Covert Warriors

by W. E. B Griffin

  Pevsner shot back: “Then both of you get on the goddamn airplane and go. I will deal with the problem this family faces.”

  “Aleksandr,” Nicolai Tarasov said, “I think you should listen to what Podpolkovnik Castillo has to say.”

  Pevsner looked at him in disbelief.

  “I’ll go further than that,” Tom Barlow said. “You have to listen to what Carlos has to say.”

  “Or what?” Pevsner snapped.

  “Or when Carlos’s airplane leaves, Lora, Sof’ya, and I also will be on it. Presuming of course Carlos will take us.”

  “Of course we will,” Svetlana said. “You’re family.”

  “Family? Family? What it looks like to me is that my family is betraying me and taking the side of this goddamn American.”

  Svetlana snapped: “You goddamn fool! You are alive because of this ‘goddamn American.’ ”

  Castillo thought: She sounds like an SVR lieutenant colonel.

  “And if not for Carlos,” Tom Barlow added, “Svetlana, Lora, Sof’ya, and I would never have gotten out of Vienna. And you really would be handling this family problem by yourself.”

  “Before this family starts doing to each other what Vladimir Vladimirovich wants to do to us,” Tarasov said, “can we at least listen to what Podpolkovnik Castillo has to say?”

  Pevsner glared at each of them.

  “I’ll listen,” he said after a moment.

  “How gracious of you,” Castillo said, his tone dripping sarcasm. “May I presume that I have the floor?”

  “I should have killed you on the Cobenzl,” Pevsner said evenly.

  “I guess I don’t,” Castillo said.

  “Yes, you do,” Tom Barlow said. “Aleksandr, I just figured your odd behavior out. You just can’t face the fact that Carlos can deal with this problem better than you can. Carlos was right—again—to say that you think you’re Ivan the Terrible and we’re in Russia. You’re not, and we’re not. I say, thank God for Carlos.”

  “So do I,” Anna Pevsner put in.

  Castillo snapped his head around. He had been unaware she’d come into the room.

  “What?” Pevsner snapped.

  “Will anyone join me in giving thanks to the Lord for bringing Carlos into the family?” Anna said as she bent her head and put her hands, fingertips touching, together in prayer.

  Castillo thought that Svetlana would be agreeable to involving the Deity, but he was genuinely surprised when Nicolai Tarasov and Stefan Koussevitzky got to their feet, bowed their heads, crossed themselves, put their hands together, and waited for Anna to continue.

  And really surprised when Aleksandr Pevsner did the same thing.

  Ninety seconds later, after everyone had joined Anna in saying “Amen,” Castillo suddenly found himself facing an expectant audience.

  And so I have the floor . . .

  “The way I’m going to do this is with what the U.S. Army calls a staff study,” he began. “If we can get laptops in here for everybody, Lester has my staff study on a thumb drive . . .”

  “You heard Podpolkovnik Castillo,” Aleksandr Pevsner barked at the waiter. “What are you waiting for? Bring the goddamn laptops! And immediately serve their breakfast, as was ordered.”

  [THREE]

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  0830 18 April 2007

  “Go see who’s out there, Douglas,” President Clendennen ordered. “I called this meeting for half past eight, and that’s what time it is.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” replied Secret Service Special Agent Mark Douglas, who now saw himself as the guardian of the President’s door. He went through the door into the outer office.

  The President pointed at Clemens McCarthy, the presidential press secretary, and at Supervisory Secret Service Agent Robert J. Mulligan—both seated on simple chairs against the wall—and motioned them toward the armchairs and couches to which senior officials felt entitled.

  “We don’t want these disloyal bastards to feel too comfortable in here, do we?” the President asked rhetorically.

  Douglas came back into the office and announced, “The secretary of State, the attorney general, and the FBI director are out there, Mr. President.”

  “Look at your watch, and in precisely five minutes let them in,” the President ordered.

  “Yes, sir. And the secretary of Defense, Mr. President, and General Naylor are out there.”

  “I didn’t send for them,” Clendennen said.

  “Secretary Beiderman said he is aware he doesn’t have an appointment, Mr. President,” Douglas said. “He said he will await your pleasure.”

  Clendennen considered that a moment, and then said, “Let them in with the others.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Five minutes later, Secretary of State Natalie Cohen led Attorney General Stanley Crenshaw, FBI Director Mark Schmidt, Defense Secretary Frederick K. Beiderman, and CENTCOM Commander in Chief General Allan Naylor into the room.

  “Since I didn’t send for you, Secretary Beiderman,” the President said, “what’s on your mind? Let’s get that out of the way first.”

  “Mr. President, I regret to have to tell you that General Naylor was unable to speak with General McNab as you requested.”

  “Why not?”

  “General McNab was on his way to—by now is in—Afghanistan,” Beiderman said, and waited for the explosion.

  It didn’t come.

  Clendennen didn’t say anything at all.

