[ONE]
Office of the Chief of Operational Analysis
Department of Homeland Security
Nebraska Avenue Complex
Washington, D.C.
0935 12 August 2005
Castillo sat down in the leather-upholstered judge’s chair behind his huge, ornate desk and looked uncomfortably around his luxuriously furnished office. He felt like an intruder. He shrugged and picked up the handset of what Billy Kocian had called his “science fiction radio.”
“Neidermeyer,” he ordered. “Put me through to Sergeant Major Davidson, please.”
“Hold one, Colonel.”
Five seconds later, Davidson’s voice came over the circuit.
“Yes, sir?”
“Jack, there’s reason to believe another attempt to kidnap or take out Eric Kocian is likely to happen.”
“Really?”
“What’s that phrase, ‘Take all necessary precautions’?”
“Consider it done, Colonel.”
“There’s also good reason to think that the bad guys are ex-Stasi, which means you should keep that in mind when you’re taking all necessary precautions. These guys are pros.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Make sure everybody else knows.”
“Including Kocian?”
“Especially Kocian.”
“Done, Colonel. You don’t have a time, do you?”
“Anywhere from four to twenty-four hours after they find out where he is. And, by now, they may already know.”
“Kocian wants to go into Buenos Aires for lunch.”
“That’s off. He is not to leave Mayerling. I’d prefer that he not go outside the house.”
“Well, you and I have sat on difficult people before. I’ll deal with him.”
“We’ll be coming down there after a stop in Midland, Texas.”
“To see Colonel Munz’s family?”
“No. We found out there’s a connection in Midland between the oil-for-food scam and the two million dollars the Philadelphia Muslims got for their bomb shelter. We’re going to see what we can find out and then come down there.”
“Got an ETA?”
“When there is one, I’ll get it to you.”
“I think we can handle things here, Colonel. Anything else?”
“I was about to ask you to patch me through to the embassy, but I just decided it’ll be better if I make a perfectly ordinary call from here. I don’t want to be responsible for tipping these bastards about Mayerling.”
“Understood.”
“Okay, Jack. Keep your eyes open and watch your back.”
“You, too, Colonel.”
“Break it down, Neidermeyer.”
Pevsner’s phone numbers were in the cellular telephone Alex Darby had given him in Buenos Aires and Castillo had to go into his briefcase for it. When he turned it on, the screen read LOW BATTERY.
He pushed himself away from the desk and went into the outer—Mr. Agnes Forbison’s—office, where, the moment Agnes saw him with the cellular in his hand, she put her hand out for it. Then she pulled open a drawer in her desk, where—predictably—she had a box full of assorted chargers and in a moment had fitted one of them to the phone.
“There’s a socket in your banker’s lamp on your desk,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“I gather you’re going somewhere?” she asked.
“Midland, Texas, and then Buenos Aires,” Castillo replied. “I think we’ve found the link between the oil-for-food scam and the nuclear suitcase bombs.”
She didn’t say anything but her eyes asked for clarification.
“If I tell you this, there will be a nuclear mushroom over Philadelphia before I finish the sentence,” Castillo said. “But right now, I really don’t think there is a suitcase bomb any nearer than Siberia.”
“Thank God!” she said.
“That whole scenario was to pull our chain,” Castillo said. “Or, at least, pulling our chain was part of it.”
“Can Dick tell me about it?”
“Dick’s going with me. Jake is in Charleston.”
“Is that going to work? Dick’s leg…”
“He’ll navigate. I’ll steer,” Castillo said. “It’ll work.”
Again her eyes asked for clarification.
“This is what Edgar Delchamps has come up with,” he said. “Let me know what you think…”
“This may be the dumbest thing I’ve said all week,” Agnes said when he had finished, “but it just may be the answer. I haven’t heard anything that makes more sense.”
“I really hope so,” Castillo said.
“You really like Delchamps, don’t you?” she asked.
“He’s the one who should be sitting behind that desk,” Castillo said, nodding toward his office. “He’s the only one around here who really knows what he’s doing.”
“No, he’s not,” Agnes said. “And he doesn’t enjoy the confidence of the President.”
“That’s because the President doesn’t know him—yet.”
“I wonder how Ambassador Montvale is going to take this,” Agnes said and, when she saw the look on Castillo’s face, added: “You weren’t going to tell him, were you? Charley, you have to.”
“No, I wasn’t,” Castillo said. “And, yeah, I do.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Colonel,” Ambassador Charles W. Montvale, the director of National Intelligence, said, “but you are suggesting I go to the President and say, in effect, ‘Not to worry, Mr. President. There is no threat of a nuclear detonation in Philadelphia. All the Russian suitcase nuclear devices are still in the Soviet Union. It seems President Putin has been playing a little joke on us.’”
“I’m not suggesting you do anything, Mr. Ambassador,” Castillo said.
“‘The source of this rather interesting theory is a veteran—some might even say ‘burned-out’—CIA field officer by the name of Delchamps, who does not, I’m afraid, enjoy the full confidence of his superiors in Langley,” Montvale went on.
“Why do I suspect the people you talked to at Langley cannot be counted among his legion of admirers?” Castillo asked. “For the record, I like him very much. You can find him in my dictionary under both ‘highly competent’ or ‘widely experienced.’”
“Not for the record, the people I spoke with seem to feel that not only does he regret the Cold War is over, but that he is both a Francophobe and—am I coining a phrase?—a UNphobe.”
“Maybe that’s because he’s been dealing with the French and the United Nations for a longtime.”
