IV

[ONE]

The Hotel Gellért
Szent Gellért tér 1
Budapest, Hungary
2315 4 February 2007

 

The silver, two-month-old, top-of-the-line Mercedes-Benz S550 drove regally across the Szabadság híd, and on the other side of the Danube River turned left toward the Hotel Gellért, which was at the foot of the Gellért Hill.

Budapest, which began as two villages, Buda and Pest, on opposite sides of the Danube River, had a long and bloody history. Gellért Hill, for example, got its name from Saint Gerard Gellert, an Italian bishop from Venice whom the pagans ceremoniously murdered there in 1046 A.D. for trying to bring the natives to Jesus.

Buda and Pest were both destroyed by the Mongols, who invaded the area in 1241. The villages were rebuilt, only to suffer rape and ethnic cleansing when the Ottoman Turks came, conquering Pest in 1526 and Buda fifteen years later.

By the time the Szabadság híd was built in 1894-96, the villages had been combined into Budapest, and Hungary had become part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Emperor Franz Josef personally inserted the last rivet—a silver rivet—into the new bridge and then with imperial immodesty named the structure after himself.

The bridge itself was dropped—like all the other bridges across the Danube—into the river when the Russians and the Germans fought over Hungary during the Second World War. It was the first bridge rebuilt after the war by the Soviet-controlled government and named the Liberty Bridge. When the Russians were finally evicted, it became the Freedom Bridge.

The silver Mercedes-Benz turned off the road running alongside the Danube and onto the access road to the Hotel Gellért, then stopped.

Gustav, a barrel-chested man in his fifties who appeared to be a chauffeur but served as a bodyguard and more, got quickly out from behind the wheel and opened the rear passenger door.

A tall man, who looked to be in his midsixties, got out. He adjusted a broad-brimmed jet-black hat—one side of the brim down, the other rakishly up—and then turned back to the car, bending over, leaning into the car. When he came out, he had two Bouvier des Flandres dogs.

The larger, a bitch, was several times the size of a very large boxer. The other was her son, a puppy, on a leash. The puppy was about the size of a small boxer.

As the man had taken them from the car, another burly man in his sixties had gotten out the other side of the car, carrying an ermine-collared black leather overcoat.

 

 

The burly man’s name was Sándor Tor. In his youth, Tor had done a hitch—rising to sergeant—in the French Foreign Legion. On his return to Budapest, he had become a policeman. He had been recruited into the ÁVH, the Államvédelmi Hatóság, Hungary’s hated secret police, and again had risen to sergeant.

When the Russians had been driven from Budapest, and known members of the Államvédelmi Hatóság were being spat on and hung, Mussolini-style, en masse from any convenient streetlight, Tor had found sanctuary in the American embassy.

And only then had the CIA revealed to the new leaders of Hungary the identity of the man who had not only saved the lives of so many anti-Communists and resistance leaders—by warning them, via the CIA, that the ÁVH was onto them—but also had been one of the rare—and certainly the most reliable—sources of information about the inner workings of the ÁVH, which he’d gained at great risk to his life from his trusted position within the secret police.

Thus, the best that Sándor Tor could have hoped for had he been exposed was a quick death from ÁVH torture rather than a slow one.

Tor was decorated by the Hungarian government and appointed as inspector of police.

But that, despite having triumphed over the forces of evil, didn’t turn out to be a movie scenario in which he lived happily ever after.

There were several facets of this. For one, his peers in the police, reasoning that if he had been keeping a record of the unsavory activities of the ÁVH, it was entirely likely that he would keep a record of theirs, both feared and shunned him.

And Tor didn’t like being a cop without an agenda. He had done what he had done not only because he hated the Communists generally, but specifically because his mother and father and two brothers had been slowly strangled to death in the basement of the ÁVH headquarters at Andrássy út 60.

Getting back at the Communists was one thing; spending long hours trying to arrest burglars—for that matter, even murderers—was something else.

And his wife, Margo, had cancer. They had had no children.

He applied for early retirement and it was quickly granted.

Sitting around the apartment with nothing to do but watch cancer work its cruelty on Margo was difficult.

Then Tor heard of the return to Budapest of the German firm Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H. The company’s intention was to reclaim the properties—farms, a brewery, several vineyards, a newspaper business, and other assets—seized from them by the Communists.

He also heard they were looking for someone to head their security.

After he filled out an application form at Gossinger G.m.b.H’s newly reopened downtown offices, he heard nothing for three weeks, and had decided that they weren’t interested in his services.

Then there was a telephone call saying that if he was still interested, a car would pick him up in an hour, and take him for an interview. He almost didn’t go; Margo had insisted and he went.

The car—a new, top-of-the-line Mercedes with Vienna plates—took him to the legendary Hotel Gellért, at Szent Gellért tér 1, overlooking the Danube River from the Gellért Hill.

