Black Ops (Presidential Agent)

by W. E. B Griffin

  There were other people assigned to OOA, but all of those who had families--Corporal Lester Bradley, for example, and Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., USA (Retired), a West Point classmate of Colonel Castillo and OOA's chief of staff--had been turned loose by Castillo to be with them at Christmas.

  [TWO]

  One of the pair of wall-mounted telephones in the kitchen rang a little after two o'clock.

  The young, muscular black Secret Service agent answered it.

  Castillo wondered idly who was calling. Neither of the telephone numbers was listed in the phone book. Both rarely were used; everyone had their own cellular telephone or two. There were two secure telephones, one in what was Castillo's bedroom and the other in what he called his office, an anteroom off the great big living room.

  Castillo was surprised when the Secret Service agent held out the phone receiver to him, indicating the call was for him. He crossed the room, took the phone, and, after putting his hand over the mouthpiece, asked with his eyebrows who was calling.

  "Mr. Gorner, Colonel. He's on the list."

  Castillo nodded his thanks, and in German cheerfully said into the phone, "Merry Christmas, Otto!"

  Nice that Abuela is here, Castillo thought, glancing across the room and making eye contact with her. She and Otto can talk.

  "I hope you know where Billy Kocian is," Gorner said by way of greeting, his voice completely devoid of Christmas bonhomie.

  Castillo turned his gaze just slightly. "As a matter of fact, I'm looking at him."

  "Thank God!" Gorner exclaimed, his genuine relief evident in his tone. "There was no answer at the Mayflower."

  "Why do I think you're not calling to wish him a Merry Christmas?" Castillo said.

  "I'm calling first to tell you to make sure he's safe."

  "He is. He frequently complains that he can't go anywhere without being followed by two or more men who wear hearing aids and keep talking to themselves."

  Castillo expected to get a chuckle, if only a reluctant one. He didn't.

  "Gunther Friedler has been murdered," Gorner went on, "his corpse mutilated."

  Who? Castillo thought.

  Shit! Someone close to Billy obviously . . .

  "Where are you?" Castillo asked quickly, his tone now one of growing concern.

  The others in the kitchen picked up on that and Castillo's body language, and had expressions that asked, What?

  "In the office," Gorner said.

  "I'll call you right back," Castillo said. "I can't talk from this phone."

  He put the handset in its cradle before Gorner could reply. He saw that Edgar Delchamps was looking at him. He nodded just enough to signal Delchamps to follow him, then left the kitchen to go to his office.

  The anteroom was barely large enough to hold a small desk and a skeletal office chair, but the door to it could be closed and was thick enough to be mostly soundproof. Castillo picked up the telephone. It could be made secure when necessary, and came with earphone sets on long cords so that others could listen to the conversation. It also had a built-in digital recorder so that conversations could be replayed for any number of reasons.

  He pushed the RECORD button, then dialed a long number from memory.

  "Gorner."

  "Karl. Who is Gunther Fiedler?"

  "Friedler," Gorner corrected him. "He was a staff reporter."

  Castillo knew enough of the operations of the Tages Zeitung newspapers to know that a staff reporter was analogous to a reporter for the Associated Press or other wire service in that the reporter's stories were fed to all of the Tages Zeitung newspapers, rather than to any individual paper.

  "I don't think I knew him," Castillo said.

  "Probably not," Gorner said on the edge of sarcasm. "Billy did. Billy gave him his first job on the Weiner Tages Zeitung years ago. Billy was godfather to Peter, Gunther's oldest son."

  "Great news on Christmas Day. Who killed him and why?"

  "He was working on a story about German involvement in that oil-for-food obscenity. Does that give a hint, Mr. Intelligence Officer?"

  Castillo's face tightened.

  "Otto, I'm about to tell you to call back when you have your emotions under control."

  "I want to tell Billy before somebody else does."

  "But you can't do that, can you, unless I put him on the phone?"

  There was a ten-second silence--which seemed much longer--before Gorner replied, "I suppose I am a little upset. Gunther was my friend, too. I put him on that story, and I just now came from his house. On Christmas Day, as you say."

