"That's a little over my head, Colonel."
"Switch your commo to the Casey network," Colonel Hamilton ordered. [FOUR] "So what's new by you, Jack?" Aloysius Francis Casey (Ph.D., MIT) asked ten seconds later of Colonel J. Porter Hamilton (Ph.D., MIT), addressing him by his very rarely used intimate nickname.
The Massachusetts Institute of Technology had brought together Casey and Hamilton, although they had not known each other at the school, or even been there at the same time. They had met at a seminar for geopolitical interdependence conducted by that institution, for distinguished alumni, by invitation only.
Both had accepted the invitation because it had sounded interesting. And both had fled after the second hour, and met in a Harvard Square bar, by chance selecting adjacent bar stools.
Dr. Casey had begun the conversation-and their friendship-by asking two questions: "You were in there, right?" and then, after Dr. Hamilton (in mufti) nodded: "You think that moron actually believed that bullshit he was spouting?"
Dr. Hamilton had been wondering the same thing, and said so: "I have been wondering just that."
"Aloysius Casey," Casey had said, putting out his hand.
"My name is Hamilton," Dr. Hamilton replied, and then, having made the split-second decision that if Casey were one of the distinguished alumni, he would have said, "I'm Dr. Casey" and not wanting to hurt the feelings of the maintenance worker/ticket taker/security officer or whatever he was by referring to himself with that honorific, finished, "Jack Hamilton."
He hadn't used "Jack" in many years. He still had many painful memories of his plebe year at West Point during which he had been dubbed "Jack Hammer" by upperclassmen. If he was a bona fide Jack Hammer, the upperclassmen had told him, he would do fifty push-ups in half the time this fifty had taken him. This was usually followed by, "Try it again, Jack Hammer."
"Hey," Casey had said, grabbing the bartender's arm, "give my pal Jack another of what he's having and I'll have another boilermaker."
When the drinks were served, Casey touched glasses and offered a toast, "May the winds of fortune sail you. May you sail a gentle sea. May it always be the other guy who says, 'This drink's on me.'"
"In that case, I insist," Hamilton had said.
"You can get the next one, Jack," Casey had replied.
Three drinks later, Jack asked Aloysius what his role in the seminar for geopolitical interdependence had been.
"Well, I went there, of course. And every once in a while, I slip them a few bucks-you know, payback for what I got-and that gets me on the invitation list, and every once in a while I'm dumb enough to accept. What about you, Jack, what do you do?"
"I'm a soldier."
"No shit? Me, too. Or I was. I was a commo sergeant on a Special Forces A-team. What branch?"
"Originally infantry. Now medical corps."
"No shit? I'm impressed. What do you do?"
"I'm involved in biological research. What about you?"
"I try to move data around. I make stuff that does."
At that point, Colonel Hamilton experienced an epiphany.
"The AFC Corporation. You're that Aloysius Francis Casey."
"Guilty."
"My lab is full of your equipment."
"How's it doing?"
"I couldn't function without it," Colonel Hamilton said. "I can't tell you how pleased I am we've met."
A week later, Colonel Hamilton had visited the AFC Laboratories in Las Vegas. In the course of explaining how he used AFC data equipment in his Fort Detrick laboratory, and what kind of capabilities in that area he would like to have if that was possible, he of course had to get into some of the specifics of the work of his laboratory.
Three weeks after that, while in Las Vegas to view the prototypes of the equipment Casey was developing for him, Hamilton was introduced to some of Casey's Las Vegas friends. He quickly came to think of them as "those people in Las Vegas." And then, gradually, he came to understand that he had become one of them. "Aloysius, I don't want those people to hear this conversation."
"Ouch! You know the rules, Jack. What one knows, everybody knows. That's the way it works."
"Then I can't talk to you. Goodbye, Aloysius. And tell those people goodbye, too. Hamilton out."
Colonel Hamilton then signaled to Sergeant Dennis that they were leaving the sealed laboratory. The process took ten minutes, and included both chemical and purified water showers and then fresh clothing.
