XII
[ONE]
Quarters #1
MacDill Air Force Base
Tampa, Florida
2015 8 February 2007
The driveway of Quarters One was empty as the Chrysler Town & Country minivan that General Allan B. Naylor, Sr., had chosen over a staff car for his official vehicle pulled into it. The vehicle had of course come with a driver, and Naylor was traveling with his senior aide-de-camp, Colonel J. D. Brewer.
“I wonder where the hell she is,” Naylor said, making obvious reference to his wife.
“Does she know you’re here?” Brewer replied.
“Who knows?” Naylor said as he opened his door. “Can I interest you in a drink? I hate to drink alone.”
“Allan’s here,” Colonel Brewer said, pointing back to the street at a Chevrolet Suburban.
“Offer’s still good,” Naylor said.
“Offer is accepted.”
“You can take off, Tommy,” Naylor said to the driver. “I’ll see that Colonel Brewer gets home. Don’t be late in the morning.”
“No, sir. I won’t be. Good night, sir. Good night, Colonel.”
The two got out of the van and walked up the driveway and entered the house by the kitchen door.
Major Allan B. Naylor, Jr., in khaki trousers and a flowered Hawaiian shirt, was sitting at the kitchen table holding a bottle of Heineken beer.
“Well, if it isn’t the commanding officer of Headquarters and Headquarters Company,” Brewer said.
“With all possible respect, Colonel, sir, go fuck yourself,” Allan Junior said.
When Allan Junior had been released from the hospital, mostly recovered from mortar shell wounds suffered in Afghanistan, he had been placed on limited duty and assigned “temporarily” as executive officer of Headquarters and Headquarters Company, Central Command. It was a housekeeping job and he hated it.
Armor Branch Officer Assignment had asked him where he would like to be assigned when he was taken off the “limited duty” roster. He had requested, he’d said, “any of the following”: the 11th Armored Cavalry at Fort Irwin, California, where The Blackhorse now served as “the enemy” in training maneuvers; Fort Knox, Kentucky, the Cavalry/Armor Center; or Fort Hood, Texas, which always had at least one armored division.
When his orders had come, ten days ago, they had named him commanding officer of Headquarters and Headquarters Company, Central Command, and informed him it was at least a two-year assignment.
Brewer was not really offended by Allan Junior’s comment. For one thing, he had known the young officer since he was a kid in Germany; he thought of him as almost family. And he really felt sorry for him.
“If you don’t watch your mouth, Major, you’re liable to find yourself an aide-de-camp. Trust me, that’s a much worse assignment.”
“Well, Jack, you can go to hell, too,” General Naylor said, and then asked, “Allan, where’s your mother?”
“She and my wife and my sister and all your grandchildren are in Orlando, at Disney World. I am under maternal orders to look after you.”
General Allan B. Naylor, Sr., USA, Commanding General, United States Central Command, had four aides-de-camp—a colonel, two lieutenant colonels, and a captain.
They were his personal staff, as opposed to his command staff at Central Command. The latter was headed by General Albert McFadden, USAF, the deputy commander. Under General McFadden were nine general officers—four Army, three Air Force, and two Marine Corps—plus four Navy flag officers—one vice admiral, two rear admirals (upper half), and one rear admiral (lower half), plus enough full colonels, someone had figured out, to fully staff a reinforced infantry platoon if the fortunes of war should make that necessary.
Approximately one-third of these generals, admirals, and colonels was female. All of General Naylor’s personal staff were male.
Despite what Senator Homer Johns frequently said—and apparently believed—General Naylor’s personal staff did not spend, at God only knows what cost to the poor taxpayer, their time catering to the general’s personal needs, polishing his insignia, mixing his drinks, shining his shoes, carrying his luggage, peeling his grapes, and myriad other acts, making him feel like the commander of a Praetorian Guard enjoying the especial favor of Emperor Caligula.
Colonel J. D. Brewer, whose lapels had carried the crossed sabers of Cavalry before he exchanged them for the insignia of an aide-de-camp, was in overall charge. One of the lieutenant colonels dealt with General Naylor’s relationship with Central Command. The other dealt with General Naylor’s relationship with Washington—the Pentagon, the chief of staff, Congress, and most importantly, the White House.
The captain was in charge of getting the general—which meant not only Naylor, but those officers he needed to have at his side, plus the important paperwork he had to have in his briefcase—from where he was to where he had to be. This involved scheduling the Gulfstream, arranging ground transportation and quarters, and ensuring that Naylor never lost communication with either MacDill or Washington.
Jack Brewer and his boss went back together a long time. Brewer had been a second lieutenant in The Blackhorse on the East German-West German border when Naylor had been there as a major. Later, Brewer, as a major, had been the executive officer of a tank battalion in the First Desert War. He had been a promotable light colonel during the Second Desert War, and now he was waiting, more or less patiently, to hear that his name had been sent to Capitol Hill for confirmation by the Senate of his promotion to brigadier general.
It was said, with a great deal of accuracy, that Brewer’s rapid rise through the ranks had been the result of the efficiency reports that Naylor had written on him over the years.
“Following your mother’s orders,” General Naylor said, “you can start looking out for your old man by getting that bottle of Macallan from the bar and fixing Jack and me a drink.”
“The Macallan?” Allan Junior asked. “What are we celebrating?”
“Actually, what we’re marking is almost the exact opposite of a celebration,” Naylor said.
The telephone rang as Allan Junior was walking out of the kitchen to get the single malt. He snatched its handset off the wall.
“Quarters One, Major Naylor, sir.”
He listened, then put his hand over the microphone, and turned to his father.