  Castillo realized it was as much of an apology as he was going to get.

  "Okay. Do they have any idea who killed him?"

  "The police tried to tell me it was a fairy lovers' quarrel. My God!"

  "What was that about his body being mutilated?"

  "I couldn't count the stab wounds in his body."

  Delchamps, holding one can of an earphone set to his ear, touched Castillo's shoulder, and when Castillo looked at him, handed him a slip of paper on which he had quickly written, That's all?

  Castillo nodded and said into the phone, "You said 'mutilated'?"

  "They cut out his eye. That's what I mean by mutilated."

  Delchamps nodded as if he expected that answer.

  "I don't think you should tell Billy that," Castillo said. "And in your frame of mind, I really don't think you should talk to him at all."

  He let that sink in a moment, then went on: "If I put Billy on the phone, can you leave out the mutilation?"

  "That wouldn't work, Karl, and you know it. No matter what I tell him, he's going to look into it himself. And just as soon as he gets off the phone with me, he'll be on the phone himself. And he has a lot of contacts."

  Shit, Castillo thought, he's right!

  When Castillo didn't reply, Gorner added, "And it's already all over the front pages of the Frankfurt newspapers, the Allgemeine Zeitung and the Rundschau. And Berlin and Munich won't be far behind. And as soon as Billy gets to reading his newspapers online, he's going to find out. You can bet your ass on that."

  He paused again, then gave what he thought would be the headline: " 'Tages Zeitung Reporter Murdered. Police Suspect Gay Lovers Spat.' Merry Christmas, Frau Friedler and family."

  Castillo was ashamed of the irreverent thought that popped into his mind--Is there no honor among journalists?--which immediately was replaced by another disturbing thought, which he said aloud: "Billy will want to go to the funeral."

  "Oh, God! I didn't even think about that!"

  "Right now, he's surrounded by Secret Service agents. How am I going to protect him in Fulda?"

  "Wetzlar," Gorner corrected automatically. "He lived in Wetzlar. He's from Wetzlar." Another brief pause. "You can't keep him there?"

  Castillo didn't reply.

  In as many seconds as it takes Otto to hear what he just said, he will realize that the only way to keep Billy Kocian from doing whatever he wants to do is convince him he really doesn't want to do it, and that's not going to happen.

  A moment later, Gorner thought aloud: "Let me know what flight he'll be on and I'll have some of our security people waiting at the gate. Better yet--I have some friends--send me the flight number and I will get agents of the Bundeskriminalamt to take him off the airplane before it gets to the gate."

  "I'll bring him in the Gulfstream," Castillo said. "For one thing, he won't leave the dogs, and I don't want--"

  "I thought you went out of your way not to attract attention," Gorner interrupted.

  "Here's a headline for you, Otto: 'Tages Zeitung Publisher Returns from America for Friedler Last Rites.' "

  "Okay," Gorner said after a moment. "But don't bring anybody from the CIA to mourn with you."

  Castillo looked at Delchamps and smiled.

  He would no more have gone to Germany without Delchamps than he would have gone without shoes, but this was not the time to argue with Gorner about that, or even tell
him.

  As a practical matter, before this came up, they had been planning to go to Europe, taking Billy Kocian with them, and not only because they knew Kocian was out of patience with living in the Mayflower Hotel and spending his days searching his copious memory to fill in the blanks of the investigation.

  Delchamps and FBI Inspector John J. Doherty--another at-first-very-reluctant recruit to OOA--were agreed that the time had come to move the investigation out of the bubble at Langley and onto the ground.

  They would start in Budapest, Doherty had suggested--and Delchamps had agreed--then move almost certainly to Vienna, then to Berlin and Paris and wherever else the trail led, preceded by a message from either--or both--Secretary of State Natalie Cohen and Director of National Intelligence Charles M. Montvale ordering the ambassadors and CIA station chiefs to provide the people from OOA whatever support they requested, specifically including access to all their intelligence.

