"I hate to sound like a hard-ass, but we're really playing hardball here and anyone who runs off at the mouth will be prosecuted for unlawful disclosure of Top Secret Presidential material. That prosecution will go forward no matter what happens to me.
"And when I said you have ninety seconds to make up your mind, I meant it."
He raised his wrist and punched the SWEEP second button on his aviator's chronometer.
"The clock is running," he announced.
Ninety seconds passed in absolute silence. It felt like much longer.
"Time's up."
Castillo walked to the forward bulkhead and opened the door.
No one moved.
"Now's the time to leave," he said.
No one moved.
"You heard that, Inspector Doherty?" Castillo asked.
"I heard you clearly, Colonel," Inspector Doherty said.
"Okay, then let's get this circus on the road," Castillo ordered. [THREE] Avion Aviation Services Transient Aircraft Tarmac Midland International Airport Midland, Texas 1705 12 August 2005 "Here they come," Special Agent David W. Yung, Jr., said, gesturing out the window toward a black Mercedes-Benz S500 driving up to the Gulfstream.
"Wind it up, Jake," Castillo ordered as he walked to the switch that controlled the opening and closing of the stair door.
"Midland Ground Control," Torine said, "Gulfstream Three-Seven-Nine at Avion. Request taxi instructions for immediate departure."
Castillo stood in the passage between the cabin and the cockpit and watched as the Mercedes pulled up close to the aircraft.
The Mercedes stopped. The front passenger's door opened and Philip J. Kenyon III-a large, stocky man wearing a white polo shirt, a linen jacket, khaki trousers, and tan western boots-got out as Fernando Lopez stepped out from behind the wheel.
Kenyon, perspiring in the Texas summer heat that baked the tarmac, looked admiringly at the Gulfstream. Then, smiling, he started walking toward the stair door as two men got out of the rear seat of the Mercedes.
Kenyon did not seem to notice as a black GMC Yukon XL approached the Mercedes and the aircraft and pulled to a stop, effectively screening the activity near the plane from any possible onlookers.
As Kenyon got close to the stair door, the man who had been riding in the left rear seat of the Mercedes took what looked very much like a black semiautomatic pistol from under his jacket, rested his elbows on the Mercedes hood, took aim, and fired.
There was no loud sound, as there would have been had the man fired a firearm, but instead there was a barely audible pop, as that of an air rifle firing. Kenyon made a sudden move with his hand toward his buttocks as if, for example, he had been stung by a bee. Then he fell to the ground and appeared to be suffering from convulsions.
The man who had fired what looked like a pistol tossed it to the man who had gotten out of the right rear seat of the Mercedes and then got behind the wheel.
The man who now had what looked like a pistol went to Kenyon and tugged at something apparently embedded in Kenyon's buttocks. Then Fernando Lopez bent over Kenyon and-with some effort, as the big man was still convulsing-picked him up over his shoulders in a fireman's carry and started to climb the stair door.
There was a whine as one of the G-III's engines began to turn.
Castillo came to the head of the stairs, got a firm grip on Lopez's polo shirt, and hauled him and Kenyon into the fuselage as the man who now had the pistol-like device pushed Lopez from the rear.
As soon as everyone was inside the Gulfstream, the Mercedes and then the Yukon drove off.
The stair door began to retract and the Gulfstream began to move as its other engine was started.
"Put him facedown on the couch," Castillo ordered, then had a second thought: "after you take his clothes off. Being in your birthday suit surrounded by half a dozen ugly men with guns usually tends to make interrogatees very cooperative."
"You're bad, Ace," Edgar Delchamps said.
"Oh, shit!" Yung said, then chuckled and added: "Literally. Charley, he's crapped his pants!"
"Is that what they call an unexpected development, Ace?" Delchamps asked.
"Put him in the aft crapper," Castillo ordered. Philip J. Kenyon III returned to full consciousness to find himself sitting on the floor of a plastic-walled cubicle that smelled of feces. An Asian man-in shirtsleeves with an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster and holding what looked like another pistol in his hand-looked down at him.
