The Shooters

by W. E. B Griffin

  2340 3 September 2005

  “We’re home, Colonel,” the Secret Service driver of the Yukon said, gently pushing Castillo’s shoulder.

  Castillo’s head jerked up. For a moment he was confused, and then he knew where he was.

  In the front seat of the Yukon, in the basement of the house.

  “How long was I out?” he asked.

  “You dozed off before we were out of the airport.”

  “You ever hear that only people with nothing on their conscience can go to sleep with no difficulty?”

  The Secret Service agent chuckled.

  “So what happens now?” Castillo asked.

  “There’s my relief,” the Secret Service agent said, pointing to a man walking up to the Yukon. “I go off at midnight, in twenty minutes.”

  Max was walking to one side of the man, and looking at the truck.

  “In that case, can I offer you a nightcap?” Castillo offered. “I’m about to have one. Which I richly deserve. This has been one hell of a day.”

  He sensed reluctance on the part of the Secret Service agent.

  “If you have moral scruples against Demon Rum, then okay. Otherwise, consider that an order. I always feel depraved when I drink alone.”

  “I could use a little nip.”

  “Then come along.”

  Castillo’s door opened as he reached for the handle.

  “Good evening, sir,” the Secret Service agent who had walked up to the Denali said.

  Max effortlessly stood on his rear paws and put his forepaws on Castillo’s legs.

  “How are you, pal?” he asked, and scratched Max’s ears.

  Max sat down on his haunches.

  “I see you’ve made a pal of Max,” Castillo said to the Secret Service agent.

  “He’s been meeting every car that’s come in here,” the Secret Service agent said. “Obviously waiting for you. Until now, he’s just taken a look and gone back upstairs.”

  “I probably smell like hamburger,” Castillo said, and then asked: “You’re going to be here all night? What did you do wrong?”

  The Secret Service agent chuckled.

  “Not to go any farther?”

  Castillo nodded.

  “We bid for the duty. This looked like a much better deal than spending all night sitting in the truck in the White House parking lot. Seniority counts, and I won.”

  “Well, the only person who can get me out of here tonight is the President, and I heard on the radio that he’s on the Gulf Coast looking at hurricane damage, so why don’t you find an empty bedroom and catch some sleep?”

  “Maybe later, Colonel. Thank you.”

  “I have to be at the Nebraska Avenue Complex at eight. Is that going to screw up your getting relieved?”

  “No, sir. If you’re sure about that, I’ll have my relief meet me there.”

  “Why don’t you do that?”

  He nodded.

  The stairway from the garage led into the kitchen, and there was a door from the kitchen to the living room. When Castillo got close to it, Max brushed past him and pushed it open. Castillo motioned for the Denali driver to follow him. When he got inside, he was surprised to see Edgar Delchamps and a somewhat frumpy man Delchamps’s age whom he didn’t recognize. They were sitting in the leather chairs and couch around the battered coffee table, working on a bottle of Famous Grouse.

  “Oh, Edgar, I’m touched,” Castillo said. “You waited up for me!”

  Neither man seemed amused.

  “We need to talk, Ace,” Delchamps said.

  “Will it wait until we get a drink?”

  “Yeah, but he’ll have to drink his someplace else,” Delchamps said, then looked at the Secret Service agent and added, “Nothing personal.”

  “Not a problem, sir. And I can pass on the drink.”

  “Have the drink,” Castillo ordered.

  Not another word was said until Castillo had poured two drinks, given one to the Secret Service agent, who downed it, then said, “Ah. Thank you, sir. And good evening, gentlemen.”

  He left the living room, closing the door behind him.

  “Say hello to Milton Weiss, Ace,” Delchamps said. “He and I go back a long way.”

  When they shook hands, Weiss’s eyes were cold and penetrating. Castillo was reminded of the first time he’d met Aleksandr Pevsner. He wondered now—as he had then—whether the look in the eyes was natural, or whether it had been cultivated.

  When you get that look, you know damned well you’re really being examined.

