“Well, we’ll get a goddamned search warrant! Where does one get a goddamned search warrant at ...” He looked at his watch. “Quarter after seven in the morning?”
“That may be difficult, Mr. Secretary,” McGuire said. “In order to get a search warrant, you have to convince a judge that you have good and sufficient reason to believe that illegal activity is taking place on a certain premises, or that a fugitive is evading due process of law—in other words, arrest—on said premises.”
“Goddamn it, we know that Darby is in there! We know he entered the country in Miami and flew here, and your own goddamned agents reported they saw him entering that house. What else do we need, for Christ’s sake?”
“Sir, we have no reason to believe that any activity violating federal law is taking place in the house. And Mr. Darby is not a fugitive; no warrants have been issued for his arrest on any charge.”
“You’re telling me there’s not a goddamned thing we can do? I don’t believe this.”
“Sir, what I hoped would happen when we came here was that Mrs. Darby, or perhaps Mr. Darby himself—we’ve been friends for years—would invite us into the house and we could discuss the location of Colonel Castillo amicably. If you want to, I can have another shot at that.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Other than that, sir, I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“Just stand there in the door, please, Mr. Secretary,” Two-Gun Yung said ten minutes later.
There were now two photographers inside the house, the woman who had used the photographing capability of her cellular telephone earlier, and a man now holding what looked like a professional-grade video camera.
Andrews stood in the door.
“Ready, Harold?” Two-Gun asked.
“Lights, action, camera!” Harold replied, intentionally botching the sequence.
“Mr. Secretary, please identify yourself and give us the date and time.”
Andrews complied.
“Now, repeat after me, please: ‘I make the following statement voluntarily and without mental reservation of any kind.’”
Andrews did so.
“I acknowledge that I have informed Mrs. Julia Darby that by allowing me and Mr. McGuire of the Secret Service into her home, a compassionate gesture to get us out of the cold and snow, she in no way gives up her rights against unlawful search and seizure as provided by the U.S. Constitution—”
“Go slowly,” Andrews interrupted. “I can’t remember all that.”
“We’ll try it again. ‘I acknowledge that I ...’”
“‘. . . and further that anything said in conversation by anyone here today will not be used in any court of law for any purpose,’” Two-Gun finally concluded.
With some obvious effort, Andrews repeated that.
“Is that it, Counselor?” Mrs. Darby then asked.
“It will be as soon as Harold sends a copy of that digital recording to that great file room in the sky,” Two-Gun replied.
“Consider it done,” Harold replied.
“Why don’t we all go in the living room and have a cup of coffee while Dianne makes breakfast?” Julia Darby suggested.
“Hello, Tom,” Alex Darby said, putting out his hand. “Long time no see.”
“How are you, Alex?” McGuire replied. “Alex, this is my boss, Assistant Secretary of Homeland Security Mason Andrews.”
“How do you do?” Darby said.
“You’re a hard man to find, Mr. Darby.”
“I guess that would depend on who’s looking for me,” Darby said.
“A lot of people are looking for you, including Ambassador Montvale.”
“Whatever would make Ambassador Montvale look for me?”
“The President of the United States sent him to find you, Mr. Darby. Right now, he’s in Ushuaia.”
“Whatever for? I mean, why is he looking for me in Ushuaia, of all places?”
“Oh, Tom,” Julia Darby said. “I was kidding you about that.”
“Kidding him about what?” Darby asked his wife.
“I told him you were probably down there with your girlfriend,” Julia said. “I never for a moment thought he would take me seriously. Especially the girlfriend part.”
Darby looked at McGuire. “Yeah, I’m a little long in the tooth for that sort of thing, Tom.”
Mason Andrews said, “There is reason to believe that you know where Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky, Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva, and Lieutenant Colonel Carlos G. Castillo are.”
“As I think you know, Mr. Andrews,” Darby replied, “Colonel Castillo was ordered by the President—the late President, not Mr. Clendennen—to fall off the face of the earth and never be seen again. I believe that Colonel Castillo is obeying those orders.”
“You’re telling me you don’t know where he is—where the Russians are?”
“I didn’t say that. What I said was that I believe Colonel Castillo has obeyed the order from the President to disappear.”
“Then you do know where he is? Where the Russian defectors are?”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
“Are you aware that it’s a felony, Mr. Darby, to lie to, or mislead, a federal officer?”
“Mr. Andrews, a point of order,” Two-Gun said. “One, right now, you’re not a federal officer, but rather simply someone whom Mrs. Darby has compassionately allowed to warm himself in her house. Two, if Mr. Darby were ever to be interviewed by any federal officer, he would, on advice of counsel, refuse to answer any questions put to him that either might tend to incriminate him, or cause him to violate any of the several oaths he took as an officer of the Clandestine Service of the CIA to never divulge in his lifetime anything he learned in the performance of those duties.”
Mason Andrews looked between Two-Gun and the Darbys, then announced, “I can see that I’m wasting my time here. Let’s go, McGuire.”