"What the hell?" Kenyon said. "What happ-"
Yung put the index finger of his bandaged hand in front of his lips and said, "Sssshhh!"
"What the-"
Yung raised the pistol-like device and pointed it at Kenyon's chest.
"The next time you open your mouth, you'll get it again," he said almost conversationally. "What you are going to do now is take off your clothing and clean yourself. Put your filthy shorts in this and hand the rest of your clothes to me."
He handed Kenyon a gallon-sized plastic zipper bag. Philip J. Kenyon III, naked, his handcuffed hands before him holding a small towel over his groin, came down the fuselage aisle.
"Lay the towel on the seat, Tubby," Castillo ordered. "And sit on it. I don't want you soiling my nice leather upholstery."
"God, he smells!" Delchamps said.
Kenyon did as he was ordered.
"Feeling a little disoriented, are you, Tubby?" Castillo asked.
"Jesus Christ!" Kenyon said.
"You have been Tazed," Castillo said. "Or is it Tasered? In any event, what that means is that we have caused fifty thousand volts and one hundred thirty-odd milliamperes of electricity to pass through your body. You may have noticed that this is some what incapacitating.
"If you show the slightest indication of being difficult, or if you refuse to answer completely and without hesitation any questions that I or any of these other gentlemen ask you, you will be Tasered again. You understand?"
Kenyon nodded.
"When you are asked a question, you will respond by saying, at the minimum, 'Yes, sir' or 'No, sir.' Understand?"
Castillo noticed more than a little anger in Kenyon's eyes. But his fear clearly was far worse.
Kenyon nodded and said, "Yes, sir."
"Do you have any questions, Tubby?"
It took Kenyon thirty seconds to respond, enough time for him to pick up a little bravado.
"I'd like to know what the hell is going on here, Castillo," he said, stiffly. "And where I am, where we're going. I was told I was just coming out to see your new airplane."
"That's three questions," Castillo said. "From now on, when I say you may ask a question, that means one question. But since you were unaware of the rule, I will answer your three questions.
"Where are we? We are at approximately twenty thousand feet in a climbing attitude on a course of approximately three hundred forty degrees. We are headed for Florence, Colorado. We'll get to what the hell is going on here in a bit. Another question?"
"Florence, Colorado? What's in Florence, Colorado?"
"That's two questions, Tubby. I'm not going to tell you again. The next time he asks two questions at once, Special Agent Yung, Taser him."
"Yes, sir," Yung said.
"But since your questions are some what related, I will answer them. Florence, Colorado, is home to the Federal ADMAX prison, ADMAX meaning 'Administrative Maximum Security Prison.' Are you familiar with the Florence ADMAX, Tubby?"
"No," Kenyon replied, some what impatiently.
Castillo held up his index finger.
"No, sir," Kenyon said, quickly.
"The Florence ADMAX confines very bad people-and I mean really confines: Prisoners are not allowed contact with any other prisoners and are released from their one-man cells for exercise for one hour per day. They are allowed one-hour family visits every other month, provided, of course, their behavior has earned them that privilege.
"And by very bad people, I mean, for example, Robert Ha
nnsen, the FBI agent who was caught spying for Russians, and-of special interest to you-both Omar Abdel-Rahman and Ramzi Yousef, the Islamic terrorists who bombed the World Trade Center in 1993. They are all going to spend the rest of their lives without the possibility of parole in the Florence ADMAX. Personally, I think all traitors and terrorists, or those who help them, should be executed, but the court showed those scumbags leniency. Perhaps they will, too, in your case.
"I wouldn't bet on that, though, Tubby. You're an Aggie. You were an Army officer. You knew better than to do what you did. I really can't see a jury-especially a Texas jury-recommending clemency for you. Question?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Kenyon said, having mustered just a little more bravado.
"The next time he volunteers a mistruth, Yung, Taser him."
"Yes, sir."
"Tubby, you're not actually going to deny, are you, that you sent $1,950,000 from accounts you probably thought no one knew you have in the Caledonian Bank and Trust Limited in the Cayman Islands to the Aari-Teg mosque in Easton, a religious group with known connections to Muslim terrorists?"
