The Outlaws: a Presidential Agent novel

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

  “Where is Castillo?” the President asked.

  “I have no idea, Mr. President,” Powell said.

  “Nor do I,” Cohen said.

  “What about Ambassador Montvale, my Director of National Intelligence? Has anyone heard from him?”

  “I spoke with the ambassador last night, Mr. President. He’s in Buenos Aires. As is Truman Ellsworth. At your orders, sir.”

  “And has he found Castillo and delivered my orders to him that he is not to get involved in any way with Congo-X?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did Montvale have anything at all to say?”

  “He believes he knows where Mr. Darby is, sir.”

  “Who is Darby?”

  “Until he was recruited for OOA, Mr. President, he was the CIA station chief in Buenos Aires. He retired when OOA was disbanded.”

  “And he’s in Argentina?”

  “Ambassador Montvale has information suggesting that Mr. Darby may be in Ushuaia.”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  “It’s the southernmost city in South America, sir.”

  “What’s he doing there?” the President asked, and then, before Powell could reply, went on: “Is Usah ... whatever you said ... a place where Castillo could hide the defectors?”

  “That has occurred to Ambassador Montvale and myself, sir.”

  “And what have you done about it, either of you?”

  “I sent six first-class officers of the Clandestine Service down there, Mr. President, to assist the new station chief. And of course Ambassador Montvale. They should be in Argentina this morning. I’m sure that as soon as they get there, Ambassador Montvale will send at least two of them to Ushuaia.”

  Clendennen nodded.

  “But I must tell you, Mr. President, that Ambassador Montvale told me he has also developed intelligence that suggests that Mr. Darby’s presence in Ushuaia has nothing to do with Castillo or the Russians.”

  “What the hell else would he be doing in some town on the southern tip of South America?”

  “He may be there with an Argentine national, a young woman not his wife, if you take my meaning, Mr. President.”

  “Where the hell did Montvale get that?”

  “From Mrs. Darby, sir. She’s here in the States.”

  “I’ll be a sonofabitch!”

  “May I speak, Mr. President?” the secretary of State said.

  The President made an impatient gesture giving her permission to do so.

  “Mr. President, I respectfully suggest that this whole business could be put behind us by sending either DCI Powell or—probably preferably—DDCI Lammelle back to Sergei Murov with this tape. And this time, Frank delivers the ultimatum: ‘Turn over whatever Congo-X you have, give us a written statement that you neither have control of nor have knowledge of any more of this substance, or we’ll call an emergency session of the United Nations and play this tape for the world.’”

  The President didn’t respond for a moment, then he asked, more or less courteously, “Are you through, Madam Secretary?”

  “Yes. For the moment.”

  “The female is really the deadlier of the species, isn’t it?” the President asked rhetorically. “Natalie, do you know what would happen while we’re calling the Russian bluff? We’d be right back where we were when my impulsive predecessor sent the bombers to take out the Fish Farm: at the edge of a nuclear exchange.”

  “With respect, Mr. President, I don’t think so,” Cohen said.

  “What you think doesn’t really matter, does it, Natalie? I’m the President.”

  “With respect, Mr. President, I associate myself with the position of the secretary of State,” Powell said.

  The President ignored him.

  “Now, what’s going to happen is that nothing will be done with these tapes until I say so,” the President said. “What I intend to do is find those Russians and put them on a plane to Moscow. Once we have done that, we’ll evaluate the Russian reaction, and go from there.

  “And since the way to find the Russians is to find Colonel Castillo, that is the priority. When I get back from Chicago this afternoon—somewhere around three, I would guess—I want you both back here. Plus the secretary of Defense and the director of the FBI.”

  “The secretary of Defense is in India, Mr. President,” Cohen said.

  “I was about to say, Madam Secretary, ‘Then his deputy,’ but when I think about it, when I think about who that is, I don’t want to do that. Have General Naylor here, and if Naylor is in Timbuktu or someplace, get word to him to return immediately. When I walk back in this office this afternoon, I want to see Naylor, or you holding the general’s estimated time of arrival in your hand, Madam Secretary.

