"That would be helpful."
"Mr. D'Allessando will inform Miller of your ETA at Reagan," Castillo said.
There was a long pause as both men thought. Finally, Colonel Hamilton broke it: "That would seem to be it, wouldn't you say, Castillo?"
"I can't think of anything else, sir."
"We'll be in touch, of course."
"Yes, sir."
"How does one hang this thing up, Mr. D'Allessando?"
[SIX]
0940 8 January 2006
"I know what you're thinking, Carlos," Dmitri Berezovsky said after Castillo had set things up with Miller. "But that could have gone wrong and it didn't."
"I thought you done good, Charley," Davidson said, then added admiringly: "He is one starchy sonofabitch, ain't he?"
"Starch melts in hot water. Like in a cannibal's pot?"
Berezovsky chuckled but said: "I have the feeling the colonel knows how to handle the cannibals."
Castillo looked at him and shook his head. "Well, now that your boundless optimism has removed that weight from my shoulders, we can turn to Bradley's shopping list." He looked at him. "What did you come up with, Les?"
"Sir, while I know what we should have in terms of equipment capability, I'm afraid I haven't been able to convert that into what we need in terms of specific equipment that might--or might not--be available in an Office Depot or Radio Shack store."
"Which, off the top of my head, Les, means that you don't get to go to bed until after you've gone shopping. Sorry about that. Let me see what you have."
Bradley handed him a sheet of paper. Castillo looked at it a moment, then tossed it onto the table.
"I don't know what I'm looking at, and it just occurred to me--some of you may have noticed that I am not functioning too well in the I'm-on-top-of-everything department--that when you don't know something it usually helps to ask somebody who does."
He leaned forward and touched a button on the AFC handset.
"C. G. Castillo. Dr. Casey. Encryption Level One."
"One moment, please, Colonel," a sultry, electronically generated voice replied. "I will attempt to connect you."
The voice of Aloysius Francis Casey, Ph.D.--in an interesting mixture of the accents of a Boston Irish "Southie" and a Southwesterner--came over the speaker ten seconds later.
"Hey, Charley. What the hell are you doing twenty-two-point-five miles outside of Midland, Texas?"
How the hell does he know that?
"Good morning, Dr. Casey."
"You call me that one more time, and I'll not only hang up but will make the handset blow up in your ear."
"Sorry."
"You're forgiven. I know you can't handle the booze. I can't detonate the handset--but that's a thought; I may work on that--but that GPS function works all right, doesn't it? Providing you are twenty-two-point-five miles from Midland, Texas."
"That's where I am."
"I can whittle down that tenth-of-a-mile indicator some--probably to within a couple of meters--when I have more time to fiddle with it. What can I do for you, Charley?"
"I'm about to send Lester shopping in Radio Shack or someplace--"
"The Boy Jarhead is there? Semper Fi, Les!"
"Good morning, Dr. Casey," Bradley said.
"You can call me that. You Gyrenes should always show a little respect for people like me."
Bradley grinned at the term Marines normally took some offense at. "Yes, sir."
"Charley, you're sending Les shopping for what?"
"We need storage devices to receive a lot of data from a long way away from one AFC to another--maybe multiple more AFCs. So they'll have to be high speed."
"And portable? Self-powered and/or uninterruptible battery powered for at least a couple of hours?"
"All of the above."
"And what else?"
"High-speed printers with lots of resolution for photos and maps. And a similar scanner or three, ditto. I need to keep in contact with one--or two--teams of shooters and a couple of people maybe running around by themselves."
"Charley, the limiting factor is the speed of the relay in the satellites. I have to run them a lot slower than their capacity because of the equipment on the ground--equipment I didn't make. I'm getting the idea you're about to run an op?"
"Yes, we are. Operation Fish Farm."
"I think I know what you need, Charley. No problem."
There was a long silence. Then Castillo said, "You are going to tell me what it is, right, Aloysius?"
"You'll see what it is when I get there. If it doesn't work, we'll work on it until we get it right."
"I called to ask you to tell me what we need, not with my hand out."
