Covert Warriors pa-7

by W. E. B Griffin

“Terry,” he announced a moment later, “I need you.”

  “On my way, sir,” Major General Terry O’Toole, deputy commander of SPECOPSCOM, replied.

  He was in McNab’s office forty-five seconds later. He was trim and ruddy-faced.

  McNab pointed to the printout. O’Toole picked it up and read it.

  “Shit,” he said. “And I gave Jim Ferris to you.”

  “What you did, General,” McNab said, “was comply with my request for the name of your best field-grade trainer. What I did was send him to DEA so they could send him to Mexico. And I sent Danny Salazar with him to cover his back.”

  O’Toole looked at him.

  McNab went on: “And what you’re going to say now is, ‘Yes, sir, General, that’s the way it went down.’ ”

  O’Toole met McNab’s eyes, nodded, and repeated, “Yes, sir, General, that’s the way it went down.”

  McNab nodded.

  O’Toole said: “What happens now?”

  “Do you know Colonel Ferris’s religious persuasion?”

  “Episcopalian.”

  “Al,” General McNab ordered, “get on the horn to the Eighteenth Airborne Corps chaplain. Tell him I want the senior Episcopalian chaplain and the senior Roman Catholic chaplain here in fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Captain Walsh said, and went to a telephone on a side table.

  “And call my wife,” McNab said. “Same message; here in fifteen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about your wife, Terry? Does she know Mrs. Ferris?”

  “May I use your telephone, General?” O’Toole replied.

  “Don’t tell her who,” McNab said.

  “I understand, sir.”

  Neither Mrs. McNab nor Mrs. O’Toole would be surprised by the summons. Both had gone more times than they liked to remember to accompany their husbands when they went to inform wives that their husbands were either dead or missing.

  McNab picked up the CaseyBerry and punched in a number.

  It was answered ten seconds later in what was known as “the Stockade.” Delta Force and Gray Fox were quartered in what had once been the Fort Bragg Stockade. The joke was that all the money spent to make sure no one got out of the Stockade had not been wasted. All of the fences and razor wire and motion sensors were perfectly suited to keep people out of the Stockade.

  The CaseyBerry was answered by a civilian employee of the Department of the Army, who were known by the acronym DAC. His name was Victor D’Alessandro, a very short, totally bald man in his late forties who held Civil Service pay grade GS-15. Army regulations provided that a GS-15 held the assimilated rank of colonel. Before Mr. D’Alessandro had retired, he had been a chief warrant officer (5) drawing pay and allowances very close to those of a lieutenant colonel. And before he put on the bars of a warrant officer, junior grade, D’Alessandro had been a sergeant major.

  “Go,” Mr. D’Alessandro said by way of answering his CaseyBerry.

  “Bad news, Vic,” General McNab said. “Danny Salazar and two DEA guys with him were whacked about noon fifty miles from Acapulco. They were in an embassy SUV with Colonel Ferris. The SUV and Ferris are missing.”

  “Shit! What happened?”

  “I want you to go down there-black-and find out,” McNab said. “You and no more than two of your people. By the time you get to Pope, the C-38 will be waiting to fly you to Atlanta. By the time you get there, you should have reservations on Aeromexico to either Acapulco or Mexico City. I’ll try to confirm while you’re en route.”

  In a closely guarded hangar at Pope Air Force Base, which abutted Fort Bragg, were several aircraft, including a highly modified Boeing 727 and a C-38, the latter the military nomenclature of the Israel Aircraft Industries Ltd./Galaxy Aerospace Corporation Astra SPX business jet. The C-38 had civilian markings.

  “I’ll take Nunez and Vargas.”

  “Your call.”

  “Who’s paying for this?”

  McNab, who hadn’t considered that detail, gave it some quick thought.

  There were two options, neither of which would cost the U.S. taxpayer a dime. In D’Alessandro’s safe, together with an assortment of passports in different names, were two manila envelopes, one marked “TP” and one “Charley.” Each envelope held two inch-thick stacks of credit cards, American Express Platinum and Citibank Gold Visa cards, the names embossed on them matching the names on the passports, and two business-size envelopes, each holding $10,000 in used hundred-, fifty-, and twenty-dollar bills.

