“We identified ourselves, and asked if we could come in. Yung said not without a search warrant. He also said that if they did let us in, it would constitute a waiver of the owner’s rights against unlawful search, and they weren’t going to do that.”
“It has to be Yung,” the attorney general thought aloud. “An FBI agent, lawyer or not, would know about that decision of the Third Circuit Court of Appeals.”
“So you didn’t get in. Then what?” the President said.
“We got in, sir,” Andrews said. “After I promised that I understood we were being admitted only as a compassionate gesture on the part of Mrs. Darby to get us out of the snow and the cold, and that she had not waived any of her rights vis-à-vis unlawful search and seizure. And they filmed us acknowledging that, sir.”
“They filmed you?” the President asked incredulously.
“Yes, sir. There was another man there with what looked to me like a professional movie camera.”
“And then ? Jesus Christ, cut to the goddamned chase!”
“Mr. Darby was in the kitchen, sir,” Andrews said.
“And did you ask him if he knew where Colonel Castillo and the two Russians are, and if you did, what did he say?”
“He was evasive, sir. And the lawyer said that if Mr. Darby found himself being interrogated by a federal officer, he would advise him, as his lawyer, not to answer any questions the answers to which might tend to either incriminate him, or cause him to violate the CIA secrecy laws which forbid him to ever disclose anything he learned while he was an officer of the Clandestine Service.”
“Mr. President, I’m afraid we’re not going to learn much from Mr. Darby,” the attorney general said.
“I was beginning to suspect that,” the President said, thickly sarcastic.
“There is one thing we can do, Mr. President,” Andrews said.
“What’s that?”
“We can squeeze Mrs. Darby. When she told McGuire her husband was in Ushuaia with his girlfriend, information on which Ambassador Montvale based his decision to go to Ushuaia, she had invited McGuire into her home. She had waived her rights when she did so. Giving false information to a federal officer is a felony.”
The President considered that a long moment.
Then he picked up his telephone and said, “Come in here.”
A secretary and a Secret Service agent appeared almost immediately.
“Are we in touch with Ambassador Montvale?”
“Yes, sir,” the Secret Service agent said. “He’s in Ushuaia, Argentina. There’s a communications radio in his Gulfstream III.”
“Send the ambassador a message, please,” the President said. “‘Mr. Darby is in Alexandria, Virginia. You can come home now, repeat, now.’”
“Yes, sir,” the secretary said. “Is that all of it, Mr. President?”
“That’s all of it. Get that right out, please.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” the Secret Service agent said.
When they had left, closing the door behind them, the President turned to Mason Andrews.
“You heard that, Andrews?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you think, when the ambassador gets back here, that Wolf News is going to take a picture of him in a courtroom, with his hand on a Bible, swearing before God and the world that he—my director of National Intelligence—went halfway around the world on my orders as commander in chief on the word of a housewife having her little joke at our expense, you’re even more incredibly stupid than you showed you were this morning, Andrews.
“Now get the fuck out of the goddamned Oval Office and never come back!”
[TWO]
1155 9 February 2007
Word had quickly spread among the inner circle of White House functionaries that President Clendennen’s current rage was one that would go down in history. So it was with a certain trepidation that White House Press Secretary John David “Jack” Parker stood at the door of the President’s study and waited for permission to enter.
It was almost a minute in coming, but finally President Clendennen signaled with his fingers for Parker to enter.
“And what bad news are you bringing, Porky?” Clendennen asked.
“I’m afraid it’s not good news, Mr. President.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Clendennen asked rhetorically. “Are you aware of what happened in here this morning?”
“No, sir. I understand the attorney general and Assistant Secretary Andrews asked for an appointment, but—”
“You know where Ambassador Montvale is?”
“In Argentina.”
“The stupid sonofabitch! Director of National Intelligence, my ass. His title should be Director of National Stupidity. He’d damned well better be on his way back here.”
“I’m afraid, Mr. President, that I don’t understand.”
The President related what had transpired earlier in his office, ending his narration with a question: “How would you describe, Porky, Ambassador Stupid standing up in court, with Wolf News filming him, and swearing on a Bible that he went to some goddamn place I can’t pronounce in Argentina on my orders looking for a man who was just across the Potomac in Alexandria?”
