By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  He looked around the small room, taking a close look at everybody.

  “Hello, Chief Inspector,” he said, smiling at Kramer.

  Kramer nodded at him.

  “I’m looking, Chief, for a Secret Service man, Supervisory Special Agent Castillo. I was told he was in here.”

  Kramer pointed at Castillo.

  “You’re Castillo?” the man said. He obviously did not expect to see a supervisory Secret Service agent in an Army officer’s uniform.

  “Yes, I am,” Castillo said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Alexander Stuart, the Philadelphia FBI SAC.”

  “Be right with you, Mr. Stuart,” Castillo said as he took out his cellular and pushed an autodial key.

  “Castillo, Mr. Secretary. The Philadelphia FBI SAC just walked into the room—

  “I haven’t had a chance to talk to him, Mr. Secretary—

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary, I’ll get back to you just as soon as I’ve had a chance to talk to him.”

  He put the telephone back in his pocket and looked at SAC Stuart.

  “It would seem, Mr. Castillo, that there’s been some sort of a misunderstanding,” Stuart said.

  “No misunderstanding. I needed some information and I needed it right then. Your duty officer wouldn’t—or couldn’t—give it to me and your counterterrorism man told me he’d talk to me when he came in in the morning. I couldn’t wait that long so I called Washington.”

  “Apparently, it wasn’t made clear to either of my agents how important this matter actually is,” Stuart said. “What’s it all about?”

  “What this is all about is that I asked for some information and your people wouldn’t give it to me. I need those names, Mr. Stuart, and I need them now.”

  “Special Agent Lutherberg, who heads my counterterrorism section, is on his way to the office. If he’s not there already. I’ll have those names for you very shortly.”

  Castillo grunted.

  “I need some additional cooperation from the FBI,” Castillo said.

  “Which is?”

  “As soon as we have the names, and the photographs, I want to run them—right now—past the Spartan School of Aeronautics in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I need to know (a) if they were students there about the time Chief Inspector Kramer gave you the surveillance photos he had made of them and (b) if they were students at Spartan, what sort of training they had, specifically, if they received training in Boeing 727 aircraft.”

  “Oh, so that’s what this is about! That airliner that went missing in Africa.”

  Castillo ignored the remark.

  “Now, can you get in touch with your Tulsa office directly, send them the photos and the names over your net, and have them go out to Spartan or am I going to have to do that through Washington?”

  “I can contact them directly, of course,” Stuart said.

  “Would I offend you if I suggested you call your duty of ficer and get that started right now?”

  Stuart met his eyes.

  “That doesn’t offend me, Mr. Castillo,” he said. “But the language you used to my duty officer offends me. Offends me very much, frankly. Are you aware that we record all incoming calls after duty hours?”

  “I didn’t think that was legal unless the calling party is advised that his call will be recorded,” Castillo said. “But if you’ve got a tape of my conversation with your duty officer, why don’t you send it—the entire conversation, not just my intemperate language—to Director Schmidt?”

  Stuart tried and failed to stare Castillo down, then looked away, to Chief Inspector Kramer. “Chief, is there a telephone I can use?”

  “Schneider,” Chief Kramer said.

  Sergeant Betty Schneider, with a wholly unintended display of her upper thighs, slid off the table.

  “Right this way, Mr. Stuart,” she said.

  When the door had closed after them, Detective Jack Britton pointed to Castillo, looked at Miller, and said, admiringly, “Hey, bro, your white boy pal is a real hard-ass, ain’t he?”

  [FIVE]

  Office of the Commissioner Police Administration Building 8th and Race Streets Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 0345 10 June 2005

  Police Commissioner Ralph J. Kellogg walked into his outer office, said good morning to Chief Inspector Kramer, Majors Castillo and Miller, Detective Jack Britton, and Sergeant Betty Schneider, who were sitting in chairs waiting for him, and waved them into his office.

  Captain Jack Hanrahan, Kellogg’s executive officer, waited until everybody was inside, then pulled the door closed.

  Both Kellogg and Hanrahan were shaven, wearing suits and stiffly starched white shirts, and were obviously fully awake, although it was less than twenty minutes since Chief Inspector Kramer had called the commissioner at his home and suggested they needed to talk.

  “Okay, Dutch,” Kellogg said, “where are we?”

  “Between Britton and Castillo, Commissioner, and with the somewhat reluctant cooperation of the FBI, we’ve IDed the people we think stole the airplane. They were here, at Britton’s mosque.”

  “Is that going to help you find the airplane?” Kellogg asked Castillo, but then, before Castillo could reply, asked: “What’s with the uniform? First step in declaring martial law?”

  “I’ve been at Fort Bragg, Commissioner—and I’m about to go back there—to explain the uniform. And I have reason to believe we have located the airplane.”

  “You either have or you haven’t. Which?”

  “A source who has previously been right on the money has told me he’s almost certainly located it. What I’ll be doing at Fort Bragg is helping to set up the operation to neutralize it.”

  “What source?”

  I was afraid you were going to ask that.

  “Not to go farther than this room, Commissioner?”

