“Yes, sir,” the three said, chuckling almost in unison.
“And when I heard what favor he was asking, I was glad that I had replied in the affirmative, because it pissed me off, too. If I’d known about this, I would have taken action myself.”
“Known about what, Mr. President?” Montvale said.
“You’re the director of National Intelligence, Charles,” the President said, “so I am presuming you (a) know what’s going on in Paraguay and (b) have a good reason for not telling me about it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. President,” Montvale said.
“You have any idea what I’m talking about, Natalie?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. President.”
“Well, then, let me tell you,” the President said. “What the drug cartel down there has been doing is kidnapping our agents and then either turning them into junkies or giving them fatal overdoses of what we euphemistically call ‘controlled substances.’ Are you learning this for the first time, Charles?”
“No, sir. Of course, I’m aware of the situation—”
“Natalie?”
“I’ve heard of the abductions, Mr. President, but not about the…uh…business of making the agents drug addicts.”
“Charley, are you learning this for the first time now?”
“No, sir.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” the President said. “Sometime when we have time, Charles, we can have a long philosophical discussion of what the DNI should, or should not, pass on to the commander-in-chief, but right now all we have time for is dealing with the problem.
“I have come by my intelligence regarding this situation from His Honor the Mayor. It seems that his father, who was, you recall, His Honor the Mayor for a very long time, had a lifelong pal, one Francis “Big Frank” Timmons, who the current mayor told me his father said was one of the only two really honest cops in Chicago.
“The mayor told me that Big Frank Timmons called him and asked him for a favor. The mayor, who was bounced on Big Frank’s knees as an infant and calls him ‘Uncle Frank,’ said ‘Name it,’ or something like that.
“Big Frank told the mayor that his son Byron—who is a captain on the Chicago Police Force—just had a visit from an official of the Drug Enforcement Administration, who told him that his son, Special Agent Byron J. Timmons, Jr., of the DEA, was missing from his assignment at the U.S. embassy in…whatever the hell the capital city is…in Paraguay…”
“Asunción,” Castillo furnished without thinking.
The President’s face showed that he was not very grateful for the information.
“…and that the possibility he had been kidnapped had to be faced, although they had no proof of that.”
Castillo exhaled audibly.
“What’s with the deep breathing, Charley?” the President asked.
“Pardon me, Mr. President.”
“What does it mean, Colonel?” the President demanded coldly.
“Sir, I don’t know if the DEA man in Chicago knew this, but the embassy in Asunción knew the day after Timmons disappeared that he had been kidnapped. They sent a photograph of him, surrounded by men in balaclava masks, and with a garrote around his neck.”
“How long have you known about this?” the President asked.
“That Timmons had been kidnapped, about”—he paused and did the arithmetic—“thirty-six hours, Mr. President. I learned about the photograph being sent to the embassy about midnight last night, sir.”
“And you, Charles?” the President asked.
“I learned of this incident for the first time last night, Mr. President, when Colonel Castillo did.”
“And you, Natalie?”
“I’m hearing about this man…Special Agent Timmons…for the first time now, Mr. President. I’m sure the embassy made a report. I can simply presume it never made it to my desk.”
“I guess not,” the President said. “Well, it seems that Special Agent Timmons wrote his grandfather—who bounced the mayor on his knee, you will recall—about what was happening down there. He said there have been four such kidnappings. His makes five. So neither he nor Captain Timmons was very much impressed with what the DEA representative had told them. The word they used to describe it, forgive me, Madam Secretary, was ‘bullshit.’ At that point, Big Frank Timmons called the mayor.”
“Mr. President,” Montvale said, “just as soon as you’re finished with us, I’ll get on the telephone to our ambassador in Paraguay.”
“No, you won’t, Charles,” the President said.
“Sir?”
“What I told the mayor was that I have an in-house expert for dealing with matters like this, and just as soon as I could lay my hands on him, I was going to tell him that his first priority was to get Special Agent Timmons back from these bastards.”
“Sir, you don’t mean Charley?” the secretary of State asked.
“Natalie, who else could I possibly mean?” the President said. But it clearly was more a statement than a question.
“Mr. President,” she said, “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“Your objection noted,” the President said.
“Mr. President, with all possible respect,” Castillo said, “I don’t know anything about dealing with something like this.”
“How much did you know about finding a stolen airliner, Colonel? Or a missing UN official?”
“Sir, with respect, I know nothing about the drug trade….”
“I thought the way this works is the superior officer gives an order and the subordinate officer says, ‘yes, sir,’ and then does his goddamnedest to carry it out. Am I wrong?”
“Yes, sir,” Castillo said.
“I’m wrong?”
“No, sir. I meant to say—”
“I know what you meant to say, Charley,” the President said, and smiled. “And to assist you in carrying out your orders, the DNI and Secretary Cohen will provide you with whatever you think may be useful. As will the secretary of Defense and the attorney general. I will inform them of this just as soon as I can get to Andrews, where both are waiting for me. We’re going to have a look at what Katrina has done.” He paused. “Any questions?”
