“Neither the CIA nor your laboratory at Quantico was able to learn much—in fact, anything—from it. The fingerprints found on it were useless because it had passed through so many hands.
“The general feels that the next communication from these people will come the same way, that is via either FedEx or UPS. He would like to get his hands on that package before it is handled by everybody and his idiot brother.”
“I understand, General.”
“What the general would like to see the FBI do is to locate that package as soon as it enters the FedEx/UPS process. The package would then be placed, taking care to touch it as little as possible, into another envelope and then sent on its way here. Do you think the FBI can handle that, Mr. Stevens?”
“The FBI will certainly try, General.”
“The general feels that it is highly likely that the address on the package will be different from the address on the original package, which itself was addressed to Lieutenant Colonel McNab, not Lieutenant General McNab, probably to avoid undue attention. So what you should be looking for is an Overnight envelope addressed accordingly, perhaps even addressed to someone in these headquarters, not the general, or to the home address of such people.”
“I understand the reasoning. I’ll get right on it.”
“Thank you. Keep me posted, please.”
FBI Liaison Officer Stevens thought: The chances of finding that envelope among the X-many million overnight envelopes that UPS and FedEx handle every day are right up there with my chances of being taken bodily into Heaven.
This proved to be either unduly pessimistic or a gross underestimation of the enthusiasm with which employees of FedEx or UPS would respond to a request for assistance from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Fewer than twenty-four hours later, Stevens received a telephone call from the special agent in charge—the SAC—of the El Paso FBI office, William J. Johnson, who happened to be an old friend.
“I’m in the UPS Store in the Sunland Park Mall in El Paso, Chuck,” the SAC said. “Holding—very carefully, in my rubber gloves—a UPS overnighter addressed to Sergeant Terry O’Toole, Yadkin and Reilly Road, Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Is this what you’re looking for?”
“Yadkin Road and Reilly Street is known as ‘Generals’ Row,’” Stevens said. “Major General Terrence O’Toole lives there, next door to General McNab.”
“Say, ‘Thank you, Bill,’” the SAC said. “You want me to open it?”
“Thank you, Bill,” Stevens said. “But don’t open it. General McNab wants us to just put it into another envelope and send it on its way. Anyway, I think opening it would be illegal.”
[TWO]
Office of the Commanding General
United States Special Operations Command
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
0530 14 April 2007
Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, wearing rubber gloves, carefully opened the UPS Next Day envelope and examined the two sheets of paper it contained. Vic D’Alessandro looked over his shoulder.
One of the sheets was a photograph of an unshaven Lieutenant Colonel James D. Ferris. He was sitting on a chair, holding a copy of the previous day’s El Diario de El Paso. Two men wearing balaclava masks stood beside him, holding machetes.
“This time it’s machetes,” D’Alessandro said. “Is that an implied threat to behead him?”
“No more, I would guess, than the guy holding the Kalashnikov the last time was an implied threat to blow his brains out,” McNab said matter-of-factly.
The second sheet of paper was the message:So Far He’s Still Alive.
If you would be willing to return Félix Abrego to his family we would be willing to return Colonel Ferris to his.
Place a classified ad in El Diario de El Paso as follows for the next four days:
“Always interested in Mexican business opportunities. Write Businessman, PO Box 2333, El Paso, Texas, 79901”
“Who’s Félix Abrego, I wonder?” McNab said.
“One of the drug guys we have in the slam, seems likely,” D’Alessandro replied.
“I’m sure the FBI will be able to tell us.”
“Charley asked that you provide him with intel,” D’Alessandro said. “Does this count as intel?”
“As you know, Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, Retired, no longer has a security clearance, Mr. D’Alessandro. However, I would suppose that one or more of his former associates in the Special Operations and intelligence communities would feel that the national security would not be seriously compromised if he somehow learned about this.”
D’Alessandro nodded his understanding.
McNab leaned forward and pulled the red telephone connected to the Central Command circuit toward himself. He pushed 6, and then the LOUDSPEAKER button.
There was the sound of three rings, and then a somewhat metallic voice said, “General Naylor.”
“Bruce McNab, General. I regret waking you at oh dark hundred, but . . .”
“What’s on your mind, General?”
“. . . the protocol requires that I immediately notify C-in-C CENTCOM if something of this nature comes up, and something has.”
“What have you got, General?”
“There has been a second communication from the people who are holding Colonel Ferris. This one was sent UPS Next Day from El Paso, addressed to ‘Sergeant’ Terry O’Toole. It contained a photo of Colonel Ferris holding a copy of yesterday’s El Diario de El Paso. And a note offering to make an exchange for him. Shall I read it to you?”
“Please.”
McNab did so.
“Who is Félix whatever?” Naylor asked.
“We don’t know. As soon as I can get the FBI liaison officer in here, I’m going to ask him to find out. I would guess he’s someone we have in prison.”
“Probably,” Naylor said. “This message reached you last night?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
“UPS delivers at . . . a little after oh-five-hundred?”
