“Her name is Svetlana. They call her ‘Sweaty.’ Real beauty. Dark red hair, built like a brick ... outdoor sanitary facility.”
“You’ve lost me, McNab. What does this woman have to do with any of this?”
“She’s one of the defectors Putin wants back. She was a light colonel in the SVR. The other one—he was a full bird—is her brother.”
“And Castillo is ... emotionally involved with her?”
“Think Romeo and Juliet, Allan.”
“Has he lost his mind?”
“His heart, certainly. His mind, I don’t think so. If Charley doesn’t want to be found, finding him is going to be difficult. And if you think he’s going to pop to attention, salute, and load himself and his girlfriend and her brother on an airplane en route to Moscow, think again.”
“He’s a retired officer. Subject to recall.”
“He’s also Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger, a German national, who owns a bunch of newspapers. I wonder if our commander in chief had that in mind when he told you to go fetch him. What is it the politicians say? ‘Never get in an argument with somebody who buys ink by the barrel.’
“Let’s say that Charley and the Russians are in Germany. In his house in Fulda, eating knockwurst and drinking beer, not a care in the world, as Charley/ Karl is a German citizen, and the Russians have been granted political asylum by the German Republic in exchange for their cooperation in certain intelligence matters.”
“Is that what he’s done?” Naylor asked.
“I don’t know. I’m sure he’s considered it. But I hope he doesn’t have to. That would really piss Putin off, and there would be bodies all over the place as Putin’s SVR assassins tried to whack Charley’s girlfriend and her brother for traitorously spilling the beans about the SVR to the Krauts, and Charley’s pals took them out. Several of Charley’s pals, as I’m sure you heard, are very good at taking out officers of the SVR.”
“And you don’t think Putin knows these Russians told us about the bio-warfare laboratory in the Congo?” Naylor exploded. “Don’t you think Putin considers that a traitorous act?”
McNab took a moment to form his reply, then said, “One: President Putin stood in the well of the UN, you will recall, and told the whole world the Russians knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about the so-called Fish Farm. Two: As the CIA has never had the Russians under their benevolent control, the Russians have not spilled the beans about the Fish Farm to us, either. How could they? The Russians knew absolutely nothing about it.”
“They know the Russians told us. That’s why they want them back.”
“That’s why they want Charley, too. That’s what this whole thing is all about. That’s why I want to ask Charley what he wants to do about all this. Maybe he’s got some ideas. He’s always been very resourceful, Allan, you know that.”
“What makes you think you can find him?”
“That will take me a couple of days. First, I have to find someone who knows and who trusts me. I can think of several people who are in that category.”
Naylor thought: What I should do now, McNab, is tell the President that you know how to get in contact with Castillo and have the President order you to find him.
Naylor said: “General, since you tell me that you believe you know how to locate Colonel Castillo and the Russian defectors, I feel duty-bound to inform the President of that fact.”
“If you did that, Allan, this whole sordid story would be on The Straight Scoop with—what’s his name again?—with Andy McClarren tonight.”
“You could be held incommunicado—”
“That would last only until Andy McClarren, or C. Harry Whelan, Jr., heard about it. And they would.”
“—and ordered not to discuss this with the press or anyone else. You are not immune to the provisions of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, General, and it would behoove you to keep that in mind.”
“We took an oath—the day we threw our hats in the air so long ago—to obey the lawful orders of officers appointed over us. I can’t understand how you think an order making a human sacrifice of a fellow officer can possibly be considered legal.”
“Perhaps a general court-martial would determine that.”
McNab stood up. He said, “Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, General. We’ll have to do this more often.”
“I didn’t give you permission to leave, General.”
McNab ignored him. He said, “What I’m going to do is go find Charley and see what he wants to do. You do what you want, Allan. But if you’re smart you’ll mark time until I get back to you. Which reminds me: I’m going to leave a GS-Fifteen civilian with you. His name is Vic D’Allessando, and before he was a GS-Fifteen, he was a CWO-Five, and before that, he was a sergeant major. Some people think he’s associated with Gray Fox, but I can’t comment on that, as—as I’m sure you know—everything connected with Gray Fox is classified.
“Vic has a radio which will allow him to stay in touch with me no matter where I am. I will keep him posted on how I’m doing in finding Charley, and he will tell you. Vic will also keep me posted on your location, and if you leave MacDill, or Lammelle does, before I tell you that you can, Plan A—that’s telling Andy McClarren—will kick in. I don’t think you want that to happen.”
“You think you can sit in my office and tell me what to do? Goddamn you, McNab!”
“Of course not. But what I can do is tell you what’s going to happen if you elect to do certain things. And in that regard, if Vic D’Allessando suddenly becomes not available to me or other people on that net, Plan A—McClarren—will automatically kick in.”
McNab put on his green beret, popped to attention, and saluted.
He did not wait for Naylor to return it, but immediately did an about-face movement, and marched out of his office.