“It’s Charley,” he said to his father, referring to Captain Charles D. Seward III, his father’s junior aide. “He says that Mr. Lammelle is having dinner with Mr. Festerman and will spend the night with him, rather than in the VIP Quarters. He wants to know what you want him to do.”
Bruce L. Festerman was the liaison officer of the Central Intelligence Agency to the United States Central Command.
Naylor walked to his son and took the telephone receiver from him.
“Charley,” he ordered, “ask Mr. Lammelle if it would be convenient for him to have you pick him up at half past eight in the morning. If so, drive him slowly to the office. I want to be through with General McNab before he gets there. If that doesn’t work, call me back.”
When Naylor had returned the telephone to its cradle, Allan Junior said: “The deputy director of the CIA and Scotty McNab. What the hell’s going on?”
Colonel Brewer had wanted to ask the same questions, first when Lammelle had been waiting for him and General Naylor at Andrews Air Force Base in Washington, and later at MacDill, when General Naylor had walked into his office and, even before he sat down, had told Sergeant Major Wes Suggins to get General McNab on the horn.
But he hadn’t asked. He knew Naylor would tell him what he thought he should know when he thought he needed to know it.
Brewer’s natural curiosity—both personal and professional—was not to be satisfied now, either.
“I thought you were fetching the bottle of Macallan,” General Naylor said.
“Yes, sir,” Allan Junior said. “Coming right up, sir.”
The younger Naylor returned with two bottles of Scotch whisky—the single malt Macallan and a bottle of blended Johnnie Walker Red Label. General Naylor’s father had taught him—and he had taught his son—that one never took two drinks of really superb Scotch in a row. One drank and savored the superb whisky. A second drink of the superb would be a waste, however, as the alcohol had deadened the tongue to the point where it could not taste the difference between a superb Scotch and an ordinary one—or even a bad one.
General Naylor drank his Macallan without saying a word. When that was gone, he poured a double of the Johnnie Walker, added a couple of ice cubes to his glass, moved the cubes around with his index finger, and then looked up.
“Did either of you see that actor—the guy who usually has a big black mustache—in the movie where he played Eisenhower just before D-Day?”
“Tom Selleck,” Brewer said. “Countdown to D-Day.”
“Something like that,” Naylor said. “Allan?”
“Yeah, I saw it. Good movie.”
“Very accurate,” Naylor said. “Down to his chain-smoking those Chesterfields. My uncle Tony, who was at SHAEF, said Eisenhower’s fingers were stained yellow from the cigarettes.”
He took another swallow of his drink, and his son and aide waited for him to go on.
“There was a segment where one of his officers, a two-star, let his mouth run in a restaurant. Do you remember that?”
His son and his aide nodded.
“That was also quite accurately shown in the movie. Uncle Tony knew all the players. The officer was in his cups, in a restaurant, and came close to divulging when the cross-channel invasion would take place. He was overheard, and someone reported him.”
“Eisenhower should have had the sonofabitch shot,” Allan Junior said. “Instead, they knocked rings and he walked. He didn’t even get thrown out of the Army.”
“Did you read that line in the Bible that says something about ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged’?” General Naylor said. “He was Ike’s roommate at the Point.”
“What are you saying, Dad? That if that general had gotten his commission from ROTC and/or wasn’t Ike’s classmate, that would have been different?”
“Would you so callously order your roommate at West Point shot under similar circumstances?”
Allan Junior raised his eyebrows, then said, “I thought about that when I saw the movie. I don’t know whether I’d have either one of them shot, but I damn sure wouldn’t let either one of them walk. When that two-star put men’s lives at risk letting his mouth run away with him, he forfeited his right to be an officer.”
“He was reduced to colonel and sent home,” General Naylor said.
“And the men whose lives he put at risk were sent to the landing beaches of Normandy. This Long Gray Line we march in, Dad, isn’t perfect, and I don’t think we should pretend it is.”
Allan Junior turned to Colonel Brewer and started to say something.
“Stop right there, Allan,” Brewer cut him off. “I’m not going to get in the middle of this.”
“I am now facing a somewhat similar, personally distasteful situation,” General Naylor said, “involving an officer who also marches in the Long Gray Line, and of whom I’m personally very fond.”
His senior aide-de-camp and his son looked at him, waiting for him to continue.
“If I have to say this, this is highly classified, and to go no further,” General Naylor said. “Classification, Top Secret, Presidential.”
“Which explains why Mr. Lammelle is here?” Brewer asked.
Naylor nodded.
“President Clendennen this afternoon ordered me to locate Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, Retired, wherever he might be, and to place him under arrest pending investigation of charges which may be laid against him under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”
“What charges?” Allen Junior demanded.
“Mr. Lammelle was similarly ordered by the President this afternoon to accompany me wherever this mission might take us. If, when we find Colonel Castillo, he has two Russian defectors with him, as he most probably does, Lammelle is to take them into custody. It is President Clendennen’s intention to return them to the Russians.”
“What are the charges someone’s laying against Charley?” Allen Junior demanded.
His father did not reply directly. He instead said, “Jack is thoroughly conversant with all the details of our strike on the Congo. How much do you know, Allan?”
“Not very much beyond the Russians and the Iranians were operating a biological weapons lab, and the previous POTUS decided that taking it out made more sense than taking the problem to the UN. If that’s correct, then I say, hooray for him.”
“What was being made in that laboratory was a substance now known as Congo-X. It is highly dangerous to an almost unimaginable degree. Our leading expert on that sort of thing, a colonel at our biological warfare operation at Fort Detrick, told the previous POTUS—to borrow your nomenclature—that any accident at the Congo laboratory would be infinitely more catastrophic than the nuclear meltdown at Chernobyl was. It is not hard to extrapolate from that what damage would result should this substance be used as a weapon against us.