  All that this latest development had changed was that they first would go to Hesse in Germany--seeing Otto Gorner in Fulda had been on the original agenda--rather than to Budapest, and that they would go as soon as possible, rather than "right after the first of the year."

  "If you think you have your emotions under control, Otto," Castillo said, "I'll go get Billy."

  Gorner got his emotions under control to the point where he was able to say, in a reasonably civil voice, "Thank you."

  Delchamps followed Castillo through the office door, touched his arm, and softly said, "I presume you know, Ace, that cutting out someone's eye is Middle East speak--and, come to think of it, Sicilian--for This is what happens to people who get caught looking at things they shouldn't."

  Castillo nodded, then said, "But setting up something like this to look as if it's a homosexual love affair gone wrong isn't Middle East speak, is it?"

  "That may have been a message to your Onkel Otto," Delchamps said. "You keep sending people to look at things they shouldn't be looking at, and the way we take them out will humiliate their families and the Tages Zeitung."

  Castillo considered that a moment, then nodded.

  "Billy, can I see you a moment?" he said, and mimed holding a telephone to his ear.

  Kocian came back into the kitchen ten minutes later, which told Castillo that he had subjected Otto Gorner to a thorough interrogation, which in turn meant Kocian knew all the sordid details of his friend's death. But there was nothing on his face to suggest anything unpleasant.

  He's one tough old bastard, Castillo thought admiringly.

  Dona Alicia was more perceptive.

  "Not bad news, I hope, Billy?" she asked.

  "I'm afraid so. A dear friend has passed on unexpectedly."

  "Oh, I'm so sorry," Dona Alicia said. "And at Christmastime!"

  "I'll have to go to the funeral, of course," Kocian said, and looked at Castillo. "How much of an inconvenience for you would it be, Karlchen, if we went to Germany very soon--say, tomorrow--rather than after New Year's?"

  "That can be arranged, I'm sure," Castillo said, adding mentally, because I know, and you know I know, just how quickly the Hungarian charm would vanish if I even looked like I was going to suggest it would be "inconvenient."

  "You're very kind, Karlchen. You get that from your mother." Kocian paused. "I refuse to let my personal loss cast a pall on everybody else's Christmas. So while you're making the necessary arrangements, I will open an absolutely superb bottle of wine from a vineyard that was once the property of the Esterhazys."

  [THREE]

  Colonel Jacob D. Torine, United States Air Force, answered his cellular telephone on the third buzz.

  "Torine."

  "Merry Christmas, Jake. How would you like to go to Germany?"

  "That would depend on when," Torine replied, and belatedly added, "And Merry Christmas to you, too, Charley."

  "Early tomorrow morning. Something's come up."

  "You want me to get on a secure line?"

  "I'll explain when I see you."

  "This is going to cost me two hundred dollars," Torine said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "At dinner, I said something to the effect that it was nice, for a change, to be home for the holidays, to which my bride replied, 'I've got a hundred dollars that says you won't be here through New Year's Day,' to which I replied, 'Oh, I think I will be,' to which she replied, 'Double down if the phone rings before we're finished with dinner.'"

  "I'm sorry, Jake. If it's a real problem, I can get Miller to come down from Philly."

  "Thank you just the same, but I don't want to have to explain to your boss why I wasn't driving--and you and Gimpy were--when you got lost, ran out of gas, and put the bird down in the North Atlantic, never to be seen again. I'll be at Signature at half past seven. That will mean I will have to tear Sparkman, weeping piteously, from the bosom of his beloved, but that can't be helped."

  "I thought you said he wasn't married?"

  "He's not. What's that got to do with anything, Don Juan?"

  Castillo caught the crack, smiled, but ignored it. He instead replied, "Do it, Jake. It's important we get to Rhine-Main."

  "I have told you and told you, Colonel, that Rhine-Main is only a memory of our youth. I'll have Sparkman file a flight plan to Flughafen Frankfurt am Main."

  "I'm really sorry to have to do this to you, Jake."

  "Yeah," Torine said, and broke the connection.

