By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  They were all speaking Viennese German. The second couple was probably married, for they had the rings and he heard the woman say, “You’ve never liked my mother and you know it.”

  The remaining two men were alone, and, aside from ordering drinks, said nothing.

  And no one showed more than a slight and quickly passing interest in him.

  He had had three Dzbán lagers between five and quarter to six when he decided that if Aleksandr Pevsner was going to send someone to meet him—he thought it highly unlikely that Pevsner would come himself—it wasn’t going to be tonight.

  He paid the bill with an American Express card that had both Karl Gossinger’s name and Der Tages Zeitung on it and left the bar. On the way back to the Bristol, he didn’t see anyone on Philharmonikerstrasse or Kaertnerstrasse or The Ring who either looked familiar or who showed any interest in him.

  He had another beer, this time an Ottakringer Gold Fassl, as the Bristol didn’t stock Dzbán. The Gold Fassl came with a bowl of potato chips.

  The bar was crowded. No one showed any interest in him. He signed the tab, noticing the Gold Fassl was as expensive as the Dzbán, and then walked across the lobby to the restaurant. No one in the lobby showed any interest in him.

  He ordered—What the hell, I’m in Vienna—a Wiener schnitzel and was happy that he did. The pounded very thin, breaded veal cutlet covered a very large plate and was delicious.

  He had—What the hell, I’m in Vienna—an Apfelstrudel for dessert and then went to his room.

  He undressed to his undershorts and removed the knife taped to his calf, wincing as the adhesive pulled hair. Next, he hooked up his laptop and sent Otto, with a copy to Hall, a short e-mail message:

  NO SHOW, BUT I JUST HAD FOUR GREAT BEERS AND A MARVELOUS WIENER SCHNITZEL. REGARDS, KARL

  Then he went to bed and watched another movie, an old one, black-and-white, called The Third Man, starring Joseph Cotten, Trevor Howard, and Orson Welles. It was laid in Vienna, right after World War II, and there was a long sequence on the enormous Ferris wheel in Vienna’s amusement park, the Prater, down by the not-really-blue Blue Danube. Orson Welles was the villain, dealing in black market penicillin.

  Castillo decided that he’d kill time tomorrow by taking a cab out there. He remembered his first ride on the wheel: Grosspappa had taken him when he was about six or seven.

  What I’ll do is take a ride on the Ferris wheel and then have one of those great würstchen on a crusty roll, with that sinus-clearing mustard, and maybe some roasted chestnuts and a beer for lunch. What the hell, I’m in Vienna.

  With that pleasant prospect in mind, Castillo turned off the lights and punched the pillow under his head.

  Then lewd and lascivious mental images of the two hours he had spent with Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson in his room in the Le Presidente Hotel popped into his mind.

  Well, if that turns out to be Ol’ Charley’s last piece of tail in this world, no complaints.

  [THREE]

  Office of the Director The Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia 0915 8 June 2005

  “Good morning, Mr. Director,” Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson said as she was shown into DCI Powell’s office.

  Powell stood up courteously.

  “I understand you came directly from Dulles,” Powell said. “Would a cup of coffee be in order?”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you very much.”

  He gestured for her to take one of the two upholstered chairs facing his desk as he picked up his telephone to order coffee.

  “How was the flight?” Powell asked. “More to the point, how are things in Angola?”

  “Under control, Mr. Director,” she said. “I hope.”

  It was clear that she meant Unless there’s something I don’t know about and Powell smiled his understanding.

  “Something has come up, actually,” he said and interrupted himself as a secretary came in with a tray holding a coffee service.

  They were silent until after the coffee was poured and handed to them and the secretary had left.

  “Thank you so much,” Patricia Wilson said. “Frankly, for the last hour of the flight I was looking forward to a long bath and a gallon of coffee.”

  Powell smiled at her.

  “As I was saying, something has come up,” he said. “And I wanted to talk to you about it as soon as possible.”

  “I understand, Mr. Director.”

  “Are you aware, Mrs. Wilson, of a filing from Luanda suggesting that a Russian arms dealer by the name of Aleksandr Pevsner has had something to do with the airplane, the 727, that’s gone missing over there?”

  “Mr. Director, there was a satburst from Miller—the station chief . . . ?”

  Powell nodded to tell her he knew whom she meant.

  “. . . suggesting that something like that was possible.”

  “And?”

  “I didn’t think it was credible, Mr. Director,” she said. “Everything that’s come to me suggests that the most likely scenario is—what’s the phrase?—‘an insurance scam.’ And everything I was able to develop myself when I was in Angola supports that.”

  “When you got the satburst, what did you do?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Director. I dismissed it as a wild hair.”

  “You didn’t send a ‘develop further’?”

  “No, sir. I did not. But I looked into it when I was in Luanda, as I said a moment ago.”

  “You, so to speak, just dismissed the satburst out of hand?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. Perhaps if it had come from someone else ...”

  Powell made a “Go on” gesture with his fingers.

  “May I speak frankly, Mr. Director?” she asked.

  “So far as I know, this office is not wired for sound,” he said with a smile.

