The major looked at him but didn’t respond.
“What I’d like to know is how a civilian aircraft landed here without special permission and why I wasn’t told it had,” he said to the desk sergeant.
“The pilot filed his flight plan as Secret Service One,” Charley offered. “That gets him clearance to land just about any place he wants to.”
“Are you in the Secret Service?” the major asked.
Actually, I’m a supervisory agent of the Secret Service. Wanna see my badge?
Charley chuckled. It was almost a giggle.
“I say something funny?”
“No. All I am, Major, is another major.”
Major General H. V. Gonzalez, who was about five-foot- five, olive-skinned, weighed no more than 130 pounds, and looked meaner than hell, marched purposefully into base operations ten minutes later, trailed by his aide and a full colonel, both of whom were well over six feet tall. They were all wearing desert camouflage battle dress uniforms (BDUs).
The deputy commander of XVIII Airborne Corps glanced around the room and then marched to where Castillo was sitting. Charley got up quickly as he approached.
“You’re Castillo?”
“Yes, sir.”
General Gonzalez switched to Spanish.
“The name Elaine Naylor mean anything to you?”
"Sí, señor.”
“And what’s her husband’s first name?”
“Allan, señor.”
“But we are not privileged to call him by his first name, are we?”
“I’m not, sir.”
“General Naylor tells me you’re a Tex-Mex from San Antone who speaks pretty good Spanish and works for the secretary of homeland security and that he doesn’t have a clue why Dr. Natalie Cohen called me up to tell me the president was sending you here. That about sum things up?”
"Sí, señor.”
“Harry,” the general said, switching to English to speak to his aide, “help Major Castillo with his bags.”
There was a powder blue Plymouth Caravan parked outside the base operations building.
“You ride up front with me,” General Gonzalez ordered, in Spanish, as he got behind the wheel.
"Sí, señor,” Charley replied.
“What was that Chinese fire drill back there all about?” Gonzalez asked.
“My fault, sir. I asked the sergeant to call SWC to get me a ride. They’d never heard of me. And then I couldn’t come up with my Army ID.”
“Why did you call the SWC? Didn’t they tell you General McNab is the Eighteenth Airborne Corps commander?”
“Unless stupidity is an excuse, sir, no excuse. When General McNab was deputy commander of SWC, I was his aide. I called there. Not bright.”
“Oh, so you know General McNab?”
“Yes, sir. Sir, where is he?”
“I don’t think you have the need to know that.”
“Sir, knowing General McNab as I do, I’m guessing he’s as close to the Gray Fox operation at Abéché as he can get.”
“I’d love to know how you heard about Abéché,” General Gonzalez said. “Most of the people at Bragg who know about it are in the backseat.”
“Sir, the operation was to confirm intel I developed.”
“And?”
“If you’re asking, sir, was it confirmed? Yes, sir, it was. The missing airplane was there but has gone.”
“Okay. If you know that much, you’re in the loop. General McNab is in Menara, Morocco, with some more Gray Fox people standing by with a C-17 in case anything goes wrong with the extraction, which is scheduled for first light. As soon as he hears it’s wheels-up, he and the backup team will return here in their C-17. It’s about a five-hour flight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The problem I have right now is, what to do with you.”
“Sir?”
“Until I talked to General Naylor twenty minutes ago, I expected some civilian VIP. The lights in the windows of the VIP guesthouse are burning for you, Major Castillo.”
“How about dropping me at a Smoke Bomb Hill BOQ, sir?”
“No. The last thing we need is another Chinese fire drill when you can’t produce an ID card. We’ll take you to the VIP guesthouse. Just don’t tell anyone you’re a major.”
“Yes, sir.”
The general drove through Fort Bragg for several minutes before saying anything else; then he said, “There are a lot of lousy jobs in the Army, but right at the head of the list has to be aide-de-camp to Scotty McNab. That’s probably even worse than being his deputy commander.”
“I tried to think of it as an educational experience, sir.” General Gonzalez laughed.
“Harry, did you hear that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Write it down.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Harry, I want you to stay with Major Castillo. Give him a drink and then send him to bed. He looks worn-out and I suspect tomorrow is going to be very ‘educational.’ ”
“Yes, sir.”
XIV
[ONE]
Fort Bragg, North Carolina 2250 9 June 2005
The VIP suite into which Castillo was installed had a bedroom, a sitting room with a small dining room table at one side, a small office, and a kitchenette. It was about two-thirds the size of his apartment in the Mayflower.
It also came with a young sergeant in a crisply pressed desert camouflage battle dress uniform.
“Can I have the sergeant fix you something to drink, sir?” General Gonzalez’s aide-de-camp asked.
He was a captain. His name tag said BREWSTER. He had a CIB and senior parachutist’s wings sewn above his pocket. And there was a Ranger tab sewn to his sleeve above the XVIII Airborne Corps shoulder insignia. But his beret was black—as General Gonzalez’s beret had been, Castillo remembered —so neither Captain Brewster nor General Gonzalez was Special Forces. Green Beanies wore green berets, of which they were justifiably proud.
What color beret does General McNab wear these days? Black or green?