Parker took a deep breath before replying.
“Sir, I would describe that as a public relations disaster.”
“You’re goddamn right it would be. But what could be worse than that?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“How about some press sonofabitch—C. Harry Whelan, Jr., for example—asking Ambassador Stupid why he was looking for this Darby guy in the first place. That would be worse, Porky. And Ambassador Stupid would be stupid enough to tell him.”
“Speaking of Mr. Whelan, sir ...”
“Dare I hope he’s been run over by a truck?”
“Mr. Whelan came to see me just now, sir.”
“Close your mouth and put your hand on your wallet, Porky. I’m afraid to ask why.”
“Sir, Mr. Whelan said he was about to publish this, and wanted to give us a chance to correct any errors he might have made before he did.”
Parker handed the President a sheet of paper.
Clendennen snatched it, and read:
BY C. HARRY WHELAN, JR.
COPYRIGHT 2007
WORLDWIDE RIGHTS RESERVED
SLUG: WHITE HOUSE LAUNCHED STRIKE ON IRANIAN BIOLOGICAL WARFARE FACTORY IN CONGO BASED ON INFORMATION FROM RUSSIAN DEFECTORS IN HANDS OF SECRET, POSSIBLY ILLEGAL, “PRIVATE CIA” CONTROLLED BY PRESIDENT
WASHINGTON—(INSERT DATE) THIS REPORTER HAS LEARNED THAT THE STRIKE ON THE ALLEGED IRANIAN BIOLOGICAL WARFARE LABORATORY IN THE CONGO WAS BASED SOLELY ON INFORMATION GATHERED BY A SUPER-SECRET INTELLIGENCE AGENCY REPORTING DIRECTLY TO THE PRESIDENT.
THE ORGANIZATION, HIDDEN INSIDE THE DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY AND CALLED THE OFFICE OF ORGANIZATIONAL ANALYSIS, WAS HEADED BY A LEGENDARY ARMY SPECIAL FORCES OFFICER, LIEUTENANT COLONEL C. G. CASTILLO, AND STAFFED WITH PERSONNEL, SOME DESCRIBED BY INTELLIGENCE INSIDERS AS “UNSAVORY,” FROM THE CIA, THE FBI, AND THE ARMED FORCES.
THE ORGANIZATION APPARENTLY OPERATED WITHOUT CONGRESSIONAL OVERSIGHT, DID NOT ANSWER TO THE DIRECTOR OF NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE, NOR MAINTAIN LIAISON WITH OTHER INTELLIGENCE AGENCIES, AND WAS APPARENTLY FUNDED BY THE PRESIDENT’S “CONFIDENTIAL FUNDS.”
WHEN IT APPEARED TO THE OOA THAT THE CIA WAS ABOUT TO BUNGLE THEIR ATTEMPT TO CAUSE THE DEFECTION OF TWO VERY SENIOR RUSSIAN SVR OFFICERS IN AUSTRIA, THE OOA SNATCHED THE RUSSIANS FROM THE CIA IN VIENNA AND TOOK THEM TO AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION OUTSIDE THE UNITED STATES.
PRESIDENT CLENDENNEN———
BREAK MORE TO FOLLOW
“Sonofabitch!” the President said. He’d said it twice while reading the story, and a third time now that he’d finished.
Jack Parker announced: “He says, Mr. President, that he will give us seventy-two hours to respond.”
“Sonofabitch!” the President said again. “Porky, the way this goddamn thi
ng is written, it sounds as if I’m responsible. It doesn’t even mention my predecessor, goddamn him to hell.”
Parker, who wondered if the President was calling the wrath of the Almighty upon the head of his predecessor, or on that of Mr. Whelan, did not reply.
The President said nothing for sixty seconds, during which time the contortions of his face and the somewhat angry tapping of his fingers on his desk suggested he was deep in thought.
“Deny it, Porky,” he said finally. “Tell the sonofabitch to publish anything he wants. We’ll just deny everything. I didn’t know a goddamn thing about the OOA or Castillo until Ambassador Stupid walked into the Oval Office the day after my predecessor, that sonofabitch, dropped dead. Just deny any knowledge. What’s he going to do, ask Castillo, for Christ’s sake?”