“It can be fairly said that the previous POTUS took action not a minute too soon.”
“Then thank God he had the balls to do it,” Allan Junior said.
General Naylor nodded, sipped his Scotch, then said, “Unfortunately, the raid—as massive as it was—apparently did not destroy all the Congo-X. Two quantities of it—packed in what look like blue rubber beer barrels—have turned up. One was sent to Fort Detrick by FedEx from a nonexistent laboratory in Miami. A second was found on our side of the Mexican-U.S. border where the Border Patrol could not miss it. Colonel Hamilton, the expert at Fort Detrick, has confirmed both barrels contained Congo-X.
“The next development was when the Russian rezident in their Washington embassy had Lammelle to their compound—they call it their dacha—in Maryland. There he as much admitted that they had sent the Congo-X to Fort Detrick. He then strongly implied that Prime Minister Putin is personally determined to have the two Russians returned to Russia. Putin also, it was implied, holds Castillo personally responsible for the deaths of several SVR officers in various places around the world. He wants Colonel Castillo, too.
“If this is done, the Russians will turn over to us all stocks of Congo-X in their control and offer assurances that no more of it will ever turn up.”
“Dad, Clendennen’s not actually thinking of caving in, is he? He can’t possibly believe the Russians—Putin, specifically—will live up to their promises.”
“The President has decided the most prudent course for him to follow is to turn the defectors over to the Russians. He said several times he’s always held traitors in the utmost contempt.”
“And Charley? Is he going to turn Charley over, too?” Allan Junior asked incredulously.
“I can’t believe that he would do so,” General Naylor said.
“Did you ask him?”
“No, I didn’t ask him. He’s the President of the United States.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Follow my orders.”
“What are the charges they’re bringing against Charley?” Allen Junior asked.
“I don’t know.”
“But you’re going to arrest him anyway?”
“I don’t like the tone of your voice.”
“And I don’t like what I’m hearing here.”
“That’s not really germane, is it?”
“What I’m hearing is bullshit,” Allan Junior pursued.
“That’s quite enough, Allan.”
“Starting with that Top Secret Presidential classification,” Allan Junior went on. “Information is classified to keep it from our enemies. The Russians know all about this. This is classified to keep it off Wolf News, so that Clendennen can cover his political ass.”
“I said, enough!”
“Tell me this, Dad: What has Charley done wrong? Exactly what article of the Uniform Code of Military Justice has he violated?”
“Willful disobedience of a lawful order.”
“What order was that?’
“When he flew the defectors out of Vienna to Argentina—without any authority to do so—Ambassador Montvale came to me and suggested the best way to deal with the problem was for me to send an officer from Special Operations Command—Charley was then assigned to Special Operations Command and thus subject to its orders—down there and order him to turn the Russians over to the CIA officers Montvale would have with him. I did so. I sent a colonel from Special Operations with Ambassador Montvale. He ordered Charley to turn the Russians over to Montvale. Charley refused to do so.”
“Charley was then working for the President,” Allan Junior said. “He was not subordinate to Special Operations Command. Your colonel had no authority to order him to do anything.”
“Okay, that’s it, Allan. I am not going to debate this with you.”
Allan Junior stood up, and said, “Good evening, Colonel Brewer. It’s always a pleasure to see you, sir.”
He walked to the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” General Naylor challenged.
“I’m going to see if I can find Charley, and if I can, I’m going to warn him about what you’re trying to do to him.”
“Major, you have been advised that what you heard here tonight is classified Top Secret Presidential,” General Naylor said, coldly angry.
“So court-martial me. Let’s see how Wolf News plays that story.”
He walked out of the kitchen and slammed the door closed after him.
After a long moment, General Naylor said, “I don’t think he knows where Castillo is any more than we do.”
“I hope he doesn’t. In his frame of mind, if he finds him, he will tell him.”
“Suggestions solicited.”
“I think you ought to keep him on a short leash until this is over.”
“Particularly since I know the lieutenant colonel promotion board is sitting.”
“Has sat. And selected Allan from below the zone. I suspected that was why he was here when we got here; he wanted to tell you.”
“Get him back here, Jack,” Naylor ordered.
Brewer took a cell phone from his pocket and pushed an auto-dial button.
“Major Naylor,” he said twenty seconds later. “This is Colonel Brewer. General Naylor’s compliments. It is the general’s desire that you attend him immediately. Acknowledge.”
He pushed the OFF button.
“Major Naylor is on his way, sir.”
“Don’t you mean ‘Lieutenant Colonel (Designate),’ Jack?”
Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Allan Naylor, Jr., returned to the kitchen of Quarters One two minutes later.
He walked to where his father was sitting, came to attention, saluted, and recited, “Major Naylor reporting to the Commanding General as ordered.”
General Naylor glanced at Colonel Brewer, then met his son’s eyes.
“Major,” he said, “you are attached to my personal staff for an indefinite period. You are not to communicate with Lieutenant Colonel Castillo or anyone connected in any way to him in any way under any circumstances. Neither will you communicate in any way under any circumstances with any sort of media. That is a direct order. Indicate that you understand and intend to comply with that order by saying ‘Yes, sir.’”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will proceed to your quarters and will remain there until you receive further orders from either myself or Colonel Brewer. You will pack sufficient uniforms and civilian clothing to last for a period of seven days. You will go into no further detail when discussing this with your wife or anyone else than that you will be accompanying me on official business. The foregoing has been a direct order. Indicate that you understand and intend to comply with that order by saying ‘Yes, sir.’”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Major Naylor saluted his father, and when it was returned, did an about-face, and marched out of the kitchen.
When General Naylor heard the sound of Allan Junior’s Suburban starting, he held up his glass in a toast, and said, “Congratulations on your promotion, son. You’ve made me very proud of you.”
