“Hey, Red, how are you?” Juan Carlos inquired.
“I’m well and my Carlito’s right, Juan Carlos,” Sweaty said. “Pietr Urbanovsky, the general manager of the Grand Cozumel, is ex-SVR. He’s going to be — or should be — very careful about who he hires.”
“Let me tell you how I think that could have happened, Red,” Juan Carlos said. “The Cubans are tight with the drug cartels. So some cartel people went to the barrio where, for example, the people who pick up trash on the beach, polish the marble in the lobby, work in the laundry, people like that, live. They said, ‘Hey, Jose. You’ve been working too hard. Take a vacation. Go to your village. Stay there for a month. Here’s three months’ pay and a bus ticket.’ Then if Jose or Pedro says, ‘Thank you very much, but I like my job and don’t want to risk losing it by not showing up for work,’ Pasquale, the cartel guy, says, ‘Pedro, you either accept our generosity, or we’ll cut your head off and hang it from a bridge over the highway. And then we’ll go to your village and rape your wife, mother, and any daughters you happen to have.’ Then when Pedro and Jose and everybody else doesn’t show up for work, no problem for your pal… What did you say his name was?”
“Pietr Urbanovsky,” Sweaty furnished.
“Your pal Pietr had no trouble filling his vacancies because the Cubans — who probably said they were Mexican — were looking for employment. Getting the picture, Red?”
“I don’t think you’re getting the picture, Pancho Villa,” Sweaty said sweetly. “My Carlito told you Pietr is not stupid.”
“I didn’t say he was, Red. I didn’t mean to imply that he was taken in. What I think your pal Pietr will do is watch the Cubans closely as they pick trash off the beach, polish the marble, et cetera — which of course gets those necessary tasks accomplished — while he looks into his new employees and what happened to the ones who didn’t show up for work.
“Sooner or later, most likely sooner, he will know all. And then he will get rid of his new employees the way he gets rid of employees foolish enough to think they can take home hams and roasts of beef and things they have stolen from the rooms of Grand Cozumel guests by dropping them into garbage cans.”
“How does he do that, Juan Carlos?” Charley asked.
“The rumor going around is that he retrieves the hams and roasts and whatever from the garbage cans and then puts the thieves in them. Then they are loaded aboard one of Señor Pevsner’s cruise ships for disposal with the other garbage on the high seas.”
“Does the Service Employees International Union know about this?” Charley asked.
“The rumor going around is that the union organizers they sent down here also went for a cruise in garbage cans,” Juan Carlos said.
“The reason we called, Charley,” Paul Sieno said, “was to ask whether we should just let things take their natural course, or whether you want to tell Señor Urbanovsky not to put the Cubans in garbage cans right away, so we can keep an eye on them.”
“Keep them alive,” Sweaty answered for him.
“Yeah,” Castillo agreed thoughtfully, after a moment.
“And I called, as I said before, to beg you to join yourselves in holy matrimony in the Elvis Presley Wedding Chapel in Vegas,” Juan Carlos said. “If you try to get married here, there will be bodies and rivers of blood all over the streets, which will greatly distress the Greater Cozumel Area Chamber of Tourism.”
Again, Sweaty answered for Castillo: “We can’t get married until this nonsense with President Clendennen is over. But when it is, I intend to be married in the Grand Ballroom of the Grand Cozumel by His Eminence Archbishop Valentin, assisted by Archimandrite Boris. I don’t think His Eminence would be willing to conduct the service in the Elvis Presley Wedding Chapel.”
“I don’t see it as a problem,” Charley said. “I don’t know how long it will take to dissuade President Clendennen of his notions I should get rid of the Somali pirates and seize Drug Cartel International, but it’s not going to be anytime soon. Another month or six weeks at a minimum, during which I have no intention of going anywhere near the North American continent.”
“I hear and obey, Master,” Paul Sieno said.
“Pancho,” Sweaty said, “as soon as we get off the line, I’ll call my brother and tell him to call Pietr and explain the situation to him.”
