Black Ops (Presidential Agent)

by W. E. B Griffin

  And then something else very interesting appeared: a Costa Rican Air Transport Boeing 727 on final, about to touch down.

  Costa Rican Air Transport? he'd thought.

  MacDill was closed to civilian traffic.

  The 727 had made a perfectly ordinary landing but was not allowed to leave the runway. The fleet of emergency vehicles--now joined by a half-dozen staff cars, most of these bearing general officer's starred license plates--rushed out to meet the plane.

  Then a U.S. Army Blackhawk helicopter of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment fluttered to the ground as a pickup truck with mounted stairs backed up to the forward door in the civilian transport's fuselage.

  The plane's door opened and two men got off. They were wearing jungle camouflage uniforms and their hands and faces were streaked with the grease-paint normally worn by special operators deployed in the boonies.

  The taller one, seeing all the brass, saluted, and it was then that Sparkman recognized Colonel Jacob D. Torine, USAF.

  There was no way--not with all the brass around--that Sparkman could make his manners to Colonel Torine and politely inquire what the hell was going on.

  But when he heard the rumors that Torine and a Special Forces major had stolen a 727 back from Muslim fanatics who had taken it with the idea of each of them collecting a harem of heavenly virgins just as soon as they crashed it into the Liberty Bell, he thought there might be something to it.

  Especially after he heard two weeks later that Torine had been awarded another Distinguished Flying Cross, for unspecified actions of a classified nature.

  The next time Captain Sparkman had seen Colonel Torine was at Andrews, as Sparkman was taxiing a Citation III to the runway for takeoff, this time hauling a senator to Kansas to give a speech.

  Torine was in civilian clothing and doing a preflight inspection walkaround of a Gulfstream. A civilian G-III, which was interesting because Andrews also was closed to civilian aircraft.

  Sparkman again had no idea what was going on, but he was determined to find out. If the Air Force insisted that he fly itsy-bitsy aircraft, he would see if he could fly Torine's.

  It took some doing, but Sparkman was an enterprising young officer, and within a few days, he learned that Colonel Torine had been assigned to some outfit called the Office of Organizational Analysis, which was under the Department of Homeland Security, which had its offices in the Nebraska Avenue Complex in Washington.

  When Sparkman went there, though, the security guard denied any knowledge of any Colonel Torine or of any Office of Organizational Analysis.

  Which of course really got Sparkman's attention. And so he took a chance: "You get on that phone and tell Colonel Torine that Captain Richard Sparkman has to see him now on a matter of great importance."

  The security guard considered that for a long moment, then picked up his telephone. Sparkman couldn't hear what he said, but a minute later, an elevator door opened, and a muscular man, who might as well have had Federal Special Agent tattooed on his forehead, got off.

  "Captain Sparkman?"

  Sparkman nodded.

  "ID, please, sir."

  Sparkman gave it to him. He studied it carefully, then waved Sparkman onto the elevator.

  Colonel Torine, in civilian clothing, was waiting for the elevator when it stopped on the top floor.

  "Okay," Torine said to the agent. "Thanks." He offered his hand to Sparkman. "Long time no see, Lieutenant. Come on in."

  "Actually, sir, it's captain."

  "Well, sooner or later they finally get to the bottom of the barrel, don't they?"

  Torine had an impressive office. Behind a massive wooden desk were three flags: the national colors, the Air Force flag, and one that Sparkman had never seen before but correctly guessed was that of the Department of Homeland Security.

  Torine sat in a red leather judge's chair. He waved Sparkman into one of two leather-upholstered chairs before his desk.

  "Okay . . . Dick, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What's the matter of great importance?"

  "Sir, I thought maybe you could use a co-pilot for your Gulfstream."

  Torine's eyebrows rose, but he didn't speak for a long moment.

  "How do you know about the Gulfstream?" he asked finally.

  "I saw you doing a walkaround at Andrews, sir."

  Torine shook his head.

  "Make a note, Captain. You never saw me with a Gulfstream at Andrews or anywhere else."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Still driving a gunship, are you, Sparkman?"