When they came through the final airtight door, four people were waiting for them-two women and two men, all cleared for Top Secret BioLab.
Hamilton knew that at least one of them, possibly two, were reporting to the CIA. And he strongly suspected that one of them was reporting to the Russians, either through an intermediary or directly to the Russian rezident. And he thought it entirely likely that one or more of them was on the payroll of those people in Las Vegas.
He was greatly frustrated that neither he nor Kevin Dennis-although they had set many traps-had been able to positively identify even one of them.
So they lived with the problem, following the adage that a devil one knows is better than a devil one does not.
"There have been some indications that we are making some progress," Colonel Hamilton announced to them. "And some disturbing signs that we are yet again on a path leading nowhere. We won't know more until tomorrow morning. Make sure everything is secure, and then you may leave. Please be on time in the morning; we have a busy schedule tomorrow." When they had gone, Kevin Dennis asked, "What is Aloysius going to do, Colonel?"
"I really don't know, Kevin, but I can't take the risk that what I want to say to him will go any further than him."
"You think he will call back?"
Hamilton shrugged.
"I don't know," Hamilton said. "I'm taking some small solace from the motto of those two brilliant young men who started Yahoo: 'You Always Have Other Options.' But between you and me, I have no idea what other options there might be."
Thirty seconds later, both Hamilton's and Dennis's CaseyBerrys vibrated.
It was Casey.
"I see that you're both on," his voice announced as it returned from a twenty-four-thousand-mile trip into space.
"Well, Aloysius," Hamilton said, "how nice to hear from you. Say hello to Aloysius, Kevin."
"Hello, Aloysius," Dennis said.
"Jack," Casey said, "do I have to say I wouldn't do this for anybody but you?"
"How about Castillo? Would you cut some of those people out of the loop if it would keep him from being thrown to the Russians?"
"I called back, didn't I?"
"And not only are those people not going to hear this conversation, but I have your word that you won't tell them anything about it?"
"You have my word, Jack, but I'm damned uncomfortable with this. I don't like lying to those people." He paused, then added, "And in my book not telling somebody something is the same thing as lying."
"What I'm afraid of is that one-or more-of them has either concluded, or will conclude, that if Castillo and the Russians are the price for the Russian stock of Congo-X, the President was right to agree to pay it."
"In other words, you don't trust them. Jesus Christ, Jack, you know who they are!"
"Their most endearing quality to me is their ruthlessness," Hamilton said. "I daresay they wouldn't be as rich as they are without that characteristic. But I have noticed a tendency on the part of wealthy ruthless people to regard people on their payroll as expendable."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"I think Colonel Castillo made a mistake in taking that money from those people when he began this project. What was it, two hundred thousand dollars?"
"That's all he asked for. They'd have given him whatever he asked for. A couple of million, if that's what he wanted."
"If he took only two dollars, people like those people would still have felt, 'He took the money, he's ours. We can do with him what we decide is in t
he best interests of the country.'"
After a moment's hesitation, Casey said, "I'm one of those people, Jack. And so are you."
"You and I are functionaries, Aloysius. Useful, but not, so to speak, anointed, as they are, by the Almighty. Have those people asked you what you think of the President's willingness to sell Castillo and the Russian spooks-without whom that laboratory in the Congo would still be manufacturing this obscene substance-to the Russians?"
"They didn't have to ask me. They know how I would feel about that."
"They haven't asked me either, Aloysius, what I think about it. Nor have they solicited my suggestions vis-a-vis what should be done about it by 'we people.' Which is what triggered my line of thought in this area. Have you considered the possibility that those people simply don't care what we think, Aloysius?"
There was a thirty-second silence which seemed much longer.
"Jesus Christ, Jack," Casey said finally, "you're right. I'm ashamed to admit that I never questioned anything those people did, or asked me to do. Well, fuck them!"
"It's not black-and-white, Aloysius. Those people do more good than harm. But when the harm they're capable of might be directed at people like Castillo and the Russians, I can't go along."
"Didn't you hear me say 'Fuck them'?"