  “This meeting is concluded. Thank you for coming,” the President said.

  And then he walked out of the Oval Office without shaking hands with either Powell or Cohen.

  [THREE]

  Aboard Cessna Mustang N0099S

  Bahías de Huatulco International Airport

  Near Pochutla, Mexico

  1015 8 February 2007

  “Huatulco, Mustang Double Zero Double Nine Sugar,” Castillo called in Spanish. “Will you close out my VFR flight plan from Cancún, please? We just decided to stop for lunch.”

  “Double Zero Double Nine, are you on the ground?”

  “No. I’m on final to a dirt strip next to a marvelous restaurant on Route 200 near Bajos de Chila.”

  “I know the place. Report when on the ground. Have a nice lunch.”

  Castillo passed over the coastline and made a slow, sweeping descent over the Pacific Ocean. Although there was a marvelous restaurant near Bajos de Chila, he had no intention of landing on the dirt strip behind it.

  When he had dropped almost to the surface of the sea—and had thus, he hoped, dropped off the Huatulco radar—he touched his throat microphone again.

  “Huatulco, Double Zero Double Nine on the ground at one seven past the hour.”

  “Double Zero Double Nine, Huatulco closing you out as of ten-seventeen.”

  “Thank you.”

  Two minutes later, having spotted the pier he was looking for, he picked up enough altitude to pass over a small hill on the coastline. At the peak of the climb, he spotted the landing strip he was looking for, dropped the nose, made a straight-in approach, and greased the landing.

  Feeling more than a little smug, he pressed the cabin speaker button.

  “Welcome to Grapefruit International Airport. Please remain in your seats with your chastity belts fastened until we reach the terminal. We hope you have enjoyed your flight, and the next time you’re running from the CIA that you will choose High Roller Airlines again.”

  “You are insane,” his co-pilot said, but she was smiling. Then she gestured, as he turned the Mustang around, out the windows, at rows of grapefruit trees lining the runway as far as the eye could see. “That’s all grapefruit?”

  “That’s all grapefruit.”

  He taxied about halfway back down the runway, and then turned the nose toward the closed door of a hangar, and then shut the engines down.

  “Carlitos,” Svetlana said, her voice tinged with concern. When he looked at her, she pointed out the window.

  Three very large, very swarthy men, each bearing a shotgun, had come around the side of the hangar and were approaching the airplane.

  Castillo waved cheerfully at them, and after a moment, as they recognized him, they smiled and waved back.

  “I better get off first,” Castillo said. “Otherwise Max will probably get shot by people I’ve known since I was twelve.”

  He unstrapped himself quickly, rose from his seat, stepped into the cabin, and began to open the stair door.

  “I trust the colonel is aware there are some armed, possibly unfriendly, indigenous personnel out there?” Uncle Remus asked.

  The stair door opened and Castillo quickly went down it. Max leapt from the airplane, showed the men his t
eeth, and headed for the nose wheel.

  The larger of the men tossed his shotgun to one of the others, spread his arms, and wrapped them around Castillo.

  “Doña Alicia will be so happy, Carlos,” he said.

  “She’s here?”

  I should have considered that possibility. But it’s too late now.

  “Fernando brought her down yesterday. Doña Alicia said it was freezing in San Antonio,” he said. And then added quietly: “I don’t know about the dog, but I like your lady friend.”

  “Sweaty, say hello to Pablo,” Castillo said. “We grew up together. The others are Manuel and Juan.”

  When all the introductions had been made, Pablo said, “Carlos, why don’t you take one of the Suburbans and go up to the house? Just as soon as we push the plane inside, we’ll bring your luggage.”

  “There’s two cardboard boxes in the back,” Castillo said, and then indicated with his hands the size. “Bring one of them, please?”

  It was a ten-minute drive from the airstrip to the house, down a gravel road that led between the apparently endless grapefruit trees and over two more ridge lines.