"Is there an airport any closer to where you are than Midland? Where do I tell the pilot to go?"
"Home. You go home after you tell me what we need. Then Les will go buy it."
"Like hell he will. Now, where do I tell the pilot to go?"
Castillo shook his head, but he was smiling. "You have my coordinates?"
"Yeah. Like I told you, within a tenth of a mile and maybe five hundred feet altitude."
"There's a strip three-tenths of a mile to the south."
"Will it take a Gulfstream V, or should I bring something smaller?"
"It'll take a G-Five, but I can't get something that big in my hangar, and if you park it here, people might get curious."
"That kind of an op, huh? No problem. I'll just have them drop me off--not to worry, they won't remember where--and worry about getting back to Vegas later. It's seven hundred nautical miles. Figure an hour to get to the airport and off the ground and an hour and three-quarters in the air. Add all that up, Charley, and I'll see you then. Casey out."
Castillo pushed a button, turning off the AFC speakerphone function.
"You really have such interesting friends, Carlos," Svetlana said. "That was the Casey of the AFC Corporation?"
"You know about him, huh, Svet? What that was was a very lonely man--his wife just died--who I think I just made very happy. He's sitting all alone in a house about twice the size of the one in Golf and Polo, or vice versa, that you like so much, on several hundred hectares of very expensive real estate overlooking Las Vegas and of course the AFC labs and plants."
"I don't understand," Berezovsky said.
"When Aloysius was a kid, Colonel," Davidson offered, "he was in the Vietnam War, the commo--communications--sergeant on a Special Forces A-Team operating black in Cambodia and other places. When he gets here, you will learn how he almost won that war all by himself. He never really took off the suit."
"What does that mean?" Svetlana asked.
"He still thinks of himself as a special operator," Castillo said.
"And Charley just told him he could come out and play. No, not play. This is for real, and that makes it better; he can tell us young guys how to do an operation the right way. For Aloysius, that's better than Christmas, his birthday, and Saint Patrick's Day all rolled into one."
"He's stopped talking to Billy Waugh," Castillo said. "Did you hear that?"
Davidson nodded. "Uh-huh."
"Isn't that the fellow who caught Carlos the Jackal?" Berezovsky asked.
"One and the same," Davidson said. "Aloysius and Billy were young green beanies together, and Billy's still out there--the last I heard he was in Afghanistan again--going after the bad guys. Meanwhile, Aloysius is behind a desk--and can't stand that Billy isn't pushing a walker rather than making HALO jumps."
"How old are they?" Castillo mused. "Seventy-five, anyway. Pushing eighty."
"Then they ought to have enough sense to stand down," Svetlana said. "If they're that old."
"And do what?" Berezovsky said. "The American general Patton said it, Svet. The only good death for a soldier is to die from the last bullet fired in the last battle."
Castillo said, "How about me having a heart attack on the ninth green, or whatever they call it, of Golf and Polo, and then you having one
trying to load me into the golf cart? That way, we could go out together and wouldn't have to look for a job. Or play golf."
"I think I'd rather take that last bullet," Berezovsky said. "Even though it no longer seems we have that option."
"Or we could go fishing in that lake with Aleksandr, fall out of the boat and drown," Castillo said.
"Your William Colby went out that way," Berezovsky said.
"Who?" Svetlana said.
"He was a director of Central Intelligence," Berezovsky said.
"And he fell out of his canoe," Castillo said. "And drowned."
"I think I'd prefer the bullet," Berezovsky said.
"Me, too," Castillo said. "All things considered. God knows I can't see myself on a golf course."
"The both of you make me sick!" Svetlana said furiously. "May God forgive you both!"
She stormed out of the library.
"What the hell's the matter with her?" Castillo asked.
"She's a woman," Berezovsky said. "I suspect your learning about women is going to be an interesting experience for you. Painful, but interesting."
[SEVEN]
1250 8 January 2006
Casey's Gulfstream V--which Castillo thought was both beautiful and probably carried the most advanced avionics in the world--touched smoothly down, turned at the end of the strip, and taxied back to the hangar.