Kenyon's skin paled. His eyes widened.
"Are you?" Castillo pursued.
Kenyon sat up abruptly and vomited on the floor.
"Jesus H. Christ!" Edgar Delchamps said, disgustedly.
"Go back to the bathroom, Tubby," Castillo ordered. "Get some paper towels from the cabinet and clean up your mess."
Kenyon raised his handcuffed wrists.
"I noticed," Castillo said, as the vile smell spread. "So what? Hurry up. You're stinking up my aircraft."
Kenyon struggled to his feet from the low couch and walked to the rear of the fuselage.
"Looks like something stung Tubby on the ass, doesn't it?" Delchamps asked.
The others laughed.
Kenyon came back down the aisle with paper towels in his hands, dropped to his knees, and started to mop up his vomitus. No one said a word.
Yung, a handkerchief over his mouth and nose, went aft and into the head, came out with an aerosol can of air freshener, then emptied it as he came forward in the cabin.
When Kenyon thought he had finished, he looked at Castillo, who shook his head.
"Clean, Tubby, means clean," Castillo said.
It took Kenyon three more trips to the toilet for paper towels and a lot of scrubbing before Castillo nodded and said, "Sit down."
"Okay, where were we before Tubby disgraced himself?" Castillo asked.
"I didn't know those people in Philadelphia were terrorists," Kenyon blurted.
"I didn't say you could speak," Castillo said. "The next time you speak without permission…"
He mimed shooting the Taser.
Kenyon recoiled as if Castillo's finger were the real thing.
"Are you going to talk to us, Tubby? Or wait for the people waiting for you at Florence?" Castillo asked.
Kenyon remained silent.
"Your choice," Castillo pursued. "What's it going to be?"
Kenyon looked off in the distance, thinking. Then he looked long and hard at Castillo.
"I'll tell you anything you want to know, but you've got to believe me, I didn't know the people in Philadelphia were terrorists."
"Well, we'll listen to what you have to say," Castillo said. "Can I have your recorder, Jack?"
Doherty handed Castillo a small tape recorder.
Castillo went to Kenyon.
"Put your knees together, Tubby," he said, and when Kenyon had complied, Castillo laid the tape recorder on Kenyon's legs. "If that falls to the floor…" he said and mimed shooting the Taser again.
Kenyon quickly put his hands out to hold the recorder in position on his knees.
"Now, before I switch that on," Castillo said, "there's something I want to tell you in case you're thinking that your civil rights have been violated and therefore it doesn't matter what you tell us, it would not be admissible in court.
"You're sitting in a sort of a court. We are your judges and the jury. Let me tell you who we are. You know Fernando, of course, and you remember me, and may even know I'm an Army officer. Special Agent Yung is with the FBI. That's Edgar Delchamps of the CIA. That's Inspector Doherty of the FBI. Those two are George Feller and Sam Oliver of the Secret Service. The airplane is being flown by Colonel Jake Torine of the Air Force. The copilot is an Army officer, Major Dick Miller.
"You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this. The reason is-presuming you ever get back to Midland or when your lawyer is finally admitted to Florence and you could tell him-that neither your lawyer nor anyone else is going to believe that you were kidnapped by your classmate at Texas A amp;M and hustled aboard a G-III piloted by an Air Force officer and an Army officer, where you were threatened and humiliated by another Army officer with whom you were once in the Boy Scouts, and then interrogated by a very senior FBI agent, two Secret Service agents, and a CIA officer.
"Think about it, Tubby. The only chance you have of not spending the rest of your life in a cell at Florence ADMAX is to come clean with us. Do we understand each other?"
"I told you I'd tell you anything you want to know. But you have to believe me when I tell you I had no idea that was a terrorist group or mosque or whatever in Philadelphia."
"So you keep saying," Castillo said. "He's all yours, Inspector."
Doherty moved from the forward-facing chairs in which he had been sitting and sat down on the couch facing Kenyon. He took out a small notebook and a ballpoint pen, then reached across the aisle and switched on the tape recorder.
