By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Did you remember to give the copilot some cash?”

  “Indeed, I did. Which reminds me . . .”

  He handed Castillo an envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “A thousand dollars.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank Abuela.”

  “Abuela?” Castillo asked, surprised.

  “Like she says, she’s old but not brain-dead,” Fernando said. “She’s got a pretty good idea of what you do for a living. You wouldn’t believe how long that money—and that’s not all of it—has been in my bedside table waiting for you to need it. There’s also a couple of pistols in my Jepp case.”

  “You didn’t tell her about this, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Yeah. I promised her if anything ever happened I would tell her and I did. She said to tell you she’s praying for the both of us.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  “Are you going to stand there blaspheming,” Fernando lisped, “or are you going to see if our passengers are comfy, their seat belts fastened, and the NO SMOKING light is on?”

  He pointed out the side window.

  Castillo bent over and looked out.

  The three Delta Force communicators, all dressed in sports jackets and slacks, were almost to the airplane, dragging enormous, wheeled, hard-sided civilian suitcases behind them.

  “You told Abuela?” he repeated. “Jesus H. Christ!”

  Then he turned and went into the cabin and helped the communicators load their enormous suitcases aboard.

  “Washington Center,” Castillo said into his microphone. “Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five.”

  “Seven-Five, Washington Center.”

  “Lear Seven-Five passing through flight level two-five-zero for flight level two-nine-zero.”

  “I have you on radar, Seven-Five.”

  “Request direct Ronald Regan at flight level two-nine-zero. ”

  “Washington Center clears Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five to Ronald Regan Airport on present heading. Report to Washington Center on reaching flight level two-nine-zero on 127.2.”

  “Understand maintain present course, report to Washington Center when at flight level two-nine-zero. Thank you.”

  Castillo turned to Fernando and gave him a thumbs-up. He touched a small button on his headset that switched his microphone and earplug from TRANSMIT to INTERCOM.

  “Okay, Fernando,” he said. “Tell me about Abuela being old but not brain-dead.”

  “I wondered how long it was going to take you to get around to asking me about that,” Fernando said, smiling at him.

  “Come on,” Castillo said, not pleasantly.

  "It started right after we buried Grandpa . . .” Fernando began.

  WINTER 1998

  [FIVE]

  Hacienda San Jorge Near Uvalde, Texas 2130 15 November 1998

  There were still almost a dozen cars packed in the drive of the Big House when Fernando returned from San Antonio and he remembered his grandfather saying that the only thing Spanish people liked better than a wedding or a christening was a funeral.

  Well, he had a big one. A heart attack is a classy way to go and the funeral had been spectacular. They’d actually run out space to park airplanes at the strip, and even the Texas Rangers had sent an official delegation. Great-great-grandfather Fernando Castillo had been one of the original Texas Rangers.

  There were lights on in his grandparents’ bedroom, which meant Abuela was still awake, and he went there, through the kitchen, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the hangers-on in the sitting room.

  “How you doing, Abuela?” Fernando asked as he bent over his grandmother and kissed her forehead.

  She was sitting in one of the two dark red leather-upholstered reclining armchairs facing a large television set.

  “Holding up, I guess,” she said, touching his cheek. “Carlos got off all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I guess he really had to go; the minute we walked in base operations at Kelly and he gave his name, a pilot came up—a major—and said his plane was on the tarmac. An Air Force Lear. Pretty spiffy for a lowly lieutenant, huh?”

  “Carlos is a captain now,” she corrected him. “And what he’s doing is very important.”

  That doesn’t sound like just the doting opinion of a loving grandmother.

  “Do you know something I don’t?” Fernando asked.

  “I heard you two talking last night,” she said. “You know as much as I do. So stop it. I don’t want to spar with you, Fernando . . . your grandfather was always saying that, ‘I don’t want to spar with you,’ wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he was.” He paused and then went on, “Abuela, the Grin . . . Carlos had a couple of drinks last night. Maybe a couple too many.”

  “He had more than a couple too many,” she said. “It’s a family tradition, Fernando. When Jorge was killed in Vietnam, your grandfather was drunk for a week. And then, when we finally could bury Jorge, he was drunk for another week.”

  “He loved Grandpa, Abuela.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” she said, then added, “Why don’t you fix yourself a drink and then sit in your grandfather’s chair?” When she saw the mingled surprise and confusion on his face, she further added, pointing to a half-full brandy snifter on the table between the chairs, “I poured that when you drove away. I’ve been waiting for you to come back to drink it.”

  “Anything you say, Abuela.”

  “We have to talk about Carlos,” she said. “This is as good a time as any.”

  “Yes, ma’am. What is that, cognac?”

  “Brandy,” she said. “Argentine brandy. The difference is, the French call their brandy ‘cognac’ and charge through the nose for it. I thought you knew that story. ”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “We went to Argentina on our wedding trip, to the King Ranch. Your grandfather was a classmate of Eddie King at A&M and he’d been down there with Eddie several times before we were married. It was a fine place for a honeymoon. And when he found out that the Argentine brandy, which he liked better than the French, was just a couple of dollars a bottle, he was as happy with that as he was with me. He loved a bargain and he hated the French.”

