"The passport is legitimate. Since I was born in Germany, so far as the Germans are concerned I'm a German citizen. Nobody likes journalists:"

"You own those newspapers and you admit to such a thing?"

Castillo chuckled.

"And every week or so, I write something for it. I generally steal it from The American Conservative magazine. That way, if somebody checks on Karl there's his picture, beside his latest story from Washington. And if they look closer, the masthead says it was founded by Hermann von und zu Gossinger in 1817. As I was saying, nobody likes journalists but they're expected to ask questions. When an American army officer asks questions, people tend to think he's in the intelligence business."

"Gringo, why are you suddenly telling me all this? For the last: Christ, I don't know: the last ten years, you've been like a fucking clam about what you do."

"I won't tell you anything you shouldn't know."

"Why are you telling me anything?"

"Straight answer?"

Fernando nodded.

"Because I'm sometimes not sure who I am. I used to be able to unload on General McNab, but that: hasn't been possible lately. And that leaves only four people I can really trust."

"Only four? That's sad, Gringo."

"Abuela, General Naylor, Otto, and you," Castillo said. "I can't tell her what I do, obviously; Otto, I'm sure, has a good idea, but I can't talk to him for different obvious reasons:"

"He doesn't know?" Fernando interrupted. "I wondered about that."

"I'm sure he has a damn good idea, but we've never talked about it," Castillo answered, and then went on, "General Naylor knows, but if I let him know that I sometimes get a little confused, a little shaky, he'd jerk me."

"Jerk you?"

"Send me back to the Army. 'Thank you for your services and don't let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out.' " He paused. "That left you. And you, thank God, know how to keep your mouth shut."

"Christ, what's wrong with going back to the Army? You said they're going to make you a light colonel."

"Because I'm very good at what I do," Castillo said. "And if I went back to the Army, what would I do?"

"Be a lieutenant colonel. Hold parades. Berate lieutenants. Fly airplanes."

"It wouldn't work. For a number of reasons."

"Come home to Texas. Make an honest woman out of the most deserving of your harem. Breed rug rats."

Castillo appeared about to respond to that but didn't.

"Let's go eat," Castillo said.

[TWO]

Washington Dulles International Airport

Sterling, Virginia

0115 1 June 2005

The stewardess, a trim redhead, led Castillo into the first-class compartment of the Boeing 767-300ER and smilingly indicated his new seat. " Ich danke innen vielmals, "he said.

" Keine Ursache, Herr von und zu Gossinger, "she replied, flashed him a very cordial smile, and then went down the aisle.

Castillo had once known another redheaded stewardess, who had worked for Delta. He had blown that brief but fairly interesting dalliance because he had been unable to remember that she was a member of the cabin crew who flew for Delta. In her mind-Dorothy was her name-the distinction was very important, and anyone oblivious to it was obviously a male chauvinist not worthy of being admitted to her bed.

Occupied with memories of Dorothy mingled with thoughts of the trim Lufthansa stew who had just bumped him up to first class-and who had a very attractive tail, indeed-and with putting his laptop briefcase in the overhead bin, Castillo did not notice who was going to be his traveling companion until he actually started to sit down.

" Guten abend, "he said to the good-looking, lanky blonde sitting in the window seat, and then switched to English. "Or should it be 'Good morning?"

"I think that's up for grabs," the lanky blonde said, in English, with a smile.

"I think I should warn you I don't belong up here in the front of the bus," Castillo said. "Lufthansa took pity on me and gave me an upgrade."

"Then we're both usurpers," she said. "Me, too."

Another member of the cabin crew, this one a wispy male of whose masculinity Castillo had immediate doubts, came and offered a tray of short-stemmed glasses.

"Will you have some champagne, madam?" he asked, in German.

The lanky blonde replied, in not bad German, "Yes, thank you, I will."

The steward offered the tray to her and then to Castillo, who wondered, Why is "steward" okay and "stewardess" some sort of slam? and then said, in German, "You will go to heaven because you have just saved my life."

The lanky blonde smiled.

He raised his glass to the blonde.

"To a pleasant flight," he said.

"To a pleasant flight," she parroted and touched glasses with him.

"Why do you think Lufthansa picked you for an upgrade?" he asked.

Goddamned pity I'll be in Germany only long enough to change planes.

"I'm a journalist," she said.

Oh, shit.

"Really?"

"I work for Forbes. The magazine? It happens a lot if I make sure they know I work for Forbes."

"I know," he said. "Same thing."

"You're a journalist? Who do you work for?"

"The Fulda Tages Zeitung," Castillo said. "A small newspaper in Hesse. I write mostly about American business."

"There or here? I couldn't help but notice that your English is just about perfect."

"I'm based in Washington," he said. "And I've been here a while."

"Going home on vacation?"

"I vacation whenever I can find something to write about in Florida," he said. "That way the paper pays for it. No, I'm going because they sent for me. They do that every once in a while to make sure I'm not being corrupted by you decadent Americans."

Jesus, it would be nice if just once when I met a good-looking female I could tell her the truth about who I am and what I do.

But to do that, I would have to have a job that I could talk about.

"Well, I'm a district sales manager for Whirlpool. You know, washing machines?"

"You don't look as if you would be easy to corrupt," she said.

"Oh, you're wrong," Castillo said. "I can only hope you won't take advantage of me."

She laughed at that, displaying a nice set of teeth and bright red gums.

"No promises," she said and offered her hand. "Patricia Wilson. Pat."

Her hand was warm and soft.

"My name is Karl, but I try to get people to call me Charley," he said.

"Nice to meet you, Charley."

The pilot ordered that the passenger compartment be readied for flight.

When they turned the cabin lights on the next morning, Castillo opened his eyes and saw Patricia Wilson was still asleep beside him. She had her seat all the way back-it was one of the new seats that went almost horizontal. She was straight in the seat, with the small airline pillow in the nape of her neck.

She looked good. A lot of women, he thought, did not look good first thing in the morning, especially after they had spent most of the night flying across an ocean. Some of them slept with their mouths open. And some snored, which he found amusing, if not very attractive.

He unstrapped himself and got up carefully so as not to disturb her and then took his laptop briefcase from the overhead bin and went to the toilet. He urinated and then closed the toilet seat and laid the laptop briefcase on it. He went quickly through his morning toilette, which concluded with splashing cologne on his face and examining it in the mirror as he swished Listerine around in his mouth.

That done, he opened the computer section of the briefcase and removed one of the computer-cushioning pads.

It appeared to be simply a black plastic cushion. It was not. He pried apart what looked like a heat-welded seam and then tugged on the Velcro inside until it separated. Then he arranged all the documents which identified him as Carlos Guillermo (or C. G.) Castillo-his Army AGO card, his Supervisory Special Agent Secret Service credentials, his Department of Homeland Security identification, building pass, and business cards, and his MasterCard, Visa, and American Express credit cards-inside against what looked like a random pattern of the plastic.