“They asked me if he might be considering retirement when his temporary duty with me is concluded.”
“With all respect, Mr. Ambassador, his temporary duty is with me. And if they ask that question, tell them not to hold their breath.”
“You’re fond of that expression, aren’t you?” Montvale said, then finished his original comment: “‘And no, Mr. President, there is no firm intelligence to confirm this fascinating theory. Colonel Castillo is going on a hunch.’”
Castillo said nothing.
“No comment, Colonel?”
“Mr. Ambassador, I told you I would keep you abreast of what I’m doing and plan to do. I’ve just done that.”
“Does the FBI expert, Inspector Doherty, whom you told not to hold his breath when he said he expected you to tell him if you had any contact with Pevsner or former FBI agent Kennedy—”
“You knew about that, and still sent him to me?”
“You asked for their best man and that’s who I sent you,” Montvale replied. “Does Doherty know about this fascinating theory that Putin is playing games with us?”
“He does, and I’d say he shares your opinion of it, sir.”
“Well, while you’re off in Texas and Argentina would it be possible for him to come see me and tell me what he thinks of the situation?”
“I’m taking Inspector Doherty with me, sir.”
“To South America?”
“I want him to work with the people and the data down there, Mr. Ambassador.”
“I’d really like to have his take on the probability of there being nuclear weapons about to be detonated in this country.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does that mean you’re going to send him to see or not?”
“I’ve got two more telephone calls to make, Mr. Ambassador, and then we’re going to the airport.”
“In other words, you’re not going to send him to see me.”
“There’s just not time, Mr. Ambassador.”
“This is another of those times when I really wish you were working for me, Castillo.”
“Yes, sir. I thought something like that might be running through your mind.”
There was a long silence, then the White House operator came on the line: “Are you through, Colonel?”
Castillo realized that Montvale had broken his end of the connection.
“It looks that way. Thank you.”
Castillo put the White House phone back in its cradle and picked up the handset of another.
“Lopez.”
“Carlos. You weren’t in your office, but they gave me your cellular number.”
“I’m at the Double-Bar-C,” Fernando Lopez said.
“What are you doing there?”
“Why do you think, Gringo? Abuela’s here.”
“So are half a dozen Secret Service agents.”
“I thought I should be here, okay? What’s on your mind?”
“What do you know about the Kenyon oil company, specifically the Kenyon Oil Refining and Brokerage Company? Is there a Kenyon?”
“Jesus, you really don’t live here anymore, do you?” Lopez said, not very pleasantly. “Yeah, there’s a Kenyon. There’s a lot of them. One of them, Philip, is a classmate of mine. You don’t remember him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Now that I think about it, I’m really surprised. You belted him good one time when he said you had to be queer because you talked funny and rode a sissy saddle.”
“Tubby?” Castillo asked as the memory came to him of a heavyset twelve-year-old trying to fight back tears after his nose had been bloodied.
“Yeah,” Fernando said. “Tubby. Nobody calls him that much anymore.”
“He runs Kenyon?”
“Yeah, he does. Why do I think, Gringo, that I am going to be unhappy when you explain this sudden interest in Philip J. Kenyon III?”
“You’re not going to like it, Fernando,” Castillo said. “Is he in Midland now, do you think?”
“He was yesterday,” Fernando said. “I saw him in the Petroleum Club. He asked me if I still played poker and I had to tell him no because Maria and Abuela and the Munzes were with me. The Friday-night three-card stud games of fame and legend are still going.”
“He’ll be there—at the Petroleum Club—tonight?”
“You going to tell me why you want to know?”
“Not over the phone. I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“And when will that be?”
“As soon as I make one more telephone call, I’m headed for the airport. It’s about three hours in the air. Figure another hour and a half to go wheels-up. It’s now ten. Knock an hour off because of the time zones. We should be there sometime before three.”
“Midland-Odessa or here?”
“Midland. We’re going from there to Buenos Aires, and I can’t do the customs stuff from the strip at the Double-Bar-C.”
“Who’s we?”
“Yung, a guy named Delchamps, a guy named Doherty—an FBI big shot—Miller, and me.”
“Plus Jake Torine. It’ll be a little crowded, but it’ll be all right.”
“Jake’s not coming, and we may not be staying overnight.”
“First things first. Yes, you are staying overnight. Abuela will expect you to spend the night. Jesus, you just don’t give a damn about people’s feelings, do you, Carlos?”
“Okay. We’ll spend the night.”
“If Jake’s not coming, who’s flying the Gulfstream?”
“Miller will work the radios,” Castillo said after a just-perceptible hesitation.
“Sure. Why not? You’ve been flying that Gulfstream for, what, ten whole days now? And really racked up a lot of time. Maybe ten, even twelve, hours. And shot maybe six landings. You’re out of your mind, you know that?”
“I can fly the Gulfstream,” Castillo said.
“There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold pilots. You ever hear that?”
“I can fly it. It practically flies itself.”
“I was about to say it’s been nice knowing you, but that wouldn’t be entirely true.”
“So I don’t suppose you’re going to meet me at Midland-Odessa?” Castillo asked, but, before Lopez had a chance to reply, went on: “No, actually have the senior Secret Service agent meet us. I have to talk to him and I’d rather do that at the airport.”
“Your wish is my command, Carlos. See you sometime this afternoon.”
The connection went dead.
He called me Carlos again. He called me Carlos three times. He must be really pissed at me.
And, unfortunately, with good reason.