  Max walked up to Castillo and rubbed his head against Castillo’s leg. Castillo scratched Max’s ears and looked at Delchamps.

  “And where is the master of this beast?”

  “In the Monica Lewinsky Motel,” Delchamps said.

  “What?”

  “Okay, Ace,” Delchamps said, tolerating him. “Kocian consulted a canine gynecologist who confirmed that Mädchen is in the family way. Which came as no surprise to those of us who watched the happy couple couple happily in the garden of the safe house for hours at a time.

  “Said canine gynecologist offered his professional opinion that the lovers should now be separated, as Max cannot seem to grasp that his role in the procreation of his species is no longer required, and that Mädchen is very likely going to take large pieces out of him if he continues to try to force his now unwanted attentions on her. How to do that?

  “Kocian—having been advised by Miller that your suite in the Monica Lewinsky is empty but paid for through the end of the month—decided that he had enough of bucolic suburban life and had Miller take him and Mädchen to the Mayflower, leaving Max here, his fate to be decided later.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Castillo said.

  “To answer your unspoken question: Yes, Herr Kocian is being sat upon. Miller will stay with him until we get the Secret Service in place. Have you any further questions, Colonel, or can we get on with this?”

  “Get on with what?”

  “Please tell Milton what steps you have taken vis-à-vis your little problem in Paraguay.”

  “I don’t know who the hell Milton is.”

  “Trust me, Ace,” Delchamps said sarcastically. “Milton Weiss is not a member of the drug mafia.”

  Castillo almost said, So what? but stopped. Instead, he asked, “Why?”

  “Before you begin to apply damage control, Ace, it is convenient to know the extent of the damage.”

  Castillo looked at Delchamps but didn’t say anything.

  “Trust me, Charley,” Delchamps said, this time very seriously.

  If I don’t go along with him now, he’s entirely capable of telling me to go fuck myself, get up, and walk out of here and the OOA.

  And I can’t afford to lose him.

  “Lorimer says,” Castillo began, “and I think he’s right, that they have Timmons in the sticks—on an estancia of some kind—in either Paraguay or across the river in Argentina. Not far from Asunción, in other words. Someplace we can’t easily—if at all—get to on the ground without being spotted.

  “So the problem is, one, to find out where he is, and, two, to stage an operation to get him back.

  “One, I hope, isn’t going to be much of a problem. A very competent agency guy is already in Asunción—”

  “You mean the station chief?” Weiss interrupted.

  “No, I mean a guy who works for me. The station chief in Asunción is apparently…intellectually challenged. The guy I’m talking about knows his business.”

  Weiss nodded.

  Castillo went on, “My guy is there—the phrase he used was ‘To make sure the cork is back in the bottle’—because a very bright young DIA guy in Asunción pretty much figured out another operation we ran down there, and my guy went to Asunción on his own, to make sure nobody else in the embassy talks too much. My guy—”

  “Milton and Alex Darby are old pals, Charley,” Delchamps said.

  Weiss nodded, and there was the hint
of a smile on his lips.

  Is he laughing at me?

  “Darby will learn in about nine hours, maybe ten, about this new mission.”

  “How?” Weiss asked softly.

  “From a…”

  Oh, to hell with it!

  “From a man named Munz, who used to run SIDE and who now works for me—”

  “Good man, Milt,” Delchamps said softly.

  “—and is now on his way to Asunción on our airplane. The airplane is also carrying radios—ours, with some incredible capabilities—”

  “The ones you get from AFC?” Weiss asked.

  Did this guy already know about the radios?

  Or did Delchamps tell him?

  Castillo nodded. “Which, with a little bit of luck, they’ll be able to get into Paraguay. And with a little more luck, Munz and Darby will be able to get up and running.

  “The fallback plan there is that if they can’t smuggle the radios into Paraguay, Munz will arrange to see that we can get them into Argentina, and from there into Paraguay. And one of my sergeants—who can get the radio, radios, up and running—will be on the first plane to Asunción tomorrow morning. That’s if he couldn’t get on the last plane today. And two Delta Force communicators were supposed to be on the 1130 Aerolíneas flight from Miami to Buenos Aires tonight. They’re going as tourists, with orders to report to a certain lady at our embassy….”