“But you haven’t had any breakfast,” Julia Darby said. “Dianne’s making a Spanish omelet.”
“And breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Two-Gun offered. “Haven’t you heard that, Mr. Secretary?”
Andrews glared at him but didn’t respond.
“And one more thing, Mr. Andrews,” Two-Gun said. “Those Secret Service agents of yours who have been watching the house?”
“What about them?”
“The right of a governmental agency to surveille does not carry with it any right to trespass. The next time I see one of them on this property, I’m going to call the Alexandria police and charge them with trespass. And if they are indeed Secret Service agents, since you and I have had this little chat, that would constitute trespass after warning, which is a felony.”
Andrews, his face white, marched toward the front door, calling over his shoulder, “Goddamn it, McGuire, I said let’s go.”
In the Yukon, Andrews slammed the door shut and turned to McGuire.
“As of this minute, McGuire, you’re placed on administrative leave. It is my intention to have you separated from the Secret Service and I think you know why.”
“I haven’t a clue, Mr. Secretary.”
“Goddamn it! Whose side are you on, anyway? You enjoyed watching those bastards humiliate me.”
“Mr. Secretary, I took an oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic. I have done so to the best of my ability.”
“Sending the director of National Intelligence on a wild-goose chase to Ushuaia is your idea of defending the Constitution? Jesus H. Christ!”
“I told Ambassador Montvale that Mrs. Darby said Mr. Darby might be there. That’s all.”
“You’d better be prepared to tell a grand jury that Mrs. Darby did just that. Lying to or making a misrepresentation to a federal officer is a felony. Your pal is going to jail, McGuire, and if I can figure out some way to get you before a grand jury for lying to Ambassador Montvale, I will.”
“Oh, come on, Andrews. You know Montvale almost as wel
l as I do. Can you really imagine the Great Charles M. getting up in a courtroom and testifying under oath that one of his underlings sent him on a wild-goose chase anywhere? Much less all the way to the bottom of the world? And that doesn’t even touch on the question of who he was looking for and why.”
Secretary Andrews considered that for thirty seconds.
“Get out of the car, you sonofabitch! Walk back to Washington!”
McGuire got out of the Yukon.
But instead of walking back to Washington, he went to the door of the house, rang the bell, and when the lady of the house answered, asked if there was any Spanish omelet left to feed someone who had just lost his job.
[THREE]
Office of the Commanding General
United States Army Central Command
MacDill Air Force Base
Tampa, Florida
0730 9 February 2007
“General, General McNab is here,” Colonel J. D. Brewer announced at Naylor’s office door.
“Ask the general to come in, please,” Naylor said.
McNab marched into the office, stopped six feet from Naylor’s desk, raised his right hand to his temple, and said, “Good morning, General. Thank you for receiving me.”
McNab was wearing what was officially the Army Service Uniform but was commonly referred to as “dress blues.” The breast of his tunic was heavy with ribbons and devices showing his military qualifications, including a Combat Infantry Badge topped with circled stars indicating that it was the sixth award; a Master Parachutist’s wings; seven other parachute wings from various foreign armies; and the Navy SEAL qualification badge, commonly called “The Budweiser.” The three silver stars of a lieutenant general gleamed on his epaulets.
Naylor was wearing a camouflage-patterned sandy-colored baggy uniform called Desert Battle Dress Uniform. On it was sewn the insignia of Central Command, the legend US ARMY, a name tag reading NAYLOR, and, attached with Velcro to the button line of his jacket, a strip with four embroidered black (called “subdued”) stars, the insignia of his rank.
Naylor took his time before returning the salute, and after McNab had dropped his hand, took his time again before saying, “You may stand at ease, General. Please take a seat.”
“Thank you, sir,” McNab said as he settled into one of the two leather armchairs before the desk. “I trust the general is well?”
“Just so we understand one another, General, there was an implication you made just now that you were invited here. You were ordered here. There is a difference I think you should keep in mind.”
“Yes, sir. Permission to speak, General?”
“Permission granted.”
“Sir, the general errs. Sir, the general does not have the authority to issue orders to me.”
Naylor blurted, “That’s what you think, McNab!”
“It’s what the chief of staff thinks, General. I telephoned him yesterday following your telephone call. I thought perhaps my status—or your status—had changed and I hadn’t been notified. The chief of staff said there was no change in your status or mine. We are both commanders of units directly subordinate to Headquarters, U.S. Army. The only officer who can give orders to either of us is the chief of staff.”
“You called the chief of staff?” Naylor asked incredulously.
“Yes, sir. And the chief suggested that a way out of this little dilemma would be for me to make a courtesy call on you. Which is what I’m doing now, General.”
Naylor thought: You sonofabitch!
McNab went on: “I got a look at the lieutenant colonel’s promotion list on the way down here, General. And saw that Allan has been selected, below the zone. May I offer my congratulations?”
“Thank you.”