  "No, sir. I'm flying the right seat of mostly C-20s for the Presidential Airlift Group."

  "How did you get a soft billet like that?"

  "Over my strongest objections, sir."

  "How much Gulfstream time do you have?"

  "Pushing six hundred hours, sir."

  Torine tapped the balls of his fingers together for perhaps fifteen seconds, then shrugged and punched buttons on a telephone.

  "Got a minute, boss?"

  "Sure," a voice came from a speaker Sparkman could not see.

  "Put your shoes on and restrain the beast. I'm on my way."

  Torine led Sparkman through an inner corridor to a closed door. He knocked, but went through it without waiting for a reply.

  Sparkman found himself in an even more impressive office. It was occupied by a very large--six-foot-two, two-twenty--very black man, a slightly smaller white man, and a very large dog that held a soccer ball in his mouth with no more difficulty than a lesser dog would have with a tennis ball.

  When the dog saw Sparkman, he dropped the soccer ball, walked to Sparkman, and showed him what looked like five pounds of sharp white teeth.

  The white man said something to the dog in a foreign language Sparkman could not identify, whereupon the dog sat on his haunches, closed his mouth, and offered Sparkman his paw.

  "Shake Max's hand, Sparkman," Torine ordered.

  Sparkman did so.

  Pointing first at the black man, then at the white man, Torine said, "Major Miller, Colonel Castillo, this is Captain Dick Sparkman, whom, I believe, the good Lord has just dropped in our lap."

  Sparkman saw the nameplate on the desk: LT. COL. C. G. CASTILLO.

  A light bird, he thought, and Torine, a full bull colonel, calls him "boss"?

  And his office is fancier than Torine's. . . .

  "I have this unfortunate tendency to look your gift horses in the mouth, Jake," Castillo had said as he took a long, thin black cigar from a humidor and started to clip the end.

  "Do you remember Captain Sparkman?"

  "I just did. You were driving a Gulfstream that gave me a ride to Fort Rucker, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Captain Sparkman has nearly six hundred hours in the right seat of a G-III," Torine explained.

  "Ah!" Lieutenant Colonel Castillo said.

  "Before that, he was flying an AC-130H gunship out of Hurlburt," Torine went on. "We once very quietly toured Central America together."

  "Ah ha!" Lieutenant Colonel Castillo said.

  "And he saw me doing a walkaround of our bird at Andrews."

  "And, Captain, who did you tell about that?" Major Miller asked.

  "No one, sir," Sparkman said.

  "And how did you find Colonel Torine, Captain?" Lieutenant Colonel Castillo asked.

  "I asked around, sir."

  "And how did you get past the receptionist downstairs?" Major Miller asked. "He's supposed to tell people he has never heard of Colonel Jake Torine."

  "The receptionist did," Torine said. "The captain here then told him, forcefully, to get on the phone and tell me that he had to see me on a matter of great importance."

  "Ah ha!" Lieutenant Colonel Castillo said.

  "Which was?" Major Miller inquired.

  "That if I had to fly the right seat of a Gulfstream," Sparkman offered, "I'd rather fly Colonel Torine's."

  "Ah ha!" Lieutenant Colonel Castillo s
aid for the third time, then looked at Major Miller, who paused a moment for thought and then shrugged.

  "Tell me, Captain," Castillo said. "Is there any pressing business, personal or official, which would keep you from going to Buenos Aires first thing in the morning?"

  "I'm on the board for a flight to Saint Louis at 0830, sir."

  "Jake, call out there and tell them the captain will be otherwise occupied," Castillo said, and then turned to Sparkman. "Prefacing this with the caveat that anything you hear, see, or intuit from this moment on is classified Top Secret Presidential, the disclosure of which will see you punished by your castration with a very dull knife, plus imprisonment for the rest of your natural life, let me welcome you to the Office of Organizational Analysis, where you will serve as our most experienced Gulfstream jockey and perform such other duties as may be required."

  "Just like that?" Sparkman blurted.

  "Just like that, Dick," Torine said, chuckling.