Tor thought he would be interviewed, probably in the restaurant or the bar, by a personnel officer of the Gossinger organization. Instead, he was led to the elevator which carried him to a top floor apartment, overlooking the Danube, which apparently occupied that entire corner of the building.

An interior door opened and an enormous dog came out, walked to him, sniffed him, then sat down. Normally, Tor was not afraid of dogs. But this one frightened him. He thought it had to weigh well over fifty kilos. Even when the dog offered his paw, he thought carefully before squatting to take it.

“You come well recommended,” said a voice in Hungarian with a Budapester accent. “Max usually shows his teeth to people he doesn’t like. Often they wet their pants.”

Tor had looked up to see a tall silver-haired man who seemed to be in his sixties standing in the doorway.

“My name is Eric Kocian,” the man said. “Come in. We’ll talk and have a drink.”

He opened the door wide and waved Tor inside a spacious and well-furnished apartment.

Kocian walked to a sideboard and turned, holding a bottle in his hand.

“Wild Turkey Rare Breed all right with you?” he asked.

“I don’t know what it is,” Tor confessed.

“One of the very few things the Americans do superbly is make bourbon whisky. This is one of the better bourbon whiskys. My godson gave me a case for my seventy-seventh birthday.”

Seventy-seventh birthday? Tor had thought. My God, he’s that old?

“Sir, I don’t know. I’m supposed to be interviewed for a job.”

“And so you are. Don’t you drink?”

“Yes, sir. I drink.”

“Good. My experience has been you can’t trust people who don’t.”

Kocian poured him a large, squarish glass half-full of the bourbon whisky.

“This is what they call ‘sipping whisky.’ But if you want water and ice ...”

Kocian pointed to the sideboard.

“This is fine, thank you,” Tor said.

“May I ask about your wife? How is she?”

How does he know about my Margo?

“Not very well, I’m afraid.”

Kocian waved him into a leather-upholstered armchair and seated himself in an identical chair facing it.

“If you decide to take this position,” Kocian announced, “she will be covered under our medical care program. Most German physicians are insufferably arrogant, and tend to regard their patients as laboratory specimens, but they seem to know what they’re doing. Maybe they’ll have answers you haven’t been able to find here.”

“Am I being offered the position?” Tor asked, on the cusp of incredulity.

“I have one or two other quick questions first,” Kocian said.

“Quick questions? But you don’t know anything about me.”

“I know just about everything about you that interests me,” Kocian said. “Are you still on the CIA’s payroll?”

“I was never on their payroll,” Tor said.

“That’s not what I have been led to understand.”

“I never took a cent. If I had been exposed, they promised to try to get Margo out of Hungary and give her some sort of pension, but ...”

“You thought before the ÁVH arrested you, they would have arrested her for her value in your interrogation, so you didn’t give it much thought?”

Tor nodded.

“I would have to have your word that you would no longer cooperate with the CIA in any way.”

“I haven’t talked to anyone in the CIA for over a year.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I can promise you that,” Tor said. “No cooperation with the CIA.”

“Welcome to the executive ranks of Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H.”

“Just like that?” Tor asked, and then blurted, “We haven’t even talked about what I’m going to do. Or how much—”

“What you are going to do is relieve me of keeping Hungarian fingers out of my cash box, prying eyes out of any part of our business, provide such other security as I deem necessary, and keep Otto Görner off my back. So far as compensation is concerned, I suggest that twice what you were being paid as an inspector would be a reasonable starting salary. There are of course some ‘perks,’ as my godson would say. Including an expense account and a car.”

Tor knew that Otto Görner was the managing director of the Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H., empire.

But who is this godson?

“You’ve mentioned your godson twice. Where does he fit in here?”

“His name is Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger. You’re a policeman. Is that enough of a clue for you?”

Tor chuckled.

“You know who Otto Görner is?”

Tor nodded.

“Otto has the odd notion that I have to be protected from myself and others, in particular the Russians. He has managed to convince my godson of this nonsense. It will be your job to convince both of them that you are doing so while at the same time making sure that whomever you charge with protecting me from the Russians and myself are invisible to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me top that off,” Kocian said.

Tor looked at his glass and was surprised to see that it was nearly empty. He didn’t remember taking one sip.

 

 

Sándor Tor had been director of security for Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H. (Hungary), for six months when Margo died.

The doctors in Germany, with great regret, had been unable to do anything for her. When it was apparent the end was near, Margo asked to be returned from Berlin to Budapest so that she could die in her own bed.

Eric Kocian and a medical team from Telki Private Hospital—Budapest’s best—were waiting with an ambulance at the Keleti Pályaudvar railway station. Staff from the kitchen of the Hotel Gellért was waiting at the Tor apartment.

Margo died at four in the morning the next day. At the time, her husband was asleep in a chair at one side of her bed and Eric Kocian was asleep in another chair on the other side of the bed.

