"He was supposed to be guarding the goddamn chopper!" Castillo said.
"And aren't you glad, Major, that he didn't understand that order?" Kensington said. "And then things got a little exciting. There were six of them in all. Five at the house, and the one who garroted Kranz. Kranz managed to get his boot knife into him. When we found Kranz, that one died trying to escape."
"That wasn't smart, Kensington."
"Yeah, I know. But Seymour and I went way back, and I didn't think."
"I am starting to feel a little strange," Munz said.
"Let me help you lie down," Kensington said. Kensington gently lifted Munz's eyelid and shined a small flashlight into it.
"Okay, he's out. He'll probably be out for thirty minutes. But he's a big sonofabitch, and I have no idea what his threshold of pain is, so he may start to wake up when I'm working on him. I want you to be prepared to hold him down-lie on top of him, whatever's necessary-if he starts to move. Okay?"
"Got it," Castillo said.
"And now, before I lay out my surgical instruments, you may help me scrub."
"How do I do that?"
Kensington handed him an aerosol can.
"Spray this crap all over my hands. It's advertised as better than a good scrub with surgical soap. It fucks up your hands, but what the hell?"
Castillo sprayed a foaming, pale orange substance over Kensington's hands from the aerosol can, and then watched as Kensington pulled on rubber gloves.
Then Kensington came up with a thin black plastic envelope. He tore it open. Inside was a small set of surgeon's tools.
"No offense, Major," Kensington said, "but if you feel yourself getting a little woozy when I start to cut, for Christ's sake, sit down on the floor and put your head between your knees. The last thing we need is you cracking your head open on the table. You have to get us the fuck out of here." "No identification whatever," Special Agent David William Yung of the FBI reported to Castillo forty minutes later. "No labels in the clothing, and I'm almost sure they're manufactured locally, or at least available here, so there's nothing there. I fingerprinted the bodies, and took enough blood to do a good DNA. But a DNA is good only when you have something to compare it to. Sorry. They came in cars from Enterprise Rent-A-Car, the airport office. We can run those credit cards, but if these people are as professional as it looks, that'll be a dead end, too. Sorry."
"That's what Kensington said. They're pros. So what did we expect?"
"Four Caucasian, two black. I took pictures, of course, bu
t…"
"Okay. Thanks."
"That's the bad news. The good news is an address book from the safe, and these." He wagged a dozen sheets of what looked like stock certificates.
"What are those?"
"These are the certificates of loan. Fifteen point seven million U.S. dollars' worth. Of course, since Lorimer didn't sign them, they can't be cashed, but it proves he has all the money in the banks. Maybe some bank officers can be talked into telling us what they know about Lorimer's activities."
"On the other hand, once they learn he's dead, they'll deny their existence, and they're fifteen point seven million ahead."
"Yeah," Yung agreed.
Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, came into the kitchen.
"Sergeant Kensington said he's ready to mount up anytime you give the word, sir. The colonel is on his feet."
"Bradley, I owe you. You saved my tail and Colonel Munz's."
"Just doing my job, sir."
"Tell Sergeant Kensington to get the show on the road, Bradley."
"Yes, sir." [FIVE] The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW Washington, D.C. 1825 1 August 2005 The President of the United States was behind his desk. Across the room, Ambassador Charles W. Montvale was sitting next to Secretary of State Natalie Cohen on one of two facing couches. Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall was on the other couch.