  No one was on the verandah of the sprawling, red-tile-roofed building to greet them, which Castillo considered surprising.

  Castillo got from behind the wheel of the Suburban, waved for the others to follow him, walked across the verandah, pushed open the door, and bellowed, “Abuela, your favorite grandson is here; you can send the fat and ugly one back to the village.”

  The door to the living room opened, and Randolph Richardson III walked into the foyer and said, “Good afternoon, sir. I’m very glad to see you.” Then he spotted Svetlana. “And you, too, ma’am.”

  Castillo’s heart jumped into his throat. He was literally struck dumb and knew that all that would come out of his mouth if he tried to speak would be a croak.

  Svetlana walked quickly to the boy.

  “Are you kissing old Russian women this week, Randy?”

  She went to the boy, put her arms around him, and kissed his cheek. He stiffened and seemed uncomfortable, but didn’t try to free himself.

  “What?” Svetlana asked. “I kiss you and you don’t kiss me?”

  After a moment, he raised his head and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

  Castillo found his voice.

  “What you have to understand, Randy,” he said as he walked to the boy, “is that you’re surrounded by strange people who hug and kiss each other.”

  Svetlana freed the boy, who then extended his hand to Castillo.

  “Pay attention,” Castillo said. “We shake hands with people we don’t like. We hug and kiss people we like.”

  He put his arms around the boy.

  “Sometimes, if we’re related to them,” Castillo said, “we even have to hug and kiss ugly fat people like the one in the door.”

  Fernando Manuel Lopez was now in the doorway to the foyer. And so was María Lopez, who did not like Carlos Guillermo Castillo very much in the first place, and whose facial expression showed she really disliked his characterization of her husband as fat and ugly.

  Castillo kissed Randy’s cheek and hugged him. The boy hugged back and then gave him the same sort of peck on the cheek he’d given Svetlana.

  Castillo’s heart jumped.

  Don’t blow this by pushing it.

  He let the boy go.

  “Sorry it didn’t work, Fernando,” Castillo said.

  “What didn’t work, Gringo?”

  “The plastic surgery. You’re even uglier than before.”

  “Jesus Christ, Gringo!” Fernando said, shaking his head. Then he embraced Castillo.

  “Don’t blaspheme, Fernando,” Doña Alicia Castillo said as she came through the door. “And ...”

  “... don’t call Carlos ‘Gringo,’” Fernando and Castillo finished for her in chorus.

  The boy laughed.

  Castillo embraced his grandmother.

  “You could have let us know you were coming,” she said, and then she spotted Svetlana and went quickly to her and kissed her.

  “I’m so glad to see you, my dear,” Doña Alicia said.

  Then she moved to Barlow, Uncle Remus, and Lester, and kissed each of them. Every one seemed delighted to see everyone else except Mrs. María Lopez.

  And now there was someone else in the foyer.

  “How are you, General?” Castillo said as he advanced on Major General Harold F. Wilson, USA (Retired), with his hand extended.

  That didn’t work, either. General Wilson wrapped his arms around Charley and hugged him.

  “Pay attention, Randy,” Castillo said.

  “I thought I heard a jet flying a little low over here,” General Wilson said. “That was you?”

  “A Cessna Mustang,” Castillo said. “Great little airplane.”

  “Am I going to get to fly it?” Randy asked. “I flew the Lear here from San Antonio. I mean really flew it. Took it off, navigated cross-country, and landed it.”

  Castillo knew the boy was telling the truth when he saw the look on María’s face. Clearly, she regarded fourteen-year-old boys flying as co-pilot of anything more complicated than a tandem bicycle as one more proof of the insanity of the family into which she had made the mistake of marrying.

  “I think we can arrange that,” Castillo said. “But only if you promise to forget everything Tío Fernando has taught you about flying.”

  “Now, you stop, the both of you,” Doña Alicia said.

  “Speaking of tíos,” Castillo began.

  “Excuse me, dear?” Doña Alicia asked.

  “It’s very important that Tío Héctor García-Romero does not know that any of us are here, or that we’ve been in touch in any way.”