Margo was buried the next day, beside Sándor’s mother and father in the Farkasréti Cemetery in Buda (the western part of Budapest). Tor had found—not without great effort—where their Communist murderers had disposed of their bodies, and had them exhumed and reinterred in the Farkasréti Cemetery. He never learned what had happened to the bodies of his murdered brothers.

When Margo’s crypt had been cemented closed, Eric Kocian had said, “You don’t want to go back to your apartment. Come with me and we’ll have a drink.”

They had gone to the Hotel Gellért and stayed drunk together for four days.

Sometime during that period, Sándor had realized that while he might now be alone in the world except for his employer/friend Eric Kocian, Eric Kocian was similarly alone in the world, except for his godson, whom he apparently rarely saw, and his friend/employee Sándor Tor.

Early in the morning of their fifth day together, Sándor Tor led Eric Kocian to the thermal baths—built by the Romans—below the hotel where they soaked, had a massage, and soaked again. And then they had a haircut and shave.

At noon, they were at work.

Sándor returned only once to the apartment he had shared with Margo. He selected the furniture he wanted to keep, and had it moved to the Gellért, where Kocian had arranged an apartment for him on the floor below his own.

 

 

Sándor Tor draped the ermine-collared black leather overcoat over Eric Kocian’s shoulders.

The bitch, who answered to the name Mädchen, headed for a row of shrubbery to meet the call of nature. Kocian led the puppy, named Max, to the shrubbery.

“You and Gustav go to bed,” Kocian ordered. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Tor got back in the Mercedes, which then carried him to the hotel entrance. When Gustav had parked the car—a spot near the door was reserved for it—he followed Tor into the hotel lobby. Gustav got on the elevator to check the apartment out before Kocian got there, and Tor walked to a column and stood behind it in a position from which he could watch Kocian enter the lobby and get on the elevator.

Kocian came through the door four minutes later and walked toward the elevator bank.

A tall, well-dressed man who had been sitting in an armchair reading the Budapester Tages Zeitung suddenly dropped the newspaper to the floor and walked quickly to where Kocian was waiting for the elevator.

Where in the name of the goddamn Virgin Mary and all the fucking saints did that sonofabitch come from?

Tor had almost made it to the bank of elevators when the door opened. Gustav saw him coming and stopped, then stepped back against the elevator’s rear wall.

Kocian, Mädchen, and Max got on the elevator.

Tor followed.

“I thought I told you to go to bed,” Kocian said.

Tor took a Micro Uzi from his under-the-arm holster, held it at his side, and then pushed the button which would send the elevator to the top floor.

“I mean Herr Kocian no harm,” the tall, well-dressed man said in German, and then repeated it in Hungarian.

The elevator door closed, and the elevator began to rise.

“Pat him,” Tor ordered, now raising the muzzle of the Micro Uzi.

Gustav quickly, but unhurriedly, thoroughly frisked the tall, well-dressed man.

“Nothing,” Gustav said, referring to weapons. But he now held a Russian diplomatic passport, a Hungarian foreign ministry-issued diplomat’s carnet (a plastic-sealed card about the size of a driver’s license), and a business-size envelope.

He examined the carnet, saw that it read, COMMERCIAL COUNSELOR, RUSSIAN EMBASSY, and then handed the carnet to Tor.

“Actually, I’m Colonel Vladlen Solomatin of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki,” the tall, well-dressed man then said in Hungarian, and for the third time said, “I mean Herr Kocian no harm.”

“You’re from the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki?” Kocian asked in Russian.

“It’s the Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation,” Colonel Solomatin said. “Yes, I am.”

“I know what the SVR is, Colonel,” Kocian said.

The elevator door opened.

Kocian looked over his shoulder to make sure there was no one in the landing foyer, and then backed out of the elevator, motioning for Solomatin to follow him.

“Put the elevator out of service,” Kocian ordered.

“I mean you no harm, Herr Kocian,” Solomatin said again.

“You keep saying that,” Kocian replied. “What is it you do want from me, Colonel Vladlen Solomatin of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki?”

“A service, sir. Your help in righting a great wrong.”

“Specifically?”

Solomatin turned to the chauffeur, who was still holding Solomatin’s diplomatic passport and the envelope. He reached for the envelope.

“May I?” he asked.

Gustav looked to Kocian for guidance. Kocian nodded, and Gustav allowed Solomatin to take the envelope.

Solomatin removed a letter from the envelope and extended them to Kocian.

“I am asking that you get this to Colonel Berezovsky. Or Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva.”

Kocian read the letter:

Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki

1 February 2007

  

Yasenevo 11, Kolpachny
Moscow 0101000
Tel: Moscow 923 6213
Second Directorate
Colonel V. N. Solomatin

 

My Dear Cousin Dmitri:

 

God’s blessings and the warmest greetings to you, Lora, Sof’ya and Svetlana!!