He got another dial tone, and then, reading them from Alex Darby’s cellular, carefully punched in a long series of numbers.
“¿Hola?”
“Hello, Alek,” Castillo said, in Russian.
After a long moment, Aleksandr Pevsner replied, in Russian, “Ah, Colonel Castillo, my former friend. I am surprised that you would dare to call me ever again.”
“‘Former friend,’ Alek?”
“You lied to me, and about something you knew was very important to me.”
“Are you going to tell what? Or are you just going to sulk like a little boy?”
“You dare to deny it? To mock me?”
“To mock you, sure. You’re the mockable type. But I can’t deny anything until you tell me what it is.”
“Munz is what I’m talking about.”
“What about him?”
“You knew where he was all the time and said you didn’t.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t know where he was,” Castillo said. “I didn’t tell you I didn’t know. You jumped to that conclusion.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“Kennedy can’t find him?”
“Or his family, Colonel Ex-Friend.”
“I don’t understand the question. Are you telling me that Howard can’t find Alfredo and his family? Or asking if I know where Señora Munz and the girls are?”
“If you knew where the women are would you tell me? The truth?”
“I do and I would.”
“Where are they?”
“Safe. In the safest place I can think of them to be right now.”
“You’re not going to tell me where?”
“No.”
“And Alfredo?”
“He’s in the second-safest place I could think of for him to be.”
“I want to talk to Alfredo.”
“Well, he has your number, Alek. If he wanted to talk to you, I think he would have called. That’s his call. So far as Señora Munz is concerned, give me four hours or so to have her released from her cell and for the tranquilizers to wear off and I’ll ask her if she wants to call you. But I have to say, I don’t think she’d call unless Alfredo said it was okay, and we’re right back to square one.”
“You sonofabitch. When I find you, you will be sorry.”
“Actually, you won’t have to find me. I’ll be in Argentina in twenty-four hours or less and I want to talk to you. And so do several friends of mine.”
“Ha!”
“The reason I’m calling, Alek, is to try to make sure you’ll still be alive when I get there.”
“Meaning what?”
“I think it’s entirely possible that certain people—certain of your countrymen, as a matter of fact—would like it a lot better if you had one of those Indian beauty marks you’re always talking about in the center of your forehead.”
There was a perceptible pause before Pevsner replied.
“My countrymen? What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“One of the people who were there when Alfredo shot himself cleaning his pistol was a member of the Cuban Dirección General de Inteligencia. That being the case, isn’t it reasonable that the KSB is involved?”
There was a perceptible pause before Pevser replied, in a tone of disgust, “The Cuban Dirección General de Inteligencia? Where did you get that? Why should I believe it?”
“You should believe it, friend Alek, because I’m telling you. And you should also believe that the people who tried to ask Eric Kocian questions in Budapest were ex-Stasi, because I’m telling you that, too.”
When Pevsner didn’t reply, Castillo went on. “Why don’t you ask your friends? The Cuban was Major Alejandro Vincenzo. He was once Castro’s bodyguard. I don’t have the names of the ex-Stasi people yet, but I’m working on it.”
There was another long pause before Pevsner asked, “What was this fellow’s name?”
Castillo repeated it, then spelled it for him.
“Where did you get this, Charley?” Pevsner asked.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Why should I? A minute ago, you told me we’re no longer pals.” There was another long pause, then Castillo went on: “Alfredo knows. But since he doesn’t trust you enough to even give you a call to say, ‘Hi, Alek! How they hanging?’ I guess you’re just going to have to guess where we got it.”
“Alfredo has no reason to distrust me and neither do you,” Pevsner said, sharply.
“Well, truth to tell, I trust you. Up to a point. But Alfredo obviously isn’t so sure. Otherwise, he would have been in touch.”
“I want to talk to Alfredo, Charley.”
“Charley? I thought I was Colonel Ex-Friend.”
“I want to talk to Alfredo, Charley,” Pevsner repeated.
“Well, maybe when I’m down there something can be worked out.”
“I mean right now.”
“Give my regards to the family, Alek. And watch your back. You don’t have as many friends as you think you do.”
[TWO]
Midland International Airport
Midland, Texas
1455 12 August 2005
“I’ve got it, Dick,” Castillo said.
Miller raised both of his hands, fingers spread, to show that he was relinquishing control of the aircraft.
They had been cleared for a straight-in approach to runway 34R.
They could see the airfield clearly.
He really hated to turn it over me, Castillo thought. At least, subconsciously. He knows it wouldn’t be safe for him to land with only one good leg. Dick really loves to fly. I’m not like that, never have been. I do it because that’s what I’m supposed to do and I try hard to do it well, because the alternative to doing it well is not pleasant to contemplate.
I think I should be able to sit this thing down without any trouble. The approach is low and slow, and 34R is 9,501 feet long and 51 feet wide.
But Fernando was right. I really shouldn’t be flying this by myself with only a few hours of on-the-job training.
The approach control operator’s voice in his headset brought him to attention.
“Gulfstream Three-Seven-Nine,” the controller said, “be advised that an Air Force F-15D has just begun his takeoff roll on 34R.”
Before Castillo could open his mouth, Miller responded to the controller: “Thank you. We have him in sight.”
Ahead of them, a dull-silver-painted Air Force fighter was moving with ever-increasing speed down the runway. It lifted off and almost immediately raised its nose so steeply that the entire aircraft seemed to be under them. The fuselage—just wide enough to hold the cockpit—was mounted on the leading edge of the swept-back wing between the intakes for the engines. There were two vertical stabilizers mounted on the rear of the wing.