The stair door opened and Aloysius Francis Casey, Ph.D., came down the steps carrying an open laptop computer. He was wearing clothing not often seen in South Boston: a Stetson hat, Western World ostrich-skin boots, a sheepskin-lined denim jacket, and matching trousers.
He saluted. Castillo returned it.
"We cheated death again," Casey announced triumphantly, then nodded at the computer. "This little sonofabitch was right on the money."
He handed the laptop to Lester Bradley.
"You can carry this. I wouldn't want a Marine to rupture himself trying to carry anything heavier."
"Yes, sir," Bradley said. He looked at the screen. "Dr. Casey, why does this show we're in Dallas?"
Casey took a quick, shocked look at the screen.
"You little sonofabitch, you got me!" Casey said approvingly.
A man wearing the shoulder boards of a first officer came down the stairs carrying a large cardboard box, followed by a man wearing the four-stripe shoulder boards of a captain and also carrying a large cardboard box.
"That's the delicate stuff," Casey barked. "Be careful with it."
"Yes, sir," they said in unison as they headed for one of the Yukons. Bradley went to the nearest and opened the rear door.
"Where'd you get the cowboy suit?" Castillo asked.
"Weren't you paying attention in the Q course when they said you should always try to blend into the native population? And this is Texas, right? At least Dallas, if one were to believe the Boy Marine."
Castillo chuckled.
"Well, hello," Casey said, having spotted Svetlana.
"I like your cowboy suit," Svetlana said. "Carlos, I want one just like that."
"Aloysius, this is Susan Barlow," Castillo said. "And her brother, Tom."
"You don't sound like a Texan," Casey said. "But as pretty as you are, you can sound like anything you want."
"My grandmother's in the house, setting up lunch," Castillo said.
"Your grandmother?"
"We need all the help we can get," Castillo said.
"And here I am," Casey said. "Let's get this crap off the airplane."
The "crap off the airplane" nearly filled both Yukons.
Less than an hour after it touched down, Casey's Gulfstream went wheels-up.
"What we're going to need before too long are a couple of large, very large, monitors," Casey announced. "Better, three. Better yet, four. That's presuming the Marine Corps doesn't smash everything taking it out of the boxes."
He nodded toward Bradley, who was half inside one of Casey's large cardboard boxes that crowded the library.
"Not to worry, sir. I know how delicate vacuum tubes are."
"Vacuum tubes?" Casey asked incredulously, then said, "The Boy Marine got me again!"
"So it would appear," Berezovsky said.
"I may decide not to like you, Tom. And I don't even know who you are."
"You tell me what kind of monitors you want, and I'll go into town and get them," Castillo said. "And while I'm doing that, Davidson can tell you who Tom is and otherwise bring you up to speed."
Casey said, "Go to Radio Shack and get a bunch of precision soldering irons and hand tools, that kind of thing. Mine are in my kitchen. As far as the monitors go, get the best they have. I don't want to have to fix monitors in addition to everything else I have to do around here."
He reached for his wallet. "Let me give you a credit card."
"I have a credit card, thank you. The Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund will pick up the tab."
Castillo was almost out the front door when he remembered that if he used the Lorimer AmEx, or anything with his name on it, the FBI would quickly learn his whereabouts.
Abuela, Estella, and Svetlana were cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast when he walked in.
"Abuela, I need you to go into town with me to buy some things. And bring your credit card, please. I'll pay you back later."
"Carlos, you don't have a credit card?" she said incredulously, if disapprovingly.
"I do. But if I use it, the FBI will know I'm in Midland, and I don't want them to know that."
That announcement didn't faze her.
"I was just about to ask, Carlos, if it would be safe for Svetlana to go into Midland."
Castillo looked at her. "Why do you want to, Svet?"
Dona Alicia answered for her. "I promised her I'd show her St. Agnes's, where you sang in the choir . . ."
"Before you grew up and became a heathen," Svetlana said.
". . . and she wants to buy some denims," Dona Alicia picked up.
"I became neither a heathen nor a Roman Catholic," Castillo said.