  “Mr. Director, the thing is . . . After I had my bath and gallon of coffee, the third thing I was going to do was come here and ask—almost demand—that Miller be relieved and replaced.”

  “You have found him wanting?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry to say I have. Mr. Director, I never had the chance to sign off on Miller’s assignment. If I had been asked, I would not have concurred in the assignment.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let me say, Mr. Director, that I understand the human resources problem personnel had to deal with to fill that vacancy. A qualified individual simply wasn’t available. There simply aren’t enough African American officers to go around. And even fewer who speak Portuguese. And we— the agency—needed someone over there desperately. The slot had been vacant for months. They had to scrape the bottom of the barrel—and they did—and they came up with Miller, who really was just not qualified to hold down the job.”

  “Interesting,” Powell said.

  “I should have asked that he be relieved a long time ago ...”

  “And why didn’t you?”

  “Because Luanda is not one of the more important postings. Until this airplane was stolen, sir, nothing much has really happened there in a year, eighteen months. Aware of the human resources problem, I decided I would just let it slide and hope for the best. I realize now that was an error in judgment. ”

  Powell grunted.

  “Does the name Charles Castillo mean anything to you, Mrs. Wilson?”

  She searched her memory before replying.

  “No, Mr. Director. I can’t say that it does. May I ask who he is?”

  “At the moment, I don’t know much about him myself,” Powell admitted. He paused, then he went on: “You said that you were going to come here first thing and ask that Miller be relieved. Why now?”

  “Well, I was frankly annoyed, or disappointed, or both, that the best theory Miller came up with was the absurd idea that a Russian arms dealer stole this old airplane and . . .”

  He waited fifteen seconds for her to go on, and, when she did not, asked, “And?”

  “I’m reluctant to go into this, Mr. Director.”

  “Go into it.”


  “Miller . . . you know he’s Army and not really one of us?”

  Powell nodded.

  “He may have a drinking problem, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  “We had dinner, sir,” she said, modestly averting her eyes. “And after two martinis and a bottle of wine, Miller made it plain to me that he would . . . like to enter a personal relationship with me.”

  “He made a pass at you?” Powell asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Director, he did,” Patricia Wilson said. “Sir, I’m perfectly capable of dealing with situations like that. But if that’s indicative of his behavior . . .”

  “I take your point, Mrs. Wilson,” Powell said.

  “We can’t afford to have people who lose control, sir.”

  “No, we can’t. And you’re right about this man Miller being out of control.”

  “Sir?”

  “Apparently, in anticipation of a ‘develop further’ from you Miller did a five- or six-page filing.”

  “Really?”

  “And then when it became obvious to him that he wasn’t going to get a ‘develop further’ from you, instead of shredding the filing he apparently gave it to this Mr. Charles Castillo, who works for the secretary of homeland security.”

  “That violates . . .”

  “. . . just about every regulation concerning filings,” Powell furnished.

  “Yes, it does,” Patricia Wilson said, righteously indignant. “Mr. Director, that sort of behavior simply cannot be tolerated!”

  “It hasn’t been,” Powell said. “It won’t be necessary for you to request Miller’s relief, Mrs. Wilson. I have already relieved him.”

  She met his eyes.

  “What will happen to him?” she asked.

  “He goes back to the Army, of course. They’ll have to decide what to do with him.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “My first reaction was to see that he was disciplined for his breach of security, but, on reflection, I think that an Army service record indicating his relief for cause from a sensitive position and the revocation of his security clearances will be enough punishment.”

  “I probably shouldn’t say this, Mr. Director, but I always feel bad when something like this is necessary.”

  “I do too,” Powell said.

  He thought: Especially when I’m going to have to explain this goddamned mess to the president.

  [FOUR]

  Special Activities Section, J-5 United States Central Command MacDill Air Force Base Tampa, Florida 1110 8 June 2005

  Master Sergeant Omar Perez, Special Forces, U.S. Army, who was the noncommissioned officer in charge of the Special Activities Section, J-5, looked at the officer standing in front of his desk and rose to his feet as a gesture of respect. Perez—who hated his present behind-desk assignment but had philosophically decided that it was a dirty job that somebody had to do and he had been selected by the fickle finger of fate to do it—didn’t always do this, but this guy was obviously no candy ass.

  This guy had two Silver Stars, three Bronze Stars, and two Purple Hearts to go with his I-Wuz-There ribbons, plus Master Parachutist’s and Senior Aviator’s wings. And, of course, he had a green beret in his hand.

  “Good morning, sir,” Perez said. “How may I help you, sir?”

  “Oh, Sergeant,” Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., said, smiling, “would that you could, but I think I better see an officer —a light colonel, at least, and more senior if you have one around. My name is Miller.”

  “I gather the major does not wish to discuss with me what he wishes to discuss with the most-senior officer I have on tap?”

  “The major does not,” Miller said. “Who is the most-senior officer you have on tap?”

  “Colonel Peter J. Grasher, sir.”

  “And does the sergeant have any idea what sort of a mood ‘Grasher the Gnasher’ is in?”

  “I would say, sir, that the colonel is in his usual charming mood.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Miller said. “Nevertheless . . .”

  “I’ll see if Colonel Grasher is available, sir,” Perez said.