[TWO]
7200 West Boulevard Drive
Alexandria, Virginia
0705 9 February 2007
The convoy of four blackened-window Secret Service GMC Yukons turned off West Boulevard Drive and drove—not without difficulty; four inches of snow had fallen during the night—up the steep drive to the house.
Four men in business suits quickly got out of the first vehicle in line and moved as swiftly as they could through the fresh snow and the drifts of previous snowfalls to the sides and rear of the house.
Three men—Supervisory Special Agent Thomas McGuire, Special Agent Joshua Foster, and Mason Andrews, the assistant secretary of the Department of Homeland Security—got out of the second Yukon and made their way—again not without difficulty; the snow-covered walk was steep—to the front door. McGuire pushed the button for the doorbell. Chimes could be heard.
They waited a full minute. Nothing happened.
McGuire pushed the doorbell again, and again there was no response from within the house.
McGuire took a cell phone from his pocket and punched an auto-dial number.
“With whom am I speaking, please?” he asked a moment later. Then he said, “Mrs. Darby, this is Supervisory Special Agent McGuire of the United States Secret Service. We are at your front door. Will you please open it to us?”
He put the telephone back in his pocket and announced, “She said she’ll open the door as quickly as she can.”
“She damned well better,” Mason Andrews said, brushing snow from his bald spot.
The door opened. Mrs. Julia Darby stood there in her bathrobe. Another woman, also in her bathrobe, stood beside her. To their side stood a man of obvious Asian extraction. The unknown woman in the bathrobe held a cell phone to her face and there was a flash.
Mason Andrews thought: I’ll be goddamned! She just took our picture.
“Hello, Tom,” Mrs. Darby said. “I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. We gave at the office.”
Andrews stared at her. What did she say?
“Mrs. Darby,” McGuire said, holding out his credentials for her to see, “this is Secret Service Agent Foster, and this is Mr. Mason Andrews, the assistant secretary of Homeland Security.”
“Hello, I’m Julia Darby.”
“May we come in?” Mason Andrews asked.
“I don’t think so,” the Asian man said. “The introduction of Mr. McGuire’s credentials implies this is somehow official business of the Secret Service. The Third Circuit Court of Appeals has held that granting law enforcement officials access to a residence constitutes a waiver by the home owner of his or her rights against unlawful search and seizure. We do not wish to waive those rights.”
Mason Andrews thought: Who the fuck is this guy?
He demanded: “Who are you?”
“My name is David W. Yung, Jr. I am Mrs. Darby’s attorney.”
“And you’re refusing to let us in?”
“That is correct,” Two-Gun Yung said. “Unless you have a search warrant, I am on behalf of my client denying you access to these premises.”
“We’re the Secret Service!” Special Agent Foster announced.
“So Mr. McGuire has said,” Two-Gun said. “We are now going to close the door, as all the cold is getting in the house.”
“We’ll be back with a search warrant!” Assistant Secretary Andrews announced as the door closed in his face.
“I don’t believe that!” Assistant Secretary Andrews said in the front seat of the Yukon. He mopped at the melting snow on his bald spot with a handkerchief. “Absolutely incredible! We should have just pushed that little Jap out of the way and grabbed Darby.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Secretary, the lawyer was right. Without a search warrant, we have no right to enter those premises,” McGuire said.
“Well, we’ll get a goddamned search warrant! Where does one get a goddamned search warrant at ...” He looked at his watch. “Quarter after seven in the morning?”
“That may be difficult, Mr. Secretary,” McGuire said. “In order to get a search warrant, you have to convince a judge that you have good and sufficient reason to believe that illegal activity is taking place on a certain premises, or that a fugitive is evading due process of law—in other words, arrest—on said premises.”
“Goddamn it, we know that Darby is in there! We know he entered the country in Miami and flew here, and your own goddamned agents reported they saw him entering that house. What else do we need, for Christ’s sake?”
“Sir, we have no reason to believe that any activity violating federal law is taking place in the house. And Mr. Darby is not a fugitive; no warrants have been issued for his arrest on any charge.”
“You’re telling me there’s not a goddamned thing we can do? I don’t believe this.”
“Sir, what I hoped would happen when we came here was that Mrs. Darby, or perhaps Mr. Darby himself—we’ve been friends for years—would invite us into the house and we could discuss the location of Colonel Castillo amicably. If you want to, I can have another shot at that.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Other than that, sir, I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“Just stand there in the door, please, Mr. Secretary,” Two-Gun Yung said ten minutes later.
There were now two photographers inside the house, the woman who had used the photographing capability of her cellular telephone earlier, and a man now holding what looked like a professional-grade video camera.
Andrews stood in the door.
“Ready, Harold?” Two-Gun asked.
“Lights, action, camera!” Harold replied, intentionally botching the sequence.
“Mr. Secretary, please identify yourself and give us the date and time.”
Andrews complied.
“Now, repeat after me, please: ‘I make the following statement voluntarily and without mental reservation of any kind.’”
Andrews did so.
“I acknowledge that I have informed Mrs. Julia Darby that by allowing me and Mr. McGuire of the Secret Service into her home, a compassionate gesture to get us out of the cold and snow, she in no way gives up her rights against unlawful search and seizure as provided by the U.S. Constitution—”
“Go slowly,” Andrews interrupted. “I can’t remember all that.”
“We’ll try it again. ‘I acknowledge that I ...’”
“‘. . . and further that anything said in conversation by anyone here today will not be used in any court of law for any purpose,’” Two-Gun finally concluded.
With some obvious effort, Andrews repeated that.
“Is that it, Counselor?” Mrs. Darby then asked.