The pilot kicked in the afterburners and the plane began to climb at an astonishing speed.
“Look at that sonofabitch go!” Miller said, softly, in awe.
“What’s a D?” Castillo asked.
“The trainer,” Miller replied. “Two seats.”
“I wonder what it’s doing at Midland-Odessa?” Castillo said, then added, “I think this is the time we put the wheels down.”
Ten seconds later, Miller reported, “Gear down and locked.”
As Castillo taxied the Gulfstream up to the parking ramp before the Avion business-aviation building, Miller pointed out the window.
“Why do I think that’s why that F-15D was here?” he asked.
Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF, wearing a yellow polo shirt and khaki slacks, was walking from the building toward them.
“Go let him in, Dick,” Castillo said. “I’ll shut it down.”
Ninety seconds later, Colonel Torine stuck his head in the cockpit.
“I don’t recall giving you permission, Colonel, to play by yourself in our airplane.”
“And I didn’t know the Air Force let old men like you even ride in airplanes like that F-15D,” Castillo said, offering Torine his hand.
“Only if they’re full-bull colonels,” Torine said. “You think that hard landing you just made did any serious damage?”
“That was a greaser, Jake, and you know it.”
“Beginner’s luck,” Torine said. “Agnes called me and said you were headed out here and probably to Gaucholand. She didn’t tell me why.”
“We found out who sent the money to the AALs in Pennsylvania to buy their bomb shelter,” Castillo said. “It turns out he went to Texas A&M with Fernando.”
“Interesting,” Torine said. “I guess that explains why Fernando—and the three Secret Service guys in the Avion building—are here. What happens next?”
“I spent most of the trip out here thinking about that,” Castillo said. “I have an idea. It’s probably not a very good idea, but it’s all I could come up with.”
“And are you going to share this not very good idea with me?”
Castillo finished unstrapping himself and stood up. He met Torine’s eyes. “Yeah. And after—to use fighter jock terminology—I’m shot down in flames, you can tell me where I went wrong.”
“I don’t know,” Torine replied. “Your flying skills leave something to be desired, but every once in a good while you have a reasonably good idea.”
Castillo motioned that they go into the fuselage.
Miller was sitting on the edge of one of the left forward-facing leather seats near the door. Doherty was sitting across the aisle from him. Delchamps and Yung were sprawled on the couches. They made room for Torine and Castillo.
“It’s getting a little toasty in here, Ace,” Delchamps said.
“An air conditioner is on the way,” Castillo said, then added: “You don’t know Jake, do you?”
“No,” Delchamps replied, “but I know he’s all right. When Two-Gun Yung here saw him coming, he raised his eyes to heaven and said, ‘Thank you, God!’”
Miller and Torine laughed.
“I’m about to get the others in here,” Castillo said. “But before I do, Inspector Doherty, I want you to understand that what I’m going to propose is probably—hell, certainly—illegal. I don’t expect you to go along with it. But I do expect you to keep your mouth shut. When I want your opinion, I’ll ask. Clear?”
Doherty, tight-lipped, nodded.
Castillo nodded back, then went to the door.
A ground crew was installing both an auxiliary power unit and an air-conditioning hose.
Castillo raised his voice to be heard over the tug pulling the unit. “Make sure that’s working,” he ordered. “We’re going to have a meeting in here that may take sometime.”
Then he looked at the Avion building and waved his arm. He couldn’t see Lopez or the Secret Service agents, but a moment later his cousin pushed through the door, followed by three men in gray suits, and all started walking toward the Gulfstream.
When everyone was aboard, Castillo closed the stair door.
“I know it’s a little crowded in here,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure it’s not bugged.”
This earned him a dutiful laugh.
“I wish I could stand up all the way up in here,” he said, earning a second polite laugh.
After a moment to collect his thoughts, he went on: “Okay, what follows is classified Top Secret Presidential, by authority of a Presidential Finding. You will never disclose anything you hear or learn in this cabin to anyone at any time without my personal permission. Everybody understand that?”
He looked at each man in turn until he got a nod of acknowledgment.
“Some of you are aware that American Muslims in the Aari-Teg mosque in Philadelphia—a group with known ties to terrorists—have purchased a farm near Philadelphia where they will seek shelter when a suitcase nuclear device, called a SADM, is detonated…”
“…And,” Castillo wound up his opening comments, “now that you know the manner in which I intend to deal with Mr. Kenyon would drive just about any civil libertarian up the wall, I’m going to give you ninety seconds to make up your mind whether you’re in or out.
“Those who decide, for any reason, that they can’t participate in this operation are free to go. No hard feelings. But with that caveat that they are not to reveal anything they have just heard or attempt to interfere in any manner with what I’m going to do.
“I hate to sound like a hard-ass, but we’re really playing hardball here and anyone who runs off at the mouth will be prosecuted for unlawful disclosure of Top Secret Presidential material. That prosecution will go forward no matter what happens to me.
“And when I said you have ninety seconds to make up your mind, I meant it.”
He raised his wrist and punched the SWEEP second button on his aviator’s chronometer.
“The clock is running,” he announced.
Ninety seconds passed in absolute silence. It felt like much longer.
“Time’s up.”
Castillo walked to the forward bulkhead and opened the door.
No one moved.
“Now’s the time to leave,” he said.
No one moved.
“You heard that, Inspector Doherty?” Castillo asked.