  Beiderman went on: “It was our intention, Mr. President—General Naylor’s and mine—to speak with General McNab together. But when General Naylor called, General O’Toole, the deputy SPECOPSCOM commander, reported that General McNab was on his way to Afghanistan.”

  The President considered that for a moment, and then said, “Well, we’ll just have to deal with that issue at a later time, won’t we?”

  “Yes, sir,” Beiderman said.

  “And the photographs?”

  “I have them right here, Mr. President.”

  “Give them to Mulligan,” the President said. “We wouldn’t want them to disappear, would we?”

  “Yes, sir,” Beiderman said. “I mean, no, sir, we wouldn’t.”

  Still standing, and thus somewhat awkwardly, he opened his attaché case, took out the manila envelope that held the photographs, and handed it to Supervisory Special Agent Mulligan.

  “Will that be all, Mr. President?” Beiderman asked.

  “No. Stick around. I think you should hear what we’re going to do about Colonel Ferris. You, too, General Naylor.”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied, speaking on top of each other.

  Natalie Cohen, although she had not been invited to do so, sat down in one of the armchairs. After a moment, Attorney General Crenshaw sat on one of the couches, and a moment later FBI Director Schmidt sat beside him. Beiderman and Naylor remained standing.

  “So where do I start?” the President asked rhetorically, and then answered his own question. “With you, Schmidt.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “How are things going in El Paso? Has that classified advertisement our Mexican friends have asked for been published yet?”

  “Yes, sir. Yesterday. The first time, yesterday. It will run for four days.”

  “And when do you think there will be a reply. Today? Or when?”

  “Mr. President, my SAC there—William Johnson—I told you about him, sir. He’s one of my best—”

  “That’s nice to hear, but it doesn’t answer my question,” the President interrupted.

  “I was about to say, sir, that SAC Johnson has determined that the average time for delivery of a letter deposited in a post office to be delivered to a post office box in the same building is a minimum of six hours, and may take as long as twenty-four.”

  “You’re telling me it takes our postal service at least six hours to move a lett
er from the in slot to a box?”

  “Yes, sir. And that’s presuming the letter would be placed in a mail drop slot in the post office building itself. If it were placed—as it very likely would be—in one of the drive-past post boxes outside the post office, that could add as much as two hours to that time. Mail is collected from the outside boxes every two hours from eight A.M. to midnight. It is collected only once from there from midnight until eight A.M.

  “And of course if a letter were deposited in a mailbox not immediately outside the main post office, that time would be further increased, as the mail is picked up from there usually only twice a day. And if it were mailed in Ciudad Juárez—right across the border from El Paso—that would add at least another twenty-fours to the time. And if it were mailed in, say, in San Antonio, it—”

  “I get the picture, Schmidt,” the President said, cutting him off. “There is a very unlikely possibility—on the order of a miracle—that if our Mexican friends went to the main post office in El Paso yesterday, their reply could be in our box right now. If that isn’t the case, we have no idea when we’ll hear from them.”

  “If a letter had been deposited in Post Office Box 2333, Mr. President, we’d know about it. SAC Johnson has agents all over that post office,” FBI Director Schmidt announced, more than a little proudly.

  “Not only are there surveillance cameras inside and outside the building,” Schmidt went on, “but agents, male and female, are constantly rotated through the lobby. Additionally, there are agents in the working area of the post office physically checking each piece of mail as it is dropped in a slot. Other agents go through mail coming into the post office from all sources.”

  Then Schmidt suddenly got carried away with his recitation of SAC Johnson’s accomplishments: “Mr. President, the FBI has got that post office covered like flies on horseshit.”

  President Clendennen did not seem very impressed.

  He said: “So what happens if somebody drops a letter addressed to box . . . whatever . . .”

  “Box 2333, Mr. President,” Schmidt furnished.

  “. . . and an agent sees him do it? Or someone comes into the post office and goes looking in Box 2333? What then?”

  “In the first case, Mr. President, two things will happen. The envelope will be opened, and the contents photocopied, sent to the FBI’s San Antonio office, and immediately forwarded to the J. Edgar Hoover Building, where agents are standing by to bring it here. Meanwhile, the letter dropper will be surveilled to see where he goes. Same surveillance will be placed on anyone going to Box 2333.”

  “What if he heads for Mexico?” the President asked.

  “He will be arrested if he tries that, Mr. President.”

  “No,” President Clendennen said. “He will not be arrested.”

  “Sir?”

  “And you tell your SAC that if this happens, and the person being surveilled even looks like he suspects he is being surveilled, your SAC will be fired. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to get this Colonel Ferris back,” the President said. “And this is how I’m going to do it. First step: Get on the phone right now, Schmidt, and tell your SAC what I just said—that he is not to arrest anybody without my permission, and if anyone he is surveil-ling in this situation even suspects we’re watching him, you will transfer him to Alaska.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go do it,” the President ordered as he pointed to the door to the outer office.

  “Mr. President, I can contact SAC Johnson on my cell phone; it has encryption capability.”

  “Well, then take your cell phone with its encryption capability in there and call him.”

