Black Ops (Presidential Agent)

by W. E. B Griffin

  "I guess I have been a very bad boy," Castillo said. "And we never had this conversation, Colonel."

  Fully aware that rendering the hand salute while not in uniform is proscribed by Army regulations, Castillo saluted.

  The lieutenant colonel and the captain returned the salute.

  Castillo turned to the Aero Commander, intending to wave.

  He changed his mind and blew a kiss.

  Then he said, "Come on, Max," and walked to where Jack Davidson was waiting for him.

  "You just missed Ambassador Montvale," Davidson said as they shook hands.

  "Did he see you?" Castillo asked.

  "No. The gendarmeria had a heads-up that an Air Force Gulfstream was coming in, so I erred on the side of caution and waited in Darby's car." He pointed to a BMW with darkened windows and Argentine license plates. "The Mercedes SUV next to it used to be Duffy's. Unless you look close, you can't see where all the bullet holes were."

  "You're sure Montvale didn't see you?"

  Davidson nodded. "Moot point, though. He doesn't know who I am, much less what I look like."

  "Never underestimate Montvale. Was he alone?"

  "Three guys with him. Two of them probably his Secret Service . . ."

  "Who just might have recognized you."

  "If they had seen me, which they didn't, since I had erred on the side of caution, Colonel, sir."

  "Sorry, Jack. I'm tired. And the third guy?"

  "Six-two, maybe six-three, one eighty, forty-odd, GI haircut, Sears, Roebuck suit. I'd guess he was military. Probably Army."

  "Why?"

  "Officers of our brother services in civvies tend to look like civilians. Our officers in civvies tend to look like Army officers in civvies."

  Castillo chuckled.

  "I wonder who he is," Castillo said rhetorically. "What happened?"

  "Right after I erred on the side of caution and got in the BMW, Ambassador Silvio showed up. With an embassy Suburban. And no, Colonel, sir, he didn't see me, as I had erred on the side of caution. . . ."

  "Okay, Jack," Castillo said.

  "But I think it's possible he recognized Darby's car, as he is a clever guy. He did not come over to say 'Howdy.' Then the Gulfstream landed and Montvale and the others got out and had a conversation in which Montvale got red-faced and waved his arms around. I think maybe they were talking about you."

  "And then?"

  "They loaded into the Suburban and drove off."

  "You have any idea where they went?"

  "Yes, sir, Colonel, sir, I do. In the BMW to which I retired, erring as I said--"

  "Enough, goddamn it, Jack," Castillo said.

  "There is an embassy radio, to which I listened, and am thus able to tell you they reported they were going to the embassy."

  "Not to the safe house?"

  "I'm guessing, Charley, I can't read lips, but I think maybe one of the reasons Montvale was so pissed was that he asked the ambassador about the safe house and the ambassador said, 'What safe house?'"

  Castillo turned and looked at the Aero Commander.

  Everybody had gotten out of it.

  And why didn't I think that at one o'clock in the afternoon of a sunny summer day in Argentina, the sun quickly turns the interior of an Aero Commander into an oven?

  He signaled to Alfredo Munz to come over. Munz alone.

  And why am I not surprised that everybody's coming over?

  When Pevsner's men saw Munz, Svetlana, and Bradley walking to Castillo and Davidson, they got out of their cars and walked to them. When the gendarmeria officers saw Pevsner's men walking to Castillo and Davidson, they got out of their cars and walked to them.

  Davidson read Castillo's mind.

  "Well, maybe they'll think Little Red Under Britches is a movie star and we are her groupies."

  "The Air Force Gulfstream brought Ambassador Montvale here," Castillo announced when the little group had gathered around him. "They went to the embassy, which is where Jack and I are going. Alfredo is going to take Svetlana to Pilar. Lester, you take the AFC and go with them."

  "Yes, sir."

  Castillo turned to the gendarmeria officer.

  "What are your orders?"

  "To place ourselves at your orders, mi coronel."

  "You have two cars?"

  "Si, mi coronel. The Mercedes and the Ford."