“It will be as soon as Harold sends a copy of that digital recording to that great file room in the sky,” Two-Gun replied.
“Consider it done,” Harold replied.
“Why don’t we all go in the living room and have a cup of coffee while Dianne makes breakfast?” Julia Darby suggested.
“Hello, Tom,” Alex Darby said, putting out his hand. “Long time no see.”
“How are you, Alex?” McGuire replied. “Alex, this is my boss, Assistant Secretary of Homeland Security Mason Andrews.”
“How do you do?” Darby said.
“You’re a hard man to find, Mr. Darby.”
“I guess that would depend on who’s looking for me,” Darby said.
“A lot of people are looking for you, including Ambassador Montvale.”
“Whatever would make Ambassador Montvale look for me?”
“The President of the United States sent him to find you, Mr. Darby. Right now, he’s in Ushuaia.”
“Whatever for? I mean, why is he looking for me in Ushuaia, of all places?”
“Oh, Tom,” Julia Darby said. “I was kidding you about that.”
“Kidding him about what?” Darby asked his wife.
“I told him you were probably down there with your girlfriend,” Julia said. “I never for a moment thought he would take me seriously. Especially the girlfriend part.”
Darby looked at McGuire. “Yeah, I’m a little long in the tooth for that sort of thing, Tom.”
Mason Andrews said, “There is reason to believe that you know where Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky, Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva, and Lieutenant Colonel Carlos G. Castillo are.”
“As I think you know, Mr. Andrews,” Darby replied, “Colonel Castillo was ordered by the President—the late President, not Mr. Clendennen—to fall off the face of the earth and never be seen again. I believe that Colonel Castillo is obeying those orders.”
“You’re telling me you don’t know where he is—where the Russians are?”
“I didn’t say that. What I said was that I believe Colonel Castillo has obeyed the order from the President to disappear.”
“Then you do know where he is? Where the Russian defectors are?”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
“Are you aware that it’s a felony, Mr. Darby, to lie to, or mislead, a federal officer?”
“Mr. Andrews, a point of order,” Two-Gun said. “One, right now, you’re not a federal officer, but rather simply someone whom Mrs. Darby has compassionately allowed to warm himself in her house. Two, if Mr. Darby were ever to be interviewed by any federal officer, he would, on advice of counsel, refuse to answer any questions put to him that either might tend to incriminate him, or cause him to violate any of the several oaths he took as an officer of the Clandestine Service of the CIA to never divulge in his lifetime anything he learned in the performance of those duties.”
Mason Andrews looked between Two-Gun and the Darbys, then announced, “I can see that I’m wasting my time here. Let’s go, McGuire.”
“But you haven’t had any breakfast,” Julia Darby said. “Dianne’s making a Spanish omelet.”
“And breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Two-Gun offered. “Haven’t you heard that, Mr. Secretary?”
Andrews glared at him but didn’t respond.
“And one more thing, Mr. Andrews,” Two-Gun said. “Those Secret Service agents of yours who have been watching the house?”
“What about them?”
“The right of a governmental agency to surveille does not carry with it any right to trespass. The next time I see one of them on this property, I’m going to call the Alexandria police and charge them with trespass. And if they are indeed Secret Service agents, since you and I have had this little chat, that would constitute trespass after warning, which is a felony.”
Andrews, his face white, marched toward the front door, calling over his shoulder, “Goddamn it, McGuire, I said let’s go.”
In the Yukon, Andrews slammed the door shut and turned to McGuire.
“As of this minute, McGuire, you’re placed on administrative leave. It is my intention to have you separated from the Secret Service and I think you know why.”
“I haven’t a clue, Mr. Secretary.”
“Goddamn it! Whose side are you on, anyway? You enjoyed watching those bastards humiliate me.”
“Mr. Secretary, I took an oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic. I have done so to the best of my ability.”
“Sending the director of National Intelligence on a wild-goose chase to Ushuaia is your idea of defending the Constitution? Jesus H. Christ!”
“I told Ambassador Montvale that Mrs. Darby said Mr. Darby might be there. That’s all.”
“You’d better be prepared to tell a grand jury that Mrs. Darby did just that. Lying to or making a misrepresentation to a federal officer is a felony. Your pal is going to jail, McGuire, and if I can figure out some way to get you before a grand jury for lying to Ambassador Montvale, I will.”
“Oh, come on, Andrews. You know Montvale almost as well as I do. Can you really imagine the Great Charles M. getting up in a courtroom and testifying under oath that one of his underlings sent him on a wild-goose chase anywhere? Much less all the way to the bottom of the world? And that doesn’t even touch on the question of who he was looking for and why.”
Secretary Andrews considered that for thirty seconds.
“Get out of the car, you sonofabitch! Walk back to Washington!”
McGuire got out of the Yukon.
But instead of walking back to Washington, he went to the door of the house, rang the bell, and when the lady of the house answered, asked if there was any Spanish omelet left to feed someone who had just lost his job.
[THREE]
Office of the Commanding General
United States Army Central Command
MacDill Air Force Base
Tampa, Florida
0730 9 February 2007
“General, General McNab is here,” Colonel J. D. Brewer announced at Naylor’s office door.
“Ask the general to come in, please,” Naylor said.
McNab marched into the office, stopped six feet from Naylor’s desk, raised his right hand to his temple, and said, “Good morning, General. Thank you for receiving me.”
McNab was wearing what was officially the Army Service Uniform but was commonly referred to as “dress blues.” The breast of his tunic was heavy with ribbons and devices showing his military qualifications, including a Combat Infantry Badge topped with circled stars indicating that it was the sixth award; a Master Parachutist’s wings; seven other parachute wings from various foreign armies; and the Navy SEAL qualification badge, commonly called “The Budweiser.” The three silver stars of a lieutenant general gleamed on his epaulets.