“What I did, General, was ask the FBI to see if they could intercept any new messages as soon as they entered the UPS or FedEx systems. And they were successful. Mr. Stevens, the FBI liaison officer, called last night to report that this message, this envelope, had been intercepted in El Paso. When it arrived in Fayetteville, Vic D’Alessandro was waiting for it.”
“And what are your plans now, General?” Naylor asked.
“What I’m planning to do, General, is first send you photocopies of the envelope and its contents. Then I intend to get the FBI liaison officer in here, and turn the envelope and its contents over to him, so that he can send it to the FBI experts in Quantico.
“I presume you will pass the photocopies of the envelope and its contents to the chief of staff, who will presumably send copies to the secretary of Defense, the secretary of State, the director of National Intelligence, et cetera—”
“And of course the office of the POTUS,” Naylor interrupted.
“Yes, of course. We mustn’t forget President Clendennen, must we?”
“Spare me your sarcasm, McNab,” Naylor snapped.
McNab didn’t reply directly. After a moment, he asked: “If I may continue, General?”
“Go on,” Naylor said icily.
“And that no further action by me is required at this time.”
“No further action is required of you. That is correct.”
“Thank you, sir. Is there anything else, sir?”
Naylor broke the connection without replying.
“Sometimes, Vic,” McNab said as he reached for his Brick and opened it, “as hard as this is to believe, I don’t think General Naylor likes me very much.”
He checked to see if the proper LEDs were glowing, then pushed several buttons.
“Christ, McNab,” the voice of DCI A. Franklin Lammelle bounced off a satellite. “Do you know what time it is?”
“I have a little gossip with which I thought you might want to b
egin your day,” McNab said. “We have a new ally in our war against the evildoers who have snatched Colonel Ferris.”
“And who might that be? Castillo?”
“Him, too, but I was speaking of Aleksandr Pevsner.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, then Lammelle asked, “How reliable is that?”
“From the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”
“What’s that all about?”
“Pevsner apparently believes Putin is behind the whole thing, and is after not only Charley and the Russians again, but is against him, too.”
There was another just perceptible pause.
“And you go along with that?”
“I don’t dismiss it out of hand,” McNab said. “Vic D’Alessandro just came back from Acapulco. He says the drug cartel there . . . what’s it called, Vic?”
“The Sinaloa cartel,” D’Alessandro furnished. He raised his voice. “Got you out of bed, did we, Frank?”
“Vic says the Sinaloa cartel had no reason to kidnap Ferris or kill the others. Ferris’s people have been obeying their orders to cooperate with the Federales, which means the cartel knew what we knew.”
“That’s pretty good information, Vic?” Lammelle said.
“I believe it,” D’Alessandro said.
“Tell him what else you learned,” McNab said.
“Mr. Pevsner believes that the best defense is a good offense,” D’Alessandro said.
“Oh, shit!”
“Do you think we should tell Natalie?” McNab asked.
This time there was no hesitation on Lammelle’s part.
“No. Absolutely not!”
“You going to tell me why?”
“I had dinner with her, after that fiasco in Auditorium Three,” Lammelle said. “She pointed out to me something I kicked myself for not realizing.”
“What?”
“We no longer have the threat of impeachment we had hanging over Clendennen’s head. Once we rearranged the Cabinet to our satisfaction, we lost it.”
This time it was McNab who hesitated for a moment—a long moment—before replying.
“She’s right,” he said. “As usual.”
“She says Clendennen thinks we’re planning a coup. First we get him to appoint Montvale as Vice President, then we get rid of Clendennen, either by resignation or impeachment, and Montvale becomes President.”
“Nice thought,” McNab said, “but it never entered my mind until just now. I didn’t even consider Montvale becoming Vice President; that was Crenshaw’s idea.”
Stanley Crenshaw was the attorney general of the United States.
“And Crenshaw, being an honorable, decent man, did what you and I know better than to do: He looked in the mirror.”
McNab knew Lammelle was referring to what would-be intel officers are taught often on the first day—certainly within the first week—of their training: “Never look in the mirror. Your enemy doesn’t think like you do.”
“Did she have anything to say about what happened at Langley?” McNab asked.
“She said that Porky Parker was the first in the long line of people Clendennen plans to knock off, one at a time. Porky’s disappeared, by the way.”
“Yesterday, he and Roscoe Danton were in Cozumel with Castillo.”
“What’s that all about?”
“I don’t have a clue, Frank. Did Natalie tell you what she plans to do?”
“Yes, she did. She recommended that you and I not do anything at all that would give Clendennen a chance to fire us. She said she was going to talk with you. I gather she hasn’t?”
“No. She didn’t say anything about warning Montvale? Or, for that matter, Naylor?”
“I guess she figures both of them haven’t been looking in the mirror. And if Truman Ellsworth has—which I doubt—Montvale will warn him. So far as Naylor goes, I get the feeling that he wouldn’t be grief stricken if Clendennen relieved you.”
“I can’t believe General Naylor would be complicit in something like that.”