“Take care, Red,” Juan Carlos said, and the green LEDs on their CaseyBerrys stopped glowing.
[SEVEN]
Green Acres Farm
Near Hershey, Pennsylvania
0830 17 June 2007
“Nice breakfast, Frank,” FBI Director Mark Schmidt said to DCI Lammelle. “Really nice ham!”
“We do it all here on the farm,” Lammelle replied. “Breed the pigs, slaughter them, and cure the hams and bacon in our own smokehouse. We had a Russian — an SVR biological warfare chemist we turned in Africa — in here a couple of years ago who showed us how to do that. Before him, we used to sell the live pigs to an Amish farmer.”
“May I suggest we get started?” General Allan B. Naylor asked, with an unmistakable tone of annoyance in his voice.
As someone once suggested, the best-laid plans of mice and men “gang aft agley,” which meant they often don’t come to pass. In this case, not everyone who was to participate in what Secretary Cohen was diplomatically calling “the conversation” was able to make it to Green Acres Farm as early as Secretary Cohen had hoped.
The first delayed arrival, that of DCI Lammelle, had been caused by the motion picture star Shawn Ohio, whose portrayal of CIA agent Dirk Eastwood in a series of films had made him the thirty-fourth-highest-paid actor in Hollywood. In his private life Mr. Ohio was somewhat to the left of his screen persona. He was a great admirer of Hugo Chávez, and deeply convinced that Mr. Chávez had been grossly wronged by the CIA.
To bring this outrage to the attention of the American people, Mr. Ohio, wearing a T-shirt, the back of which was emblazoned with the legend GET THE CIA OUT OF VENEZUELA AND GIVE HUGO HIS TUPOLEV BACK!! had covered his hands with Magic Glue and attached himself to the plate-glass doors leading to the foyer of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.
It had taken some time to get Mr. Ohio out of sight of the members of the media — including Mr. C. Harry Whelan of Wolf News — he had brought with him, and into the hands of the Virginia State Police, as it proved to be extremely difficult to separate Magic Glue — covered hands from plate glass. Mr. Ohio, who was really not nearly as stupid as some of his right-wing critics alleged, had learned this technique after he had handcuffed himself to the fence around the White House on two previous occasions of protest. Then it had taken only seconds to detach him with bolt cutters.
His demonstration this time had caused DCI Lammelle to delay his departure for Pennsylvania by nearly two hours. Lammelle did not feel comfortable in leaving until Mr. Ohio was firmly — and safely — in the hands of the state police, as he feared the CIA security officers might not enthusiastically obey his admonition not to hurt the sonofabitch. If that should happen, Mr. Lammelle knew, Mr. Whelan would bring it to the world’s attention on Wolf News, as would the other media members via their respective outlets. The world would love to see and hear the real CIA clubbing a fictional CIA hero into unconsciousness while he was glued to their front door, and the media knew it.
And then Director of National Intelligence Truman Ellsworth had telephoned at nine p.m. to say he was lost somewhere in the vicinity of Intercourse, Pennsylvania, and God only knew when he would be at Green Acres. Secretary Cohen had then decided they would hold off starting the meeting until after breakfast the next morning, when everybody would be there and fresh to deal with the problem.
Gathered around the picnic table set up for breakfast on the veranda of the farmhouse were Attorney General Palmer, Defense Secretary Beiderman, DNI Ellsworth, DCI Lammelle, FBI Director Schmidt, and Generals Naylor and McNab.
Secretary Cohen began the conversation by saying, “General McNab, you have the floor.�
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“The President arrived at Fort Bragg unannounced,” General McNab began simply, “and in a C-37A, not in his 737.”
“What’s a C-37A?” FBI Director Schmidt asked.
“A Gulfstream,” DCI Lammelle answered for him, adding, “Mark, for Christ’s sake, if you keep interrupting, we’ll be here all day.”