  There had been a “TP” envelope in the safe for several years. TP stood for Those People. Those People were an anonymous group of very wealthy businessmen who saw it as their patriotic duty to fund black Special Operations missions when getting official funds to do so would be difficult or impossible.

  The “Charley” envelope was a recent addition to D’Alessandro’s safe. Charley stood for Lieutenant Colonel Carlos G. Castillo, Special Forces, U.S. Army, Retired. The Amex Platinum and Citibank Gold Visa cards in the Charley envelope identified their holders as officers of the LCBF Corporation.

  During a recent covert operation-which went so far beyond black that McNab had dubbed it Operation March Hare, as in “mad as a March hare”-Castillo and McNab had learned that Those People had concluded that since they were making a financial contribution to an operation, they had the right to throw the special operators under the bus when it seemed to be the logical thing to do, considering the big picture.

  One of the results of that was the LCBF Corporation’s decision to provide General McNab with the same sort of stand-by funding as Those People provided. It had not posed any financial problems for the LCBF Corporation to do so. The LCBF Corporation already had negotiable assets of more than $50 million when the director of the Central Intelligence Agency handed Mr. David W. Yung-LCBF’s vice president, finance-a Treasury check for $125 million in settlement of the CIA’s promise to pay that sum, free of any tax liabilities, to whoever delivered to them an intact Russian Tupelov Tu-934A transport aircraft.

  Mr. D’Alessandro had written “Charley” on the LCBF envelope without thinking about it. D’Alessandro had still been a sergeant major when Second Lieutenant Castillo had first been passed behind the fences of the Stockade. And as good sergeants major do, he had taken the young officer under his wing. Both D’Alessandro and General McNab devoutly believed they had raised Castillo from a pup.

  General McNab would have dearly liked to stick Those People with the costs of D’Alessandro’s reconnaissance mission, but decided in the end it would not be the thing to do now. He would think of something else-a bayonet, maybe-to stick them with at a later time.

  “Let Charley pay for it, Vic,” he said.

  “I’ll be in touch,” D’Alessandro said, and broke the CaseyBerry connection.

  FOUR

  The Machiavelli Penthouse Suite The Venetian 3355 Las Vegas Boulevard South Las Vegas, Nevada 1710 11 April 2007

  Aloysius F. Casey, Ph.D., chairman of the board of the AFC Corporation, stepped off the elevator onto the upper-level reception foyer of the Machiavelli Suite, and then stepped to one side, graciously waving out the two females from the elevator.

  The first woman was Mrs. Agnes Forbison, who was fifty-one, gray-haired, and getting just a little chubby. Mrs. Forbison was vice president, administration, of the LCBF Corporation. Previously she had been-as a GS-15-administrative assistant to the Honorable Thomas Hall, secretary of the then-newly formed Department of Homeland Security, and after that, deputy chief for administration of the now-defunct Office of Organizational Analysis.

  Second to get off the elevator was a stunningly beautiful woman with luxuriant dark red hair. Her passport identified her as a Uruguayan citizen by the name of Susanna Barlow.

  Following Senorita Barlow off the elevator was Lieutenant Colonel Carlos G. Castillo, Ret.-a good-looking, six-foot, 190-pound thirty-seven-year-old-who was the president of the LCBF Corporation. Castillo was followed by an enormo
us black dog, a Bouvier des Flandres, who answered to Max.

  As Castillo stood beside Miss Barlow, she said-hissed perhaps would be more accurate-“You remember I told you this was a mistake.”

  On Castillo’s heels came Mr. Edgar Delchamps, a nondescript man in his early sixties, who was vice president, planning and operations, of the LCBF Corporation. He was retired from the Central Intelligence Agency, where he had served for more than thirty years as an officer of the Clandestine Service.