“How may I assist the general, now that I’m here?”
“Prefacing this by stating I am acting at the direct order of the President, you can tell me where I can find Lieutenant Colonel Carlos G. Castillo.”
“The chief of staff didn’t mention that you were working for the President, General. Perhaps he had reasons he did not elect to share with me.”
“Are you questioning my word, General?”
“No, sir. If the general tells me the general is working at the direct order of the President, I will of course take the general’s word.”
“Where can I find Castillo, General?”
“I have no idea, General.”
“You have no idea?”
“Are you questioning my word, General?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“What can you tell me, General, about Castillo?” Naylor asked.
“You mean about how the President wants to make a human sacrifice of him to the Russians?”
“What did you say?”
“When I came here, I held the naïve hope that you were going to close the door, and then say, ‘You may find this hard to believe, but the President wants to turn our Charley over to Putin, and what are we going to do about it?’ How foolish of me.”
“You don’t know that President Clendennen intends to do that,” Naylor said.
“Do you know he doesn’t? Or didn’t he tell you that Murov told Frank Lammelle that Putin wants the Russians and Charley?”
“How do you know about that?”
McNab met Naylor’s eyes, and said, “You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you, Allan?” After a long moment, he added, “Yeah, now that I think about it, I think you do.”
“What I do know, General—”
“Haven’t we played your silly little game long enough, Allan?”
“What silly game is that, General?”
“You sitting there in that ridiculous desert costume—as if you expect the Castros or Hugo Chávez to start dropping parachutists on Tampa Bay in the next ten minutes—pretending to be a soldier when all you are is a uniformed flunky carrying out the orders—which you damned well know are illegal—of a political hack who would turn his mother over to Putin if he thought it would get him reelected.”
“You are speaking, General, of the President, the commander in chief.”
“Did you get it all, or should I say it again?”
“What I should do is place you under arrest!”
“How did you get to be a four-star general—never mind, I know—without learning you never should issue an order—or carry one out—without considering what the secondary effects will be?”
“Stand up and come to attention, General!” Naylor ordered.
McNab crossed his legs, shook his head, and chuckled.
“Goddamn you!” Naylor flared. “I said, come to attention!”
“For example, Allan,” McNab said calmly as he took a cigar case from an inside pocket, “one of the thoughts that occurred to me when I heard what the bastard was up to was to take him out. I thought that through and realized that would cause more damage to the country than it would do good. Since we presently don’t have a Vice President, the order of succession would put the Speaker of the House in the Oval Office, and from what I’ve seen, he’s as much an idiot as Clendennen is.
“Anyway, I took an oath to defend the Constitution, and unfortunately there’s nothing in that that says you can shoot the President, even if the bastard deserves it, as this one clearly does.”
“McNab, you’re out of your mind!”
“I also considered taking this story to that red-headed guy on Wolf News. What’s his name? Oh, yeah ...”
He paused as he bit the end off a long, thin, black cigar and then carefully lit it.
“You can’t smoke in here,” Naylor said. “You can’t smoke in any government building.”
Naylor stared at McNab and thought: He’s sitting here calmly discussing the pros and cons of assassinating the President of the United States, and I’m scolding him for smoking?
What the hell is the matter with me?
What I should do is push the button for the sergeant major, and when he and Jack Brewer come in,
say, “I have placed General McNab under arrest. Please escort the general to the visiting senior officers’ quarters and hold him there.”
And then what do I do?
Call the chief of staff and tell him?
Tell him what?
McNab has friends. Somebody who was there in the Oval Office when the President gave me this mission not only told him exactly what was said, but lost no time in telling him.
Is there a plot against the President? Is that what this is all about?
That’s a credible possibility.
McNab is entirely capable of being involved in something like a coup d’état.
So do I go to the chief of staff with that? Or the President?
With what? All I have is suspicions.
What I have to do is find out as much as I can from the sonofabitch!
McNab blew a smoke ring.
“I always have trouble with names,” McNab said. “Okay! I got it! His name is Andy McClarren and the show is called The Straight Scoop. Are you familiar with it?”
Naylor thought: I’m not going to let him drag me into a discussion.
When it became evident that Naylor wasn’t going to reply, McNab went on: “You really should watch it, Allan. They say it’s the most watched show on television. You might learn something from it.
“Anyway, as soon as I thought that through, I realized that when the dust had settled, all that that would accomplish would be Congress considering impeaching the sonofabitch, and that would tell the world what an idiot we have in the White House, which wouldn’t do the country any good, and even if the impeachment went through, which would take a lot of time, all we’d be doing is replacing one idiot with another.
“So I decided to put Andy McClarren on the back burner. I may have to go that route, but I’d rather not.”
“So, then what are your intentions, General?”
And I will be very surprised if you don’t tell me them in sufficient detail to hang yourself, you egotistical maniac!
“Well, the first thing, obviously, is to find Charley and see what he wants to do.”
The Outlaws: a Presidential Agent novel Page 39