Naylor knew that Franklin Lammelle, the deputy director of the CIA, was in his outer office when he heard McNab say, “Well, hello, Frank. Whatever brings you to beautiful Tampa Bay?”
The automatic door closer shut off any reply Lammelle might have made.
The door opened thirty seconds later, and Colonel Jack Brewer put his head in.
“General, Mr. Lammelle is here.”
“Ask him to come in, please,” Naylor said.
“And Major Naylor and a man from Global Communications, who says he has an appointment.”
“Ask them to wait, but you come in, please, Colonel.”
Naylor got up from behind his desk and met Lammelle as he came through the door.
“Good morning, General,” Lammelle said. “Can I ask what Scotty McNab was doing here? Is he going to be working with us, I hope, on this?”
“Actually, Mr. Lammelle, I’ve just about decided I made a terrible mistake vis-à-vis General McNab.”
“Excuse me?”
“What I am now convinced I should have done was place him under arrest.”
“Excuse me?”
“Let me tell you what just happened, and then you tell me what you think I should have done—should do—about it.”
Five minutes later, Frank Lammelle said, “General, I’m in no position to comment upon, much less judge, your differences with General McNab vis-à-vis insubordination, that sort of thing, but—and you may not like hearing this—it looks to me that instead of being a problem, McNab may be the answer to ours.”
“I don’t see that,” Naylor said.
“Our problem is that we have been charged with locating Colonel Castillo, and through him, to take control of the two Russians. And we don’t know where any of them are.”
“A subparagraph of ‘facts bearing on the problem’ there, it seems to me,” Naylor said, “would be ‘how to transport the Russian defectors and/or Castillo from where we find them to where they have to go.’ Or words to that effect. And where do they go, to add that factor?”
“Castillo,” Lammelle replied, “is going to have to be transported to either Washington, or, perhaps, some mi
litary base in the United States. The Russians only have to be transported someplace where they can be turned over to the SVR. I think that will probably mean that we’ll have to transport them to some place served by Aeroflot. We turn them over at the airport to officers of the SVR, who will then repatriate them.”
Naylor glanced at Colonel Jack Brewer, then looked at Lammelle, and said, “And how are we going to do that? Am I supposed to take soldiers with me? Soldiers for that sort of thing come from Special Operations, the Delta Force, or Gray Fox. Which of course are commanded by General McNab.”
“General, since eight o’clock this morning, a Gulfstream V has been sitting at Saint Petersburg-Clearwater International. It is registered to a CIA asset—a chicken-packing company in Des Moines, Iowa. I was amazed to learn how much chicken the United States exports.
“Anyway, the plane will attract no undue attention. The crew are CIA. The aircraft is equipped with the very latest—and I mean the very latest—avionics that the AFC Corporation has for sale. All sorts of bells and whistles. Communication with that airplane and Langley is available wherever that airplane is—on the ground or in the air, anywhere in the world. That airplane is going to follow you and me no matter where General McNab leads us. There are four Clandestine Service officers aboard. Once we lay eyes on Colonel Castillo and the Russians, transporting them wherever they have to go will pose no problems at all.”
“What if they resist?” Colonel Brewer asked.
“The officers are equipped with the very latest nonlethal weaponry—and the other kind as well, of course. What the nonlethal weaponry provides, in a pistol about the size of a Glock, are six darts with a range of about fifty feet. Anyone struck with one of these darts will lose consciousness in fifteen seconds or less. They will regain consciousness without intervention in about two hours. They can be brought back immediately by injection.”
“Fascinating,” General Naylor said. “Then, if I understand you, Mr. Lammelle, it is your recommendation that we sit tight and do nothing while we wait for General McNab to find Castillo and the Russians?”
“That is my recommendation, General.”
Naylor looked at his aide-de-camp, and said, “You see anything wrong with that, Jack?”
Colonel Jack Brewer said, “No, sir. It makes a lot of sense to me.”
“And what about the man McNab left here?” Naylor asked.
“He’s very good,” Lammelle said. “I’ve known Vic D’Allessando for a long time. He’s been around Delta Force and Gray Fox for years.”
“Which tends to suggest that his greatest loyalty may be to General McNab,” General Naylor said.
“Well, I suggest we treat him with respect and as a member of the team,” Lammelle said. He stopped and opened his briefcase. “And if he shows any suggestion of being about to interfere with our mission, General ...” He paused and took from the briefcase what looked like a Glock semiautomatic pistol with a grossly swollen slide. He aimed it at a leather couch and pulled the trigger. There was an almost inaudible psssst sound. “. . . in fifteen seconds or less, General, your couch will be sound asleep.”
“I will be damned,” Naylor said, and went to the couch, found the dart, and pulled it free. He held it up for a better look, and then held it against his pinkie finger. It was about as long, and perhaps half as thick.
“Amazing,” General Naylor said, then looked at Brewer. “Can you think of anything else, Jack?”
“Yes, sir,” Brewer said. “Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor.”
“What about him?” Lammelle asked.
Naylor told him.