“I heard you clearly, Colonel,” Inspector Doherty said.
“Okay, then let’s get this circus on the road,” Castillo ordered.
[THREE]
Avion Aviation Services Transient Aircraft Tarmac
Midland International Airport
Midland, Texas
1705 12 August 2005
“Here they come,” Special Agent David W. Yung, Jr., said, gesturing out the window toward a black Mercedes-Benz S500 driving up to the Gulfstream.
“Wind it up, Jake,” Castillo ordered as he walked to the switch that controlled the opening and closing of the stair door.
“Midland Ground Control,” Torine said, “Gulfstream Three-Seven-Nine at Avion. Request taxi instructions for immediate departure.”
Castillo stood in the passage between the cabin and the cockpit and watched as the Mercedes pulled up close to the aircraft.
The Mercedes stopped. The front passenger’s door opened and Philip J. Kenyon III—a large, stocky man wearing a white polo shirt, a linen jacket, khaki trousers, and tan western boots—got out as Fernando Lopez stepped out from behind the wheel.
Kenyon, perspiring in the Texas summer heat that baked the tarmac, looked admiringly at the Gulfstream. Then, smiling, he started walking toward the stair door as two men got out of the rear seat of the Mercedes.
Kenyon did not seem to notice as a black GMC Yukon XL approached the Mercedes and the aircraft and pulled to a stop, effectively screening the activity near the plane from any possible onlookers.
As Kenyon got close to the stair door, the man who had been riding in the left rear seat of the Mercedes took what looked very much like a black semiautomatic pistol from under his jacket, rested his elbows on the Mercedes hood, took aim, and fired.
There was no loud sound, as there would have been had the man fired a firearm, but instead there was a barely audible pop, as that of an air rifle firing. Kenyon made a sudden move with his hand toward his buttocks as if, for example, he had been stung by a bee. Then he fell to the ground and appeared to be suffering from convulsions.
The man who had fired what looked like a pistol tossed it to the man who had gotten out of the right rear seat of the Mercedes and then got behind the wheel.
The man who now had what looked like a pistol went to Kenyon and tugged at something apparently embedded in Kenyon’s buttocks. Then Fernando Lopez bent over Kenyon and—with some effort, as the big man was still convulsing—picked him up over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and started to climb the stair door.
There was a whine as one of the G-III’s engines began to turn.
Castillo came to the head of the stairs, got a firm grip on Lopez’s polo shirt, and hauled him and Kenyon into the fuselage as the man who now had the pistol-like device pushed Lopez from the rear.
As soon as everyone was inside the Gulfstream, the Mercedes and then the Yukon drove off.
The stair door began to retract and the Gulfstream began to move as its other engine was started.
“Put him facedown on the couch,” Castillo ordered, then had a second thought: “after you take his clothes off. Being in your birthday suit surrounded by half a dozen ugly men with guns usually tends to make interrogatees very cooperative.”
“You’re bad, Ace,” Edgar Delchamps said.
“Oh, shit!” Yung said, then chuckled and added: “Literally. Charley, he’s crapped his pants!”
“Is that what they call an unexpected development, Ace?” Delchamps asked.
“Put him in the aft crapper,” Castillo ordered.
Philip J. Kenyon III returned to full consciousness to find himself sitting on the floor of a plastic-walled cubicle that smelled of feces. An Asian man—in shirtsleeves with an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster and holding what looked like another pistol in his hand—looked down at him.
“What the hell?” Kenyon said. “What happ—”
Yung put the index finger of his bandaged hand in front of his lips and said, “Sssshhh!”
“What the—”
Yung raised the pistol-like device and pointed it at Kenyon’s chest.
“The next time you open your mouth, you’ll get it again,” he said almost conversationally. “What you are going to do now is take off your clothing and clean yourself. Put your filthy shorts in this and hand the rest of your clothes to me.”
He handed Kenyon a gallon-sized plastic zipper bag.
Philip J. Kenyon III, naked, his handcuffed hands before him holding a small towel over his groin, came down the fuselage aisle.
“Lay the towel on the seat, Tubby,” Castillo ordered. “And sit on it. I don’t want you soiling my nice leather upholstery.”
“God, he smells!” Delchamps said.
Kenyon did as he was ordered.
“Feeling a little disoriented, are you, Tubby?” Castillo asked.
“Jesus Christ!” Kenyon said.
“You have been Tazed,” Castillo said. “Or is it Tasered? In any event, what that means is that we have caused fifty thousand volts and one hundred thirty–odd milliamperes of electricity to pass through your body. You may have noticed that this is some what incapacitating.
“If you show the slightest indication of being difficult, or if you refuse to answer completely and without hesitation any questions that I or any of these other gentlemen ask you, you will be Tasered again. You understand?”
Kenyon nodded.
“When you are asked a question, you will respond by saying, at the minimum, ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir.’ Understand?”
Castillo noticed more than a little anger in Kenyon’s eyes. But his fear clearly was far worse.
Kenyon nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Do you have any questions, Tubby?”
It took Kenyon thirty seconds to respond, enough time for him to pick up a little bravado.
“I’d like to know what the hell is going on here, Castillo,” he said, stiffly. “And where I am, where we’re going. I was told I was just coming out to see your new airplane.”
“That’s three questions,” Castillo said. “From now on, when I say you may ask a question, that means one question. But since you were unaware of the rule, I will answer your three questions.