Naylor was wearing a camouflage-patterned sandy-colored baggy uniform called Desert Battle Dress Uniform. On it was sewn the insignia of Central Command, the legend US ARMY, a name tag reading NAYLOR, and, attached with Velcro to the button line of his jacket, a strip with four embroidered black (called “subdued”) stars, the insignia of his rank.
Naylor took his time before returning the salute, and after McNab had dropped his hand, took his time again before saying, “You may stand at ease, General. Please take a seat.”
“Thank you, sir,” McNab said as he settled into one of the two leather armchairs before the desk. “I trust the general is well?”
“Just so we understand one another, General, there was an implication you made just now that you were invited here. You were ordered here. There is a difference I think you should keep in mind.”
“Yes, sir. Permission to speak, General?”
“Permission granted.”
“Sir, the general errs. Sir, the general does not have the authority to issue orders to me.”
Naylor blurted, “That’s what you think, McNab!”
“It’s what the chief of staff thinks, General. I telephoned him yesterday following your telephone call. I thought perhaps my status—or your status—had changed and I hadn’t been notified. The chief of staff said there was no change in your status or mine. We are both commanders of units directly subordinate to Headquarters, U.S. Army. The only officer who can give orders to either of us is the chief of staff.”
“You called the chief of staff?” Naylor asked incredulously.
“Yes, sir. And the chief suggested that a way out of this little dilemma would be for me to make a courtesy call on you. Which is what I’m doing now, General.”
Naylor thought: You sonofabitch!
McNab went on: “I got a look at the lieutenant colonel’s promotion list on the way down here, General. And saw that Allan has been selected, below the zone. May I offer my congratulations?”
“Thank you.”
“How may I assist the general, now that I’m here?”
“Prefacing this by stating I am acting at the direct order of the President, you can tell me where I can find Lieutenant Colonel Carlos G. Castillo.”
“The chief of staff didn’t mention that you were working for the President, General. Perhaps he had reasons he did not elect to share with me.”
“Are you questioning my word, General?”
“No, sir. If the general tells me the general is working at the direct order of the President, I will of course take the general’s word.”
“Where can I find Castillo, General?”
“I have no idea, General.”
“You have no idea?”
“Are you questioning my word, General?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“What can you tell me, General, about Castillo?” Naylor asked.
“You mean about how the President wants to make a human sacrifice of him to the Russians?”
“What did you say?”
“When I came here, I held the naïve hope that you were going to close the door, and then say, ‘You may find this hard to believe, but the President wants to turn our Charley over to Putin, and what are we going to do about it?’ How foolish of me.”
“You don’t know that President Clendennen intends to do that,” Naylor said.
“Do you know he doesn’t? Or didn’t he tell you that Murov told Frank Lammelle that Putin wants the Russians and Charley?”
“How do you know about that?”
McNab met Naylor’s eyes, and said, “You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you, Allan?” After a long moment, he added, “Yeah, now that I think about it, I think you do.”
“What I do know, General—”
“Haven’t we played your silly little game long enough, Allan?”
“What silly game is that, General?”
“You sitting there in that ridiculous desert costume—as if you expect the Castros or Hugo Chávez to start dropping parachutists on Tampa Bay in the next ten minutes—pretending to be a soldier when all you are is a uniformed flunky carrying out the orders—which you damned well know are illegal—of a political hack who would turn his mother over to Putin if he thought it would get him reelected.”
“You are speaking, General, of the President, the commander in chief.”
“Did you get it all, or should I say it again?”
“What I should do is place you under arrest!”
“How did you get to be a four-star general—never mind, I know—without learning you never should issue an order—or carry one out—without considering what the secondary effects will be?”
“Stand up and come to attention, General!” Naylor ordered.
McNab crossed his legs, shook his head, and chuckled.
“Goddamn you!” Naylor flared. “I said, come to attention!”
“For example, Allan,” McNab said calmly as he took a cigar case from an inside pocket, “one of the thoughts that occurred to me when I heard what the bastard was up to was to take him out. I thought that through and realized that would cause more damage to the country than it would do good. Since we presently don’t have a Vice President, the order of succession would put the Speaker of the House in the Oval Office, and from what I’ve seen, he’s as much an idiot as Clendennen is.
“Anyway, I took an oath to defend the Constitution, and unfortunately there’s nothing in that that says you can shoot the President, even if the bastard deserves it, as this one clearly does.”
“McNab, you’re out of your mind!”
“I also considered taking this story to that red-headed guy on Wolf News. What’s his name? Oh, yeah ...”
He paused as he bit the end off a long, thin, black cigar and then carefully lit it.
“You can’t smoke in here,” Naylor said. “You can’t smoke in any government building.”
Naylor stared at McNab and thought: He’s sitting here calmly discussing the pros and cons of assassinating the President of the United States, and I’m scolding him for smoking?
What the hell is the matter with me?
What I should do is push the button for the sergeant major, and when he and Jack Brewer come in, say, “I have placed General McNab under arrest. Please escort the general to the visiting senior officers’ quarters and hold him there.”
And then what do I do?
Call the chief of staff and tell him?
Tell him what?
McNab has friends. Somebody who was there in the Oval Office when the President gave me this mission not only told him exactly what was said, but lost no time in telling him.
Is there a plot against the President? Is that what this is all about?
That’s a credible possibility.
McNab is entirely capable of being involved in something like a coup d’état.
So do I go to the chief of staff with that? Or the President?
With what? All I have is suspicions.
What I have to do is find out as much as I can from the sonofabitch!
McNab blew a smoke ring.
