“Make sure that door’s locked, Peter,” McNab ordered.
He turned to Colonel Hamilton.
“Colonel, you have been represented to me as the Army’s—maybe the country’s—preeminent expert on toxins, that sort of thing. True?”
“Sir, that is my area of knowledge and some expertise.”
“I don’t suppose you know much about Africa, do you, Colonel? Specifically, what used to be called the Belgian Congo?”
“Sir, I don’t know much about the Democratic Republic of the Congo, but I do know something—far more than I would prefer to know, frankly—about Rwanda and Burundi, which, as I’m sure you know, both abut the Congo.”
“Colonel, please run that past me—past all of us—again, if you don’t mind.”
“Sir, what I said was that I know something about Rwanda and Burundi. I was there—”
“You were there?”
“Yes, sir. I was there in ’94 during the worst of the Rwandan genocide of the Tutsis—hundreds of thousands massacred.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Observing, sir.”
“Observing for whom?”
“Sir, with respect, I am not at liberty to say.”
McNab raised one of his bushy red eyebrows. “Colonel, do you know who I am?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you can’t tell me?”
“No, sir. With respect, I cannot.”
“Who would it take to get you released from that?”
“Sir, what I could do is contact certain people and ask for permission to tell you what I know about the genocide. I’m sure they would take into consideration who you are, General McNab.”
“We’re not talking about the CIA, are we, Colonel?”
“No, sir. We are not. Or any of the alphabet agencies, so called.”
“I will be damned,” McNab said.
Castillo was surprised McNab had not lost his temper.
“Sir, the way it works: I call a certain number in New York City and tell them I need to talk. They call back, often immediately, always within an hour or so, and direct me to a secure telephone. Would you like me to commence that process, sir?”
McNab gave the subject twenty seconds of thought.
“You are a serving officer, correct?”
“Yes, sir, I am. Actually, I’m Class of ’83 at the Academy, General.”
“Well, then as soon as we can find the time, you and me and Barefoot Boy there can get together and sing ‘Army Blue.’ But right now what you’re going to do, Colonel, is listen to what I have to say to these people.
“Understand, this is simply to bring you up to speed on what’s going on here. You are specifically forbidden to relay any of this to these mysterious people you seem to be associated with. I want you to have what you hear in your mind when you get them on the horn. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then please sit down, have a doughnut and a cup of coffee, and pay close attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Surprising me not at all, ladies and gentlemen,” McNab then announced, “as the increased flood of blood to my brain derived from my morning jog caused that organ to shift out of low gear, I realized that there were certain solutions to our problems that had not occurred to me last night.
“The problem of getting Colonel Castillo and the Barlows to the sandy beaches of Cozumel past the vigilant eyes of the FBI and the Border Patrol no longer exists, as there is no good reason, thanks to the blessed Aloysius Francis Casey’s generosity, for them to go there. Colonel Castillo, if I’m wrong thinking that you can control this operation from anywhere—say, your farm in Midland—please be good enough to explain why I err.”
“I could control it from there, sir. I’d prefer, though—”
“I didn’t ask what you would prefer,” McNab cut him off. “Now, since Major Porter has confirmed that your Gulfstream is in fact being surveilled by what we strongly suspect are minions of the FBI, the question then becomes: ‘How do we get Barefoot and his Friends to the farm in Texas without the FBI knowing?’ as they would if we used the Gulfstream or commercial aircraft.
“And again, as I jogged happily down the beach while others unnamed enjoyed a leisurely morning repast, the answer came to me. Then, the moment I came out of the shower, I communicated—using the AFC, of course—with Colonel Jacob Torine.”
McNab looked at Colonel Hamilton. “We consider Colonel Torine, although he is USAF, as one of us.”
Hamilton nodded.
McNab went on: “Colonel Torine, as he frequently does, agreed with both my analysis of a problem and the solution thereof. As we speak, Colonel Torine is either at, or will soon be at, Baltimore/Washington International Airport, where he will sign the dry lease for a month of a Learjet aircraft from Signature Flight Support, Inc., to the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund, of which he is a director.