Schmidt was unrepentant.
“I want to get the facts straight. This is important business we’re undertaking.”
“Please continue, General McNab,” Secretary Cohen said.
“Yes, ma’am,” McNab went on. “With him, the President had…”
Five minutes later, McNab concluded with: “As he left the President implied that I might be promoted if the seizure of the airfield by Clendennen’s Commandos went smoothly, and that my promotion might be further speeded if I showed more enthusiasm for getting Clendennen’s Commandos to wear Clan Clendennen kilts. After the President left, I called Secretary Cohen and reported his visit.”
“He’s bonkers, absolutely bonkers,” Lammelle said.
“You’re speaking of the President of the United States, Mr. Lammelle,” Secretary Beiderman said.
“Unfortunately,” Lammelle said.
“Who, to judge by his sending the Secret Service to the Greenbrier to see if Natalie was really there to play golf, believes there is a plot to remove him from office,” the attorney general said.
“Isn’t there?” Beiderman challenged.
“Let’s talk about seizing the airfield,” Truman Ellsworth said, ignoring the question. “First of all, where is it?”
“It’s in, or on, a dry lake in the middle of Mexico,” Lammelle answered.
“And how difficult would it be to seize, General McNab?”
“I would not accept an order to seize it,” McNab replied.
“But if you were?” Ellsworth pursued.
“Ordered to seize it, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I would refuse the order.”
“And he would be in his rights to do so,” the attorney general said. “It is not unlawful to refuse to obey an unlawful order.”
“Splitting legal hairs, as we were both taught to do at our beloved Yale School of Law, Freddie,” Ellsworth went on, “that is not precisely the case. Under the War Powers Act — and please correct me if I err — the President can order military action for a period not to exceed thirty days anywhere in the world he feels the need.”
“Point well taken, Ellsworth. I clearly remember Professor Hathaway’s brilliant—”
“Good ol’ Oona,” Ellsworth interjected. “A giant in the law!”
“… lectures on the subject,” the attorney general went on. “I believe that would be ‘giantess of the law,’ Ellsworth.”
“Right you are! I stand corrected!”
“Let me ask a question,” FBI Director Schmidt asked.
“Certainly,” Ellsworth and Palmer said over one another.
“If the President ordered Secretary Beiderman to seize this airfield, and Beiderman ordered General Naylor to carry it out, and then General Naylor ordered General McNab to conduct the operation, and General McNab refused, then what?”
“In that circumstance, I would resign,” Secretary Cohen said.
“With all possible respect, Madam Secretary,” Schmidt said, “that question was addressed to Secretary Beiderman and General Naylor. What would you do, General Naylor, if you issued an order and General McNab, in effect, said go piss up a rope? Excuse the language, Madam Secretary.”
“If General McNab refused the order—”
“Presumably you think it would be a lawful order?” Ellsworth asked.
“Yes, sir. I believe the President has the authority to issue such an order.”
“And if General McNab refused to accept it?”
“Then I would have no alternative but to relieve him of his command and place him under arrest.”
“And then what?”
“What do you mean, ‘and then what’?”
“What does it sound like, General?”
“Well, charges would be drawn up, and then—”
“I meant to the order to seize the airfield.”
“Oh, I see what you mean. Well, sir, on General McNab’s relief, command would pass to his deputy—”
“Enough!” Natalie Cohen said softly, but with such great intensity that every head around the table turned to her.
“General McNab is not going to be relieved,” she said. “Aside from Frank Lammelle, he’s the only one of you who seems to both comprehend the situation and know what he’s doing.
“Now, I’m going to go around the table and see if there is at least one thing on which we all agree. The question is, ‘Do you believe that the President’s mental state poses a genuine threat to the United States?’ Just that, and I want a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ not a learned, legal hairsplitting. Mr. Attorney General…”
Attorney General Palmer met her eyes for a long moment and then said, “Yes.”
So, one by one, did everyone around the picnic table.