“I always have trouble with names,” McNab said. “Okay! I got it! His name is Andy McClarren and the show is called The Straight Scoop. Are you familiar with it?”
Naylor thought: I’m not going to let him drag me into a discussion.
When it became evident that Naylor wasn’t going to reply, McNab went on: “You really should watch it, Allan. They say it’s the most watched show on television. You might learn something from it.
“Anyway, as soon as I thought that through, I realized that when the dust had settled, all that that would accomplish would be Congress considering impeaching the sonofabitch, and that would tell the world what an idiot we have in the White House, which wouldn’t do the country any good, and even if the impeachment went through, which would take a lot of time, all we’d be doing is replacing one idiot with another.
“So I decided to put Andy McClarren on the back burner. I may have to go that route, but I’d rather not.”
“So, then what are your intentions, General?”
And I will be very surprised if you don’t tell me them in sufficient detail to hang yourself, you egotistical maniac!
“Well, the first thing, obviously, is to find Charley and see what he wants to do.”
“To see what he wants to do?” Naylor blurted incredulously.
“By now, I’m sure, Charley knows people are looking for him and his girlfriend—”
“His girlfriend ?”
“Her name is Svetlana. They call her ‘Sweaty.’ Real beauty. Dark red hair, built like a brick ... outdoor sanitary facility.”
“You’ve lost me, McNab. What does this woman have to do with any of this?”
“She’s one of the defectors Putin wants back. She was a light colonel in the SVR. The other one—he was a full bird—is her brother.”
“And Castillo is ... emotionally involved with her?”
“Think Romeo and Juliet, Allan.”
“Has he lost his mind?”
“His heart, certainly. His mind, I don’t think so. If Charley doesn’t want to be found, finding him is going to be difficult. And if you think he’s going to pop to attention, salute, and load himself and his girlfriend and her brother on an airplane en route to Moscow, think again.”
“He’s a retired officer. Subject to recall.”
“He’s also Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger, a German national, who owns a bunch of newspapers. I wonder if our commander in chief had that in mind when he told you to go fetch him. What is it the politicians say? ‘Never get in an argument with somebody who buys ink by the barrel.’
“Let’s say that Charley and the Russians are in Germany. In his house in Fulda, eating knockwurst and drinking beer, not a care in the world, as Charley/ Karl is a German citizen, and the Russians have been granted political asylum by the German Republic in exchange for their cooperation in certain intelligence matters.”
“Is that what he’s done?” Naylor asked.
“I don’t know. I’m sure he’s considered it. But I hope he doesn’t have to. That would really piss Putin off, and there would be bodies all over the place as Putin’s SVR assassins tried to whack Charley’s girlfriend and her brother for traitorously spilling the beans about the SVR to the Krauts, and Charley’s pals took them out. Several of Charley’s pals, as I’m sure you heard, are very good at taking out officers of the SVR.”
“And you don’t think Putin knows these Russians told us about the bio-warfare laboratory in the Congo?” Naylor exploded. “Don’t you think Putin considers that a traitorous act?”
McNab took a moment to form his reply, then said, “One: President Putin stood in the well of the UN, you will recall, and told the whole world the Russians knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about the so-called Fish Farm. Two: As the CIA has never had the Russians under their benevolent control, the Russians have not spilled the beans about the Fish Farm to us, either. How could they? The Russians knew absolutely nothing about it.”
“They know the Russians told us. That’s why they want them back.”
“That’s why they want Charley, too. That’s what this whole thing is all about. That’s why I want to ask Charley what he wants to do about all this. Maybe he’s got some ideas. He’s always been very resourceful, Allan, you know that.”
“What makes you think you can find him?”
“That will take me a couple of days. First, I have to find someone who knows and who trusts me. I can think of several people who are in that category.”
Naylor thought: What I should do now, McNab, is tell the President that you know how to get in contact with Castillo and have the President order you to find him.
Naylor said: “General, since you tell me that you believe you know how to locate Colonel Castillo and the Russian defectors, I feel duty-bound to inform the President of that fact.”
“If you did that, Allan, this whole sordid story would be on The Straight Scoop with—what’s his name again?—with Andy McClarren tonight.”
“You could be held incommunicado—”
“That would last only until Andy McClarren, or C. Harry Whelan, Jr., heard about it. And they would.”
“—and ordered not to discuss this with the press or anyone else. You are not immune to the provisions of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, General, and it would behoove you to keep that in mind.”
“We took an oath—the day we threw our hats in the air so long ago—to obey the lawful orders of officers appointed over us. I can’t understand how you think an order making a human sacrifice of a fellow officer can possibly be considered legal.”
“Perhaps a general court-martial would determine that.”
McNab stood up. He said, “Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, General. We’ll have to do this more often.”
“I didn’t give you permission to leave, General.”
McNab ignored him. He said, “What I’m going to do is go find Charley and see what he wants to do. You do what you want, Allan. But if you’re smart you’ll mark time until I get back to you. Which reminds me: I’m going to leave a GS-Fifteen civilian with you. His name is Vic D’Allessando, and before he was a GS-Fifteen, he was a CWO-Five, and before that, he was a sergeant major. Some people think he’s associated with Gray Fox, but I can’t comment on that, as—as I’m sure you know—everything connected with Gray Fox is classified.
“Vic has a radio which will allow him to stay in touch with me no matter where I am. I will keep him posted on how I’m doing in finding Charley, and he will tell you. Vic will also keep me posted on your location, and if you leave MacDill, or Lammelle does, before I tell you that you can, Plan A—that’s telling Andy McClarren—will kick in. I don’t think you want that to happen.”
“You think you can sit in my office and tell me what to do? Goddamn you, McNab!”