  "Go pack a bag with enough civvies--you won't need your uniform--for a week, and then come back here," Castillo ordered. "Major Miller here will run you through our in-processing procedures."

  At the safe house in Alexandria, Castillo cut his end of the cellular telephone connection with Torine, put the telephone in his trousers pocket, then picked up the handset of another secure telephone on his office desk. He pushed one key on the base and said, "C. G. Castillo."

  It took a second or two--no more--for the voice-recognition circuitry to function, flashing the caller's name before the White House operator.

  "White House," the pleasant young female operator's voice said. "Merry Christmas, Colonel Castillo."

  "Merry Christmas to you, too. Can you get me Ambassador Montvale on a secure line, please?"

  The rule was that those people given access to the special White House switchboard circuit were expected to answer their telephones within sixty seconds. Charles W. Montvale, former deputy secretary of State, former secretary of the Treasury, former ambassador to the European Union, and currently United States director of National Intelligence, took twenty-seven seconds to come on the line.

  "Charles Montvale," he said. His voice was deep, cultured, and charming.

  "Merry Christmas, Mr. Ambassador. Colonel Castillo for you," the White House operator told him. "The line is secure."

  Castillo picked up on the ambassador's failure to return the operator's Christmas greetings.

  "Merry Christmas and a very happy New Year, Mr. Ambassador," Castillo said cheerfully.

  The ambassador did not respond in kind, but instead said, "Actually, I was about to call you, Charley."

  "Mental telepathy, sir?"

  "Does the name Kurt Kuhl mean anything to you, Colonel?"

  Montvale's tone, and the use of Castillo's rank, suggested that Montvale was displeased with him. Again. As usual.

  There is an exception, so they say, to every absolute statement. The exception to the absolute statement that the director of National Intelligence exercised authority over everyone and everything in the intelligence community was the Office of Organizational Analysis, which answered only to the commander in chief.

  Ambassador Montvale found this both absurd and unacceptable, but had been unable to take OOA under his wing beyond an agreement with Castillo that he would be informed in a timely fashion of what Castillo was up to.

  On Castillo's part this meant it was frequently necessary to remind the director of National Intelligence of the great difference between Castillo telling Montvale about taking some action and Castillo asking Montvale's permission--or even Montvale's advice--about taking some action.

  "No, sir. It doesn't ring a bell. Who is he?"

  There was a perceptible pause before Montvale replied: "Kuhl was a deep-cover CIA asset in Vienna and elsewhere in that part of the world."

  "Past tense?"

  "I was informed an hour or so ago that he and his wife were found garroted to death behind the Johann Strauss statue in the Stadtpark in Vienna yesterday."

  "They know who did it?"

  "I was hoping you might be able to offer a suggestion. I seem to recall that you have some experience with people who are garroted to death."

  "Sorry. I never heard of him."

  There was a moment's silence while Montvale considered that, then he abruptly changed the subject: "What's on your mind, Castillo?"

  "I'm going to Germany in the morning."

  "Is that so? And are you going to share with me why?"

  "Otto Gorner called a few minutes ago to tell me that a Tages Zeitung reporter was found murdered in interesting circumstances."

  "How interesting?"

  "The body was mutilated. First, Otto thinks, to make it look as if it was a homosexual lovers' quarrel--multiple stab wounds."

  "And second?"

  "One of the victim's eyes was cut out."

  "Suggesting the message 'This is what happens when you look at something you shouldn't'?"

  "That's what Mr. Delchamps suggests. It follows, as Otto says this reporter was working on the oil-for-food scheme."

  "And your--our--interest in this tragic event, Colonel?"

  "Eric Kocian insists on going to the funeral. The man was an old friend of his."

  "He can't be dissuaded?"

  "Not a chance."

  "How hard did you try?"

  "Not at all. It would have been a waste of time."

  "The President happened to mention at dinner that he hadn't seen you since he visited you at Walter Reed, and perhaps there would be a chance to do so over the next few days. What am I supposed to tell him?"

  "That in keeping with the accord between us, I told you where I was going and why."

  "How much is this going to delay the investigation?"