“Mr. President, I don’t think that will work,” Parker said.
“Why not?”
Parker handed him another sheet of paper.
“Mr. Whelan said he thought you might ... What he said, sir, was that our trying to stonewall wouldn’t bother him at all; that it was always a better story when you can prove the White House lied. He said it was only because of his admiration for you that he was giving you the chance to see what he’s going to write, so it wouldn’t come as a sucker punch. And so far as asking Colonel Castillo is concerned, Mr. Whelan says the only way to keep him from publishing would be for Colonel Castillo, personally, to convince him he had his facts wrong. I had the impression, sir, that he thinks we have Colonel Castillo and are hiding him someplace where the press can’t get to him.”
As Clendennen looked at the sheet, Parker added, “Then he gave me that, which he says he will publish if we deny any of the facts in the first story.”
“Sonofabitch!” Clendennen said again as he read:
BY C. HARRY WHELAN, JR.
COPYRIGHT 2007
WORLDWIDE RIGHTS RESERVED
SLUG: FORMER CIA STATION CHIEF IN VIENNA CONFIRMS “PRESIDENTIAL CIA” STOLE TWO VIP RUSSIAN DEFECTORS FROM HER; SAYS IT COST HER HER JOB
WASHINGTON—(INSERT DATE) ELEANOR DILLWORTH, A TWENTY-NINE-YEAR VETERAN OF THE CIA’S CLANDESTINE SERVICE, HAS TOLD THIS REPORTER THAT THE OFFICE OF ORGANIZATIONAL ANALYSIS—THE SUPER-SECRET, POSSIBLY ILLEGAL INTELLIGENCE ORGANIZATION OPERATING OUT OF THE WHITE HOUSE AND ANSWERING ONLY TO THE PRESIDENT—DID IN FACT MAKE OFF WITH TWO VERY SENIOR RUSSIAN INTELLIGENCE OFFICERS AND TOOK THEM TO AN UNKNOWN DESTINATION “HOURS BEFORE” THEY WERE TO BOARD A CIA AIRCRAFT SENT TO VIENNA, AUSTRIA, TO FLY THEM TO THE UNITED STATES.
DILLWORTH TOLD THIS REPORTER————BREAK MORE TO FOLLOW
“Can’t we shut this Dillworth broad up?” the President asked. “Why is she determined to embarrass my administration?”
“Sir, I believe she thinks she was unfairly treated after Castillo stole the Russians from under her nose. She was relieved of her duties in Vienna and brought back to Langley.”
“Jesus Christ, didn’t it occur to her that if she allowed Castillo to steal the Russians from her that that’s proof she wasn’t doing her fucking job?”
The President reached for the red telephone on his desk.
“Get me Jack Powell,” he ordered, then slammed the handset back in the cradle.
The protocol dealing with telephone calls between the President and those on the priority list—of whom John Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, was one—required the person called to “be available”—in other words, be on the line—within sixty seconds.
Thirty-two seconds after the President had slammed the handset into its cradle, a blue light-emitting diode on the cradle began to flash.
The President grabbed the handset and began the conversation by asking, “Why the hell did you fire this Dillworth woman?”
Then he pushed the LOUDSPEAKER button on the cradle, so that Parker could hear the conversation.
“You’re speaking of Eleanor Dillworth, Mr. President?” the DCI asked.
“The one with twenty-nine years in the Clandestine Service. Used to be our head spy in Vienna. That one.”
“She wasn’t fired, Mr. President.”
“That’s not what she told C. Harry Whelan, Jr. She also told him that our friend Castillo stole the Russians from under her nose. Unless I can somehow talk him out of it, Whelan’s going to publish that in I don’t know how goddamn many hundred newspapers and chat about it on Wolf News. That’s going to make her and the CIA look pretty foolish, wouldn’t you say?”
“Mr. President, Miss Dillworth has not been fired. What happened was that it was decided—after they found the dead Russian in a taxicab outside our embassy ...”
“And when the CIA looks pretty foolish, this administration looks pretty foolish, wouldn’t you say?”
“. . . the decision was made to get Miss Dillworth out of Vienna to avoid undue press attention there.”
“The last I heard, Austrians can’t vote in our elections. Who the hell cares about Viennese newspapers?”