I am very happy to be able to tell you that the committee has finally reached the only conclusions that they could in the circumstances:

1. That the charges of embezzlement of state funds laid against you and Svetlana were without any basis in fact.

2. That the late Colonel Evgeny Evgenyvich Alekseev, who laid the charges against you both, was at the time bereft of his senses, more than likely suffering from paranoia and had been so suffering for a considerable period of time, possibly as much as a year or even longer.

3. That while it was clearly the responsibility of the both of you to bring your suspicions regarding Colonel Alekseev’s instability to the attention of General Yakov Sirinov, your failure to do so in the circumstances, and your vacating your posts without authority, was understandable.

Other points made during the committee hearing by General Sirinov put to rest once and for all the allegation that you defected. “If they intended to defect,” the general said, “they would not have left with only the clothing on their backs and what cash they had in their pockets. And if they had wound up in the hands of MI6 or the CIA, even involuntarily, you know our people would have told us.”

 

At the conclusion of the committee hearing, General Sirinov was ordered to do whatever was necessary to locate you, make you aware of what has happened, and to bring you home.

 

He has delegated that responsibility to me, telling the committee that if he were you or Svetlana, the only person he would trust would be me. I have been given the authority to take any steps I consider necessary.

 

Embassies of the Russian Federation worldwide have been directed to provide you with whatever you need, including funds, and to facilitate your return to the Motherland.

In this connection, when I suggested to General Sirinov that, considering what injustices had occurred, you and Svetlana might question even my motives, he said he would have no objection to your leaving Lora and Sof’ya wherever they may be for the time being, and directed me to provide funds for their support.

 

They can join you here when you are satisfied that you have been welcomed home as loyal Russians.

 

I really hope to see all of you here together soon.

 

May God protect you both on your return journey!

 

Your loving cousin,
Vladlen

As Kocian handed the letter to Sándor Tor, he said, “I have no idea who either of these people are, Colonel.”

“Please, Herr Kocian,” Solomatin said. “I am really trying to help them; to right an injustice.”

“Well,” Kocian said dryly, “the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki does have a certain reputation for causing injustices. But this is the first I’ve ever heard of them trying to right any.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Colonel, I can’t help you.”

“Herr Kocian, the last confirmed sighting of Colonel Berezovsky, his wife and daughter, and Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva was when they got on Lieutenant Colonel Castillo’s airplane at Schwechat airfield in Vienna.”

Kocian looked him in the eyes, and said, “Colonel Castillo? Someone else I never heard of.”

“The colonel is sometimes still known by the name he was given at his christening, Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger. Inasmuch as you stood as one of his godfathers, Herr Kocian, I find it hard to believe you’ve forgotten.”

Kocian didn’t respond.

“Herr Kocian, I swear before God and by all that’s sacred to me that I am telling you the truth. And I am begging you to help me.”

Kocian said nothing.

“Will you at least get the letter to Colonel Castillo?” Solomatin asked, plaintively.

After a long moment, Kocian said, “Gustav, please be good enough to escort Colonel Solomatin to his car. Give him back his passport and carnet.”

“And the letter?” Gustav asked.

Kocian looked at the letter for a long moment, and then folded it and put it in his jacket pocket.

He walked toward the door to his apartment.

“Thank you, Herr Kocian. May God shower you with his blessings,” Solomatin said.

Gustav motioned for him to get back on the elevator.

 

 

When Gustav walked into Kocian’s apartment a half hour later, the old man was sitting in a Charles Eames chair with his feet on its footstool, holding a glass of whisky. Mädchen lay beside him. Max was sitting beside Tor, his head cocked as if to ask, “What the hell are you doing?”

Tor was sitting on a Louis XVI chair that looked to be of questionable strength to support his bulk. A section of a bookcase that lined that wall of Kocian’s sitting room had been swung open, revealing a hidden compartment with a communications device on a custom-built shelf.

Tor had fed the communications device the letter Solomatin had given Kocian, and now took it from the device and walked to Kocian and handed it to him.

“There was no car outside,” Gustav said. “I offered him a ride to wherever he wanted to go. He accepted, and said the Russian embassy. A Volkswagen with diplomatic plates got on my tail as we got off the Szabadság híd and followed us to Baiza. What I think is there were two cars, that one and another—or at least some Russian sonofabitch with a cell phone—here. They were waiting for us at the bridge.”

“And what happened at Baiza?” Kocian asked, referencing the embassy of the Russian Federation at Baiza 35, Budapest.

“He got out of the car, and walked to the gate. The gate opened for him before he got there. They expected him. When I looked in the mirror, the Volkswagen that had been on my tail was gone.”

Kocian waved the letter Solomatin had given him.

“Did you get a good look at this, Gustav?”

When Gustav shook his head, Kocian handed it to him, and Gustav read it.

“Well?” Kocian said.

Gustav shook his head again.