“As soon as that is done, the Lear will be flown here to the Pensacola Regional Airport by Captain Richard M. Sparkman, USAF—and parked. While, technically, two pilots are required to fly the Lear, it can be flown by one good pilot.
“Captain Sparkman, if I had to say this, will be in civilian clothing and flying as a civilian pilot. He will go to the passenger lounge, where he will be met by Major Dick Miller, who will also be in civilian clothing, and Mr. and Mrs. Jack Britton. Sparkman will file a flight plan to the Northeast Airport in the City of Brotherly Love for the Gulfstream. The Gulfstream requires two pilots, hence Miller.
“It is possible that this may elude the attention of the FBI. But in the event it does not, their investigation will cleverly learn that shortly after a pilot appeared with an authorization from the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund to take possession of their G-III aircraft, three black people, one of them a pilot, having earlier arrived by taxicab from the Hilton Garden Inn—which is right down the beach from here—then got in the G-III and took off on a flight plan to Philadelphia.
“Having cleverly deduced that the object of their ‘locate but do not detain’ order was not among the trio who boarded the G-III—Colonel Castillo would’ve had to acquire one helluva dark tan during his short visit to the beach—they then will theorize that he either sneaked aboard the airplane while they weren’t looking, or that he left the area by other means, such as an automobile.
“They will probably cover all their bases by having co-workers waiting at the airport in Philly. What those people will see will be Mr. and Mrs. Britton getting off the airplane and being met by Philadelphia police officers. Mr. and Mrs. Britton then will be taken to the Four Seasons Hotel—their home is hors de combat, Colonel Harrison; and so their accommodations will be benevolently covered as long as necessary by the Lorimer Fund—but the FBI won’t notice this, as Mr. Britton will have told his former law-enforcement buddies ‘lose the Feds,’ or words to the effect, a suggestion with which, there being little love lost between the Philadelphia police and the FBI, they will happily comply.
“The Gulfstream will then fly to BWI, where it will be turned over to Signature Flight Support, Inc., for necessary maintenance.
“The more astute among you will have noticed that this series of events leaves Mr. Britton in Philadelphia, where he will see what he can learn from the African-American Lunatics about the chemical laboratory in the Congo. And it leaves Captain Sparkman and Major Miller in Washington, where Miller can take over for Colonel Torine, who will be traveling.”
McNab stopped and looked at Miller.
“Surely, Major, after you went and got yourself shot up in The Desert, you didn’t think you were going to be running around the Congo bush with Phineas and Uncle Remus, did you?”
He turned to Colonel Hamilton.
“The big one is Uncle Remus, Colonel, and the ugly one Phineas DeWitt.” He pointed. “Counting them, that’s two of us who know anything about that part of Africa or have ever been there. Now you make it three.”
“As a matter of fact, sir,” Hami
lton said, “I remember seeing Mr. DeWitt. At the Hotel du Lac in Bujumbura, Mr. DeWitt?”
“Yes, sir,” DeWitt said. “I stayed there a lot. But I don’t remember you.”
“I was trying very hard to pass myself off as a Tutsi,” Hamilton said.
“That made two of us, sir. I didn’t speak Kinyarwanda, so I tried to keep my mouth shut.”
“General,” Hamilton said, “I’m sure that Mr. DeWitt knows as much about that area as I do, and I am therefore . . .”
“Wondering why I need you? Indulge me a little longer, please, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir. You said something about a chemical—”
“What I politely asked you to do, Colonel, was to indulge me a little longer.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, General.”
“So we have Britton in Philadelphia, Miller in Washington, and Colonel Castillo—and the Lear—here in Pensacola. By nightfall, I suspect the FBI will have more important things to do than hang around the Pensacola airport hoping for a glance at you. The Gulfstream, they will probably have learned, is in Baltimore. But, as I have been wont to say, people in our business can never have too much in the way of dark nights. So, Charley, wait until dark before you and go out to the airport with the Barlows, Corporal Bradley, and Jack Davidson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Two questions. Are you going to have enough security? And can you land at your farm in the dark?”
