“Okay, so I’m telling you now. And now that you know, what should I do?”
“Are you sure you want to tell me, Stanley? Clendennen’s liable to consider that a breach of trust.”
The attorney general considered that for a moment.
“Okay, I didn’t tell you. Who did tell you?”
“If I answered that, that would be a breach of trust.”
“Shit,” the attorney general said, and broke the connection.
SIX
1645 18 April 2007
“The President’s line, Agent Mulligan.”
“This is Stanley Crenshaw, Mulligan. Is the President available?”
“Does the President expect your call, Mr. Crenshaw?”
“Please tell the President I have to speak to him.”
“I’ll see if he’s free.”
A moment later, there was another voice on the line.
“This is Clemens McCarthy, Mr. Crenshaw. The President is not available at the moment. He asked me to take a message, and he’ll try to get back to you.”
I’m the attorney general of the United States. When I call the President, I want to speak to him, not his goddamn press agent.
“Actually, McCarthy, we might not have to bother President Clendennen with this. This is really in your area of responsibility.”
“What would that be, Mr. Crenshaw?”
“Roscoe J. Danton called me just now and gave me until five minutes of nine to tell him why Felix Abrego is being transferred from Florence ADMAX to the La Tuna facility near El Paso. Otherwise he says he’s going on The Straight Scoop with Andy McClarren at nine with what he’s got.”
“And what does he think he has?”
“That the convicted murderer of three DEA agents is being transferred to a minimum-security institution.”
“How does he know that?”
“I have no idea. I’m just telling you what I know, and asking what I should do about Mr. Danton.”
“Just a moment, please.”
Twenty seconds later, the President of the United States barked: “What the hell is going on, Crenshaw?”
The attorney general told him.
“I want to know who told that sonofabitch Danton about the transfer!”
“I have no idea, Mr. President.”
“Well, some disloyal sonofabitch obviously did, and I want to know who.”
“Mr. President, I have no idea.”
“Goddamn it, you should! You’re the attorney general; you’re in charge of the FBI. I don’t care what you or Mark Schmidt have to do, just find out what disloyal sonofabitch did this to me.”
“Yes, sir. And what would you like me to say to Mr. Danton, Mr. President?”
The President considered the question for a long moment. “I’m going to let McCarthy handle that,” he said finally. “But you and Schmidt get your asses over here right now. McCarthy might need you.”
The President hung up.
SEVEN
1650 18 April 2007
“Good afternoon, Madam Secretary,” the DCI said. “And how were things in sunny Meh-hee-co?”
“Why does your ebullience worry me, Frank?” Natalie Cohen replied.
“The problem of swapping Colonel Ferris for Felix Abrego may be solved. I just got off the phone with Stanley Crenshaw. He is probably at this moment telling the President what he told me.”
“Which was?”
“Roscoe J. Danton gave him until five minutes to nine tonight to explain why ol’ Felix has been transferred to the La Tuna Country Club, otherwise he goes on The Straight Scoop with Andy McClarren and tells the world.”
Cohen didn’t reply.
“I take back all the unkind things I ever said about devious diplomats,” Lammelle said. “That was pure genius.”
“What are you talking about?” she said.
“Well, Clendennen can’t send Abrego to Mexico now, can he?”
“How did Danton find out?” she asked.
“What is that, ‘credible deniability’? Your secret is safe with me, Natalie.”
“I didn’t tell Danton, if that’s what you’ve been thinking.”
“Then who the hell did? That’s a very interesting question, Natalie. Who knew besides Stanley and me? And possibly Mark Schmidt?”
“I was not taken into the President’s confidence in this matter. I heard it from Schmidt. Do you think Schmidt told Roscoe?”
“No. That would be committing career suicide,” he said. “And he likes being director. That leaves Stanley, and that doesn’t make sense. Did Montvale know? Or Truman Ellsworth?”
“I’ve learned from painful experience that Charles Montvale often knows more than one presumes he does,” the secretary of State said. “And that’s equally true of Mr. Ellsworth. Who would actually move Abrego? The FBI? The Bureau of Prisons?”
“The U.S. Marshals,” Lammelle said. “And when Montvale was director of National Intelligence, he was over the Marshal Service.”
“But why would Montvale tell Roscoe Danton? To embarrass the President?”
She was silent a moment, then offered: “Montvale would tell Danton-but after. If something went wrong, then, to embarrass the President, he’d leak it to him after.”
“So, we’re back to: Then who?”
“I don’t know, Frank. But I think it behooves us to make a serious effort to find out. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a connection with the coup d’etat business.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
EIGHT
1655 18 April 2007
“Mental telepathy, Frank,” Charley Castillo said. “I was just this moment thinking of calling you.”
“To tell me, a little late, that you told Roscoe that Clendennen’s moving Abrego to the La Tuna facility outside El Paso?”
“No shit? I didn’t know that. Who the hell told Roscoe?”
When Lammelle didn’t answer, Castillo said: “Well, what I was going to ask is what I should tell the cops if I’m arrested stealing my Black Hawk back?”
“What?”