  "Send one of the cars with me, and the other with El Coronel Munz. Follow him and these gentlemen, but go no farther than the gate of the country club; we don't want to attract any more attention than we have to."

  "Si, mi coronel."

  He turned to the people Munz had called "Pevsner's people" and took a chance and spoke Russian.

  "The Panamericana is so busy this time of day that following someone is very difficult."

  One of "Pevsner's people" nodded his head in understanding. He was to lose the gendarmeria car if possible.

  Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva, presumably reasoning that if it was safe for Lieutenant Colonel Castillo to speak Russian it would be safe for her, too, had a question of her own, which she expressed in Russian:

  "When will you join me, Charley, my darling?"

  Castillo saw the look on Jack Davidson's face.

  Well, fuck it. The cow's out of the barn. I'd have to have told him anyway.

  "Just as soon as I can, my love," he said in Russian, then met Davidson's eyes. "Are you all right to drive, Jack? You look like you're in shock."

  X

  [ONE]

  The Embassy of the United States of America

  Avenida Colombia 4300

  Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina

  1325 2 January 2006

  It was a fifteen-minute drive from Aeropuerto Jorge Newbery, on the west bank of the River Plate, to the American embassy, and their route through heavy noontime traffic took them past six traffic lights, all of which were red when they reached them, and all of which seemed to be timed on a five-minute sequence.

  Jack Davidson didn't say a word during the entire trip, even when waiting for the lights to change. But his face showed that he was thinking of what he needed to say--and how to say it.

  Castillo spent the trip dreading this inevitable dropping of Davidson's shoe.

  Not shoe, Charley thought.

  Boot--damned lead-soled, thirty-pound diver's boot.

  Castillo, of course, had all that time to think, too. He had known Davidson just about as long as Castillo had been in the Army. Technical Sergeant Davidson had been covering Colonel Bruce J. McNab's back--with a twelve-gauge sawed-off Remington Model 870 shotgun--when Second Lieutenant Castillo had reported to McNab for duty in the First Desert War.

  And then Sergeant Major Davidson had manned the Gatling gun in the Black Hawk helicopter that Major Castillo had "borrowed" in Afghanistan to go see if he could get back Major Dick Miller and the crew of his shot-down Black Hawk before the bad guys overran their position, a task that had been solemnly considered by some very senior officers and pronounced absolutely impossible.

  Between their first meeting and this latest trip around the block, Charley and Jack had gone around many blocks together.

  Castillo also thought about when Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab had released Davidson from his duties at Camp Mackall to join Castillo at the Office of Organizational Analysis. McNab had called Castillo to tell him: "Just in case you might be thinking I have mellowed in old age, Colonel, and was being a nice guy, know that the sole reason I'm loaning you Sergeant Major Davidson is because he's the only guy I know who can pour cold water on you when you're about to fuck up big-time. So, Colonel, one more time I'm telling you something that you should have learned as a second lieutenant: 'When Jack Davidson tells you not to do something, for God's sake take his counsel and don't do it!' "

  Castillo knew that that counsel also worked in other ways.

  In Afghanistan, when Castillo had told Davidson that he was going to "borrow" the Black Hawk and go after Miller despite j
ust having been ordered not to--"Frankly, Major," the brigadier general had barked, "I'm starting to question your mental health for even suggesting you try something so suicidal. What part of 'Absolutely no!' don't you understand?"--all Davidson had said was, "You sure you want to do this, Charley?"

  And then Davidson had gone to get them flak vests to wear over their Afghan robes and to make sure he had enough ammo for the door-mounted Gatling gun.

  Castillo now thought:

  Viewed objectively, as an indication of poor judgment and mental instability, "borrowing" a Black Hawk to fly through a snowstorm to go after Dick and his crew pales when compared to considering oneself in love with a lieutenant colonel of the SVR and deciding that she is telling me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  I knew I was safe to fly that day. I wouldn't have taken Jack along if I didn't really believe I could do it.