“Just to be sure, General,” Lammelle then said, “I suggest you maintain the current close personal supervision. I’m frankly uncomfortable, taking into consideration what you’ve told me, with the thought of leaving him here when we go off wherever we’re going. There’s no telling . . .”
“I agree. Where we go, Allan Junior goes,” General Naylor said.
“May I see that dart, General?” Colonel Brewer asked.
Naylor handed it to him.
[ONE]
The President’s Study
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
0929 9 February 2007
Assistant Secretary of Homeland Security Mason Andrews was more than a little nervous when he entered the President’s study with Frederick P. Palmer, the United States attorney general.
He was fully aware that he was the assistant secretary of Homeland Security and that the secretary should be dealing with the President on this matter. Andrews had the previous evening telephoned the secretary, who was in Chicago, brought her up to speed, and asked her for direction. She had agreed with him that it was a very delicate area, and that proceeding carefully was obviously necessary. She said she’d like to sleep on the problem, and that he should call her back in the morning, say at about nine, before his nine-thirty appointment with the President.
When he had done so, he had been informed that the secretary was not available at the moment; something—not specified, but important—had come up and the secretary simply was not available.
Mr. Andrews then had had an unkind thought.
That bitch is covering her fat ass by staying out of the line of fire.
Again.
But, fully aware that one does not make an appointment on an urgent matter with the President of the United States and then break it, he was in the outer office at nine-twenty with the very-reluctant-to-be-there attorney general. It had been necessary to tell the attorney general that if the AG couldn’t find time in his schedule for the meeting, he would tell the President just that.
“All right, Andrews,” President Clendennen greeted them. “Make it quick.”
“Mr. Darby has been located, Mr. President,” Andrews announced.
“Ambassador Montvale was told to keep me posted. Why am I hearing this from you?”
“Sir, I don’t believe Ambassador Montvale knows about this.”
“I’m confused. I don’t like to be confused. Why don’t you start at the goddamn beginning, Andrews? Maybe that way ...”
“Yes, Mr. President. Sir, at half past four yesterday, Immigration, in response to the LDND order, notified the Secret Service that Mr. Darby had entered the United States—”
“In response to the what?” the President interrupted.
“The LDND order. That means ‘locate, do not detain.’”
“And that means?”
“When the subject of an LDND order is located by any agency, that agency notifies the agency that issued the order—in this case, the Secret Service—where and under what circumstances the subject was located. In this case, as I said, Immigration yesterday afternoon notified the Secret Service that Alexander Darby had arrived in Miami on a flight from Panama.”
“Cut to the chase, Andrews. And what did Darby have to say about Castillo and the Russians?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“He was arrested, right? He’s in custody?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re telling me the Immigration people had this guy, and then he got away? My God!”
“Sir, there never has been a warrant out on Mr. Darby—just the LDND order.”
“What’s the point in locating somebody and then not arresting him?”
“Sir, even if there is an arrest warrant,” the attorney general explained, “and in this case no warrant has been issued, it’s sometimes useful to see where the subject goes, and to whom he talks.”
“Well, where did Darby go, and who did he talk to?”
“He flew here, sir, into Reagan National,” Andrews said. “By that time, the Secret Service was on him, and they followed him to a residence at 7200 West Boulevard Drive in Alexandria. That site, sir, was already under Secret Service surveillance. It has been since the LDND order was issued. It is owned by Colonel Castillo.”
“Don’t tell me Castillo has been
there, right under the nose of the Secret Service, all the time?”
“No, sir. We don’t believe that he is.”
“So, when you finally found out where this Darby character is, and who he was talking to, what did he say when you asked him where Castillo and the Russians are?”
“What happened at that point,” Andrews began, “was that Supervisory Special Agent McGuire—”
“I know Tom,” the President interrupted. “Good man, if it’s the same guy. Used to be on the presidential protection detail, right?”
“Yes, sir. That’s the man. Sir, McGuire notified me about Darby’s location, and first thing this morning, a minute or two after seven, I was at the door—”
“He notified you last night! Why didn’t you go over there last night?” the President demanded.
“It was after midnight, Mr. President.”
“So what?”
“Perhaps you’re right, Mr. President. I deferred to Mr. McGuire’s judgment. Now I realize that was probably a mistake, too.”
“Okay, so there you were—was McGuire with you . . . ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“... at the door of this house at seven in the morning. Then what happened?”
“At first, Mr. President, they wouldn’t even let us in. They had a lawyer, a Japanese gentleman, who said his name was Yung—”
“Sir,” the attorney general interjected, “I think there is a very good chance that this lawyer is a former FBI special agent named David W. Yung, Jr., who is also under a LDND order. And he’s of Chinese, not Japanese, ancestry—”
“Why are we looking for this ex-FBI agent-slash-lawyer of some kind of Oriental ancestry?” the President interrupted. “And what’s that got to do with anything?”
“He was one of Castillo’s men in OOA, Mr. President,” the attorney general said.
“So, what happened at the door?” the President asked.
“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.”
The Outlaws: a Presidential Agent novel Page 40