Whatever color pleases him, obviously.
“No,” Castillo said. “What you can do is point me in the direction of the booze and send the sergeant home.”
“Yes, sir,” the aide said, not quite able to conceal his surprise at Castillo’s abruptness.
Castillo picked up on it.
Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with me?
“Sergeant, I’ve had a bad day,” Castillo said. “What I’m going to do is have one drink and then get in bed. There’s no sense in you sticking around for that.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant asked. “Sir, what are your breakfast plans?”
“Nothing beyond a cup of coffee. Is there a coffee machine in the kitchen?”
“Yes, sir. But I’d be happy . . .”
“Is there someplace I can call you if I need you?”
“The number of the protocol office is taped to the telephones, sir, if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Castillo said and smiled at him.
When the sergeant had gone, Castillo looked at Captain Brewster.
“I didn’t mean to snap at the sergeant,” Castillo said.
“I’m sure there’s no problem, sir,” Captain Brewster said.
“I can fix myself a drink and get in bed by myself, Captain, ” Castillo said. “There’s no reason for you to stick around, either.”
“I can stick around outside the suite if that would make you more comfortable, sir, but . . .”
“But General Gonzalez said stay with him, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Castillo walked into the small kitchen, where he had seen a line of bottles on a counter under the closets.
“I know how that is. I been dere, done dat, got duh T-shirt,” Castillo said.
Captain Brewster smiled.
“You want one of these?” Castillo asked, holding up a bottle of scotch.
“I better not.”
&n
bsp; “As one dog robber to another, I won’t tell your general.”
“ ‘Dog robber’?”
“General McNab told me, when I was wearing the rope,” Castillo said, touching his shoulder where the aiguillette of aides-de-camp hung from the epaulets of dress uniforms, “that when he had worn the rope as a young officer aides-de-camp were known as ‘dog robbers’ because they were expected to do whatever was required, including robbing from dogs, to make their general happy.”
“I never heard that,” Brewster said, smiling. Then he nodded at the bottle Castillo was holding. “Okay. Why not? Thank you.”
Castillo poured whiskey in a glass.
“How long were you General McNab’s aide?” Brewster asked.
“Too long,” Charley said. “Twenty-two months. Long enough to know that when he finds out I spent the night in the VIP quarters, he will have something unpleasant to say.”
Brewster chuckled.
“How about you?”
“It’s supposed to be for a year,” Brewster said. “Another two months.”
“And then?” Castillo said, handing him the glass of whiskey. “I suppose there’s ice and water, but I drink mine neat.”
“Neat’s fine,” Brewster said, then added: “I put in for Special Forces. Maybe I’ll get lucky and make the cut.”
Castillo’s cellular phone rang.
“Hello?”
There was a buzz and then a click.
Castillo put the telephone back in his shirt pocket.
“Bad connection?” Captain Brewster asked.
No, that was probably from a renegade FBI agent who works for a Russian arms dealer who wants (a) to know where I am and (b) that I be impressed with his ability to find that out.
Castillo nodded and said, “I’ll bet it rings again in a minute.”
He pressed the TIMER button on his watch and then tipped glasses with Brewster.
Then he took the telephone out again and pressed an autodial button.
Screw Kennedy. When he calls back, my voice mail can answer—and I bet he won’t leave a message, even to let me know he knows where I am.
“Yes?” the woman’s voice answered.
“Is this my favorite female law enforcement officer?”
“Not now. Call back in ten minutes,” Sergeant Betty Schneider replied, curtly.
“Is something wrong?” Castillo asked. Even as he spoke the words, he knew she had broken the connection and he was speaking to a dead telephone.
What the hell! Has something gone wrong with Dick?
“Favorite female law enforcement officer?” Captain Harry Brewster asked with a knowing smile.
The look Captain Brewster got from Major Castillo told him he had crossed a dangerous line.
Castillo took a sip of his drink.
The last thing I need is liquor. My brain is already slipping gears. Jesus, I called the SWC instead of XVIII Airborne Corps!
On the other hand, as keyed up as I am I’ll never get to sleep tonight without a little sauce to slow me down.
And even if Dick is at this moment being roasted over a slow fire by the African American Lunatics in Philadelphia, there is not a goddamned thing I can do about it in Fort Bragg.
He took another sip and had just taken the glass from his lips when the telephone rang again.
He snatched it almost angrily from his pocket.
“Yeah?”
“Your phone has been out of service,” Howard Kennedy said.
“Aren’t you going to tell me where I am?”
“That tells me you are probably no longer in Philadelphia. ”
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere over North Carolina, I would guess. Using one of those back-of-the-seat, ten-dollars-a-minute telephones. You’re not going to tell me where you are?”
“What are you doing somewhere over North Carolina? Going somewhere?”
“Cancún, actually,” Kennedy said. “Okay. Now it’s your turn.”
Since I don’t know that he’s actually in an airplane en route to Mexico, and may have been in touch with his friends in the wireless telephone business, and is entirely capable of—entirely likely to—see if I’m lying to him, it’s truth time.
“Would you believe the VIP guest quarters at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Howard?”