  And the cold truth here is that whenever I look into Svet's eyes--or in other more intimate situations--and hear the celestial chorus singing "I Love You Truly"--the small, still voice of reason keeps popping up and whispering, "This is wrong, you dumb fuck, and you know it. That violin music you hear is her playing you."

  Davidson pulled the BMW nose-in to the curb in front of the embassy. The gendarmeria's Mercedes-Benz SUV pulled in beside them.

  Davidson put both hands on the top of the steering wheel and turned to Castillo. Their eyes met.

  Here comes Jack's lead boot. . . .

  After a moment, Davidson said, "Please tell me, Charley, that you are (a) fucking Little Miss Red Underpants as an interrogative technique to gain the confidence of the interrogatee, or at least (b) you had a couple of belts and things got temporarily out of control."

  "None of the above, Jack."

  "Oh, shit."

  Castillo shrugged. "I'm in love."

  "Well, then I guess it's a good thing that I'm going to retire. When McNab hears about this, the most I could hope for would be to spend the rest of my days in the Army counting tent pegs in a quartermaster warehouse in Alaska."

  "I'll make sure he knows that you did everything possible short of shooting me in the knees with a hollow-point .22 to dissuade me from my insanity."

  Davidson shook his head in resignation. "If I thought that would do any good, that's just what I would do."

  "I would resign today, Jack, if it wasn't for this chemical operation in the Congo."

  Davidson met his eyes again.

  "When Berezovsky started talking," Davidson said, "it looked like Delchamps was on the money when he said that was heavy."

  "It is. Very heavy."

  "Okay. You and Delchamps believe him. I'll grant you that; I'm not going to say both of you are wrong. So I'll give you that. But what the hell do you think you can do about it? Delchamps says the CIA knows about the plant and doesn't think it's a threat. And I don't think they'll listen to you or Delchamps that it is. They probably wouldn't believe Berezovsky and/or your lady friend if they had them. Which they don't. Which opens that can of worms."

  "Can I wave duty in your face, Jack?"

  Davidson shook his head. After a moment, he softly said: "Yeah. For Christ's sake, you know you can, Charley."

  "I think it's my duty to take out that chemical factory, even if the CIA doesn't think it's a threat."

  Davidson nodded his understanding. "And how are you going to do that?"

  "I haven't quite figured that out yet."

  After a moment, Davidson said, "Are you willing to listen to some unpleasant facts?"

  "I'll be surprised if you can think of any I haven't thought of myself--that's not a crack at you, Jack; I've really given this a lot of thought--but go ahead."

  "The CIA is already pissed that you have the Russians."

  Castillo nodded his acceptance of that statement.

  "And I don't think you're going to turn either of them over to the agency."

  "I'm not, Jack."

  Davidson shook his head again. "Which is really going to piss them off. And Montvale, too."

  Castillo nodded again.

  "Your authority, Charley, comes from the Presidential Finding, which is to 'locate and render harmless' the people who whacked Jack 'The Stack' Masterson. Period. Nothing else. It says nothing about turning Russian spooks and nothing about going into the Congo and taking out a chemical factory--one the agency knows about and doesn't think is a threat."

  He paused for a long time, a period that Charley took to mean that Jack was letting that counsel sink in.

  Then Davidson shook his head again and went on: "So where do you think we're going to get what we need to take out the factory? That's got to be a helluva long laundry list--"

  He said, "What we need."

  He's in.

  And he doesn't care what that may cost him.

  Castillo felt his throat tighten.

  When he trusted himself to speak, Castillo admitted: "I haven't figured that out yet either."

  "So what happens now, Chief?"

  Castillo intoned solemnly: " 'The longest journey begins with the smallest step.' You may wish to write that down."

  Davidson chuckled.

  "What happens now is that I go in there"--Castillo nodded toward the embassy building?--"and, while trying very hard to keep Ambassador Silvio out of the line of fire, deal with Ambassador Montvale. And while I'm doing that, you go to Rio Alba, taking the gendarmeria with you, and wait for me."

  "For how long?"

  "I don't know. Get some lunch. If I don't call you in thirty minutes, call me. If I answer in Pashtu, hang up and head for the safe house."

