The Outlaws: a Presidential Agent novel

by W. E. B. Griffin; William E. Butterworth; IV

  “Put them in Mr. Ellsworth’s suite,” Montvale ordered, and turned to Ellsworth. “It’s only for one night, Truman.”

  An otherwise marvelous dinner in the Alvear Palace’s La Bourgogne restaurant was tainted midway by the appearance of the manager on duty. He was profusely sorry to report that the single beds he had planned to put in Mr. Ellsworth’s accommodation had already been put into service. He had found another king-size bed, but regrettably, there was not room for it in Mr. Ellsworth’s room.

  “Would Mr. Montvale possibly consider having it placed in his room?”

  “It’s only for one night, Charles,” Truman Ellsworth said, dripping with compassion.

  After dinner, I. Ronald Spears was dismissed with orders to find decent accommodations for the men who would arrive in the morning. He was ordered to meet their plane, install them in wherever he had found for them to stay, and then bring them to the Alvear.

  Montvale, Ellsworth, and Lowe then went to the Lobby Bar for an after-dinner drink. It was crowded with people of good cheer, but not one of the patrons of either sex would ever see sixty—or maybe sixty-five—again.

  They then all went to Montvale’s suite, where, after the hotel staff had very carefully—and thus very slowly—installed the extra king-size bed, Montvale explained the situation to the new CIA station chief, Buenos Aires.

  “So what I would suggest you do, Bob, is send two of the guys coming in to Ushuaia, taking Spears with them. Maybe he can learn something from good officers.”

  “I still have trouble accepting that Alex Darby is catting around down there with a hooker. ...”

  “Maybe she’s not a hooker, Bob. It could be a midlife crisis and he’s in love. It could also be—unlikely but possible—that he’s sitting on these two Russians for Castillo down there. It sounds like something Colonel Castillo would think up. Anyway, I want two good men down there—with I. Ronald Spears—as soon as they can get there. And I want that town really searched. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the other ones, I think, should nose around the embassy. See if they can get anything from the DEA people, the FBI people, the Secret Service people. Someone has to know something about where to find Castillo and these Russians.”

  “Yes, sir. As soon as they get here tomorrow, I’ll brief them on what we have, and what we want them to do.”

  Montvale and Lowe went to bed in their adjoining king-size beds shortly thereafter.

  Lowe almost immediately went to sleep and began to snore.

  [ONE]

  Penthouse B

  The Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort

  Cozumel

  Quintana Roo, Mexico

  2215 7 February 2007

  Castillo was standing at the railing of the patio, taking an occasional pull at the neck of a Dos Equis bottle and somewhat inhospitably wishing that the fish-eaters would get the hell out of the penthouse—which would leave him alone with Sweaty—when Edgar Delchamps joined him.

  “Got a minute, Ace?” Delchamps asked.

  “Always,” Castillo said.

  Delchamps pointed to a far corner of the patio surrounding the swimming pool. As they started walking toward it, Castillo saw that Alex Darby and Dick Miller were also headed in that direction.

  And he knew that he had fucked up somehow and was about to learn how the moment Edgar Delchamps began the chat by saying, “We know that even though you have a lot on your mind, you probably have thought about this ...”

  “But?” Castillo interrupted.

  “I recognize that tone of voice, so I’ll cut to the chase,” Delchamps said. “We just got word from one of the dinosaurs that the tapes and the narrative are in that building at Langley in a position where Frank Lammelle can’t help but find them when he goes to work in the morning.”

  “That was quick!” Castillo said, genuinely surprised.

  “Real dinosaurs move much more quickly than the ones you saw in the Jurassic Park movies, Ace. You might want to write that down.”

  “If you say so.”

  “And when Lammelle and Company finish authenticating the tapes, someone is going to say, ‘Hey, you know what? I’ll bet this came from Charley Castillo.’”

  “What was I supposed to do, not send it?”

  “What you were supposed to do—what we were all supposed to do—was fall off the face of the earth and never be seen again.”