"Don't say that to those people. Let them think they are still on Mount Olympus graciously protecting people like you and me-and of course the United States-from our ignorance."
"Okay."
"Do those people know where Castillo is?"
"Yeah. Of course. They have his position indicator on their laptops. So do you. He's at his grandmother's place in Mexico." Casey paused, then added, "Shit! You think maybe somebody already told the CIA?!"
"I have to think that's possible. Can you devise a spurious position indicator for him?"
"Where do you want him to start moving to in twenty seconds, Jack?"
"Doesn't he have family in Germany? Do you know where?"
"Yeah. Outside Frankfurt. But what about Budapest?"
"What's in Budapest?"
"A guy on Charley's net. He's sort of like an uncle to him. Billy Kocian?"
"I don't know the name."
"Good guy. Trust me."
"Budapest sounds fine."
"I can call Billy and tell him what's happening. And… what I could do, Jack, is put Charley's position indicator on one of those boats that sails up and down the Danube between Vienna and Budapest. That would drive those people bonkers wondering what the hell he's up to."
"A splendid idea!"
"Anything else I can do for you?"
"Aloysius, do you-or your people-ever work with extremely low temperatures, using gases in the minus two-hundred-degrees Celsius area?"
"All the time. The colder you get something, the faster everything electrical moves. Twice a week, I say, 'Eureka! This will work!' and then everything that cold turns brittle and shatters when somebody in Los Angeles or Chicago burps, and we're back to Step Fucking One."
"Helium?"
"Of course. It's a little pricey, but you can go down to about minus two-seventy Celsius with helium."
"You've got a pretty good source of supply for helium?"
"Yeah. Several of them. Where are you going with this, Jack?"
"You could order, say, a thousand liters, two thousand, even more, of helium without attracting much attention?"
"Why would I want to do that?"
"Because we may need at least that much to kill Congo-X."
"Helium kills Congo-X?"
"Fifteen minutes in a helium bath at minus two-seventy Celsius kills it."
"So it can be killed! I was really getting worried about that."
"You were not alone," Hamilton said. "We don't know how much the Russians have. I suspect that if the President doesn't give them Castillo and the Russians very soon, they will deliver more of it to encourage him to do so. My concern is that there will be an accident when they do so. I-"
"I get the picture," Casey interrupted. "I'll load what helium I have here… maybe three hundred liters, maybe a little more… on my Gulfstream. As soon as we know where the Russians have sent the new Congo-X, the helium will be there in no more than three hours. And I'll lay my hands on as much more as I can get as soon as I can."
"Aloysius, we can't let those people learn any of this."
"I'm not as dumb as I look and sometimes act, Jack. I already figured that out."
"Good man!"
"As soon as we hang up here, I'll get through to Charley, and tell him both what's going on and to get the hell off Grandma's place as soon as he can."
"Splendid!" [FIVE] Apartment 606 The Watergate Apartments 2639 I Street, N.W. Washington, D.C. 0755 10 February 2007 When Roscoe J. Danton finally found the ringing house telephone in the living room and picked it up, he was not in a very gracious mood.
Mr. Danton had returned to Washington four hours before after a fifteen-hour flight from Ushuaia, Patagonia, Argentina, whence he had traveled-on what, he had concluded, was a wild-goose chase that belonged in The Guinness Book of World Records-with Ambassador Charles M. Montvale and Montvale's executive assistant-The Honorable Truman Ellsworth-and four CIA spooks to locate Alexander Darby, who allegedly could point him to Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo.
The Gulfstream III twin-engine jet aircraft had been noisy and crowded. What food there had been was damned near inedible. The toilet had stopped up. And because there had been no functioning socket into which to plug his laptop, once its battery had gone dead, he couldn't do any work.
Mentally, he had composed a blistering piece that would subject Montvale and Ellsworth to the scorn of the world. But even as he'd done that, he knew he would never write it. He not only felt sorry for them, but had come to like them.
He also had spent a good deal of time trying to come up with a version of what had happened to tell Christopher J. Waldron, the managing editor of the Times-Post, something that would not result in Waldron concluding that Roscoe J. Danton had either been drunk or was a moron or both.