Castillo glanced at Davidson. “As you know, sir, I’ve always had to worry a little about Jack, but as long as I have Corporal Bradley, we’ll be all right.”
Castillo got chuckles from a few. Davidson gave him the finger.
“I’ll call somebody—my cousin Fernando, most likely—and have him have somebody light the strip. Worst scenario, I’d have to go into Midland. Lears in Midland go as unnoticed as Hatteras and Bertrams in Lauderdale. Not a problem.”
“That brings us to these two,” McNab said, nodding at Edgar Delchamps and Alex Darby. “Your call, Charley; who goes where?”
“I think that’s Edgar’s call,” Castillo said.
“Alex to Fulda-slash-Marburg to deal with your guy there,” Delchamps said immediately. “Me to Vienna or Budapest or wherever the hell Uncle Billy is. Okay, Alex?”
Darby nodded.
It occurred to Castillo that it was the first time Delchamps had opened his mouth since the session began.
It’s not that he’s shy—nor is Darby.
For that matter, nobody’s shy; more the opposite.
It means they’ve agreed with everything McNab has said.
God, what a man!
“Communications?” McNab said.
“There’s an AFC in Görner’s office,” Castillo replied, “and I gave one to Sándor Tor.”
“We’re going to have to do something for Aloysius.” He looked at Woods. “Peter, send Mr. Casey a new green hat.”
Lieutenant Colonel Peter Woods smiled. “Yes, sir.”
“The one he has is a little ratty,” Castillo said.
“All communications to me go through D’Allessando,” McNab said. “From the moment I walk out that door, I don’t know where you are, or what you’re doing, or anything about you except that I agree you’re not playing with a full deck.”
“Yes, sir,” Castillo said.
“I presume you two are not going to need any help to get to Germany and wherever Kocian is.”
Delchamps and Darby nodded.
“And, Ace, I presume that the Benevolent Fund is going to benevolently provide these two dinosaurs with first-class tickets over there.”
“Absolutely, Edgar. How are you fixed for money?”
“Your credit’s good,” Delchamps said.
McNab looked at Castillo. “If you will be so good as to indulge me a moment longer, Colonel, a few loose ends to tie up. DeWitt and Uncle Remus and you will go back to Bragg with me. At Bragg—” He paused and turned to Hamilton. “How long since you’ve given a pecker-check, Colonel?”
“It’s, uh, been some time, General.”
Castillo couldn’t tell if Hamilton was pissed, amused, or had thought it was a straight question.
“Well, while we’re waiting for the pieces to come together, we’ll see if we can’t give you some practice. The pieces that have to come together are—this is yours, Uncle Remus—picking the Delta Force shooters.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And making sure Air Tanzania gets painted.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All that military crap, Uncle Remus. Shots, last wills and testaments, insurance, all of it. Phineas and Colonel Hamilton will be tied up teaching everybody all about Africa.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’d better work out of the Stockade.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can’t think of anything else. Can anybody?”
No one said a word.
“Now, Colonel Hamilton, thank you for your patience. Do you have any questions?”
“Oh, yes. Do I correctly infer you are planning an operation of some sort in the Democratic Republic of the Congo?”
“Yes, we are.”
“May I ask what type of operation?”
“We have reason to believe the Iranians, assisted by the Russians, have a chemical-slash-biological-warfare laboratory-slash-factory there, and we wish to get proof of that to show to the President before the bastards can do us any harm.”
“Frankly, sir, I’m delighted to hear that someone agrees with me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I passed that—the distinct likelihood of a bio-chem facility in the Congo—to the CIA some time ago. They looked into it and concluded that I was wrong; I thought they were.”