“Where are we? We are at approximately twenty thousand feet in a climbing attitude on a course of approximately three hundred forty degrees. We are headed for Florence, Colorado. We’ll get to what the hell is going on here in a bit. Another question?”
“Florence, Colorado? What’s in Florence, Colorado?”
“That’s two questions, Tubby. I’m not going to tell you again. The next time he asks two questions at once, Special Agent Yung, Taser him.”
“Yes, sir,” Yung said.
“But since your questions are some what related, I will answer them. Florence, Colorado, is home to the Federal ADMAX prison, ADMAX meaning ‘Administrative Maximum Security Prison.’ Are you familiar with the Florence ADMAX, Tubby?”
“No,” Kenyon replied, some what impatiently.
Castillo held up his index finger.
“No, sir,” Kenyon said, quickly.
“The Florence ADMAX confines very bad people—and I mean really confines: Prisoners are not allowed contact with any other prisoners and are released from their one-man cells for exercise for one hour per day. They are allowed one-hour family visits every other month, provided, of course, their behavior has earned them that privilege.
“And by very bad people, I mean, for example, Robert Hannsen, the FBI agent who was caught spying for Russians, and—of special interest to you—both Omar Abdel-Rahman and Ramzi Yousef, the Islamic terrorists who bombed the World Trade Center in 1993. They are all going to spend the rest of their lives without the possibility of parole in the Florence ADMAX. Personally, I think all traitors and terrorists, or those who help them, should be executed, but the court showed those scumbags leniency. Perhaps they will, too, in your case.
“I wouldn’t bet on that, though, Tubby. You’re an Aggie. You were an Army officer. You knew better than to do what you did. I really can’t see a jury—especially a Texas jury—recommending clemency for you. Question?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kenyon said, having mustered just a little more bravado.
“The next time he volunteers a mistruth, Yung, Taser him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tubby, you’re not actually going to deny, are you, that you sent $1,950,000 from accounts you probably thought no one knew you have in the Caledonian Bank and Trust Limited in the Cayman Islands to the Aari-Teg mosque in Easton, a religious group with known connections to Muslim terrorists?”
Kenyon’s skin paled. His eyes widened.
“Are you?” Castillo pursued.
Kenyon sat up abruptly and vomited on the floor.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Edgar Delchamps said, disgustedly.
“Go back to the bathroom, Tubby,” Castillo ordered. “Get some paper towels from the cabinet and clean up your mess.”
Kenyon raised his handcuffed wrists.
“I noticed,” Castillo said, as the vile smell spread. “So what? Hurry up. You’re stinking up my aircraft.”
Kenyon struggled to his feet from the low couch and walked to the rear of the fuselage.
“Looks like something stung Tubby on the ass, doesn’t it?” Delchamps asked.
The others laughed.
Kenyon came back down the aisle with paper towels in his hands, dropped to his knees, and started to mop up his vomitus. No one said a word.
Yung, a handkerchief over his mouth and nose, went aft and into the head, came out with an aerosol can of air freshener, then emptied it as he came forward in the cabin.
When Kenyon thought he had finished, he looked at Castillo, who shook his head.
“Clean, Tubby, means clean,” Castillo said.
It took Kenyon three more trips to the toilet for paper towels and a lot of scrubbing before Castillo nodded and said, “Sit down.”
“Okay, where were we before Tubby disgraced himself?” Castillo asked.
“I didn’t know those people in Philadelphia were terrorists,” Kenyon blurted.
“I didn’t say you could speak,” Castillo said. “The next time you speak without permission…”
He mimed shooting the Taser.
Kenyon recoiled as if Castillo’s finger were the real thing.
“Are you going to talk to us, Tubby? Or wait for the people waiting for you at Florence?” Castillo asked.
Kenyon remained silent.
“Your choice,” Castillo pursued. “What’s it going to be?”
Kenyon looked off in the distance, thinking. Then he looked long and hard at Castillo.
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but you’ve got to believe me, I didn’t know the people in Philadelphia were terrorists.”
“Well, we’ll listen to what you have to say,” Castillo said. “Can I have your recorder, Jack?”
Doherty handed Castillo a small tape recorder.
Castillo went to Kenyon.
“Put your knees together, Tubby,” he said, and when Kenyon had complied, Castillo laid the tape recorder on Kenyon’s legs. “If that falls to the floor…” he said and mimed shooting the Taser again.
Kenyon quickly put his hands out to hold the recorder in position on his knees.
“Now, before I switch that on,” Castillo said, “there’s something I want to tell you in case you’re thinking that your civil rights have been violated and therefore it doesn’t matter what you tell us, it would not be admissible in court.
“You’re sitting in a sort of a court. We are your judges and the jury. Let me tell you who we are. You know Fernando, of course, and you remember me, and may even know I’m an Army officer. Special Agent Yung is with the FBI. That’s Edgar Delchamps of the CIA. That’s Inspector Doherty of the FBI. Those two are George Feller and Sam Oliver of the Secret Service. The airplane is being flown by Colonel Jake Torine of the Air Force. The copilot is an Army officer, Major Dick Miller.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this. The reason is—presuming you ever get back to Midland or when your lawyer is finally admitted to Florence and you could tell him—that neither your lawyer nor anyone else is going to believe that you were kidnapped by your classmate at Texas A&M and hustled aboard a G-III piloted by an Air Force officer and an Army officer, where you were threatened and humiliated by another Army officer with whom you were once in the Boy Scouts, and then interrogated by a very senior FBI agent, two Secret Service agents, and a CIA officer.