  “What’s that all about? He’s our lawyer, for God’s sake,” Fernando said.

  “He’s also in bed ...”

  Castillo stopped and looked at Randy.

  “I know,” Randy said. “Little pitchers have big ears. This is where I’m told to go play with my puppy, right?”

  “You do have a mouth, don’t you?” Castillo asked.

  “I wonder where he got that from, El Señor Boca Grande?” Fernando said.

  “No, Randy,” Castillo said. “I’m not going to tell you to go play with your puppy. Where is he, anyway?”

  “His father is teaching him how to steal food in the kitchen,” Fernando said.

  “Well, why not?” Castillo said. “Dogs, like boys, have to grow up sometime. And if you need a teacher, go to an expert.”

  “Are you talking about your dog or yourself?” Fernando challenged.

  “Both,” Castillo said, and turned to the boy. “Randy, we both know that you have learned to keep important secrets.”

  And everybody in this room, from Lester to General Wilson, knows what that secret is.

  “I don’t think I like where this conversation is going,” Fernando interrupted.

  “I don’t think I do, either,” Doña Alicia said.

  Castillo ignored both of them. He went on: “So I know, Randy, that if I tell you that this is an important secret—actually secrets, a bunch of them—and if they get out, people can be hurt, or even killed, I know that I can trust you to keep your mouth shut. Okay? If you don’t want that responsibility, I’ll understand if you want to take Max and his puppy for a walk.”

  “Jesus Christ, Gringo, he’s fourteen years old,” Fernando said. “He doesn’t need to hear about people getting hurt or killed.”

  “Carlos, do you know what you’re doing?” Doña Alicia asked.

  “I’ll stay,” Randy said. And then added, “Thank you, sir.”

  “Okay. The family lawyer, Randy, El Señor Héctor García-Romero, is up to his ears in the drug business.”

  “I don’t believe that!” María Lopez exploded. “Héctor is Little Fernando’s godfather.”

  “I don’t care if you believe it or not, María,” Castillo said. “What I’m worried about is your mouth. Will you
give me your word to keep it shut?”

  “Are you just going to stand there and listen to him talk to me like that?” María demanded of her husband.

  Fernando looked at Castillo.

  “Gringo, you better be sure you know what you’re talking about.”

  “I do.”

  “María, honey, if you don’t want to hear this, why don’t you—”

  Castillo cut him off. He said, “María, the best way I know to convince you to keep your mouth shut about Tío Héctor, or anything else you will hear if you decide to stay, is to convince you that if you run your mouth, you’ll be putting not only Tío Héctor’s life at risk, but your own, and Fernando’s and your kids’ lives and probably even Abuela’s ...”

  She glared at him and then icily demanded, “How could you dare to bring this ... this garbage ... here?”

  “Fair question. First, I own half of this place. Second, I didn’t know anyone was here. If I had known, we probably wouldn’t be here. But the hand has been dealt, and we have to play it.”

  “You are sure about Héctor, Carlos?” Doña Alicia asked earnestly.

  “Abuela, I’m sorry, but it’s true. We were just at a secret airport he operates in the Laguna el Guaje. He doesn’t move drugs out of there, just the cash profits from the drug trade. Suitcases full of hundred-dollar bills.”

  “My God!”

  “It’s important that Héctor doesn’t know we’re here. That no one knows we’re here. I told Pablo that at the airstrip; he’ll deal with it.”

  “Gringo, what the hell is going on?” Fernando asked.

  “You believe him?” María asked her husband incredulously.

  “Yeah, sweetheart, I believe him. And you better believe him, too.”

  “I don’t want Héctor to know you know about him,” Castillo said. “If he calls here, and I suspect he will, act normally, but tell him you don’t know where I am, and that you haven’t heard from me.”

  Doña Alicia nodded.

  “Okay,” Castillo then said, “what are we doing here? Randy, you were aware that the Army, the armed forces, went to DefConTwo a while back?”

  “Just before we bombed some place in Africa?”