  Delchamps was followed by thirty-three-year-old David W. Yung, Jr., who stood five feet eight and weighed 150 pounds. Despite his obvious Oriental heritage, Mr. Yung could not speak any of the languages of the Orient. He was fluent, however, in four other languages. The vice president, financial, of the LCBF Corporation was an attorney and previously had been a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  The final passenger stepped off the elevator. His Argentine passport identified him as Tomas Barlow. He was about the same age as Castillo and was built like him. He was Senorita Barlow’s brother. In a previous life, they had been Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky, the SVR rezident in Berlin, and Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva, the SVR rezident in Copenhagen.

  Castillo walked to the edge of the upper-level entrance foyer, rested his hands on the bronze rail atop the glass wall, and looked down to the lower level. Max went with him, put his front paws on the rail, and barked.

  Four men-three of them well, even elegantly, dressed-were standing there, looking up at the upper level. One of them was a legendary hotelier who owned four of the more glitzy Las Vegas hotels, and three more in Atlantic City, New Jersey, and Biloxi, Mississippi.

  Another was a well-known, perhaps even famous, investment banker. Another had made an enormous fortune in data processing. Castillo knew him to be a U.S. Naval Academy graduate. The fourth man was a sort of mousy-looking character in a suit that looked as if it had come off the final-clearance rack at Goodwill. All that Castillo knew about him was that no one knew exactly how many radio and television stations he owned.

  Those People and the executive board of the LCBF were about to meet.

  Castillo turned and walked back to the people by the elevator door.

  “This is your show, Aloysius,” he said, loudly enough for Those People to hear. “You get to choose who gets thrown off the balcony first.”

  Delchamps and Tom Barlow chuckled. Yung smiled.

  Casey shook his head and walked toward the head of the curving staircase leading to the lower level. Max trotted after him, then turned to look at Castillo as if expecting an order to “stay.” When that did not come, he went down the stairs ahead of Casey, headed directly for a coffee table laden with hors d’oeuvres, and with great delicacy helped himself to a caviar-topped cracker.

  “Careful, Max,” Castillo called. “They’re probably poisoned.”

  “Enough, Carlito!” Senorita Barlow ordered.

  She then started down the stairs. Everyone followed, Casey last, after Castillo, as if to ensure that Castillo didn’t get away.

  “Annapolis,” as Castillo thought of him, waited at the foot of the stairs and put out his right hand.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said. “We have to get this straightened out between us.”

  Castillo took the hand with visible reluctance.

  “For the good of the country,” Annapolis added.

  “We don’t seem to agree on what’s good for the country, do we?” Castillo replied.

  “I thought champagne would be in order,” “Hotelier” said, “to toast the success of the latest operation. What was it called?”

  He snapped his fingers, and two waiters moved to coolers and began to open bottles of champagne.

  “I understand some people called it March Hare,” Edgar Delchamps offered.

  “Well, whatever it was called, it was one hell of a success,” “Radio and TV Stations” said.

  The waiters quickly poured the champagne, and then walked around, offering it on trays to everyone.

  “I give you. .” Hotelier said, raising his glass.

  “Whoa!” Castillo said. “Two things before we do that, if you please. One, why are we talking about such things with these fellows in here passing the champagne?”

  “They work for me,” “Investment Banker” said. “They are trustworthy.”

  “Somewhat reluctantly-I’m paranoid on the subject of who gets to hear what-I’ll give you a pass on that.”

  “Thank you,” Investment Banker said. “Anything else, Colonel?”

  “One more thing,” Castillo said. “Two-Gun, give the nice man the envelope.”

  David W. Yung had earned the moniker “Two-Gun” when he and Edgar Delchamps were about to pass through customs into Argentina. Yung was at the time a legal attache-the euphemism for FBI agent-accredited to both Argentina and Uruguay, and thus immune to laws regarding the carrying of firearms. Delchamps enjoyed no such immunity; if found in possession of a weapon, he would have been arrested. The problem had been solved by his giving Yung his Colt Officer’s Model.45 ACP pistol to carry through customs-thus resulting in Yung’s immediately being dubbed “Two-Gun.”

  Yung walked to Investment Banker and handed him a large manila envelope. It was fully stuffed and held together with thick rubber bands.

  “And this is?” Investment Banker said.