  “Susanna isn’t what comes to mind when one hears the phrase ‘clandestine service,’ is she?” Weiss said, smiling.

  I don’t think Delchamps told him about Susanna Sieno. And if I’m right, that means he knows a hell of a lot about what’s going on down there.

  Who is this guy?

  “Cutting this short, if Alex Darby and Munz are half as good as I think they are, finding out where these bastards have Timmons won’t take nearly as long as setting up the operation to get him back will take.”

  “Tell Milton how you plan to do that,” Delchamps said.

  “The only way to do that is with helicopters,” Castillo said. “And the problem there is that we’re going to have to use Hueys. Nobody in Argentina or Paraguay has Apaches or Black Hawks or Little Birds. The problem there is where to get the Hueys, and crews for them. I don’t want to use active-duty Army pilots if I don’t have to; same thing with the technical people.

  “There used to be a long list of unemployed Huey drivers hanging around China Post…”

  Castillo stopped and looked at Weiss to make sure he understood what he was talking about. Weiss nodded, just perceptibly, signaling he knew that China Post No. 1 (In Exile) of the American Legion, in addition to providing the camaraderie and other benefits of any Legion Post, also served as sort of an employment agency for retired special operators of the various branches of service.

  “…but when I called there, a friend of mine said most of them are now either back in the service, or working for Blackwater or people like that, or the agency. He’s trying to find me some chopper drivers, etcetera, but that may take some time, if it works at all.

  “And then, presuming I can pull that rabbit magically from the hat, that leaves the problem of getting the aircraft and the people into Argentina black.

  “Taking first things first, I’m going to Fort Rucker right after the briefing tomorrow—”

  “What briefing?” Weiss asked.

  “Montvale is gathering all the experts in his empire to give me everything they have on what’s going on down there.”

  Weiss nodded. “And you’re going to do what at Fort Rucker?”

  “They have some Hueys. Montvale is going to have somebody from the secretary of Defense’s office call down there and tell them to give me whatever I ask for, and not to ask questions. I’m going to see what’s available and what shape it’s in. And then I’m going to borrow an airplane and go see Ambassador Lorimer, who lost his house to Hurricane Katrina and wants to move to Estancia Shangri-La until he can get a new house in New Orleans. I’ve got to talk him out of that.”

  “I hadn’t heard about that,” Delchamps said.

  “What are you going to do about shooters?” Weiss asked.

  Castillo was surprised at first at Weiss’s use of the term. Few people outside the special operations community used the politically incorrect term to describe special operators whose mission was likely to require the use of deadly force.

  What the hell, he seems to know about everything else.

  “My friend at China Post told me I just about wiped out the list of available shooters when I hired them to protect the Mastersons,” Castillo said. “That assignment’s just about over, but those guys are all getting a little long in the tooth, so I’m probably going to have to get my shooters from Delta at Fort Bragg. I already gave General McNab a heads-up.”

  “That’s about it?” Weiss said.

  “I probably could have gotten more done if I hadn’t spent all that time playing the slots in Vegas,” Castillo said.

  Weiss smiled.

  “You’re right, Ed,” he said. “He is a wiseass, but he’s also good. Very good.”

  “Am I supposed to blush at the compliment?” Castillo challenged.

  “The station chief in Asunción is not intellectually challenged, Colonel,” Weiss said.

  “That’s not my information,” Castillo said. “If he’s a friend of yours, I’m sorry.”

  “Jonathon Crawford’s a very good friend of mine, actually,” Weiss said. “And for that reason I was delighted to hear your unflattering opinion of him.”

  Castillo looked at him in confusion, then threw both hands up to signal he didn’t understand.