  “I know,” Fernando said.

  He went to a chest of drawers on which sat a tray with a bottle of brandy and another snifter on it, poured the brandy, and then went and sat in the reclining chair.

  “I feel funny sitting in here,” he said.

  “You shouldn’t,” she said. “You’re now head of the family. Your grandfather would approve.”

  She picked up her glass, raised it in toast, and said, “Here’s to you, dear Fernando. Go easy on God, my darling. He’s doing the best He knows how.”

  She took a healthy swallow of the brandy and then looked at her grandson.

  “Let’s talk about you, Carlos, and the family,” she said.

  “If you’d like.”

  “You will, of course, not immediately—but the sooner, the better—take over for your grandfather.”

  “What about Carlos? What about my mother, my aunts?”

  “Your mother and your aunts have been provided for. Don’t spar with me, Fernando, and pretend you didn’t know that you and Carlos were going to get . . . what? . . . ‘the business.’ ”

  He shrugged his admission that he had known.

  “And since Carlos is not going be around very much . . .”

  “Abuela,” he interrupted, “maybe . . . Grandpa’s passing ..."

  “He didn’t ‘pass,’ darling. He ’died.’ ”

  “Maybe Carlos will get out of the Army now.”

  “That’s very unlikely, I’m afraid,” she said. “Take that as a given. Carlos will stay in the Army.”

  “Why are you so sure?”

  “You’re going to find out how important genetics are, my darling, as you get older. We really have no control over what we are. You have many of your father’s genes. A
nd your grandfather’s, too. You have his temper, among other things. But your father is a businessman, as was your grandfather, and you have a businessman’s genes.”

  “Carlos, on the other hand, has a soldier’s genes?” he asked, almost sarcastically.

  “His grandfather was a German officer. Way back on his mother’s side there were Hungarian cavalrymen, including several generals. On his father’s side, we go back to the Alamo. His great-grandfather fought, as a major, in the First World War. And his father, my darling Jorge, was a soldier who gave his life for his companions and was awarded the highest decoration the United States gives. I think it can be fairly said Carlos has a soldier’s genes.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound flippant,” Fernando said.

  “You did,” she said, flatly.

  “Then I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want an apology; I want you to pay attention.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Over the years, I’ve had many conversations with General Naylor about Carlos. Your grandfather and I did. Your grandfather, frankly, wanted Carlos to get out of the Army when he had completed his six-year obligation—that would have been in 1996—and come home, take his place in the business, get married, and produce a son to carry on the Castillo name.”

  “I understand.”

  “General Naylor, who is genuinely fond of Carlos, said he didn’t think Carlos would be happy in the business not only because he’s a very good soldier but because, with the exception of you, me, and your grandfather, he never really felt part of the family.”

  “Because we’re Texican?”

  “You’re making it sound worse than it is,” she said. “But yes. Because he’s only half Texican. And for the same reason —he’s only half German—he could not become a German, even though he speaks the language as his mother tongue and has considerable property there. General Naylor said, and your grandfather and I came to agree, that Carlos’s family is the Army.”

  “Oh, Abuela! Jesus! Can I speak frankly?”

  “Please do.”

  “I think Naylor’s talking bull . . . through his hat. I was an officer. I knew a lot of people for whom the Army was home. But they weren’t like Carlos.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, they didn’t have people at home who loved them,” Fernando said. “And for another, they had nothing else to do. And for another, they didn’t have any money.”

  “Those were your grandfather’s arguments, too. But he eventually came to see that General Naylor was right. Darling, there isn’t always logic in these things.”

  Fernando threw his hands up in resignation.

  “May I have some more of the Argentine brandy?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  He got out of his grandfather’s chair, poured more brandy, raised the bottle to offer his grandmother more, which she declined, and then sat back down.

  “Furthermore,” he started off, “the Gringo’s . . . sorry . . . Carlos is not really in the Army. He should be commanding a company at Fort Benning or someplace, playing golf, having dinner at the officers’ club, worrying about his AWOL rate, the next inspector general’s inspection, his next efficiency report, and living in quarters. That’s the Army.”

  “He must be getting good efficiency reports. Excellent efficiency reports. According to General Naylor, he was promoted to captain on the five percent list, in other words, earlier than his peers, as an outstanding officer.”

  “Instead, he’s living in an apartment in Washington and going to work in civilian clothing at the—do you know where?”

  “At the Central Intelligence Agency,” she said. “Where he is in charge of providing special security for CIA personnel in dangerous overseas areas.”

  “ ‘Special security’ means he’s running around Afghanistan protecting CIA agents ‘who can’t find their asses with both hands’—sorry, Abuela, that’s the words he used last night—while they’re looking for some Arab whose name I can’t even remember. Or pronounce.”

  “Usama bin Laden,” she furnished. “A very dangerous man. A Saudi Arabian who hates everything American. The CIA—and General Naylor—believe he’s responsible for blowing up our embassies in Tanzania and Kenya last August. The State Department has placed a five-million-dollar bounty on his head.”

  “My God, Abuela, you and Naylor have been having some interesting chats, haven’t you?”

