005

The VIP suite into which Castillo was installed had a bedroom, a sitting room with a small dining room table at one side, a small office, and a kitchenette. It was about two-thirds the size of his apartment in the Mayflower.

It also came with a young sergeant in a crisply pressed desert camouflage battle dress uniform.

"Can I have the sergeant fix you something to drink, sir?" General Gonzalez's aide-de-camp asked.

He was a captain. His name tag said BREWSTER. He had a CIB and senior parachutist's wings sewn above his pocket. And there was a Ranger tab sewn to his sleeve above the XVIII Airborne Corps shoulder insignia. But his beret was black-as General Gonzalez's beret had been, Castillo remembered-so neither Captain Brewster nor General Gonzalez was Special Forces. Green Beanies wore green berets, of which they were justifiably proud.

What color beret does General McNab wear these days? Black or green?

Whatever color pleases him, obviously.

"No," Castillo said. "What you can do is point me in the direction of the booze and send the sergeant home."

"Yes, sir," the aide said, not quite able to conceal his surprise at Castillo's abruptness.

Castillo picked up on it.

Jesus Christ, what's the matter with me?

"Sergeant, I've had a bad day," Castillo said. "What I'm going to do is have one drink and then get in bed. There's no sense in you sticking around for that."

"Yes, sir," the sergeant asked. "Sir, what are your breakfast plans?"

"Nothing beyond a cup of coffee. Is there a coffee machine in the kitchen?"

"Yes, sir. But I'd be happy:"

"Is there someplace I can call you if I need you?"

"The number of the protocol office is taped to the telephones, sir, if you need anything."

"Thank you, Sergeant," Castillo said and smiled at him.

When the sergeant had gone, Castillo looked at Captain Brewster.

"I didn't mean to snap at the sergeant," Castillo said.

"I'm sure there's no problem, sir," Captain Brewster said.

"I can fix myself a drink and get in bed by myself, Captain," Castillo said. "There's no reason for you to stick around, either."

"I can stick around outside the suite if that would make you more comfortable, sir, but:"

"But General Gonzalez said stay with him, right?"

"Yes, sir."

Castillo walked into the small kitchen, where he had seen a line of bottles on a counter under the closets.

"I know how that is. I been dere, done dat, got duh T-shirt," Castillo said.

Captain Brewster smiled.

"You want one of these?" Castillo asked, holding up a bottle of scotch.

"I better not."

"As one dog robber to another, I won't tell your general."

" 'Dog robber'?"

"General McNab told me, when I was wearing the rope," Castillo said, touching his shoulder where the aiguillette of aides-de-camp hung from the epaulets of dress uniforms, "that when he had worn the rope as a young officer aides-decamp were known as 'dog robbers' because they were expected to do whatever was required, including robbing from dogs, to make their general happy."

"I never heard that," Brewster said, smiling. Then he nodded at the bottle Castillo was holding. "Okay. Why not? Thank you."

Castillo poured whiskey in a glass and handed it to him.

"How long were you General McNab's aide?" Brewster asked.

"Too long," Charley said. "Twenty-two months. Long enough to know that when he finds out I spent the night in the VIP quarters, he will have something unpleasant to say."

Brewster chuckled.

"How about you?"

"It's supposed to be for a year," Brewster said. "Another two months."

"And then?" Castillo said, handing him a glass of whiskey. "I suppose there's ice and water, but I drink mine neat."

"Neat's fine," Brewster said, then added: "I put in for Special Forces. Maybe I'll get lucky and make the cut."

Castillo's cellular phone rang.

"Hello?"

There was a buzz and then a click.

Castillo put the telephone back in his shirt pocket.

"Bad connection?" Captain Brewster asked.

No, that was probably from a renegade FBI agent who works for a Russian arms dealer who wants (a) to know where I am and (b) that I be impressed with his ability to find that out.

Castillo nodded and said, "I'll bet it rings again in a minute."

He pressed the timer button on his watch and then tipped glasses with Brewster.

Then he took the telephone out again and pressed an autodial button.

Screw Kennedy. When he calls back, my voice mail can answer – and I bet he won't leave a message, even to let me know he knows where I am.

"Yes?" the woman's voice answered.

"Is this my favorite female law enforcement officer?"

"Not now. Call back in ten minutes," Sergeant Betty Schneider replied, curtly.

"Is something wrong?" Castillo asked. Even as he spoke the words, he knew she had broken the connection and he was speaking to a dead telephone.

What the hell! Has something gone wrong with Dick?

"Favorite female law enforcement officer?" Captain Harry Brewster asked with a knowing smile.

The look Captain Brewster got from Major Castillo told him he had crossed a dangerous line.

Castillo took a sip of his drink.

The last thing I need is liquor. My brain is already slipping gears. Jesus, I called the SWC instead of XVIII Airborne Corps!

On the other hand, as keyed up as I am I'll never get to sleep tonight without a little sauce to slow me down.

And even if Dick is at this moment being roasted over a slow fire by the African American Lunatics in Philadelphia, there is not a goddamned thing I can do about it in Fort Bragg.

He took another sip and had just taken the glass from his lips when the telephone rang again.

He snatched it almost angrily from his pocket.

"Yeah?"

"Your phone has been out of service," Howard Kennedy said.

"Aren't you going to tell me where I am?"

"That tells me you are probably no longer in Philadelphia."

"Where are you?"

"Somewhere over North Carolina, I would guess. Using one of those back-of-the-seat, ten-dollars-a-minute telephones. You're not going to tell me where you are?"

"What are you doing somewhere over North Carolina? Going somewhere?"

"Cancun, actually," Kennedy said. "Okay. Now it's your turn."

Since I don't know that he's actually in an airplane en route to Mexico, and may have been in touch with his friends in the wireless telephone business, and is entirely capable of-entirely likely to – see if I'm lying to him, it's truth time.

"Would you believe the VIP guest quarters at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Howard?"

"Of course. Since we have agreed to be entirely truthful with one another. What the hell are you doing in Fort Bragg? Do you have something you want to share with me?"

He seems genuinely surprised. Or is it that he's almost as skilled a liar as I am?

"The answer to question one is that I'm here because my boss sent me here. He has not seen fit to explain his reasons. And, no, I don't have anything much to share with you. Miller's still in Philadelphia meeting with undercover cops. I don't know what-if anything-he's come up with, but I should hear something soon. If I do, how do I pass it on to you? I never tried to call anybody on an airliner before."