“I don’t have a clue,” he said. “Except, if I have to say this, it smells.”

“You don’t think the SVR forgives defectors?” Tor said sarcastically.

Gustav gestured toward the communications device. “What does Herr Gossinger think?”

“There is one flaw in that miraculous device,” Kocian said. “It doesn’t work unless the party you’re calling answers, which my godson has not yet done.” He paused, pointed to the telephone on the table near him, and said, “See if you can get him on the horn, Sándor. Try the house in Pilar.”

Tor rose from his fragile-looking chair, walked to the couch by the phone, sat heavily down, then from memory punched in a long number on the keypad. He held the receiver to his ear.

“What time is it in Buenos Aires?” Kocian asked.

“It’s after midnight here, so a little after eight,” Tor said, then added, “It’s ringing,” and handed the receiver to Kocian.

Kocian reached over to the table and pushed the phone base’s SPEAKERPHONE button.

“¿Hola?” a male voice answered.

“With whom am I speaking?” Kocian asked in passable Spanish.

“Who are you calling?”

“I’m trying to get Carlos Castillo. He doesn’t seem to be answering his other telephone ...”

“You have the wrong number, Señor,” the man said and broke the connection.

“Sonofabitch hung up on me!” Kocian said, handing the receiver back to Tor. Tor, turning away so that Kocian would not see his smile, punched in the number again, waited for the ring, and then hit the SPEAKERPHONE button.

“¿Hola?”

“My name is Eric Kocian, I need to speak to Carlos Castillo, and don’t tell me I have the wrong damn number!”

“How are you, Herr Kocian?” the male voice said politely. “Sorry I didn’t recognize your voice.”

“I should have given you my name,” Kocian said. “Paul Sieno, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought I recognized your voice when you told me I had the wrong number,” Kocian said. “Is Carlos handy?”

“Actually, sir, he’s not.”

“Where is he? Can you give me a better number?”

“I don’t have one, sir.”

“That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Charley’s fly-fishing with his girlfriend in Patagonia, Herr Kocian.”

“What did you say?”

“Charley went fishing with his girlfriend, Herr Kocian. In Patagonia. He left word not to bother him unless the sun went out.”

“What if I told you this is very important, Paul? And what girlfriend would that be?”

“I can get word to him, Herr Kocian. Maybe tonight, and certainly by morning.”

“And the girlfriend?”

There was a long pause, then Paul said, “Herr Kocian, if you don’t know about Sweaty, I’m sorry, but you’re not going to hear it from me.”

“Are you telling me he’s drunk and off in the woods with some floozy? Some floozy named Sweaty? That’s what you said her name is, right? Sweaty?”

“Well, I can tell you he’s probably not drunk, because Sweaty doesn’t like him to drink too much. And that I can get word to him to call you, probably tonight, and certainly by morning. Your AFC’s working, right?”

“As a matter of fact, Paul, my miraculous AFC communications device is not working at all. The reason I called on the telephone is because nobody we tried to call on it to find Carlos answered.”

“Sir, we’re not on twenty-four/seven anymore. Just once in the morning—oh-four-twenty-hundred Zulu time—and again in the afternoon at sixteen-twenty Zulu. I’m surprised no one told you.”

“By Zulu, you mean Greenwich?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your AFC is working?”

“Yes, sir. I can have it up in a minute.”

“There’s a document I want Carlos to see. I want to send it in the highest encryption possible.”

“Yes, sir, give me a minute to turn on my AFC.”

“You can get it to him?”

“In the morning, maybe even tonight.”

“I want you and Mrs. Sieno to have a look at it, to see if you can make more sense from it than I can. And tell Carlos what you think.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s not addressed to Carlos, Paul. It’s addressed to someone else. I don’t want that party to see it until after Carlos does.”

“This sounds important, Herr Kocian.”

“I don’t know. It may well be. Is Herr Delchamps available?”

“He’s here, but he went out for dinner.”

“Show this document to him, too, please, with the same caveat that I don’t want the addressee to see it until Carlos has.”

“Got it,” Sieno said. And then, “There goes the AFC, Mr. Kocian. It shows you as online. I’m ready to receive. Send the message.”

 

 

“It came through fine, Herr Kocian,” Paul Sieno said over the encrypted AFC not quite two minutes later. “What the hell is it all about?”

“I don’t know, Paul.”

“Where did you get it?”

“A Russian who said he was Colonel Solomatin was waiting for me in the lobby of the Gellért when I came in about an hour ago.”

“I will be damned! I’ll have this in Charley’s hands just as quick as I can.”

“Thank you, Paul.”

“Herr Kocian, I’m sorry I hung up on you before.”

“No apology necessary. My best regards to Mrs. Sieno.”

“Will do,” Sieno said, then gave the AFC the order: “Break it down.”

The green LED indicating the AFC was connected to another AFC device at Encryption Level One went out.