“Perhaps that decision was ill-advised, Mr. President.”
“Who made it? Ambassador Stupid? You’ve heard about that? Ambassador Stupid is in that town with the funny name at the bottom of Argentina looking for this guy Darby, who is in Alexandria.”
“Yes, Mr. President, that has been brought to my attention.”
“I asked you who made the decision to fire this female.”
“I did, Mr. President. At the time—”
“At the time, it was a stupid decision. Well, how are we going to shut this woman up?”
“Mr. President, I just don’t see how that’s possible.”
“So, what do we do?”
“Mr. President, there is some good news. Actually, I was just about to call you when you called me.”
“Let’s have the good news. God knows we need some.”
“I just got off the phone with Frank Lammelle, sir. He said that General Naylor has sent General McNab to find Castillo.”
“Where did he send him? Nome, Alaska? I don’t think we’ve looked there yet. Or in Timbuktu.”
“I believe General McNab went to South America, sir.”
“Haven’t we already looked there?”
“Sir, Colonel Castillo spent most of his career working for General McNab. They have a close personal relationship. It’s possible that Castillo would turn over the Russians to McNab.”
“That raises a presumption and a question: We’re presuming that McNab can find Castillo. And if he does, what if Castillo tells him to go fuck himself? He already told Ambassador Stupid and the colonel Naylor sent down there with him to do that.”
“As far as presuming that General McNab can find Castillo, sir, I think we can safely do that. People with knowledge of Castillo’s location who would not tell anyone else would tell General McNab. Because of their close relationship.”
“I wonder.”
“And after General McNab locates Castillo, there is a Plan B in case Castillo remains intractable.”
“Which is?”
“Lammelle and I feel, Mr. President, that once Castillo knows he has been found, he would agree to a face-to-face meeting with McNab and Lammelle. To see if some accommodation could be reached. He knows he can’t remain on the run forever.”
“What do you think he wants that we’re prepared to give him?”
“That doesn’t matter, sir. What we’re trying to do is arrange the meeting. General Naylor, General McNab, meeting at a place of Castillo’s choice, a place he will feel is safe.”
“And what will that accomplish?”
“The place will not be as safe as Castillo thinks.”
“How are you going to arrange that?”
“At this moment, there is an agency airplane—a Gulfstream V—sitting at Saint Petersburg-Clearwater International. On it are four officers of the Clandestine Service. When the meeting is set up and Lammelle and Naylor go to meet him, the airplane will follow them. Anywhere in the world.”
“That
sounds too simple,” Clendennen said after a moment. “It presumes that Castillo won’t suspect the CIA would try something like that. And from what I’ve seen of the sonofabitch, whenever he gets in a battle of wits with the CIA, you lose.”
“What we think will happen is this, Mr. President. We believe Castillo will announce that he will be at a certain location. Probably in Argentina. He will not be there. His people will be. They will search General Naylor and Mr. Lammelle. In Mr. Lammelle’s briefcase, skillfully concealed, they will find the very latest version of an AFC Corporation GPS transmitter. It permits the tracking of a target within six feet anywhere in the world. They will naturally confiscate it before Lammelle and the general are permitted to get back on the airplane to go to where Castillo will actually meet them.”
“Leaving the four spooks on your airplane where?”
“Prepared to follow Lammelle and Naylor to wherever the chase leads them. There is a second GPS transmitter concealed in the heel of Lammelle’s shoe. And when he actually sees Castillo and hopefully the Russians, he will stamp his foot three times in rapid succession, which will cause the transmitter to send a signal that will mean, ‘We’ve found him. Come and get him.’”
“That sounds like something you saw in a bad spy movie,” the President said. “And what happens then? Castillo says, ‘Okay. You got us,’ and he and the Russians get on the airplane? Bullshit.”
“The Clandestine Service officers are armed with a weapon that fires a dart that causes the target, within fifteen seconds, to fall into a harmless sleep lasting between two and three hours.”
“And then they are taken where?”
“To the nearest airport served by Aeroflot, Mr. President. All that has to be done is for us to tell Mr. Sergei Murov where they are. He will arrange for the repatriation of the Russians.”
The Outlaws: a Presidential Agent novel Page 41