“Before, I thought it might be nice to have in case I needed it; now I know I have to have it, preferably late tomorrow afternoon, when I get back to the States.”
“Why do you have to have it?” Lammelle said, and immediately regretted it.
What I should have said is: “Sorry, Charley, forget that helicopter.”
“Frank, I don’t think you really want to know. Do you?”
“Yes, I do, Charley.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind? Who told Roscoe what?”
“Roscoe called the attorney general about an hour ago and gave him until five minutes before Andy McClarren goes on Wolf News tonight to explain why Felix Abrego is being transferred from Florence ADMAX to a minimum-security prison near El Paso.”
“Okay, I’ll ask again: How the hell did Roscoe hear about that?”
“Until just now, I thought maybe you told him.”
“Not me. Natalie Cohen?”
“No. The suspect right now is Montvale, but why would he do that?”
“If that story gets out, Clendennen can’t send Abrego to Mexico,” Castillo said thoughtfully.
“Because it would be irrational, right? Think that through, Charley.”
“Jesus!” Castillo said, and a moment later asked, “Frank, that letter Clendennen wants President Whatsisname of Mexico. .”
“Martinez,” Lammelle furnished. “Notice what? Natalie and I aren’t quite sure what to think about it.”
“Didn’t either of you think there was something strange in Clendennen wanting Martinez to tell him he wanted Abrego sent to the Oaxaca State Prison?”
“That went right over my head,” Lammelle said after a moment. “And Natalie’s, too, or else she would have said something. What’s that all about? What’s so special about the Oaxaca State Prison? For that matter, where is it?”
“In the middle of nowhere in Oaxaca S
tate. Not anywhere near the U.S.-Mexican border. But not far from the Guatemalan border.”
“Where there is a new cultural affairs officer of the Russian Federation. .”
“Valentin Komarovski, aka Sergei Murov,” Castillo furnished.
“Which means what?”
“Somebody’s planning for something to happen at that prison.”
“Who? What?”
“There are three-at least three-things going on here, Frank. One is that the drug people want their guy Abrego back, and kidnapped Ferris so they can swap him. We don’t know if they’re doing that by themselves or whether it’s being orchestrated by the Russians. It’s possible that there is some sort of coup d’etat going on. Natalie said that McCarthy, the President’s new press secretary, wrote that letter, and we don’t know if the President was responsible for the ‘send Abrego to Oaxaca’ clause, or whether that was put in by McCarthy. Clendennen either didn’t see it or did see it and didn’t smell the Limburger. But who told McCarthy to put that in, and why? It could’ve been Sergei Murov, but that’s a stretch. Or maybe Montvale, which also is a stretch.
“But one scenario there has that whatever is going to happen at that prison will go wrong, that the letter will be leaked to the press, and Clendennen will be in trouble.
“And that raises the question of who told Roscoe and why. That seems to point at Montvale.”
“Natalie said he’d do that after something goes wrong, not before.”
“And since she is smarter than you and me combined, she’s probably right.”
Lammelle grunted his agreement, then said: “And while all this is going on, Schmidt and the FBI are dealing-or are about to deal-with the drug cartels, if they are the drug cartels-and not the Russians.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
After a moment, the DCI said, “Charley, do you really believe the Russians are after you and your friends?”
“Absolutely.”
“And where do they plan to do you in?”
“My scenario there is even more vague than anything else. I would suspect that it would happen around the Oaxaca State Prison. But so far my name hasn’t come up, so how do they get me to Oaxaca? Is that a diversion, so that they can whack Aleksandr Pevsner and company here in Argentina?”
“Interesting. So what are you going to do, Charley?”
“Go with what I’ve got. I’m going to put people on the ground near the prison. I’m going to have another talk with an old friend-delete that-old acquaintance who just happens to be the chief of the Federales in Oaxaca State to see what he knows. What I’d like to do is grab either Abrego or Ferris, or both, when they show up at that prison and see who that brings out of the woodwork.”
He paused and then added, “What I really would like to do is get my hands on Sergei Murov.”
When Lammelle didn’t respond, Castillo went on: “And to do any of the foregoing, I’m going to need that Black Hawk.”
“And how would you suggest I let you have that Black Hawk without finding myself in jail?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Castillo said. “What I need is either a set of CIA credentials-better yet, a CIA agent who knows his way around and can be trusted to keep his mouth shut.”
“And what could a CIA agent who knows his way around and can be trusted to keep his mouth shut do?”
“He goes to Martindale Army Airfield at Fort Sam, asks for the rotary-wing maintenance officer, waves his credentials at him, says the U.S. of A. is going to give the Black Hawk to the Mexican cops, and he would really appreciate it if they could fuel it and have an auxiliary power unit standing by when the pilots come to pick it up for a test flight.”
“And then you show up and fly away with it?”
“Dick Miller does. He and a guy named Kiril Koshkov.”
“Who the hell is Koshkov?”