“Think about it, Tubby. The only chance you have of not spending the rest of your life in a cell at Florence ADMAX is to come clean with us. Do we understand each other?”
“I told you I’d tell you anything you want to know. But you have to believe me when I tell you I had no idea that was a terrorist group or mosque or whatever in Philadelphia.”
“So you keep saying,” Castillo said. “He’s all yours, Inspector.”
Doherty moved from the forward-facing chairs in which he had been sitting and sat down on the couch facing Kenyon. He took out a small notebook and a ballpoint pen, then reached across the aisle and switched on the tape recorder.
“Interview of Philip J. Kenyon III,” Doherty began, “begun at five-fifty p.m. central standard time, 12 August 2005, aboard an aircraft in the service of the United States somewhere above Texas en route to the Florence ADMAX, Florence, Colorado, by Inspector John J. Doherty, Office of the Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, acting under Presidential Authority. Present are Colonel C. J. Castillo, team chief, Mr. Edgar Delchamps, Office of the Director, Central Intelligence Agency, Special Agents George Feller and Samuel Oliver of the Dallas Office, United States Secret Service, and FBI Agent David W. Yung, Jr.
“State your name and occupation, please.”
Kenyon swallowed and then, as if he was having trouble finding his voice, finally announced that he was Philip J. Kenyon III, chairman of the board of the Kenyon Oil Refining and Brokerage Company of Midland, Texas.
“Mr. Kenyon,” Doherty said. “It is my understanding that you are making this statement voluntarily, without either coercion of any kind or the promise of immunity from prosecution or the promise of special consideration because of your cooperation. Is that true?”
Kenyon’s eyes glanced at Castillo, then looked at the floor. He exhaled audibly and said softly, “Yes.”
“A little louder, please?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Let’s start at the beginning,” Doherty said. “How did you first become involved in illegal transactions connected with the United Nations oil-for-food program?”
Kenyon exhaled again.
“They came to me,” he said, finally, “I didn’t go looking for it. They came to me.”
“Who came to you?”
“A man named Lionel Cassidy,” Kenyon said. “He came to me and asked if I would be interested in some thirty-two-dollar-a-barrel oil.”
“Do you have an address for Mr. Cassidy?”
“No. He always contacted me.”
“But he was known to you?”
“I never saw him before the day he came up to me at the bar at the Petroleum Club. The one in Dallas. Not the one in Midland.”
“But how did he know you?”
Kenyon shrugged helplessly.
“I don’t know. But he seemed to know all about me and my business. And he said, ‘I’ve heard you might be interested in fifty thousand barrels at thirty-two-point-five.’ Hell, of course I was. That was ten dollars under market.”
“You say he seemed to know all about your business?” Yung asked.
Doherty gave him a dirty look and held up his hand to silence any reply from Kenyon.
“State your name and occupation and then repeat the question,” Doherty ordered.
“Special Agent David W. Yung, Jr., FBI, on assignment to the Office of Operational Analysis,” Yung said. “Mr. Kenyon, you say the man, Lionel Cassidy, who came to you seemed to know all about you and your business?”
“Yes, He did.”
“I’m going to show you a photograph, Mr. Kenyon, and ask if you can tell me who it is,” Yung said.
Kenyon looked at the photograph.
“Yeah, that’s Cassidy all right. The sonofabitch who sucked me into this mess.”
“This is Inspector Doherty. Special Agent Yung showed Mr. Kenyona five-by-seven-inch clear color photograph of a white male approximately forty-five years of age, approximately five feet eleven inches tall, and weighing approximately one hundred sixty-five pounds. Mr. Kenyon identified the man in the photograph as Lionel Cassidy. The man in the photograph is well known to me, Special Agent Yung, and Colonel Castillo by another name, which we know is his real name. That name is not germane to this interview.”
“I’m telling you he told me his name was Cassidy, Lionel Cassidy,” Kenyon said, plaintively. “Why should I lie to you about that?”
“No one is suggesting that you’re lying, Mr. Kenyon,” Doherty said. “So what did you do when Mr. Cassidy offered you fifty thousand barrels of oil at thirty-two dollars and fifty cents per barrel?”
“Well, I was suspicious at first, but…”
“And now we turn to the contribution you made to the Aari-Teg mosque,” Doherty said, a half hour later. “Why did you do that?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t want to,” Kenyon said. “And I had no idea—I said this before but I’ll say it again—I had no idea there was any kind of a terrorist connection whatever.”
“So tell me what happened,” Doherty said.
“It was in Cozumel,” Kenyon said. “I took the family down there for a little sun and sea, you know. And Cassidy was there.”
“Castillo,” Castillo interjected. “Where in Cozumel was this, Mr. Kenyon?”
“You mean the hotel?”
Castillo nodded.
“Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort,” Kenyon said.
“Go on,” Castillo said.
“Well, I saw Cassidy at the beach and at the bar. I know he saw me, but there was no sign of recognition so I left it there. That was fine with me.”
“Did you happen to notice anyone with Cassidy?”
“Yeah. He was with a guy, about his age. Talked funny.”
“A Russian accent, maybe?” Castillo asked.
“Could be, Charley.”
“The interview will be suspended,” Castillo said, “for a brief period while Castillo consults a file.”
Doherty looked at him with mixed curiosity and annoyance.
Castillo went quickly to the net pouch behind the pilot’s chair and retrieved his laptop. He turned it on, hurriedly searched through it, and then carried it to Kenyon and held it in front of him.