When the last man, General McNab, had spoken, she nodded and said, “Thank you. Now in the same manner, I’m going to ask another question and again want a yes or no answer. The second question is, ‘Do you have a specific course of action you would take if you were in my position, that is, as secretary of State, to keep the President from proceeding with his plan to seize the airfield, which would be an act of war?’ Understand that I am not asking for your opinion about what we should do about the President, just about stopping him from executing his seize-the-airfield plans. And again I’ll start with the attorney general. Mr. Palmer?”
When everyone had answered in the negative, she said, “Thank you,” again, and added, “I am left with no choice but to take whatever action, or actions, I feel are necessary to keep this situation from getting any further out of control. I will accept full responsibility for so doing. The flip side of that coin is that I am not going to ask permission, either individually or as a result of a vote, for what I will do. If this is unsatisfactory to any of you, I will return to Washington and place my resignation on President Clendennen’s desk today. If I hear no objections, I will assume I have your permission to proceed.”
Although several of the men around the picnic table seemed on the verge of objecting, none did.
Director of National Intelligence Ellsworth, however, asked, “May I ask what you plan to do, Madam Secretary?”
She chuckled.
“I’m going to do what President Clendennen said he was going to do. Put the problem before someone who thinks out of the box and see what he has to say.”
“I don’t think I follow you, Madam Secretary,” Ellsworth said.
She didn’t reply, instead taking her CaseyBerry from her attaché case and punching autodial and the loudspeaker button.
“Yes, ma’am, Madam Secretary,” Castillo’s voice came over the line. “And how are you?”
“Colonel, I need you here,” she said.
“Is she talking to Castillo?” FBI Director Schmidt asked incredulously.
“No, ma’am,” Castillo said. “Sorry. The deal I made was I stall You Know Who for as long as it takes, meanwhile staying out of sight, and more importantly out of reach of any claws You Know Who might want to extend toward me.”
“Colonel, I realize that I have no authority to order you to do anything. But if I had that authority, I would.”
“I knew this call would be a disaster when you called me ‘Colonel,’” Castillo said. “What’s happened?”
“If you’re not coming, there’s no point in telling you.”
There was a ten-second — which seemed much longer — pause.
“I’m floating down the Rhine….”
“So the CaseyBerry tells me.”
“It’ll take me three hours, maybe a little more, to get to the airplane. Andrews?”
“Fort Bragg would be better.”
“Does General McNab know I’m—”
“We’re,” a sultry voice injected.
“… know we’re coming?”
“General McNab is with me now. So is Frank.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have answered the damn phone,” Castillo said, and the green LEDs on Secretary Cohen’s phone died.
“And who was the woman who chimed in?” FBI Director Schmidt asked.
“She’s the colonel’s fiancée, Mark,” Lammelle said. “Stunning redhead. In a previous life, she was an SVR lieutenant colonel.”
“You look very thoughtful, General,” Cohen said to McNab. “Is there something you want to say?”
“I was thinking, Madam Secretary, that you and Charley’s abuela are the only people in the world who could get him to come to the States.”
“No, I’m sure he would come if you asked,” she said.
“Not for me?” Lammelle asked.
“Not for you or anyone else,” she said.
She immediately regretted the comment when she saw General Naylor’s face, but it was too late to take the words back, or even try to lamely include Naylor.
And I’m supposed to be a diplomat.
PART IX
[ONE]
Office of the Secretary of State
The Harry S Truman Building
2201 C Street, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
1425 17 June 2007
When her CaseyBerry vibrated and she looked at it and saw that Charley Castillo was calling, Secretary Cohen’s first reactions were relief and pleasure.
He’s calling to tell me he’s on his way to Fort Bragg.
But even as she pushed the TALK button and put the cellular to her ear, she had second, worrisome thoughts.
If there is one absolutely predictable facet of dealing with Lieutenant Colonel Castillo it is that he is absolutely unpredictable.
“Hello, Charley. I gather you got off all right?”
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