  "It might speed it up."

  "You need anything, Charley?"

  "Can't think of a thing."

  "Keep in touch," Montvale said, and broke the connection.

  "Anything else, Colonel?" the pleasant young female White House operator's voice asked.

  "That'll do it. Thanks very much. And Merry Christmas."

  "You, too, Colonel."

  Castillo put the handset back in its cradle and thought hard about what else he had to do.

  After a long moment he decided that he had done everything necessary, and that it was highly unlikely that anything else was going to come up and interfere with their Christmas dinner.

  That carefully considered prediction proved false about seventeen minutes later, when the cellular in his trousers pocket vibrated against his leg while his grandmother was invoking the Lord's blessing on all those gathered at the table.

  He of course could not answer it while his grandmother was praying.

  Sixty seconds later, the White House phone buzzed imperiously. One of the Secret Service agents quickly rose from the table to answer it.

  Thirty seconds after that, surprising Castillo not at all, the agent reappeared and mimed that the call was for Castillo.

  Dona Alicia looked at him as he rose from the table. He wasn't sure if she was annoyed or felt sorry for him.

  The legend on the small LCD screen next to the telephone read: SECURE JOEL ISAACSON SECURE.

  Castillo picked up the handset, said "C. G. Castillo," waited for the voice recognition circuitry to kick in, then said, "What's up, Joel?"

  Joel Isaacson was the Secret Service supervisory special agent in charge of the protection detail for Homeland Security Secretary Matt Hall. But the tall, slim, forty-year-old Isaacson, who had once been number two on the presidential detail, was de facto more than that.

  In the reorganization after 9/11, the Secret Service, which had been under the Treasury Department, was transferred to the newly formed Department of Homeland Security.

  The chief of the Secret Service had assigned two old and trusted pals, Supervisory Special Agents Joel Isaacson and Tom McGuire, to the secretary's protection detail. It was understood between them that their mis
sion was as much to protect the Secret Service from its new boss--new brooms have been known to sweep out the good and keep the garbage--as it was to protect him from Islamic lunatics.

  It had worked out well from the beginning. The secretary quickly learned that if he wanted something from the Secret Service--about whose operations he knew virtually nothing--Isaacson or McGuire could get it for him. Similarly, the chief of the Secret Service quickly learned that if he wanted something from the secretary, it was better and quicker to make the request of McGuire or Isaacson than directly of the secretary, who made no decisions involving the Secret Service without getting the opinion of one or the other.

  And then when the President issued the Finding setting up the Office of Organizational Analysis--which in the chief of the Secret Service's very private opinion was not one of his wiser decisions--Tom McGuire was one of the first people assigned to it. The chief did not entirely trust Isaacson's and McGuire's opinion that despite his youth, junior rank, and reputation, Major C. G. Castillo was just the guy to run what the chief very privately thought of as the President's Own CIA/FBI/Delta Force.

  The assignment of McGuire to OOA left Isaacson as the chief's conduit to the secretary, and that was just fine. But he worried about Tom McGuire getting burned when someone burned the OOA, which seemed to the chief to be inevitable.

  My God, that crazy Green Beret launched an invasion of Paraguay to rescue a DEA agent the druggies had kidnapped.

  That the mission had succeeded did not, in the chief's opinion, mean the operation was not as lunatic an operation as he had ever heard of, and he'd been around the Secret Service for a long time.

  "Jack Britton and his wife are on their way out there, Charley," Joel Isaacson announced without any preliminaries. "I need you to talk to him. Okay? As a favor to me?"

  "Talk to him about what?" Castillo replied, and then: "And his wife?"

  "They had to take him off the Vice President's protection detail. And he's pretty annoyed."

  "What did he do to get canned?"

  "Somebody, most likely those AALs in Philadelphia, tried to take out him, and his wife, yesterday afternoon."

  "Is he all right?"

  "They weren't hit, but the supervisor in Philadelphia told me he counted sixteen bullet holes in Britton's new car. Plus about that many in his front door, picture window, etcetera. They used automatic Kalashnikovs."