[TWO]

Club America
Miami International Airport, Concourse F
Miami, Florida
2205 4 February 2007

 

Roscoe J. Danton of The Washington Times-Post was not in a very good mood. Eagle-eyed officials of the Transportation Security Administration had detected a Colibri butane cigar lighter and a nearly new bottle of Boss cologne in his carry-on luggage and triumphantly seized both.

The discovery had then triggered a detailed examination of the rest of the contents of his carry-on luggage. This had uncovered a Bic butane cigarette lighter in his laptop case and three boxes of wooden matches from the Old Ebbitt Grill in his briefcase/overnight bag. Two small boxes of matches, he was told he should have known, was the limit.

With the proof before them that they had in their hands if not an Al Qaeda terrorist cleverly disguised as a thirty-eight-year-old Presbyterian from Chevy Chase, Maryland, then at the very least what they categorized as an “uncooperative traveler,” the TSA officers had then thoroughly examined his person to make sure that he wasn’t trying to conceal anything else—a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, for example—in his ear canal or another body orifice.

With no RPG or other potential weapon found, he was finally freed.

Danton—convinced that his near crimes and misdemeanors had probably caused him to miss Aerolíneas Argentinas Flight 1007, nonstop service to Buenos Aires—had then run all the way down Concourse F to Gate 17 hoping to be proven wrong. There he learned that “technical difficulties” of an unspecified nature were going to delay the departure of Flight 1007 for at least two hours.

As he walked the long way back down the concourse to the Club America, he recalled that C. Harry Whelan had called Miami International Airport “America’s Token Third World Airport.”

Say what you want about Harry—and there’s a lot, all bad, to be said about Harry—but the sonofabitch does have a way with words.

Which is probably why he’s always on Wolf News.

I wonder what they pay him for that?

Roscoe found a seat from which he could have a good view of one of the television sets hanging from the ceiling. Then he made three trips to the bar, ultimately returning to his seat with two glasses of Scotch whisky, a glass of water, a glass of ice cubes, a bowl of mixed nuts, and a bowl of potato chips. Then he settled in for the long wait.

When he looked up at the television, he saw C. Harry Whelan in conversation with Andy McClarren, the anything-but-amiable star of Wolf News’s most popular program, The Straight Scoop.

The screen was split. On the right, McClarren and Whelan were shown sitting at a desk looking at a television monitor. On the left was what they were watching: at least two dozen police cars and ambulances, almost all with their emergency lights flashing, looking as if they were trying to get past some sort of gate.

A curved sign mounted over the gate read WELCOME TO FORT DETRICK.

Their passage was blocked by three U.S. Army HMMWVs, each mounting a .50 caliber machine gun. HMMWV stood for “high-mobility multipurpose wheeled vehicle.” With the acronym a little hard to pronounce, the trucks were therefore commonly referred to as “Humvees.”

“That was the scene earlier today at Fort Detrick, Harry,” Andy McClarren said. “Can you give us the straight scoop on what the hell was going on?”

You’re not supposed to say naughty words on television, Roscoe thought as he sipped his Scotch, but I guess if you’re Andy McClarren, host of the most-watched television news show, you can get away with a “hell” every once in a while.

“A lot of arf-arf,” Whelan said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Careful, Andy. That’s two “hell’s,” probably the most you can get away with. Three “hell’s,” like three small boxes of wooden matches, will see the federal government landing on you in righteous indignation.

“That’s the sound—you’ve heard it—dogs make when chasing their tails.”

“You said that earlier today, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. To describe various senior bureaucrats rushing around, chasing their tails.”

“And so did President Clendennen. Or his spokesman, What’s-his-name.”

“John David Parker,” Whelan offered, “more or less fondly known as ‘Porky.’”

“Okay. So, Porky said the press was playing arf-arf, too. Which meant they were chasing their tails, right?”

“And so they were. Andy, do you really want to know what I think went on over there?”

“I want the straight scoop,” McClarren said. “That’s what we call the show.”

“Okay. Take notes. There will be a quiz,” Whelan said. “You know, Andy, right, that the United States has vowed never to use biological weapons against our enemies?”

“Uh-huh.”

“This was largely because Senator Homer Johns, the junior senator from New Hampshire, thinks that while it is perfectly all right to shoot our enemies, or drop a bomb on them, it is unspeakably evil to use poison gas or some kind of biological weapon on them.”

“You think poison gas is okay, Harry?”

“I think poison gas and biological weapons are terrible,” Whelan said. “But let’s talk about poison gas. In World War One, the Germans used poison gas on us, and we used it on them. It was terrible. In World War Two, the Germans didn’t use poison gas, and neither did we. You ever wonder why?”

“You’re going to tell me, right?”

“Because between the two wars, the Army developed some really effective poison gas. When we got in the war, and American troops were sent to Europe, so were maybe a half-dozen ships loaded with the new poison gas. We got word to the Germans that we wouldn’t use our poison gas first, but if they did, we were prepared to gas every last one of them. They got the message. Poison gas was never used.”