  “I’m getting a little tired, darling,” she said. “Would you be willing to take as a given that Carlos will not be getting out of the Army anytime soon and go from there?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I asked General Naylor if there was anything I could do to help and he said he thought it was unlikely that Carlos would come to me—or go to him—for any kind of help. But that he might go to you.”

  Fernando exhaled audibly and then said, “Yeah.”

  “What I want from you, Fernando, is this: Be there when Carlos needs you. Give him whatever he asks for. Your grandfather used to say that when people tell you they need a little help, they really mean money. The last thing Carlos will need is money—he has his own fortune and soon his share of ‘the business’—but it is possible he could find himself in—how did your grandfather phrase it?—‘a cash-flow problem,’ ‘a liquid-asset shortage.’ I think he would be uncomfortable if he had any idea I had any idea what’s he doing. So don’t tell him I know. If he does come to you, I want you to tell me. Will you do this for me?”

  Fernando met his grandmother’s eyes for a moment.

  “Of course I will,” he said, finally.

  “One more thing,” she said. “Just before God took your grandfather, he told me that he still had one faint hope: that Carlos would meet some suitable young woman, fall in love, and decide that what he really wanted out of life was a wife and family. He said he was praying for that. I have been praying every night. Would you pray for that, too?”

  Fernando nodded. For some reason, he didn’t trust his voice to speak.

  XV

  [ONE]

  Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport Arlington, Virginia 0125 10 June 2005

  While the Lear was still slowing down on its landing roll at DCA, Castillo punched an autodial button on his cellular telephone.

  The call was answered on the second ring.

  “Three-zero-six,” a man’s voice said.

  Those were the last three digits of the number Castillo’s cellular phone had autodialed. It was the number of the supervisory Secret Service agent in charge of the secretary of homeland security’s personal security detail.

  If someone dialed the number by mistake—or even was “trolling” for interesting numbers—the three-zero-six answer didn’t give much away.

  “Mr. Isaacson, please,” Castillo said.

  “Welcome to our nation’s capital, Don Juan,” Isaacson himself replied.

  “We just landed at Reagan, Joel. You sent someone to meet us, right?”

  “Wrong.”

  “Why not?”

  “I myself will greet you personally at Butler Aviation, to which ground control, I suspect, is directing you at this very moment.”

  The plug in Castillo’s other ear was in fact at the moment carrying the order of Reagan ground control to take taxiway B left to Butler Aviation.

  “To what do I owe the honor?” Castillo said.

  “I was feeling generous,” Isaacson said, then added, “Nice airplane, Don Juan.”

  If he can see the airplane, I should be able to see him.

  Castillo looked out the window and saw Joel Isaacson leaning against the door of a black Yukon parked in front of the Butler Aviation fueling facility.

  You’re not supposed to have vehicles—except with flashing lights, etcetera—on the tarmac.

  But I suppose if you are a very senior Secret Service guy, you can park just about anyplace you damned well please.

  And all Joel heard was that I was bringing some special rad
io. He doesn’t know how big or how heavy, and he wasn’t about to help drag a big heavy radio from Butler to wherever he was supposed to park the Yukon.

  “Joel, this is Master Sergeant Alex Dumbrowski,” Castillo said as they all stood on the tarmac. “Sergeant, this is Mr. Isaacson of the Secret Service. He’s in charge of Secretary Hall’s security.”

  The two men nodded and shook hands but said nothing.

  “Where’s the radio?” Isaacson asked.

  Sergeant Dumbrowski pointed at the enormous hard-sided suitcase.

  “That’s all of it?” Isaacson asked, dubiously.

  Sergeant Dumbrowski nodded.

  Ground service people walked up, dragging a fuel hose. Fernando Lopez climbed down from the Lear.

  “Fernando!” Castillo called and Fernando walked over.

  Castillo introduced him to Isaacson as his cousin.

  Isaacson motioned one of the fuel handlers over and handed him a credit card.

  “Put that fuel and the landing fees on that,” he ordered.

  “Thank you,” Castillo said.

  “What the hell, it’s in government service—you can send us a bill for the charter, Mr. Lopez—and this way no one gets to see the bills.”

  “You have just made our lawyers very happy,” Fernando said. “Thank you.”

  Isaacson didn’t reply, turning instead to Master Sergeant Dumbrowski.

  “All set up, how big is this thing?” he asked. “The antenna, I mean?”

  Sergeant Dumbrowski wordlessly demonstrated with his hands the size of the expanded antenna.

  “Jesus, that small?” Isaacson asked, rhetorically. “Still, Charley, if we set it up on the roof of the OEOB all kinds of questions will be asked. What about Nebraska Avenue?”

  As OEOB meant “Old Executive Office Building”—almost everything in Washington seemed to be boiled down to acronymns—Nebraska Avenue was verbal shorthand for the “Nebraska Avenue Complex,” off Ward Circle in Northwest Washington. Originally a Navy installation dating to World War II, there are thirty-two buildings on thirty-eight acres. It was now the home of the Department of Homeland Security. Secretary Hall had his official office there, although, as a practical matter, he most often used his office in the OEOB, which was right next to the White House.