There was a chorus of “No, sir.”
The President had another thought: “I’m going to call the mayor from Air Force One and tell him that I am sending you up there to talk to him and Big Frank and Captain Timmons and anyone else who needs reassurance that I’m doing everything in my power to right this wrong.”
“Yes, sir,” Castillo said.
“Wear your uniform,” the President said. “I think they’ll find that reassuring. My wife says you look like a recruiting poster in your uniform.”
He gave his hand to Castillo, then walked out of the breakfast room with only a nod of his head to Montvale and Cohen.
“My God!” Natalie Cohen said when the door had closed after him.
Montvale shook his head, then walked to the window. Cohen followed him after a moment, and then Castillo did.
No one said a word until after the President had walked quickly across the lawn to the Sikorsky VH-3D and gotten aboard, and the helicopter had gone airborne.
“Colonel,” Montvale said, breaking the silence, “by the time you return from Chicago, the experts on the drug trade will be waiting for you in your office. And I suggest you make the flight in my Gulfstream. You have just flown yours eight thousand miles. It—and you—must be tired.”
“Thank you.”
“Unnecessary,” Montvale said. “While it might be a wonderful solution to this problem, if you were to crash and burn flying your own airplane, I fear the President would suspect I had something to do with it.”
“I can’t believe you said that, Charles,” Natalie Cohen said, appearing genuinely shocked. She touched Castillo’s arm. “Maybe you can reason with Ambassador Lorimer. I really don’t think he should be going to Uruguay, especially now.
”
Castillo nodded.
IV
[ONE]
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, D.C.
0845 2 September 2005
“Madame Secretary, Mr. Director,” the uniformed Secret Service man at the door to the north side drive apologized, “it’ll be just a moment for your vehicles.”
They had come down from the presidential apartment before the Secret Service agent on duty there passed word to the uniformed Secret Service agent in charge of the motor pool “downstairs” that they were coming.
“Not a problem,” Natalie Cohen said. “Thank you.”
Castillo had learned the cars would be brought to the door following protocol. The secretary of State was senior to the director of National Intelligence. Her armored Cadillac limousine would arrive before Montvale’s black Yukon XL Denali.
And since I am at the bottom of the protocol totem pole, mine will arrive last.
If at all.
The secretary of State put her hand on Castillo’s arm and led him outside, out of hearing of the Secret Service uniformed officer and, of course, DNI Montvale, who hurried to catch up.
“Charley,” she said, “I’m going to do my best to talk him out of this. But I’m not sure I’ll be able to.”
Castillo nodded.
“Do I have to ask you to try hard not to make waves?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Let me know what I can do to help.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
Her limousine rolled up. A burly man—obviously an agent of the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, which protects the secretary of State—got quickly out of the front seat and glanced around carefully as he opened the rear for Cohen. He saw Castillo and eyed him suspiciously.
Castillo winked at him, which obviously displeased him.
Oh, for Christ’s sake! What are the odds that somebody wanting to do her harm is going to walk out of the White House with her and the director of National Intelligence?
Montvale’s Denali rolled up. Castillo saw his coming up the drive.
“I’ll call the Eighty-ninth,” Montvale said, “and tell them that you’ll be using my Gulfstream.”
The 89th Airlift Wing at Andrews Air Force Base provided the White House with its fleet of airplanes, including the two VC-25A Boeings that had the call sign of Air Force One when flying the President.
“I thought you were kidding,” Castillo said.
“Not at all.”
“Thanks just the same. I think it would be smarter if I used my own.”
“My God, aren’t you tired?”
“Exhausted. But not a problem. I’ll just set the autopilot and the alarm on my wristwatch. Then I can sleep all the way to Chicago.”
It took a moment for Montvale to realize his chain was being pulled. When that showed on his face, Castillo said, “I’d rather not have people asking, ‘Who’s the guy in the presidential G-IV?’ But thanks anyway.”
“My God, Castillo!” Montvale said, and got in the rear seat of his vehicle.
His Yukon rolled off, Castillo’s rolled up, and Castillo got in the backseat.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asked.
“Why don’t you move this thing so it’s not blocking the door while I find out?” Castillo said, and reached for the telephone.
“White House.”
“If you can guess who this is, can you ring my office?”
“Oh, you heard about the voice recognition, did you, Colonel?”
“God, ain’t we clever?”
There was a chuckle, then Agnes’s voice.
“Colonel Castillo’s line.”
“Good morning,” Castillo said.
“How’d it go with the President?”
“Disastrously. Guess who’s supposed to get that DEA agent back from the bad guys?”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes. Is Tom there?”
“He’s at your house. Or at the Alexandria Police Department on the way to your house. He wanted to keep them from getting curious about all the sudden activity at the house.”
“Can you get him on the horn and ask him to meet me at the house?”
“Done.”