“Interesting.”

“Then science came up with biological weapons. Our Army, in my judgment wisely, began to experiment with biological weapons. This happened at an obscure little Army base called Fort Detrick. The idea was that if our enemies—we’re talking about Russia here—knew we really had first-class biological weapons, they would be reluctant to use their biological weapons on us.”

“Like the atom bomb?”

Harry Whelan nodded. “Like atomic bombs, Andy. We weren’t nuked by the Russians because they knew that if they did, then Moscow would go up in a mushroom cloud. They called that ‘mutual assured destruction.’ The same theory was then applied to biological and chemical weapons.

“Then we had a President running for reelection. Senator Johns and his pals thought painting him as a dangerous warmonger would see their guy in the White House. When the incumbent President saw in the polls that this was working, he quickly announced that he was unilaterally taking the United States out of the chemical-biological warfare mutual destruction game. He announced we wouldn’t use them, period, and ordered the destruction of all such weapons sitting around in ordnance warehouses.

“This saw him reelected. But Johns wouldn’t let him forget his campaign promise. So the Army’s biological warfare laboratories at Fort Detrick were closed and the fort became the home of the U.S. Army Medical Research and Matériel Command. What could be more opposite to biological warfare than medical research?

“Even Senator Johns was satisfied that the forces of virtue had triumphed, and we would never use evil biological warfare against our enemies.

“But Army medical research should, it seemed logical to assume, concern itself with what would happen to our soldiers—even our civilian population—should our enemies use biological warfare against us.

“With that in mind, the medical corps began to study the biological weapons in the Russian inventory. If they knew what the Russians were going to use against us, we could come up with antidotes, et cetera.

“How would we know what biological weapons the Russians had? Enter the CIA.”

“Really?”

Harry Whelan nodded again. “They bribed the appropriate Russian scientists, and soon samples of the Russian biological inventory began to arrive at Fort Detrick for evaluation by the medical corps.

“Since it was the CIA’s duty to evaluate the efficacy of enemy weapons, and since the best place to determine that was Fort Detrick, and since the medical corps was a little short of funds, the CIA thought it only fair that they pay for the investigation.

“This had the additional benefit—since CIA expenditures are classified—of keeping Senator Johns and his pals from learning what was going on. Getting the picture, Andy?”

“That’s a hell of an accusation, Harry.”

Whelan did not reply directly.

“And inasmuch as the CIA was interested in knowing how soon the United States could respond in kind to a biological attack, they asked the medical personnel at Fort Detrick to determine how the Russian biological weapons were manufactured, and to estimate how long it would take—should the unthinkable happen—for us to get our manufacture of such up and running. Or even to compare the Russian biological weapons against our own from the bad old days—samples of our own had been retained for laboratory purposes—and see how long it would take to start to manufacture whichever seemed to be the most lethal.”

“What you’re suggesting, Harry,” Andy McClarren said solemnly, “is that the CIA once again was engaged in doing things they’re not supposed to. Once again doing things that the Congress had forbidden them to do.”

“You sound like Senator Johns, Andy. And once again, you’re both wrong. The CIA has the responsibility—given them by Congress—to find out as much as they can about our enemies’ capabilities and intentions. That’s what they were—are—doing at Fort Detrick. And thank God that they are.”

“Give me a for-example, Harry,” McClarren said, thickly sarcastic.

“How about a hypothetical, Andy?”

“Shoot.”

“Let’s suppose that the CIA, which really is not nearly as incompetent as you and people like Senator Johns think it is—or for that matter as incompetent as the CIA wants people like you and Johns and our enemies to think it is—”

“Run that past me again, Harry,” McClarren said.

“They call that ‘disinformation,’ Andy. The less competent our enemies think the CIA is, the less they worry about it. Can I get back to my hypothetical?”

“Why not?” McClarren said, visibly miffed.

“Let’s say the CIA heard that the bad guys, say the Russians, were operating a secret biological weapons factory in some remote corner of the world—”

“You’re talking about that alleged biological weapons factory in the Congo,” McClarren challenged.

Whelan ignored the interruption.

He went on: “—and they looked into it and found that there was indeed a secret factory in that remote corner of the world.”

“Making what?” McClarren challenged, more than a little nastily.

“They didn’t know. So what they did was go to this remote corner of the world—”

“Why don’t you just say the Congo, Harry?”

“If that makes you happy, Andy. Let’s say, hypothetically speaking of course, that the incompetent CIA went to the Congo and, violating the laws of the sovereign state of the Republic of the Congo, broke into this factory and came out with samples of what the factory was producing—”

“Ha!” McClarren snorted.