  “Same question: What were we supposed to do once we came up with this? Keep it to ourselves?”

  Delchamps didn’t respond directly. He looked between Darby and Miller, then back at Castillo, and went on: “And even if Lammelle or one of his guys doesn’t attach you to the tapes, Casey is going to send the tapes to the DCI himself, and Casey is going to say something like, ‘You can rely on this; I got it from Castillo.’ So the President will know you didn’t fall off the face of the earth as ordered.”

  “And you don’t think he’ll be happy I didn’t? According to Casey, they don’t have a clue about what’s going on with the Congo-X. All I’m guilty of is lending a helping hand.”

  “You really have no idea how much the agency—everybody in the quote unquote intelligence community—hated the Office of Organizational Analysis, and in particular Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, do you? And how overcome with bureaucratic joy they were when the President cut your throat and told you to disappear, taking OOA and all its wicked members with you?”

  “I did have some small inkling that I wouldn’t have won any popularity contests,” Castillo said. “Actually, Edgar, I thought about that when I sent the tapes. I would have preferred they would have come from an unknown source. But there were two things wrong with that, starting with I don’t think it would have been possible, because of Casey’s connection with somebody—probably, but not certainly, the DCI—at the agency. But say I had managed to convincingly send them from Mr. Unknown Source. I don’t trust unknown sources, and I don’t think Lammelle would have either. So let him know the tapes came from me. I didn’t expect a letter from Lammelle—or Jack Powell—like the one Sweaty and Tom got. ‘Come home. All is forgiven. We love you.’”

  “Let me try this on you: If our late President—who was a really good guy, and for whom you did everything he asked you to, including coming up with the Fish Farm—was willing to cut your throat to cover his ass, what do you think Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen, who is the master not only of covering his own ass, but also of throwing people who have done him a service under the bus so he can take the credit, will be willing to do to you?”

  “For example?”

  “Turning Tom and your girlfriend—and maybe you—over to the Russians, for one thing.”

  “Where the hell did you get that?”

  Delchamps and Darby exchanged glances, then Edgar said, “That’s the scenario Alex and I have come up with for what’s behind this whole Congo-X operation. If they wanted to hurt us with that stuff, they would have. They haven’t hurt us, just let us know they can. Why? They want something. What do they want? They want Tom and Sweaty back. Clendennen gives them to the Russians, they give Clendennen the Congo-X, the problem is done. If he also gives them you, that solves that problem.”

  Castillo didn’t respond for a moment, then looked at Darby.

  “That’s the way I see it, Charley,” Darby said.

  “What supports that scenario?”

  “Nothing concrete yet, Ace, except the thing that I’ve developed—that Alex and I have developed—in our long service as spooks: a feeling in the gut that just won’t go away.”

  “You talk to either Tom or Sweaty about this?” Castillo asked softly.

  Both Delchamps and Darby shook their heads.

  “You’ve got a solution?” Castillo asked.

  “I’ve got a suggestion that may not be a solution, but it’s all I have.”

  “All we have, Charley,” Darby said.

  Castillo gestured for Delchamps to tell him.

  “Disperse,�
� Delchamps said. “Fall off the face of the earth.”

  Castillo looked thoughtful for a moment, then gestured again for Delchamps to continue.

  “If Clendennen isn’t already looking for us—even though my gut tells me that he is—he’ll really start looking when Lammelle shows that tape to him. They’ll probably start in Argentina—”

  “We know Roscoe J. Danton is down there looking for you,” Darby interjected. “So, they likely do, too.”

  Delchamps went on: “And when they don’t find you—us—down there, they’ll look elsewhere, and inevitably find us all gathered here getting sunburned and eating broiled fish in a penthouse.”

  “I’m sure there’s already a satellite picture of the Gulfstream sitting here in somebody’s database,” Darby interjected again.

  “Cut to the chase,” Castillo said.