  Kellogg considered that.

  “No. That’s over. As I understand the plan, Matt Hall will be here at eight o’clock. Shortly after that, as soon as we’ve compared notes we’re going to see the mayor. I want to be in a position to lay everything on the table in front of him. I now think promising to hold off telling until four this afternoon was a mistake. From now on, starting when Hall gets here, I’m going to tell the mayor everything I know. You understand? Now, what is the source of your information that the airplane has almost certainly been located?”

  “Sir, you’re going to have to get that from Secretary Hall. I can’t give it to you.”

  “Great!” Kellogg said, visibly angry.

  “Commissioner,” Chief Inspector Kramer said, “Britton also tells us that there’s a lot of talk at his mosque about something going to happen to the Liberty Bell and Constitution Hall.”

  “You mean the lunatics know?”

  “Commissioner, there have been no details,” Detective Britton said. “Just nonspecific talk.”

  “They must know something,” Kellogg said. “Which means they know more than I do and a hell of a lot more than the mayor does.” He paused and then went on: “Were you able to come up with a connection between Britton’s mosque and the people who cleaned airplanes at Lease-Aire? ”

  “No, sir,” Sergeant Betty Schneider said. “We haven’t been able to find a direct connection. None of the names connected. So what they’re working on now is relatives and known associates.”

  “Most of the people at the mosque, Commissioner,” Britton explained, “have rap sheets for drugs and/or theft. Which would keep them from getting airport work permits. But if they wanted to snoop around this airplane company . . .”

  “Lease-Aire,” Castillo furnished.

  “. . . they could send a brother or sister, or the guy next door, who is clean and could get an airport work permit . . .”

  Commissioner Kellogg held up his hand to cut him off.

  “I get it,” he said. “And checking that out takes time, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Betty and Britton said, almost together.

  “We don’t have any time,” Kel
logg said. He looked at Britton. “If you went back to the mosque, what do you think you could find out?”

  “Not much, sir. I can’t ask too many questions.”

  “Who at the mosque would know?”

  “The mullahs.”

  “And if we hauled them in, what would we learn?”

  “Not much. They know all about the Fifth Amendment; they claim it if we ask if it’s raining.”

  “How many mullahs?”

  “There’s one head man,” Britton said. “Abdul Khatami, formerly Clyde Matthews, and then . . .”

  “Has this guy got a sheet?” Commissioner Kellogg interrupted.

  Britton answered first with his hands, mimicking the unrolling of a long scroll.

  “Before he converted, Clyde was a very bad boy,” Britton said. “He was in and out of the slam from the time he was fifteen. A lot of drugs, but some heavy stuff, too, armed robbery, attempted murder, etcetera. He was doing five-to-ten in the federal slam—for cashing Social Security checks he ‘found’—when he converted. So far as I know, he’s been clean since; he sends the faithful out to raise money for the cause.”

  “How many more mullahs would be likely to know something about the Liberty Bell?”

  “Three, maybe four—no more than four.”

  “You have their names and where we can find them?”

  “Yes, sir. But . . .”

  “Send Highway to pick them all up, one at a time. Lots of sirens, lots of noise. I want it known that we’ve picked them up. Keep them moving between districts, no more than an hour in each district. Dutch, you work out the details.”

  “What are we charging them with?” Chief Inspector Kramer asked.

  Commissioner Kellogg ignored the question.

  “Your people will interrogate them, Dutch. With Britton and Major Miller watching through a one-way glass. Northeast Detectives is probably as good a place as any to do that.”

  Chief Inspector Kramer nodded.

  “Sir,” Britton said. “If I’m held much later than eight in the morning and this is going to take longer than that . . .”

  “You’re not going back undercover, period,” the commissioner said.

  “Sir, I’m the best chance we have to learn anything at the mosque,” Britton argued.

  “What’s the other guy’s name who’s in there with you?”

  “Parker, sir. He’s a good man, but he hasn’t been under long enough for them to trust him.”

  “Maybe they will start to trust him, once they figure out you’ve been in there,” Kellogg said. “And this way, you get to stay alive. I want you available until this thing goes down.”

  “But, sir . . .”

  “That’s it, Detective Britton,” Kellogg said, flatly. “That’s what’s going to happen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And this way, when Hall and I go see the mayor and he turns to me and asks what I’m doing about this I can truthfully tell him we think we know who the guys who stole that airplane are, that we’ve rounded up the mullahs and pulled you out to interrogate them. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” Britton said.

  “And we might as well start on getting a judge to authorize wiretaps on the mosque and every phone that looks promising. That’ll take some time, but we should do it.”

  “Commissioner, we—Homeland Security and the Secret Service—have blanket authority to tap in a terrorist situation like this. All we have to do is report it to a federal judge later,” Castillo said.

  “I didn’t know that,” Kellogg said, surprised. “You can authorize that?”

  “As a supervisory special agent, sure.”

  “If you were to ask for the help of the Philadelphia Department to help you put in your taps, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Kellogg studied Castillo. “So you’re a Green Beret major. ”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “And a supervisory special agent of the Secret Service? You told me you had the credentials, but . . .”