“Ex-Spetsnaz,” Castillo replied. “And when the Black Hawk is at Hacienda Santa Maria, Dick will call you, and then you call your guy and he calls Martindale and tells the maintenance officer it flew so well that they decided there was no point in bringing it back to Fort Sam, so they took it to Mexico. And thanks so much for your courtesy. Since that Black Hawk was destroyed in the war against drugs, and Natalie Cohen told you to get rid of it-”
“What’s Hacienda Whatever-you-said?”
“A grapefruit farm that’s about thirty-five minutes Black Hawk flight time from the Oaxaca State Prison. It belongs to my family.”
“And what makes you think you can-or Miller and your Russian buddy can-fly a Black Hawk across the border and then all the way to your grapefruit farm-Jesus Christ, a grapefruit farm? — without being seen by either the Border Patrol and five thousand Mexicans, many of them wearing police uniforms?”
“Because the flight will be at night and nap-of-the-earth. That means just off the ground, Mr. Director.”
“Miller can do that?”
“Before he dumped his Black Hawk in Afghanistan-actually he didn’t dump it; they took an RPG hit-he was very good at it. And Kiril, with whom I just flew through the Andes at night, is just as good-maybe better.”
“This sounds insane, Charley, even coming from you. You realize that?”
“The other option is Dick and me sneaking onto Martindale at night and just stealing it. The odds against getting caught are better if you have some spook you can loan me. Or, maybe, make up a set of CIA credentials for Miller and me and FedEx them to me-”
“One question, Charley,” Lammelle said, cutting him off. “Have you been talking to Vic D’Alessandro lately?”
“No. Why?”
“Is that the truth?”
“Boy Scout’s honor. Why?”
“Because Vic is in El Paso watching the post office with the help of a Clandestine Service guy named Tomas L. Diaz. General McNab does not know that Vic is there, and I don’t know that Tommy Diaz is there. Getting the picture?”
“I think so.”
“He’ll be expecting to hear from you.”
“You will get your reward in heaven, Frank.”
“Will that be before or after we both go to Leavenworth? Leavenworth, hell, Florence ADMAX.” He chuckled. “This is not the sort of excitement I thought I’d get when I joined the CIA.”
Then he hung up.
NINE
The President’s Study The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1730 18 April 2007
“You sure took your own sweet time to get here,” President Clendennen said to Attorney General Crenshaw and FBI Director Schmidt when Secret Service Agent Douglas had passed them into the President’s study.
“I didn’t think it would be wise to come here with sirens screaming, Mr. President,” Crenshaw said. “I thought it would make people wonder what’s going on.”
The President glared at him but didn’t reply directly.
“Let’s start with you, Director Schmidt. What’s going on in El Paso?”
“SAC Johnson is standing by at the La Tuna prison, Mr. President, waiting for the Marshals to deliver Abrego. Once he arrives and is taken into the prison-in other words, comes under the authority of the Bureau of Prisons again-he will be outfitted in civilian clothing and taken to the Magoffin Home-”
“What the hell is that?” the President interrupted.
“It’s the former home of the Magoffin family, Mr. President. Now a museum. It’s a large adobe structure-”
“A well-known El Paso landmark, in other words?” President Clendennen interrupted again.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why didn’t you just say that? I don’t need the Chamber of Commerce bullshit.”
“Yes, sir. Photographs of Abrego shaking hands with SAC Johnson will be taken-”
“What the hell is that all about?”
“SAC Johnson will be identified-under another name-as an officer of the Magoffin Home Foundation, and Abrego-also under another name-as a contributor to the Magoffin Home Foundation. SAC
Johnson has arranged for the photo to be published in tomorrow morning’s El Diario de El Paso. This, SAC Johnson-and I-feel will satisfy the cartel’s requirement, quote, to publish a photograph of him taken in an easily recognizable location near El Paso, close quote. The next move will be up to them.”
“Okay,” the President said, “so who told that sonofabitch Roscoe J. Danton that we’re moving Abrego to Texas?”
“Mr. President, I have no idea.”
“Neither does the attorney general,” President Clendennen said, looking at Crenshaw. “So I have the director of the FBI and the attorney general telling me that they have absolutely no idea of the identity of the treasonous sonofabitch whose meddling is interfering with the foreign policy of the President of the United States. Would either of you find it hard to understand why I find that unacceptable?”
Crenshaw cleared his throat, then said, “Mr. President, I have begun an investigation-”
“Somehow that doesn’t reassure me,” the President snapped. “So tell me what you have on this sonofabitch Danton.”
“Excuse me?”
TEN
Apartment 606 The Watergate Apartments 2639 I Street, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1735 18 April 2007
“How the hell did you get in here?” Roscoe J. Danton demanded of Edgar Delchamps and David W. Yung when they walked into his kitchen. Danton and John David Parker were sitting at the kitchen table sharing a pizza.
“The door was open,” Delchamps said. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I locked that door very carefully,” Danton said.
“How they hanging, Porky?” Delchamps said, ignoring the challenge.
“What the hell do you want?” Danton demanded.
“Charley wants to talk to you,” Two-Gun Yung said.
“Then why doesn’t he call?”
“He said it would be better if Edgar and I were here when you had your little chat,” Yung said. “So we could clear up any misunderstandings that might come up.”
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