“—and took it to Fort Detrick, where it was examined by the medical corps scientists. And that these scientists concluded that what the CIA had brought to them was really bad stuff. And let’s say that the CIA took this intelligence to the President. Not this one, his predecessor.

“And let’s say the President believed what the CIA was telling him. What he should have done was call in the secretary of State and tell her to go to the UN and demand an emergency meeting of the Security Council to deal with the problem.

“Now, let’s say, for the purpose of this hypothetical for-example, that the President realized he—the country—was facing what they call a ‘real and present danger.’ And also that the minute he brought to the attention of the United Nations what the CIA had learned, the bad guys would learn we knew what they were up to.

“By the time the blue-helmet Keystone Kops of the UN went to the Congo to investigate these outrageous allegations—and this is presuming the Russians and/or the Chinese didn’t use their veto against using the blue helmets—the factory would either have disappeared, or been converted to a fish farm.”

“So he acted unilaterally?”

“And thank God he had the cojones to do so.”

“And it doesn’t bother you, Harry, that he had no right to do anything like that? We could have found ourselves in a war, a nuclear war! That takes an act of Congress!”

“You’re dead wrong about that, too, Andy,” Whelan said patronizingly, rather than argumentatively. Whether he did so without thinking about it, or with the intention of annoying—even angering—McClarren, it caused the latter reaction.

The one thing Andy McClarren could not stand, would not tolerate, was being patronized.

His face whitened and his lips grew thin.

“How so?” he asked very softly.

“Under the War Powers Act—I’m really surprised you don’t know this, Andy; I thought everybody did—the President, as commander in chief, has the authority to use military force for up to thirty days whenever he feels it’s necessary. He has to tell Congress he’s done so and if they don’t vote to support him within those thirty days, the President has to recall the troops. But for thirty days he can do whatever he wants. ...”

Damn it! Andy McClarren thought as his face turned red. The President does have that authority under the War Powers Act.

Either this condescending smart-ass just set me up to make an ass of myself, or—worse—without any assistance from him, I just revealed my ignorance before three point five million viewers.

The only thing that can make this worse is for me to lose my temper.

Whelan went on: “So you see, Andy, in this hypothetical for-example we’re talking about, the President did have the authority to do what he did.”

McClarren knocked over one of the two microphones on the desk. They were props, rather than working microphones. But McClarren’s three point five million viewers didn’t know this.

McClarren thought: Jesus! What can I do for an encore? Spill coffee in my lap?

Whalen smiled at him sympathetically, and went on: “He didn’t have to ask Congress for anything. The whole event was over in three days. What they call a fait accompli, Andy.”

McClarren straightened the microphone, and then flashed Whelan a brilliant smile.

“I don’t believe a word of that, Harry,” he said.

“You weren’t expected to,” Whalen responded, every bit as condescendingly as before. “It was all hypothetical, Andy. All you were supposed to do was think about it.”

“What I’m wondering is what all your hypothetical stuff has to do with all those police cars at the gate of Fort Detrick. Have you got the straight scoop on that, or just more hypothesis?”

He made “hypothesis” sound like a dirty word.

“Well, Andy, my gut feeling—my hypothesis, if you prefer—is that when Porky Parker made his statement, he was doing something he doesn’t often do.”

“Which was?”

“Porky was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. There was some kind of accident in one of the laboratories. Somebody dropped an Erlenmeyer flask on the floor. Six white mice or a couple of monkeys escaped their cages. I have no idea what. Something happened. The material in those labs is really dangerous. They did what they were supposed to do: They declared a potential—operative word ‘potential’—disaster. The post was closed down until the problem could be dealt with. When it was dealt with, they called off the emergency procedures.

“While all this was going on, the CIA and Homeland Security and every police force between here and Baltimore started chasing their tails—arf-arf—and when the ever-vigilant press got wind of this, they got in their helicopters and flew to Fort Detrick, where they chased their tails in the sky—arf-arf—until they were run off. If there was any danger to anyone at Fort Detrick today, it was from the clowns in the helicopters nearly running into each other. The Army scientists there know what they’re doing.”

“That could be, I suppose,” Andy McClarren said very dubiously. “But what I would like to know is—”

Roscoe J. Danton saw the image of McClarren on the Club America TV replaced with an image of the logotype of Aerolíneas Argentinas and a notice announcing the immediate departure of Aerolíneas Argentinas Flight 1007, nonstop service to Buenos Aires from Gate 17.

“Christ,” Danton complained out loud. “They told me it was delayed for at least two hours.”

He stood up, and a firm believer in the adage that if one wastes not, one wants not, drained his drinks.

The Aerolíneas Argentinas announcement then was replaced first with the whirling globes of Wolf News, and then by the image of an aged former star of television advising people of at least sixty-two years of age of the many benefits of reverse mortgages.

Roscoe, who had been hoping to get another glimpse of the royally pissed-off Andy McClarren, said, “Shit!”

Then he hurriedly walked out of Club America.