“Would you be good enough to amplify that, Colonel?” McNab asked.
“Well—” he began, then stopped. “How much do you know of the subject?”
“Virtually nothing,” McNab said.
“Well, as I said before, that’s my area of knowledge, in which I have some expertise. I try to keep an eye on it, so to speak. Some time ago, I noticed an anomaly in the production of certain chemicals, especially in Germany, suggesting to me that they were being either consumed in testing or stockpiled, or both.”
“What chemicals?” McNab asked softly.
“Would the names be of any use to you, sir?”
“What kind of chemicals?”
“In layman’s terms, those used in chemical and/or biological warfare. Forbidden under international treaties. Such as sarin. What really caught my attention was the increased production of DIC—diisopropylcarbodiimide.”
“Which is what?”
“In layman’s terms, it permits, to varying degrees, the storage of sarin in aluminum.”
“Such as a missile head?”
“Or a coffeepot. The point is: If the possession of sarin is against the law, why does one need anything aluminum in which to store it?”
“I take your point.”
“There were other areas which attracted my attention: unusual production, again in Germany and India, of the chemical precursors of the polypeptide family, the doxycyclines, trichothecenes, mycotoxins, and so on.”
“All poisonous substances?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And you informed the CIA?”
“I even suggested to them that if there was activity we should look into, it was taking place at the former German nuclear facilities on the Nava and Aruwimi rivers in the Congo, which is not far from Kisangani, which was formerly Stanleyville. You know, Henry Morton Stanley? ‘Doctor Livingstone, I presume?’ Stanleyville is where Stanley found Livingstone.”
“So I had heard,” McNab said. “Why did you think this?”
“Because both types of laboratory operations, nuclear and chemical, require large amounts of water, for cooling and other purposes. I think this is perhaps where the CIA got the idea the old German facilities are now a fish farm; the cooling tanks, etcetera, I suppose could be
used for that purpose.”
“Who did you deal with at the CIA, Colonel? Do you remember his—or her—name?”
“I didn’t deal with anyone at the CIA. I just wrote it up, paper-clipped to it an inter-office memorandum saying it should be sent to the CIA, and put it in my out-box. I’m a scientist, not someone in the intelligence community.”
“So you don’t know if your reports ever got to the CIA?”
“I simply assume they did. I heard back—I forget how—of the CIA fish-farm theory.”
“Colonel,” McNab said, “just now you said you were a scientist. You’re wearing the caduceus of the Medical Corps . . .”
“I’m a physician.”
“And you’re wearing the eagles of a colonel, and you said you were West Point ’84, which would suggest you’re a soldier. Which is it, Colonel?”
“I am a serving officer, a West Pointer, a colonel, who also is a physician. And a bio-chemist, Ph.D. Oxford ’86. And a physicist, Ph.D., MIT ’93.”
McNab nodded. “I’m awed, and there is nothing that should be interpreted as sarcasm in that statement.”
“General, with respect, I think I had better call those people now,” Hamilton said.
“I was about to suggest that very thing. But on my terms, Colonel, not yours. Unless you want to tell me who they are and have me call them myself?”
“Sir, again, with res—”
“Yeah. I know. But before I have Phineas and Uncle Remus throw you on the floor and hold you down while Barefoot Boy pulls out your fingernails to get you to tell me who ‘those people’ are, why don’t we try this: You get on the telephone to ‘those people’ and you say you’re with me and I have the idea that the Iranians and the Russians are up to something nasty in the Congo. Then ask ‘those people’ how much you are allowed to cooperate with me, up to and including telling me just who ‘those people’ are. How about that?”
“Yes, sir,” Hamilton said. “But what about the secure telephone, sir?”
“Tell them you don’t have time to go to a secure telephone. Tell them if they have a number at which you can call them, we’ll put it through the White House switchboard, which is about as secure as it gets.”
“That sounds logical, sir.”
“There’s the telephone,” McNab said, pointing.
Black Ops Page 49