“Mr. Kenyon, I show you a computer image of a white male and ask you if this is the man you saw with Cassidy in Cozumel,” Castillo said.
Kenyon shook his head. “No. Never saw that guy before.”
Castillo held the computer up for Doherty to see it.
“Colonel Castillo has shown me the same computer image just now shown to Mr. Kenyon, that of a white male known to me from other photographs,” Doherty said. “This man is not known to Mr. Kenyon. May I go on, Colonel?”
“Please,” Castillo said.
“Hold it,” Delchamps said, then went on: “Edgar Delchamps, CIA. The interview will be suspended until I can get a photograph to show Mr. Kenyon.”
Delchamps dug into his briefcase, took a stack of five-by-seven photographs from it, hurriedly searched through them, selected two, and held them out in front of Kenyon.
“Look familiar?” he asked.
“That’s the guy,” Kenyon said.
“And this one?”
“Same guy.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Cassidy was talking to him at the bar just before he all of a sudden recognized me, came over, and told me he needed a favor.”
“Hold it a second,” Doherty said. “Mr. Delchamps has shown two clear five-by-seven photographs, one color, one black-and-white, of a white male approximately forty-five years of age, approximately five feet eight, approximately one hundred ninety pounds, to Mr. Kenyon, who positively stated the photos were of the same man, and that this man was with Cassidy in the hotel. The man is apparently well known to Mr. Delchamps but not to me or Colonel Castillo.”
Delchamps turned his back to Kenyon and mouthed the name Sunev.
Doherty looked momentarily confused until he made the connection. Then he smiled. Then he lost the smile.
“What do you think of your good pal now, Castillo?” he asked, almost triumphantly.
“I never said he was a good pal. I just told you I wasn’t going to report on him to you,” Castillo said. Then he looked at Delchamps and announced: “Bingo!”
“Bingo indeed, Ace,” Delchamps said.
Doherty turned back to Kenyon.
“You say Cassidy came and spoke to you at the bar of the hotel?”
“That’s right.”
“Did the man in the photograph Mr. Delchamps just showed you come with him?”
“No, sir.”
“You said he said he needed a favor? What kind of a favor?”
“He said he was having a little cash-flow problem and that he needed to make good on a promise he’d made to a mosque in Philadelphia.”
“And he wanted you to wire them two million, more or less, from your accounts in the Caledonian Bank and Trust Limited?” Delchamps asked.
“He said it would just be temporary,” Kenyon said. “I knew he was lying. But what could I do?”
“Indeed. What could you do? If you didn’t oblige him, he’d tell the IRS what a bad boy you’d been? Right?”
Kenyon shrugged and nodded.
“And besides, you had forty-six million of oil-for-food money in the Caledonian Bank and Trust Limited. If the IRS got involved, you’d be liable to lose that, too. Right?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“This interview of Philip J. Kenyon III is terminated, subject to recall, at seven-fifteen p.m. central standard time, 12 August 2005. All parties present at the commencement were present throughout the interview,” Doherty said, then reached over and reclaimed his tape recorder from Kenyon’s knees.
“Go to the toilet, Tubby,” Castillo ordered. “Close the door and sit on it.”
“My clothes?”
Castillo pointed to the toilet.
Kenyon got awkwardly to his feet and walked naked down the aisle.
“What do we do with him?” Castillo asked when the toilet door had been closed.
“You’re asking me, Colonel?” Doherty asked.
“Why not? You’re in the criminal business, I’m in the terrorist business, and whatever else that miserable shit is I don’t think he’s a terrorist.”
“He’s a coconspirator,” Doherty said. “And an accessory before and after the fact.”
“If you say so. So what do you want to do with him?”
“Anybody interested in what I think?” Delchamps asked.
“Not that I know of,” Castillo said, seriously.
“Fuck you, Ace,” Delchamps said, good-naturedly. “Well, now that you’ve asked for my opinion: How about Jack coming up with some really good interrogators and finding out what else Tubby knows, with these two”—he nodded toward the Secret Service agents—“suitably briefed, sitting in on it to ask questions of their own.”
“Transcripts of the interrogation, copies of everything, to OOA,” Castillo said. “And they don’t go near a United States Attorney until we decide they should.”
“I don’t like that last,” Doherty said.
“I didn’t think you would,” Castillo said. “But what does that mean?”
“We do everything that Edgar said,” Doherty said. “What’s the risk of him getting on the phone and asking somebody for help?”
“I think we should tell him that his phones are going to be tapped and that he’s going to have a Secret Service buddy with him day and night until we’re through with him and that, if he’s a bad boy, he goes straight to the Florence ADMAX and does not pass Go,” Castillo said.
He looked at Doherty.
“Okay,” Doherty said. “And now what? I mean, right now?”
“We go back to Midland, and tonight we have dinner with my grandmother. And in the morning, we go to Buenos Aires.”
Doherty nodded.
Castillo walked forward to the cockpit.
“How did it go?” Jake Torine asked.
“Better than I dared hope. But we have to go to Buenos Aires first thing in the morning.”
“I figured as much. Not a problem.”
“How long is it going to take us to get back to Midland?”
Torine pointed at the ground.
“As long as it takes this one-legged junior birdman to get us down from thirty thousand feet,” Torine said. “We’ve been flying a nice big circle over North Texas.” He looked at Miller. “Junior Birdman, commence a gentle descent at this time.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel, sir. My pleasure, sir,” Miller said and reached for the trim control.