  “Darby flies to Washington, where he immediately goes to a bank and asks for a mortgage to buy the house in Alexandria, and then starts looking for a job suitable for his talents with one of those hire-a-spook companies. Blackwater, for example.

  “Britton returns to Philadelphia, where Sandra goes back to the classroom, and Jack starts trying to get back in the police department. Peg-Leg goes back to Vegas, where Casey has already given him a job.” He looked at Dick Miller, then went on: “Dick, Jake, and Sparkman go to Panama City, Panama, where they immediately put the Gulfstream up for sale, start looking for a better airplane, and go into the private-jets-for-hire business. Two-Gun goes to Montevideo and opens a financial management—read money-laundering—business. Getting the picture?”

  Darby added: “The Gulfstream has six—maybe seven—of Casey’s latest radios in the baggage compartment. We’d all be in contact.”

  “What happens to Lester?” Castillo asked.

  “He stays here—or around here—with you, Sweaty, Tom, and Uncle Remus. You own a farm here in Old Meh-hee-co, right?”

  “And you?”

  “I go to Budapest. Where I will find employment with Billy Kocian.”

  Darby put in: “Everybody could be back here—or be anywhere else—in twenty-four hours, when you decide what we have to do about the Congo-X. And how to keep Sweaty and Tom from being loaded on an Aeroflot flight to Mother Russia.”

  “And Pevsner?”

  “He disappears once again into the wilds of Argentina.”

  Castillo exhaled audibly.

  “Apparently, you have given this some thought.”

  “There we were, floating around on the ocean, catching our supper and giving this a lot of thought,” Delchamps said.

  When Castillo didn’t immediately reply, Delchamps added, “Your call, Ace. But I think we’d all be more efficient if we didn’t have members of the Clandestine Service breathing down our necks. Or trying to put handcuffs on us. But if you—”

  “Everybody’s willing to go along?”

  Delchamps nodded.

  “They would have joined this little chat,” he said, “but Uncle Remus said that you get really antsy when you feel outnumbered.”

  “When do you plan to leave?” Castillo asked.

  “First thing in the morning,” Delchamps said.

  “I wonder what Pevsner’s going to think about this,” Castillo said.

  “Well, he probably won’t like it when he learns he has just sold his new fly-the-high-rollers-around airplane to the LCBF Corporation, but the bottom line there, Ace, is you don’t ask your Russian pal anything. You tell him the way it is.”

  [TWO]

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  0915 8 February 2007

  “Good morning, Mr. President and Madam Secretary,” John Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, said as he walked into the Oval Office.

  “This had better be important, Jack,” President Clendennen replied. “I am supposed to take off for Chicago in fifteen minutes, and Natalie has a lunch in New York with a gaggle of UN morons.”

  “I believe it is important, Mr. President,” the DCI replied. “And all I have to do is slip this in the machine ...”

  With a DVD disc in his hand, Powell walked toward a large flat-screen television monitor mounted on a wheeled table.

  “Let him do that,” Clendennen said, indicating a Secret Service agent. “I know he won’t screw up the TV.”

  “Yes, sir,” Powell said, and handed the disc to the Secret Service agent.

  “Before it starts to play, Mr. President, I’d like to say, if I may, that we believe this disc to be authentic. That is, the surveillance tapes from which we made this are authentic. And that what you will see when it plays is authentic and has not been altered or changed in any way.”

  “I’m delighted to hear that, Jack,” Clendennen said. “Play your movie.”

  “What kind of an airplane is that?”

  “That’s a Tupolev Tu-934A, Mr. President.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before,” Natalie Cohen said.

  “Few people have. It’s a Russian Special Operations aircraft. Magnificent airplane. It’s practically invisible to radar, can fly nonstop—with aerial refueling, of course—anywhere in the world at Mach zero point nine and land on a football field. We are offering a hundred twenty-five million for one.”

  “You better hope Senator Johns doesn’t hear about that,” the President said. “A hundred twenty-five million! Are the Russians that far ahead of us?”