“You’re looking in the mirror, General. Naylor the soldier probably wouldn’t. But above a certain level—and Naylor is way above it—senior officers have to be politicians and play by their rules.”
McNab didn’t reply.
“In this,” Lammelle went on, “I’d say that both Natalie and Naylor really believe they’re doing what they do—for the country; it’s not a personal ego trip—better than anyone replacing them would do. And they’re probably right. They want to keep their jobs for the good of the country, and will do whatever they think is necessary to keep them. Naylor thinks you’re dangerous, and you know it. He wouldn’t throw you under the bus, but if somebody else did, he would be able to put someone else in SPECOPSCOM he could control.”
Again McNab didn’t reply.
“I was there,” Lammelle went on, “at Drug Cartel International when Naylor suddenly decided to help. And he even told us why. If Operation March Hare failed, that would’ve been worse for the country than if it succeeded.”
“Is that why you changed sides, Frank? For the good of the country?”
“No. I changed sides because I realized I was being used, by Clendennen, by Montvale, and—maybe especially—by Jack Powell to do something I knew was wrong. And I’m like you, I guess.”
John J. Powell was the former director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Lammelle had replaced Powell when he resigned two months previously.
“What do you mean, you’re like me?”
“I’m a simple soul who sees things in black or white. Sometimes I’m a little slow in making the distinction, but once I do, I try to act accordingly.”
McNab didn’t answer.
“Two things about Natalie . . .” Lammelle began, then added: “Why do I have a hard time using your first name?”
“It’s Bruce. Use it.”
“Two things about Natalie, Bruce. Not only does she want to keep her job, but she really believes the way to deal with Mexico—and especially with this latest outrage—is to talk about it and keep talking about it until reason prevails.
“She was willing to resign over Clendennen’s trying to swap Charley, Sweaty, and Dmitri to the Russians. But Charley waging a war in Mexico—especially with Aleksandr Pevsner—that’s something that’ll make her just as mad.”
“So you don’t think I should tell her that Charley just talked Pevsner out of snatching the Russian rezident in Mexico City? They decided to wait until they see if Ferris is hurt; then they’ll whack him.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“The trouble with what you just told me, Frank, is that it all makes sense. It just took me a little time—like a decade—to figure it out.”
“Watch your back, Bruce.”
“You, too.”
McNab closed the lid of the Brick, and then met D’Alessandro’s eyes.
“That was interesting, wasn’t it, Vic?”
“The word that comes to mind is ‘scary,’” D’Alessandro said.
[THREE]
Office of the FBI Liaison Officer
United States Special Operations Command
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
0750 14 April 2007
When Charles D. Stevens walked into his office, his telephone was ringing. Since his secretary had not yet arrived, he answered it himself.
“FBI, Stevens.”
“Max Caruthers, Stevens. Where the hell have you been? The general’s been looking for you since oh-seven-hundred. No answer at your house, and none at your office until now.”
Stevens had a mental picture of McNab’s huge senior aide-de-camp.
“I must have been driving to work,” Stevens said.
“You didn’t answer your cell phone, either,” Caruthers accused.
Stevens decided that Caruthers would not be interested in his explanation for not answering his cell phone. Not only was talking on a cell phone while driving against the law, he regarded it as dangerous, too.
&nb
sp; “What can the FBI do for General McNab, Colonel? Aside from getting that envelope you were asking for? That should be delivered sometime this morning.”
“General McNab’s compliments, Mr. Stevens. The general would appreciate seeing you at your earliest convenience in his office,” Caruthers said, paused, and then finished: “. . . where we have had that envelope since oh-five-fifteen.”
Chuck Stevens—who had willed himself to walk slowly from Foggy Bottom to the SPECOPSCOM headquarters building; “I’m an FBI Inspector, not some PFC who has to run whenever his master whistles”—arrived five minutes later in McNab’s office.
He found Colonel J. J. Tufts, the liaison officer of the Defense Intelligence Agency, and Colonel Christopher Dawson, the USCENTCOM liaison officer, already there. And so was Mr. Victor D’Alessandro, about whom Stevens knew very little, except that it was rumored he had something to do with the ultra-secret Gray Fox unit, about which Stevens also knew very little, and that D’Alessandro was sort of a confidant of General McNab.
Colonel Max Caruthers was not in McNab’s office, which surprised Stevens.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Stevens,” General McNab greeted him. “Can we get you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you, sir,” Stevens said.
“Well, here it is,” McNab said, handing him a large translucent plastic envelope. “The envelope we have been looking for. I place it in your capable hands, confident that the FBI experts at Quantico will find something useful for you.”
“Thank you,” Stevens said.
“I have made photocopies of the contents. I didn’t think to ask permission first. I hope that doesn’t pose any problems.”
“I don’t see why it should, General,” Stevens said.
“As I was just explaining to these gentlemen,” McNab said, nodding toward Colonel Tufts and Colonel Dawson, “my official role in this whole affair is not much more than that of a spectator. Colonel Ferris and Warrant Officer Salazar were detached to the DEA before they were sent to Mexico.
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