  Perez went through a door and closed it. Twenty seconds later, it opened. Colonel Peter J. Grasher, a stocky, nearly bald forty-year-old, was standing in it.

  “I knew goddamn well something bad was going to happen today,” he said. “Get your ass in here, Dick.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  As Miller walked past Colonel Grasher, Grasher draped an arm around his shoulders.

  “I was hoping you’d get et by cannibals,” he said. “What brings you back here?”

  “I have been relieved, sir.”

  Grasher met his eyes.

  Miller is scared, humiliated, or both. What the hell?

  “Jesus Christ,” Grasher said. He pointed. “Coffee, chair,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Half a cup, half of one of those envelopes of phony sugar,” Grasher ordered. “Thank you very much.”

  Miller poured the coffee, handed a cup to Colonel Grasher, and then sat down.

  “Some candy ass in the State Department found out about you sending back-channel stuff?” Grasher asked.

  “No, sir. I think I got away with that,” Miller said.

  “Then what didn’t you get away with?”

  “There have been no specific charges, sir,” Miller said. “I asked the milattaché, and he said I would be advised ‘in due course.’ ”

  I really don’t like where this is going.

  “What job were you relieved from? The attaché job or the agency?”

  “Both, sir. And my security clearances have been revoked. He said he had been ordered to ‘implement my relief ’ by the ambassador, who also apparently told him to get me out of the country as quick as possible. Which he did. I was on a South African Airways turboprop three hours after Colonel Porter came to my apartment and relieved me.”

  “A South African Airways turboprop?”

  Miller nodded.

  “Yes, sir. It was the first plane out. Luanda to Kinshasa in the Congo on the turboprop, then Brussels on Air France— which bothered me: I’m boycotting all things French and I hated to see them getting my tax dollars—then London on another puddle jumper, and then Orlando on a Virgin Airlines 747 full of Disney World-bound tourists. I rented a car in Orlando, drove here, found a motel, took a shower and had a shave, put on my uniform, and came here.”

  He’s being witty. But as much to convince himself he’s tough and in charge than to amuse me.

  But, Jesus! They must have really wanted him out of there right then! There’s all kinds of explaining to do when you have to move an American on a foreign carrier.

  Or maybe that’s something else the goddamned CIA routinely gets away with.

  What the hell did Miller do?

  Colonel Grasher held up his hand, palm out, as a signal for Miller to say nothing else for the moment. Then he picked up one of the telephones on his desk.

  “Omar, have we had a heads-up on Major Miller? For that matter, have we had anything on Major Miller?”

  He listened to the reply and then said, “If anything comes in, get it to me right away.”

  He replaced the telephone in its cradle.

  “Be imaginative, Miller,” he said. “Come up with some reason why you might have incurred the displeasure of the CIA, the State Department, and the Defense Intelligence Agency.”

  “Sir, you have not advised me of my rights to have legal counsel, right? What I tell you will not appear on a charge sheet?”

  If he didn’t think he was really in the deep doo-doo, he wouldn’t have said that.

  “Jesus, that bad, huh? Okay. What you say here is forgotten as soon as you say it.”

  “When that airplane . . . the . . . 727?”

  Grasher nodded.

  “. . . went missing, I sent a satburst suggesting a Russian arms dealer named Aleksandr Pevsner may have had something to do with it . . .”<
br />
  “I saw that. The boss showed it to me,” Grasher said. “The satburst and, before that, your back channel.”

  “Sir, I expected I would get a follow-up message, what the agency calls a ‘develop further,’ so as soon as I had time I did a filing. The ‘develop further’ never came.”

  "And?”

  “So I suppose what I should have done was shred my filing. But I didn’t.”

  You suppose you should have done? You know goddamn well it should have been shredded.

  “Why not?”

  “Sir, I thought I was right and I thought that maybe the ‘develop further’ would come late but that it would come.”

  And they found the filing that should have been shredded on his computer? And shit a brick? Is that what this is all about?

  “What about the filing? Did someone find out it hadn’t been shredded?”

  Whatever comes next is important. He’s trying to figure out the best way to say it.

  “Sir, I gave my filing to Major Castillo.”

  Jesus H. Christ!

  He doesn’t mean “gave”; he means “sent.” The last I heard Castillo was passing hors d’oeuvres in Washington.

  “Charley Castillo?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You mean you sent it to him?”

  “He was in Luanda, sir. Undercover. As a German journalist. ”

  I knew goddamn well Castillo was doing something besides passing hors d’oeuvres in Sodom on the Potomac.

  “He went to you?”

  “No, sir. He came on the same plane as Mrs. Wilson . . .”

  “Who is?”

  “Sir, Mrs. Patricia D. Wilson is the company’s regional director for Southwest Africa. My immediate supervisor in the CIA.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sir, she smelled something wrong about Castillo—that he wasn’t really who he said he was, Karl Gossinger or something like that—and she told me to check him out. So I did, I went to the hotel, and found out he was Charley . . . Major Castillo.”

  “And you gave Major Castillo your filing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Because you believed you had valuable intel that was being ignored and that you should get it into the right hands even if doing so violated security regulations?”