  “In this area, yes, sir. We have nothing like it; the Air Force really wants to take a close look at the Tu-934A. And, in a manner of speaking, sir, the Russians have been ahead of us before. They beat us into space of course, and before that, Igor Sikorsky—who fled the Communist revolution to come here—is generally recognized as the man who made rotary-wing flight practical.”

  “And exactly where is this example of Russian aeronautical genius landing, Jack?”

  “In a dry lake in Mexico, sir. Specifically, Laguna el Guaje, in Coahuila State.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Our analysts worked with the angle of sun, Mr. President,” Powell said. “And with the date and time on the surveillance tapes. At the time shown, the angle of the sun would be like that on the tapes at only Laguna el Guaje.”

  “I’m impressed, Frank, I really am. What I’m wondering is where you got the tapes.”

  Powell did not respond directly, and instead said, “The man walking toward the Tupolev, sir, is, with a ninety-nine-point-nine-percent certainty, Pavel Koslov, the FSB rezident in Mexico City. We computer-compared the image on the surveillance tapes with images in our database.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Those men, sir, coming down the ramp of the Tupolev are almost certainly Russian Spetsnaz—Russian Special Forces. And that man, sir, is General Yakov Vladimirovich Sirinov. We made that identification ninety-nine-point-nine-percent certain by comparing this image with images of him in our database. Sirinov runs the FSB for Vladimir Putin, Mr. President.”

  “What are those barrels?” Clendennen asked.

  “What we believe, sir, with an eighty to eighty-five degree of certainty, is that those barrels are the ones sent to Colonel Hamilton at Fort Detrick. The scenario is that they were taken across the border near the dry lake; that the first was then moved to Miami, and from there FedExed to Colonel Hamilton, and the second left for the Border Patrol to find near McAllen.”

  Natalie Cohen said, “If you can compare pictures of people on a computer, Jack, and say they’re just about a perfect match, why can’t you do the same thing with a couple of what look like blue beer barrels?”

  Powell said, “According to Stan Waters—”

  “Who?” the President asked.

  “J. Stanley Waters, the deputy director for operations, Mr. President. He supervised the analysis of these tapes. He’s an old analysis type.”

  “And what did he tell you?” />
  “There are more details on a human being that can be compared to another image of that person, Mr. President. An object like these blue ‘beer’ barrels is more difficult; they look like every other barrel.”

  “Are these the same barrels? Yes or no?”

  “With an eighty to eighty-five percent degree of certainty, Mr. President, we believe they are.”

  President Clendennen snorted.

  “Where did you get these tapes, Jack?” Natalie Cohen asked, and immediately, when she saw the look on his face, regretted having asked. She had guessed the source.

  “I think we can safely proceed on the assumption that these are the barrels of Congo-X now at Fort Detrick, Mr. President,” Powell said.

  “Answer Natalie’s question, Jack,” the President said.

  “They were, in a manner of speaking, slipped under our door, Mr. President, addressed to DDCI Lammelle.”

  “Tell me what that means,” Clendennen said.

  “Sir, parties unknown delivered them to my outer office yesterday.”

  “In other words, you don’t know where these came from?”

  “No, sir. I don’t know where they came from.”

  “Mr. President, it doesn’t matter, does it?” the secretary of State began. “We have them, and they have been determined to be genuine. We now can send Frank Lammelle back to Sergei Murov—”

  “Maybe God slipped them under your door, Jack,” the President cut her off. “Or little green men from Mars. Or maybe, as incredible as it might sound, Lieutenant Colonel Castillo might even be responsible. Isn’t that true?”

  “Mr. President, since I don’t know where these tapes came from, anything is possible.”

  “You were both here, I seem to recall, when I made it as plain as I knew how that I didn’t want my predecessor’s loose cannon, or anyone associated with Colonel Castillo, Retired, connected in any way with our Congo-X problem. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Powell said.

  “I was here, Mr. President,” the secretary of State said.