He had gotten to bed a few minutes before four.
And now the fucking house phone goes off!
In the five years I've lived in the Watergate, I haven't talked on the goddamn thing five times!
"What?" he snarled into the instrument.
"Mr. Danton, this is Gerry in the garage."
"And how may I be of assistance, Gerry?"
"There's something wrong with your car, Mr. Danton. The alarm keeps going off."
"That happens, Gerry"-As you should know, you fucking cretin. You work in the garage-"when someone bumps into it. It'll stop blowing the horn and flashing the headlights in three minutes."
"Yeah, I know, but yours keeps going off. This is the fifth time it's gone off. You're going to have to do something."
"What would you suggest?"
"Well, you could disconnect the battery. That'd shut the alarm system off."
"Gerry, if you could do that for me, I'd be happy to make it worth your while. How does ten dollars sound?"
"Sounds fine to me, Mr. Danton, but your car is locked and I have to get under the hood to disconnect the battery. You can't open the hood from outside."
In the background Danton could then hear the sound of a horn going bleep-bleep-bleep.
"There it goes again," Gerry said unnecessarily.
Roscoe Danton sighed audibly.
"I'll be right down," he said.
Which means I'll have to get dressed. I can't go down there in my underwear. There were three men watching the blinking headlights on Roscoe's car. One of them had sort of a uniform on, and was presumably Gerry. The other two were wearing suits.
Which means they probably live here, which means I will shortly get one of those fucking letters from the tenants' association demanding to know how I dare disturb the peace and tranquillity of the Watergate Apartments, blowing my horn in this outrageous way.
As he approache
d his car, the lights stopped blinking and the horn stopped bleating.
"Why hello, Roscoe," one of the men in suits said. "Nice to see you again. But we are going to have to stop meeting this way. People will talk."
I am actually losing my mind. I'm hallucinating.
How could Alexander Darby possibly be standing next to my car in the Watergate garage?
"My name is Yung, Mr. Danton," the other man in a suit said, putting out his hand. "I'm glad to meet you. Alex has told me a good deal about you."
Alex Darby said, "Gerry, we can take it from here. Thanks very much for your help."
"Anytime," Gerry said, and took the extended twenty-dollar bill and walked toward his booth near the entrance.
"Got your passport with you, Roscoe?" Darby asked.
In a Pavlovian reflex, Danton patted his suit jacket pocket, and immediately regretted it.
"Good," Yung said. "If you want to talk to Colonel Castillo, you're going to need it."
"Who are you?"
"My name is David W. Yung. I'm Colonel Castillo's attorney."
"Did you find Ushuaia interesting, Roscoe?" Darby asked.
"How do you know about that?"
"Well, as the saying goes, 'You can take the man out of the agency, but you can't take the agency out of the man.'"
Yung put in: "What we're going to do, Roscoe-you don't mind if I call you Roscoe, do you?"
"Yeah, I think I do."
"If you're going to be difficult, Roscoe, not a problem," Yung said. "We'll just leave and go find C. Harry Whelan, Jr. We know he also wants to meet Colonel Castillo. We'd rather have you, but only if you want to go along. We're not going to drug you, or anything like that, and take you against your will."
"Take me where?"
"I'll tell you what we have in mind if you let me call you Roscoe. If you do, in turn you may call me Two-Gun."
I'm smiling. I have every right to be royally pissed.
And maybe I should even be frightened-was there an implied threat in that "We're not going to drug you"?
But what I'm doing is smiling.
"Two-Gun"? They call him "Two-Gun"?
"You may call me Roscoe, Two-Gun."
"Thank you. Now, Roscoe, presuming you are willing, you are going to drive you and me to BWI. You have a first-class ticket on the Aero-Mexico ten-forty-five flight to Mexico City. Once I see your plane take off, I will drive your car back here and turn it over to Gerry's capable hands. You will be met at the airport in Mexico City and taken to meet Colonel Castillo."
The outlaws pa-6 Page 40