“Thank you. I’ll bring you up to speed later, Agnes.”
“That would probably be a very good idea, boss.”
The connection was broken.
“Home, James,” Castillo regally ordered the driver, who smiled and shook his head as he put the Yukon into motion.
“We have a Secret Service radio in here, Colonel,” he said. “I can probably get McGuire for you, if you want.”
“Thank you, but no. McGuire’s likely to cause me trouble, but he’s too smart to argue with Agnes.”
“Are you through, Colonel?” the White House operator asked.
“Can you get my house, please?”
A moment later, a male voice announced, “Colonel Castillo’s line.”
There was something about the less than vibrant timbre of the voice that gave Castillo pause. And then he understood.
Jesus, it didn’t take them long to put Lester to work, did it?
“Colonel Castillo, Lester.”
“Yes, sir, I know. There’s a voice recognition system on this. Just as soon as you said, ‘Colonel Castillo,’ your name popped up.”
“What do you think it would have done if I had said, ‘Clint Eastwood’?”
“Sir, as efficient as this system seems to be, I think it would have reported, ‘Colonel Castillo.’”
“Yeah, it probably would have. Is Major Miller around there?”
“Yes, sir. One moment, sir. I’ll get him for you, sir.”
A few seconds later, Miller came on the connection.
“Yes, sir, Colonel, sir?”
“Dick, two things. First, keep everybody there.”
“Too late. Mrs. Doherty drove off with him right after you left.”
“Damn.”
“He lives near here. I have a number. Want me to get him back?”
“No. If I need him, we can call. Anybody else gone?”
“No, but the troops are getting a little restless.”
“Well, keep everybody there. I’m on my way.”
“Done. And?”
“And?”
“You said two things.”
“Oh, yeah. See if Lorimer has a uniform. If he does, put him in it. And I’m presuming you brought mine from the hotel?”
“Freshly run one last time through their very expensive dry-cleaning operation. If I were to infer that the trumpets have sounded and that you and Pegleg are about to rush to the sound of musketry, would I be close?”
“A lot worse than that. I’ll explain when I get there.”
As the Yukon turned onto West Boulevard Drive, a red light-emitting diode (LED) on the telephone began to flash. Castillo looked at it, wondered what it was, and had just decided it meant he’d better pick up the phone when the driver said, “I think you’d better pick up, Colonel. That’s the White House calling.”
Oh, boy, another friendly offer of help from Montvale!
“Castillo.”
“I just talked to that man in Chicago,” the President of the United States said. “Timmons’s family will be expecting you.”
“Mr. President, I’m on my way to pack my bag.”
“Reassure the family, Charley, that’s the important thing. Make them understand the situation is under control. Get the mayor off my back.”
In other words, lie through my teeth.
The situation is anything but under control.
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“I’ve got a number for you to call. Got a pencil?”
“Just a moment, please, sir.”
He furiously patted his pockets until he felt a ballpoint pen, dug it out, and knocked the cap off.
“Ready, sir.”
Charley wrote the number the President gave hi
m on the heel of his left hand.
“Got it, sir.”
The President made him read it back.
“Right,” the President said. “Let me know how it goes, Charley.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man!”
The line went dead.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a piece of paper, do you?” Charley asked the driver.
“There’s a clipboard with a pad and a couple of ballpoints on a chain on the back of the other seat, Colonel.”
Castillo looked. There was.
“Shit,” he muttered.
He took the clipboard, wrote the number on the pad, tore the sheet off, and put it in his pocket. He then tried to erase the number from the heel of his hand with his handkerchief. He couldn’t even smear it.
“Shit,” he said again.
[TWO]
7200 West Boulevard Drive
Alexandria, Virginia
1005 2 September 2005
“You’re dangerous, Charley,” Colonel Jake Torine said after Castillo had related what had happened in the presidential apartment. “If I could figure out how, I’d get and stay as far away from you as possible.”
Castillo raised an eyebrow. “It’s damn sure not intentional. And whatever you do, don’t call me Magnet Ass.”
“Why not?”
“That one’s been taken a long time, by one of you Air Force types. Fred Platt flew forward air controller covert ops over Laos as a Raven. He earned the name Magnet Ass drawing fire in supposedly unarmed Cessnas—0-1 Bird Dogs—and damn near anything else with wings.”
“Platt? Didn’t we just call him for—?”
“Yeah,” Castillo interrupted before he could say anything more, “yeah, we did.”
“I ask this because I don’t know anything about the drug trade,” Edgar Delchamps said, “and also because I am much too old to play John Wayne, but wouldn’t I be of more use here working on the oil-for-food maggots?”
“No question about it,” Castillo said. “It never entered my mind to bring you or Doherty in on this.”
“Next question,” Delchamps said. “Do I get to live here?”
“For as long as you want. The only thing I’d like you to do is keep an eye on Eric Kocian and Sándor.”
Delchamps gave him a thumbs-up gesture.
The Shooters Page 16