  He waited until Schmidt had reached the door and then turned to Secretary of State Natalie Cohen.

  “Has Ambassador McCann proved to be as capable as I thought he would be, Madam Secretary? More important, how close has he managed to get to President Martinez?”

  “Ambassador McCann is both highly capable, Mr. President, and has already established a good relationship with President Martinez.”

  “I want you to get on the horn to McCann, Madam Secretary, and tell him to see Martinez right now, and get him to send me a letter.”

  “Sir?”

  “Give it to her, Clemens,” the President said.

  McCarthy handed Cohen a sheet of paper.

  “Or words to this effect,” the President said. “Read it aloud, Madam Secretary, so everybody will be on the same page.”

  Cohen took the sheet of paper, glanced at it, and began, “This is apparently a draft,” and then read the letter aloud:draft draft draft draft draft draft draft draft draft draft

  {This would be better on Martinez’s personal, rather than official, stationery} date

  My dear friend Zeke,

  I come to you to ask for an act of Christian charity and compassion.

  As a devoted father and family man yourself, you know that once in a while—perhaps more often than we realize—every family produces a worthless son, even a murderer.

  Such is the case with the Abrego family, a thoroughly decent family who work a small farm in Oaxaca State. They have had two daughters and a son, Félix. According to Bishop (need a name) a truly wise and Christian man, whom I have known for years, and who brought this to me, Félix started to go bad when he was twelve, and despite every prayerful thing his mother and father and his priest tried to do for him, kept moving ever faster on the path to hell.

  Bishop (Whatsisname) knows this, because earlier in his career he was the Abrego family priest. And as a wholly honest man, Bishop (Whatsisname) is as willing as I am to admit that, guilty as charged, Félix Abrego fully deserves the punishment laid upon him by an American court for brutal acts of murder. He is currently imprisoned, for life, without the possibility of parole, in your federal prison in Florence, Colorado.

  Señora Abrego, his sixty-seven-year-old mother, has been diagnosed with a particular nasty cancer (get a name for the cancer?) and has less than four (two? three?) months to live. She is confined to her bed, and can get around only in a wheelchair.

  Obviously, she can’t travel to Colorado, and she wants to see her son for a last time before she dies. I’m imploring you to help me arrange that.

  What I propose is this:

  There are at least a half dozen “open” Policía Federal warrants involving Félix Abrego. They have not been actively pursued because it was reasoned that since he is already confined without the possibility of parole, it would be a waste of time and money to try to convict him of something else.

  I have been told there is a provision in U.S. law whereby a prisoner like Félix Abrego may be released from prison into the custody of the U.S. Marshal Service and taken for interrogation to a foreign country, such as Mexico.

  In this case, if you would use your good offices to approve a request from the Policía Federal to bring Abrego to Mexico for interrogation, your Marshals would transport him to the Oaxaca State Prison, where they would turn him over to prison authorities.

  This would permit the Policía Federal to interrogate him. And it would also permit Señora Abrego to visit her son for the last time before her death. Once that inevitably happens, Abrego could either be returned to the United States to complete his confinement or, alternatively, tried here. In this case, there are so many charges against him here that he would almost certainly be sentenced to spend the remainder of his life in a Mexican prison.

  If in your good judgment something can be worked out, please call me at your convenience and we can work out the details.

  With warm regards,

  Your friend

  Ramón

  “Well?” the President asked when she had finished.

  “Mr. President, what is it you wish me to do with this?” Secretary Cohen asked.

  “I told you. Get it to McCann and have him take it to President Martinez.”

  “Mr. President,” Attorney General Crenshaw said, “
the long-standing policy of the United States has been never to negotiate with terrorists.”

  “Who’s negotiating with terrorists?” Clemens McCarthy replied for the President. “What President Clendennen is going to do is send a convicted criminal for interrogation in Mexico, which has the added benefit of permitting a terminally ill woman to see her son for the last time. If that also results in the release of Colonel Ferris, what’s wrong with that?”

  “It’s bullshit, McCarthy, that’s what’s wrong with it,” Crenshaw said.

  “There’s a lady present, Mr. Attorney General,” the President said. “Watch your mouth!”

  “I beg your pardon, Madam Secretary,” Crenshaw said.

  “Obviously, Mr. Attorney General,” the President said, “you have some objections to my plan to secure the release of Colonel Ferris.”

  “Yes, sir, I have a number of—”

  “I’m not interested in what they might be, Mr. Attorney General. This is the plan of action your Commander in Chief has decided upon. My question is whether your objections will keep you from carrying out my orders to see that what I want done is done.”

  “That would depend, Mr. President, on what orders you give me.”

  “Fair enough,” the President said. “If I ordered you to have this fellow Abrego moved from his present place of confinement to the La Tuna Federal Correctional Institution, would your conscience permit you to carry out that order?”

  “Mr. President, are you aware that Abrego has been adjudicated to be a very dangerous and violent prisoner requiring his incarceration in the Florence maximum-security facility?”