  Captain Richard M. Sparkman, USAF, was the most recent addition to OOA. After five years flying an AC-130H Spectre gunship in the Air Force Special Operations Command, he had been reassigned to the Presidential Airlift Group, 89th Airlift Wing, based at Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland.

  His superiors--the ones in the Pentagon, not those at Hurlburt Field, home of the AF Special Operations Command--had decided that it was time to rescue him from those regulation-busting special operations savages and bring him back to the real Air Force. He was, after all, an Air Force Academy graduate, and stars were in his future.

  It was solemnly decided that flying very important people--very senior military officers and high-ranking government officials--around in a C-20, the Air Force's designation for the Gulfstream III, would broaden his experience and hopefully cause him to forget the outrageously unconventional things he had learned and practiced in special operations.

  When he had politely asked if he had any choice in the matter, he was politely told he did not and advised that down the line he would appreciate what was being done for him.

  Shortly after he'd begun seriously contemplating resigning his commission--sitting in the right seat of a G-III and flying a Deputy Assistant Secretary of Whatever around was not what he'd had in mind when he applied for the academy--he'd run into Colonel Jacob Torine again.

  Torine was sort of a legend in the Air Force Special Operations community. Sparkman had flown his Spectre in a black mission that Torine had run in Central America, and had come to greatly admire him. So when he'd come across Torine again, he'd told him of his frustrations--and of his thoughts of getting out to go fly commercial passenger airliners. "If I'm flying taxis, I might as well make some money at it."

  Torine, as one ring-knocker to another, had counseled him against that.

  And Sparkman had taken the advice, and some time later wound up then and again in the right seat of a Gulfstream V that ostensibly "belonged" to Director of National Intelligence Charles W. Montvale, though he'd yet to meet the man or have him on board.

  Sparkman had heard that when Torine later had been given command of a wing of Lockheed Martin C-5B Galaxy aircraft, he had been as enthusiastic about it as Sparkman had been when ordered to park his AC-130H and get in the right seat of a Gulfstream, even though a colonel's eagle had come with Torine's reassignment.

  And small wonder, Sparkman had thought, considering what Torine had to leave behind.

  It wasn't much of a secret that Torine had been in charge of the Air Force's contribution to the Army's Delta Force and the even
more clandestine Gray Fox unit. Nor was it super secret that a certain C-22, the Air Force designation for the Boeing 727, sat in a heavily guarded hangar at Pope Air Force Base, which adjoins Fort Bragg, North Carolina. This aircraft had been extensively modified; it was whispered to have almost twice the range of the standard 727, was capable of being refueled in the air--and had a passenger compartment that could be depressurized at 35,000 feet so that Delta Force and Gray Fox special operators could make undetected high-altitude, low-opening (HALO) parachute jumps.

  It also was rumored that in two hours, the so-called Delta Force 727 could be painted in the color scheme of any airline in the world.

  Sparkman thought that that seemed a bit over the top--a two-hour paint job?--but he had never seen the aircraft, so he didn't know for sure anything about it, save that a Delta Force 727 existed.

  But he believed another story going around: that Torine had used the aircraft in a black op in which another 727, a stolen one, had been recovered from a fanatic Islamic group that planned to demonstrate its disapproval of everything American by crashing the fuel-bladder-packed aircraft into the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia.

  Sparkman did know a little about that. He had been the co-pilot on a Gulfstream flight that had flown a hurry-up mission to take the Vice Chief of Staff of the Air Force to MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa.

  As they taxied to MacDill Base Operations, Sparkman had seen a great deal of unusual activity on the field. Yellow fire trucks had lined the main runway, and that implied an aircraft in trouble. But alongside the fire trucks were a half-dozen HUMVs manned by airfield Security Forces. Not only were there .50-caliber machine guns in the ready position on the HUMVs, but belts of ammunition gleamed in the sun. That rarely happened.

  Even more interesting were two vans conspicuously labeled EXPLOSIVE ORDNANCE DISPOSAL.

  Minutes later, two F-15s made a low-speed pass over the field, giving Sparkman time to remember that that was the type of aircraft he had expected to fly after joining the Air Force. Not some itsy-bitsy VIP aerial taxi.