  Weiss explained: “If you—and more important, Alex Darby—didn’t see through the image Jonathon has painted of himself as a mediocrity sent to an unimportant backwater post to keep him from causing trouble working beyond his limited ability somewhere important, then perhaps that very important deception is working.”

  Castillo looked at Delchamps.

  “This is where you tell me what’s going on here, Ed.”

  “We’ve got your attention now, do we, Ace?” He looked at Weiss. “Okay. Where do I start? You want to do this?”

  “You do it. I don’t think the colonel trusts me.”

  Delchamps nodded, looked thoughtful for a moment, then said: “When I was bringing you up to speed on the Cold War dinosaurs, Ace, I may have led you to believe that we all came out of Europe. Not so. There is a subspecies, Latin American, which is held with just about the same degree of suspicion and contempt by many people in Langley as are those of us who worked Berlin, Vienna, Budapest, and points east. Milton here is one of these. Fair, Milton?”

  “Actually, I think of myself more as a chasmatosaurus, rather than a dinosaur, but close enough.”

  “As a what?” Castillo asked.

  “The chasmatosaurus was a crocodilelike meateater from the Triassic period,” Weiss said. “Generally acknowledged to be far more lethal than the dinosaur, the proof being that their descendants are still eating dogs and the occasional child in Florida, Australia, and other places, whereas the dinosaurs are no longer with us.”

  “Whatever the paleontological distinction,” Delchamps said, smiling at the look on Castillo’s face, “these people recognize each other as noble persons facing extinction at the hands of the politically correct members of what is laughingly known as the ‘Intelligence Community.’

  “Such was the case when Milton saw me rooting about in the South American files in Langley. He suggested that we have a drink for auld lang syne. And on the fourth drink, he idly inquired what I was looking for. Knowing him as well as I do, I asked him why he wanted to know.

  “He said it had come to his attention that I had been in the Southern Cone, and he wanted to know what I could tell him to confirm or deny a credible rumor that Major Alejandro Vincenzo of the Cuban Dirección General de Inteligencia—dressed up as a Ninja at an estancia in Uruguay called Shangri-La—had been whacked by a bunch of
special operators operating under a Presidential Finding.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Castillo exclaimed softly.

  “I asked him where he had heard this rumor, and he told me from his pal Crawford, and one thing led to another, and he told me why he was interested, and I told him what we have been up to in Gaucho Land.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Castillo said again.

  “I suppose you are aware, Colonel,” Weiss said, “that you would not win any popularity contests held in Langley?”

  Castillo nodded. “So I have been led to believe.”

  “If I were to tell you that you are a burr under the saddle blankets of two distinct groups of people over there, would that come as a shock to you?”

  “Two distinct groups?”

  “Group One, as I suspect you know, is composed of those annoyed because you (a) found that stolen 727 they couldn’t, thereby splattering a good deal of egg on the agency’s face, and (b) you—the Office of Organizational Analysis—is operating under the authority of that Presidential Finding, which among other things has seen Ambassador Montvale give this dinosaur”—he pointed at Delchamps—“blanket access to anything he wants at Langley.

  “Group Two—which, as hard as you may find this to believe, I don’t think you know about—is a bunch of good guys who are running an important operation they feel you are about to fuck up by the numbers while trying to get this DEA agent back.”

  “What kind of an important operation? And why hasn’t Montvale told me about it?”

  “Montvale doesn’t know about it,” Weiss said. “He’s almost as unpopular over there as you are. For a number of reasons, the most obvious being that he’s now over the agency. The DCI isn’t even number two; just one more subordinate chief of agency, like the heads of DIA and DEA.”

  “What’s this important operation?”

  “How much do you know about the drug trade?” Weiss asked.

  “Virtually nothing,” Castillo admitted.

  “Okay. Basic Drugs 101. The agency estimates—and this sort of thing is what the agency is really good at—Afghanistan will have half a million acres devoted to the growing of Papaver somniferum L., or the poppy. Opium is obtained from the unripe poppy seed pods, and then converted to heroin. Afghanistan grows more than ninety percent of poppies used in the heroin drug trade.