  "And?"

  Castillo was silent a moment, then shrugged and shook his head again, and said, "I just don't know, Jack."

  "Okay. We'll wing it."

  Castillo glanced at the Mercedes-Benz parked beside them. Then he looked over his shoulder and said, "Max, you stay."

  Castillo opened his door. When he did so, one of the gendarmes got out of the Mercedes and stood by the open door.

  When Castillo headed for what he thought of as the embassy employee's gate in the fence, the gendarme closed the vehicle's door and walked after him.

  Davidson backed out of the parking spot and drove toward the restaurant Rio Alba, which was a block from the embassy in the shadow of--at fifty stories--Argentina's tallest building. The gendarmeria Mercedes followed him.

  The fence surrounding the embassy had three gates, a large one to pass vehicular traffic and two smaller ones for people. The employees' gate was a simple affair, a turnstile guarded by two uniformed, armed guards of an Argentine security firm.

  Castillo was absolutely certain that a couple of Argentine rent-a-cops wouldn't deny entrance to the embassy grounds to a United States federal law-enforcement officer who presented the proper identification.

  He was wrong.

  The rent-a-cops were not at all impressed with the credentials identifying C. G. Castillo as a supervisory special agent of the United States Secret Service.

  The rent-a-cops advised him that if he wished to enter the embassy grounds, he would have to use the Main Visitors' Gate, which was some three hundred yards distant, down a sunbaked sidewalk.

  Castillo bit his tongue and started for the other gate, with the gendarme on his heels.

  The last hundred yards of the sidewalk was lined with people--clearly not many of them, if any, U.S. citizens--patiently baking in the sun as they awaited their turn to pass through the Main Visitors' Gate to apply for visas and other services.

  There has to be a gate for U.S. citizens.

  For Christ's sake, this is the American embassy!

  He did not see anything that looked helpful until he was almost at the single-story Main Visitors' Gate building. Then he came across a ridiculously small sign that had an arrow and the legend: U.S CITIZENS.

  He pushed open the door and was promptly stopped by another Argentine rent-a-cop who--not very charmingly--asked to see Castillo's passport
.

  After examining it carefully, the rent-a-cop motioned that Castillo was now permitted to join one of two lines of people waiting their turn to deal with embassy staff seated comfortably behind thick plateglass windows. The scene reminded Castillo of the cashier windows in Las Vegas casinos.

  He got in line and awaited his turn. Ten minutes later, it came.

  "I'd like to see the ambassador, please."

  "Passport, please."

  The not-unattractive female behind the thick plate glass examined it, then carefully examined Castillo, and then said, "What time is your appointment?"

  "I don't have an appointment. But if you will get the ambassador on the phone, I'm sure he'll see me."

  The lady scribbled a number on a small pad and slid it through a tray at the bottom of the plate glass.

  "You can call this number and ask for an appointment."

  "Is there an American officer around here somewhere?"

  Three minutes later, a pleasant-looking young man appeared behind the woman, looked at Castillo, and said, "Yes?"

  Castillo remembered Edgar Delchamps telling him that new graduates of the CIA's Clandestine Services How-to-Be-a-Spy School were often given as their first assignment duties as an assistant consul at an embassy where their inexperience would not get them in trouble.

  If I were into profiling, I'd bet my last dime I'm facing one now.

  "Good afternoon," Castillo said politely, and slid his Army identification through the slot under the plate glass. "I'd like to see the ambassador. Would you be good enough to call his office and tell him I'm here?"

  The fledgling spook examined the ID card and slid it back through the slot.

  "Let me give you a number you can call, Colonel," the pleasant-looking young man said.

  Castillo slid his Secret Service credentials through the slot.

  "Listen to me carefully, please," Castillo began, keeping his voice low but his tone that of one not to be questioned. "If you don't get on the phone right now, I will personally tell the DCI that you wouldn't call the ambassador for me. And the result of that will be that you'll be sitting in one of the parking lot guard shacks at Langley this time next week."

  They locked eyes.

  The assistant consul picked up the telephone handset, then spoke into it.