  “I’ve been told it contains two hundred thousand dollars in circulated currency,” Castillo said. “I never opened it.”

  “The funds we sent to you?”

  “Correct. I wanted you to have them in case you were thinking your money had anything to do with the success of Operation March Hare.”

  “Did you really think you could put my Carlos in your pocket for a miserable two hundred thousand dollars?” Senorita Barlow demanded.

  “Senorita Barlow,” Annapolis said reasonably, “that was all that Colonel Castillo asked for.”

  “Score one for the Navy, Sweaty,” Castillo said.

  During her association with the Merry Outlaws, “Svetlana” had quickly morphed first to “Svet” and then even more quickly to “Sweaty.”

  Annapolis pressed his advantage.

  “We stood willing to provide whatever was asked for,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Aloysius Casey said, “but you thought you were buying something that wasn’t for sale.”

  “It seems to me,” Investment Banker said, “if I may say so, that our problem has been one of communication. .”

  “I just told you what our problem was,” Casey interrupted. “You thought you were buying something that wasn’t for sale.”

  “It seems to me, if I may say so,” Delchamps said sarcastically, “that the Irishman has just put both thumbs on the problem. You thought you owned us for two hundred thousand.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Investment Banker said, “If I may continue, gentlemen?”

  He interpreted the silence that followed to mean there was no objection, and he went on: “If either of us had, when suspicions arose, contacted the other. .”

  “You were suspicious of us?” Yung challenged sarcastically.

  “Yes, indeed, Counselor,” Investment Banker said. “Perhaps I was being paranoid, but when the Locator suddenly showed Colonel Castillo to be halfway between Budapest and Vienna-on a Danube riverboat that has the reputation of being a floating brothel-when last we’d heard he was on the Lopez Fruit and Vegetables Mexico property, I began to question Dr. Casey’s data, and thought we might be having a problem.”

  “I thought putting Charley on the Love Boat was a nice touch,” Delchamps said smugly.

  Casey explained: “We were just a little worried that one of you might tell Montvale, or maybe even Clendennen, that Charley was in Mexico-and where.”

  President Clendennen recently had appointed Charles W. Montvale to be his Vice President. He had previously been director of National Intelligence.

  “To be completely honest,” Annapolis said,
“that path of action was discussed. The phrase I used at the time was ‘over my dead body.’ And obviously I prevailed.” He looked at Castillo. “I give you my word of honor, Colonel.”

  We have just knocked rings, Castillo thought.

  A former member of the Brigade of Midshipmen of the Naval Academy has just given his word of honor to a former member of the Corps of Cadets at West Point, fully expecting him to take it.

  And the funny thing is, I’m going to do just that.

  “I’ll take your word,” Castillo said. “Operative word, your. To be completely honest, you’re the only one of your crew I trust.”

  “Some small progress is better than none at all,” Hotelier said. “For your information, Colonel, we take no actions of that sort unless there is unanimity among us.”

  Castillo didn’t reply.

  “Without objection, I will continue with the toast,” Hotelier said. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the magnificent success of Operation March Hare.”

  Champagne was sipped. Max took the opportunity to help himself to a bacon-wrapped oyster.

  “There’s liable to be a toothpick in that,” Sweaty said with concern.

  “Max knows who we’re dealing with,” Castillo said. “He looked carefully before he grabbed it. He also sniffed for cyanide.”

  There were a few chuckles at this.

  “Very droll,” Investment Banker said. “But if we are to continue working together. .”

  “And whatever gave you the idea that is even a remote possibility?” Castillo asked.

  “Because we share the same objective,” Hotelier said. “Of defending the United States from all enemies, foreign and domestic.”

  “I heard somewhere that patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel,” Castillo said. “Would you be interested in my take on You People?”

  “I suspect we’re going to get it even if all of us chorused, ‘Hell, no,’ ” Annapolis said. “But I’d like to hear it.”

  “You started out with good intentions,” Castillo said. “And I’ll admit that the money you’ve provided to SPECOPSCOM-and I presume to the Agency and others-helped them to do things that they wouldn’t have been able to do because they couldn’t get the funds from Congress.