“Of course. Since we have agreed to be entirely truthful with one another. What the hell are you doing in Fort Bragg? Do you have something you want to share with me?”
He seems genuinely surprised. Or is it that he’s almost as skilled a liar as I am?
“The answer to question one is that I’m here because my boss sent me here. He has not seen fit to explain his reasons. And, no, I don’t have anything much to share with you. Miller’s still in Philadelphia meeting with undercover cops. I don’t know what—if anything—he’s come up with, but I should hear something soon. If I do, how do I pass it on to you? I never tried to call anybody on an airliner before.”
“Neither have I,” Kennedy said. “But to demonstrate my faith in your veracity—taking a hell of a big chance, in other words, which I really hate to do—I’m on Mexicana 455, Newark to Mexico City. If you hear anything, give it a try, Charley. This is the age of miraculous communication. If that doesn’t work—and I’m not met in Mexico City by representatives of my former employer—I’ll call you from the airport.”
“If anybody meets you, I didn’t send them.”
“Boy Scouts’ honor?”
“Were you a Boy Scout?”
“Certainly. Weren’t you?”
“I am now holding my pinky with my thumb, the other fingers extended vertically, my arm raised to shoulder level,” Castillo said as he did so.
Captain Brewster, who could not hear the conversation but, as an Eagle Scout himself, knew the gesture, looked curiously at him.
“As one Boy Scout to another, I accept your word of honor,” Kennedy said.
“Does that mean you’re also going to tell me why you’re going to Cancún?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Kennedy said. “Do you know where Khartoum is, Charley?”
“There’s a K-town in Sudan.”
“You’re halfway to your World Geography merit badge. How about Murtala Muhammad International Airport?”
“You’ve got me there,” Charley confessed after a moment.
“Lagos, Nigeria. Write that down.”
“Is there a point to this quiz?”
“A 727 bearing the paint scheme of Air Suriname—you don’t happen to know where Suriname is, do you, Charley?”
“Upper right corner of South America?”
“Not quite the upper-right corner; a little down the coast from the upper-right corner. But you got the continent right.”
“You were saying?”
“An Air Suriname 727 landed at N’Djamena, Chad, after a flight from Khartoum, took on fuel—lots of fuel—filed a flight plan to Murtala Muhammad International Airport, which you now know is the airport serving Lagos, Nigeria, and took off.” He paused to let that register, then added, “It never got to Murtala Muhammad International—”
“Okay. I follow. But—”
Kennedy ignored the interruption and continued: “Even more fascinating than that is the friendly folks in Khartoum tell us they have no record of Air Suriname 1101 having visited their airfield in the last six months.”
Charley gestured almost frantically to Captain Brewster, miming writing. Brewster quickly took a small notebook and a ballpoint pen from a shoulder pocket of his BDU and handed it to him.
“So you think it’s the one we’re looking for?” Charley said as he hurriedly scribbled “Air Suriname” and the flight number in the notebook.
“I think it probably merits further investigation,” Kennedy said, sarcastically. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Absolutely. You don’t happen to have the registration number?”
"P-Papa, Z-Zero, 5059. Fiver-Zero-Fiver-Niner.”
&n
bsp; Castillo scribbled PZ5059 in the notebook.
“I’ll pass this right on,” he said. “Thanks.”
“You will tell them where it came from, won’t you?”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I’ll take that chance, Charley.”
He’s serious about that. He must believe what he’s telling me. Or wants me to believe he’s serious.
“Any idea where it really went?”
“There’s any number of airfields on the west coast of Africa, some of them even sophisticated enough to have paved runways and navigation aids. If I had to guess, I’d say Yundum International.”
“Yumdum?” Castillo blurted.
“Yundum, Why You En Dum. No Bee After Dum.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“Outside Banjul. You know that charming metropolis, I’m sure.”
“Come on, Howard!”
“How about Gambia? You do know where Gambia is, don’t you?”
“West coast of Africa?”
“Next to Senegal,” Kennedy said. “Banjul is maybe a hundred miles down the coast from Dakar.”
“Why there?”
“It’s a pretty good jumping-off place if you want to fly across the ocean.”
“Cross it to where?” Castillo asked.
There was no response. Castillo thought he detected a change in the background hiss.
“Cross it to where?” he asked again, then added, “You still there, Howard?”
There was nothing but the hiss.
“Damn!” Charley said and pushed the hang-up key.
He sensed Captain Brewster’s eyes on him.
“Cut off,” Castillo explained and then pushed the autodial key for Betty Schneider again.
“Yeah?” Her voice came matter-of-factly over the cellular.
“Is everything all right?” Charley asked.
There was no reply for a moment and then Dick Miller came on the line.
“There’s a connection,” Miller said.
“You all right?”
“I’ve decided I don’t want to be an undercover cop, but otherwise I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m fine, Charley.”
“What kind of a connection?”
“Right now, I just know that. They’re going to bring the undercover cop in. I don’t really know what that means, but it’s apparently damned hard to do. But if I get something concrete, I don’t want to tell you over a cellular. I think you better get up here, Charley.”
By Order of the President Page 47