“Of course not. But what I can do is tell you what’s going to happen if you elect to do certain things. And in that regard, if Vic D’Allessando suddenly becomes not available to me or other people on that net, Plan A—McClarren—will automatically kick in.”
McNab put on his green beret, popped to attention, and saluted.
He did not wait for Naylor to return it, but immediately did an about-face movement, and marched out of his office.
Naylor knew that Franklin Lammelle, the deputy director of the CIA, was in his outer office when he heard McNab say, “Well, hello, Frank. Whatever brings you to beautiful Tampa Bay?”
The automatic door closer shut off any reply Lammelle might have made.
The door opened thirty seconds later, and Colonel Jack Brewer put his head in.
“General, Mr. Lammelle is here.”
“Ask him to come in, please,” Naylor said.
“And Major Naylor and a man from Global Communications, who says he has an appointment.”
“Ask them to wait, but you come in, please, Colonel.”
Naylor got up from behind his desk and met Lammelle as he came through the door.
“Good morning, General,” Lammelle said. “Can I ask what Scotty McNab was doing here? Is he going to be working with us, I hope, on this?”
“Actually, Mr. Lammelle, I’ve just about decided I made a terrible mistake vis-à-vis General McNab.”
“Excuse me?”
“What I am now convinced I should have done was place him under arrest.”
“Excuse me?”
“Let me tell you what just happened, and then you tell me what you think I should have done—should do—about it.”
Five minutes later, Frank Lammelle said, “General, I’m in no position to comment upon, much less judge, your differences with General McNab vis-à-vis insubordination, that sort of thing, but—and you may not like hearing this—it looks to me that instead of being a problem, McNab may be the answer to ours.”
“I don’t see that,” Naylor said.
“Our problem is that we have been charged with locating Colonel Castillo, and through him, to take control of the two Russians. And we don’t know where any of them are.”
“A subparagraph of ‘facts bearing on the problem’ there, it seems to me,” Naylor said, “would be ‘how to transport the Russian defectors and/or Castillo from where we find them to where they have to go.’ Or words to that effect. And where do they go, to add that factor?”
“Castillo,” Lammelle replied, “is going to have to be transported to either Washington, or, perhaps, some military base in the United States. The Russians only have to be transported someplace where they can be turned over to the SVR. I think that will probably mean that we’ll have to transport them to some place served by Aeroflot. We turn them over at the airport to officers of the SVR, who will then repatriate them.”
Naylor glanced at Colonel Jack Brewer, then looked at Lammelle, and said, “And how are we going to do that? Am I supposed to take soldiers with me? Soldiers for that sort of thing come from Special Operations, the Delta Force, or Gray Fox. Which of course are commanded by General McNab.”
“General, since eight o’clock this morning, a Gulfstream V has been sitting at Saint Petersburg-Clearwater International. It is registered to a CIA asset—a chicken-packing company in Des Moines, Iowa. I was amazed to learn how much chicken the United States exports.
“Anyway, the plane will attract no undue attention. The crew are CIA. The aircraft is equipped with the very latest—and I mean the very latest—avionics that the AFC Corporation has for sale. All sorts of bells and whistles. Communication with that airplane and Langley is available wherever that airplane is—on the ground or in the air, anywhere in the world. That airplane is going to follow you and me no matter where General McNab leads us. There are four Clandestine Service officers aboard. Once we lay eyes on Colonel Castillo and the Russians, transporting them wherever they have to go will pose no problems at all.”
“What if they resist?” Colonel Brewer asked.
“The officers are equipped with the very latest nonlethal weaponry—and the other kind as well, of course. What the nonlethal weaponry provides, in a pistol about the size of a Glock, are six darts with a range of about fifty feet. Anyone struck with one of these darts will lose consciousness in fifteen seconds or less. They will regain consciousness without intervention in about two hours. They can be brought back immediately by injection.”
“Fascinating,” General Naylor said. “Then, if I understand you, Mr. Lammelle, it is your recommendation that we sit tight and do nothing while we wait for General McNab to find Castillo and the Russians?”
“That is my recommendation, General.”
Naylor looked at his aide-de-camp, and said, “You see anything wrong with that, Jack?”
Colonel Jack Brewer said, “No, sir. It makes a lot of sense to me.”
“And what about the man McNab left here?” Naylor asked.
“He’s very good,” Lammelle said. “I’ve known Vic D’Allessando for a long time. He’s been around Delta Force and Gray Fox for years.”
“Which tends to suggest that his greatest loyalty may be to General McNab,” General Naylor said.
“Well, I suggest we treat him with respect and as a member of the team,” Lammelle said. He stopped and opened his briefcase. “And if he shows any suggestion of being about to interfere with our mission, General ...” He paused and took from the briefcase what looked like a Glock semiautomatic pistol with a grossly swollen slide. He aimed it at a leather couch and pulled the trigger. There was an almost inaudible psssst sound. “. . . in fifteen seconds or less, General, your couch will be sound asleep.”
“I will be damned,” Naylor said, and went to the couch, found the dart, and pulled it free. He held it up for a better look, and then held it against his pinkie finger. It was about as long, and perhaps half as thick.
“Amazing,” General Naylor said, then looked at Brewer. “Can you think of anything else, Jack?”
“Yes, sir,” Brewer said. “Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor.”
“What about him?” Lammelle asked.
Naylor told him.
“Just to be sure, General,” Lammelle then said, “I suggest you maintain the current close personal supervision. I’m frankly uncomfortable, taking into consideration what you’ve told me, with the thought of leaving him here when we go off wherever we’re going. There’s no telling . . .”
“I agree. Where we go, Allan Junior goes,” General Naylor said.
“May I see that dart, General?” Colonel Brewer asked.
Naylor handed it to him.