"Interview of Philip J. Kenyon III," Doherty began, "begun at five-fifty p.m. central standard time, 12 August 2005, aboard an aircraft in the service of the United States somewhere above Texas en route to the Florence ADMAX, Florence, Colorado, by Inspector John J. Doherty, Office of the Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, acting under Presidential Authority. Present are Colonel C. J. Castillo, team chief, Mr. Edgar Delchamps, Office of the Director, Central Intelligence Agency, Special Agents George Feller and Samuel Oliver of the Dallas Office, United States Secret Service, and FBI Agent David W. Yung, Jr.
"State your name and occupation, please."
Kenyon swallowed and then, as if he was having trouble finding his voice, finally announced that he was Philip J. Kenyon III, chairman of the board of the Kenyon Oil Refining and Brokerage Company of Midland, Texas.
"Mr. Kenyon," Doherty said. "It is my understanding that you are making this statement voluntarily, without either coercion of any kind or the promise of immunity from prosecution or the promise of special consideration because of your cooperation. Is that true?"
Kenyon's eyes glanced at Castillo, then looked at the floor. He exhaled audibly and said softly, "Yes."
"A little louder, please?"
"Yes, that's true."
"Let's start at the beginning," Doherty said. "How did you first become involved in illegal transactions connected with the United Nations oil-for-food program?"
Kenyon exhaled again.
"They came to me," he said, finally, "I didn't go looking for it. They came to me."
"Who came to you?"
"A man named Lionel Cassidy," Kenyon said. "He came to me and asked if I would be interested in some thirty-two-dollar-a-barrel oil."
"Do you have an address for Mr. Cassidy?"
"No. He always contacted me."
"But he was known to you?"
"I never saw him before the day he came up to me at the bar at the Petroleum Club. The one in Dallas. Not the one in Midland."
"But how did he know you?"
Kenyon shrugged helplessly.
"I don't know. But he seemed to know all about me and my business. And he said, 'I've heard you might be interested in fifty thousand barrels at thirty-two-point-five.' Hell, of course I was. That was ten dollars under market."
"You say he seemed to know all about your business?" Yung asked.
Doherty gave him a d
irty look and held up his hand to silence any reply from Kenyon.
"State your name and occupation and then repeat the question," Doherty ordered.
"Special Agent David W. Yung, Jr., FBI, on assignment to the Office of Operational Analysis," Yung said. "Mr. Kenyon, you say the man, Lionel Cassidy, who came to you seemed to know all about you and your business?"
"Yes, He did."
"I'm going to show you a photograph, Mr. Kenyon, and ask if you can tell me who it is," Yung said.
Kenyon looked at the photograph.
"Yeah, that's Cassidy all right. The sonofabitch who sucked me into this mess."
"This is Inspector Doherty. Special Agent Yung showed Mr. Kenyona five-by-seven-inch clear color photograph of a white male approximately forty-five years of age, approximately five feet eleven inches tall, and weighing approximately one hundred sixty-five pounds. Mr. Kenyon identified the man in the photograph as Lionel Cassidy. The man in the photograph is well known to me, Special Agent Yung, and Colonel Castillo by another name, which we know is his real name. That name is not germane to this interview."
"I'm telling you he told me his name was Cassidy, Lionel Cassidy," Kenyon said, plaintively. "Why should I lie to you about that?"
"No one is suggesting that you're lying, Mr. Kenyon," Doherty said. "So what did you do when Mr. Cassidy offered you fifty thousand barrels of oil at thirty-two dollars and fifty cents per barrel?"
"Well, I was suspicious at first, but…" "And now we turn to the contribution you made to the Aari-Teg mosque," Doherty said, a half hour later. "Why did you do that?"
"Well, I certainly didn't want to," Kenyon said. "And I had no idea-I said this before but I'll say it again-I had no idea there was any kind of a terrorist connection whatever."
"So tell me what happened," Doherty said.
"It was in Cozumel," Kenyon said. "I took the family down there for a little sun and sea, you know. And Cassidy was there."
"Castillo," Castillo interjected. "Where in Cozumel was this, Mr. Kenyon?"
"You mean the hotel?"
Castillo nodded.
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