"He doesn't mean that the way it sounds, dear. He's a Protestant--"
"He's not a very good anything now," Svetlana said. "That I will change."
"And I was thinking if you could get what you need in Sam's . . ."
"Sam's and Radio Shack, probably."
". . . Svetlana could get the denims there. And if you're going to have to go to Radio Shack, that's right down the street from Western World. They have some very nice ready-to-wear boots, and blouses and things. That's if it's safe for her to go into town."
The odds are pretty slim that the local FBI people would spot this Interpol fugitive in Sam's or Western World, or riding around in a Yukon with a Double-Bar-C sign on the door.
"Whenever you're ready, ladies," Castillo said.
"Svetlana can ride with me. That would attract less attention," Dona Alicia said.
[EIGHT]
1745 8 January 2006
The Yukons returned to the Double-Bar-C each transporting two fifty-six-inch flat-screen liquid-crystal monitors, one strapped to each roof and one extending four feet out the rear door of each with a little flag flying from the boxes--Lester Bradley had said there was no reason not to avoid a conflict with the cops for having something hanging out the back of the truck.
Dona Alicia and Svetlana, carrying boxes of denim clothing and whatever the big box labeled WESTERN WORLD contained, disappeared into the house.
Ernesto--Estella's son--and Bradley and Castillo started off-loading the monitors. After they had carried the first one into the library--which was now a sea of electronic devices and parts there for--Davidson came out to help with the others.
"Miller called, Charley."
"And?"
"Colonel Hamilton and Phineas will arrive at Reagan at oh-nine-something. He'll take them to the Motel Monica. Tom McGuire has some Secret Service guys who'll sit on them tonight and tomorrow without asking any questions. He said there's nothing to connect them w
ith us anyway.
"And Delchamps is on the 2130 Lufthansa flight to Munich, and Darby on the 2150 American flight to Frankfurt, both out of Dulles. Miller gave them $9,900 apiece--a hundred under the law requiring anything over ten grand taken out of the country to be declared."
Castillo nodded. "What else?"
"He's got a Beechcraft King Air laid on from noon tomorrow to take Hamilton's stuff to Bragg. Actually to Fayetteville, where Vic will have somebody meet it. No jet was available, and he said it won't make any difference anyhow, as Torine can't leave without that stuff or the shooters, and Uncle Remus is not finished with the paperwork for the shooters."
"But he has them, right?"
"Uncle Remus said he's got eighteen coal-blacks, five a little lighter, and one he says they may have to leave in Tanzania he's so light."
"Okay. I guess that leaves us with nothing to do now but set up Casey's toys and wait."
"I have the feeling we'll be doing a lot of that, Charley. Waiting."
"Do they have sophisticated tools like this in Marine Corps communications, Bradley?" Casey asked, holding up a very-fine-pointed soldering iron from Radio Shack.
"I don't know what they have in Marine Corps communications, sir," Bradley replied. "I was a designated marksman, not in that. I think they mostly use semaphore flags."
He mimed waving semaphore flags.
Casey shook his head. "What's a designated marksman? That anything like a shooter?"
"I really don't know how well your shooters shoot, Dr. Casey, so I don't know if they would qualify to be a Marine Corps designated shooter. But if you were asking can I use that soldering iron, then yes, sir, I can. Before I joined the Corps, I was in the AARRL. I made most of my stuff."
"I was also in the American Amateur Radio Relay League," Casey said. "That's how I got suckered into Special Forces; they needed people who knew the difference between an ohm and a watt."
He pointed to a rat's nest of twisted-together wires on the table.
"Why don't you see what you can do with that?" Then he turned to Castillo, Ernesto, and Davidson, who were resting from their monitor-carrying labors. "Why don't you guys get out of here and leave those of us who know what we're doing to do it?"
Castillo and Davidson went to the kitchen, carrying an AFC handset with them. Estella offered them coffee. Castillo had just picked up his mug when Svetlana came into the room, almost causing him to drop the mug.
Black Ops (Presidential Agent) Page 50