  “It’s on the up-and-up,” Castillo said. “I was sworn in.”

  “How do you keep who you really are straight?”

  “With difficulty, sir,” Castillo said and glanced at Betty Schneider.

  She shook her head.

  “When I talked to Matt Hall earlier, Castillo,” Commissioner Kellogg said, “he said he was going to come as quietly as he can. What did he mean by that?”

  “Usually, Commissioner, when he goes to a city where the Secret Service has an office they’ll send people—usually four to six, in a couple of GMC Yukon XLs—to back up his personal security detail. That attracts a lot of attention. If he said he’s coming quietly, he doesn’t want that attention. I don’t know this, but what I think is that they called the Philadelphia office and told them to send a car—not a Yukon—to meet the plane. They may not have told—probably didn’t tell—Philadelphia that the secretary is coming.”

  “What’s his personal detail?”

  “Two Secret Service guys. This morning, I know it will be Joel Isaacson—who is more than a bodyguard and who is usually with the secretary. And almost certainly his partner, Tom McGuire, who is also more than a bodyguard.”

  “Are you going to the airport to meet him? With Sergeant Schneider?”

  “No, sir. I’m just about through here. I’m going to Fort Bragg. As I said before, Secretary Hall wants me to be in on the planning to neutralize the airplane.”

  “Miller, where are you going to connect with Secretary Hall?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Miller said and looked at Castillo for guidance.

  “I think you should meet him at the airport,” Castillo said. “Even better would be you and Sergeant Schneider.”

  “Nobody’s had much sleep. Will you be okay with that, Schneider?” Kellogg asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be all right.”

  “Okay, then, that’s done,” Commissioner Kellogg said. “Miller and Schneider can bring him up to speed on the way in from the airport. You’re going to the airport right now, Castillo?”

  “Just as soon as my sergeant gets here from the arsenal. He may already be here.”

  “Okay, let’s get started on hauling in these lunatics and putting in the taps. We may get lucky, despite what Britton thinks. I sure as hell hope so.”

  [SIX]

  In the unmarked car on the way to the airport, Castillo called Secretary Hall again.

  “Sir, I regret the hour but you said I should keep you in the loop.”

  “What’s going on, Charley?”

  “The commo gear here has been set up and linked with the one in your office and Bragg, so you’ll have it when you get here. Dick Miller and Sergeant Schneider, who know what’s going on here, will meet your plane and be available while you’re here. There’s nothing else I can do here, so I’m headed back for Bragg to meet General McNab. I’m on my way to the airport now.”

  “How are you doing with the FBI?”

  “The FBI here has sent the photographs and the names of the two Somalians who were here over their net to the FBI office in Tulsa. The SAC tells me they will run them past the people at Spartan right away. They—Tulsa—told him they know the Spartan director of security; he’s retired FBI. So it shouldn’t take much time to confirm these are the guys we’re looking for. It may already have been done. I’ll bet my last two bucks that it’s our guys.”

  “We’re betting a lot more than your last two bucks,” Hall said.

  “The commissioner decided to bring in the mullahs from the temple to see if we can learn something,” Charley said to change the subject. “He also wanted to tap their phones and was going to start getting the necessary warrants from a judge. I told him we had blanket authority to tap without a warrant. Do we?”

  “Christ, you told him that and didn’t know?”

  “Joel told me the Secret Service did. Or I got that impression. I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should have been.
I’ll take the heat, sir. I thought the taps—as soon as they can be installed—were important.”

  “We have a ten-day authority, starting when we tell a federal judge. But we’re required to tell a federal judge first. If we can justify the tap—reasonable cause to believe—to the judge within the ten days, we can keep the tap. Otherwise, we can’t use anything we intercept. You might want to write that down, Charley.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Joel’s on his way over here now. I’ll have him call a judge.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “What the hell were you thinking, Charley?”

  “That we’re running out of time, sir.”

  “Well, I can’t argue with that. Call me as soon as you’ve talked with General McNab.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Betty drove the unmarked Crown Victoria up to the Lear, Castillo said, “You guys get on the plane.” He looked at Miller. “And you take a walk, Dick. I need a private word with Sergeant Schneider.”

  When Charley and Betty were alone in the car, she looked at him and then away.

  “You wanted to know about Karl Gossinger,” he said.

  “It’s not important,” she said.

  “I was born in Germany. My mother’s name was Gossinger. My father was an American officer who was killed in Vietnam. They weren’t married, he never knew about me, and I never knew about him until my mother was about to die. When they heard about me, my father’s family brought me to this country and I took his name. Not even Dick knows that story. Fernando does, but hardly anybody else. But I’m considered a German by the Germans and got a passport, etcetera. It’s useful in my line of work.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I don’t want to go back to Sergeant Schneider and Major Castillo.”

  “Charley, I don’t even remember the last time I had any sleep. I can’t deal with this now. And I probably won’t be able to—won’t want to—deal with it when all this is over. You’re just too much for me. You don’t know who you are, how am I supposed to? Get on the airplane.”