“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.