The Outlaws: a Presidential Agent novel

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

  “Actually, what we’re marking is almost the exact opposite of a celebration,” Naylor said.

  The telephone rang as Allan Junior was walking out of the kitchen to get the single malt. He snatched its handset off the wall.

  “Quarters One, Major Naylor, sir.”

  He listened, then put his hand over the microphone, and turned to his father.

  “It’s Charley,” he said to his father, referring to Captain Charles D. Seward III, his father’s junior aide. “He says that Mr. Lammelle is having dinner with Mr. Festerman and will spend the night with him, rather than in the VIP Quarters. He wants to know what you want him to do.”

  Bruce L. Festerman was the liaison officer of the Central Intelligence Agency to the United States Central Command.

  Naylor walked to his son and took the telephone receiver from him.

  “Charley,” he ordered, “ask Mr. Lammelle if it would be convenient for him to have you pick him up at half past eight in the morning. If so, drive him slowly to the office. I want to be through with General McNab before he gets there. If that doesn’t work, call me back.”

  When Naylor had returned the telephone to its cradle, Allan Junior said: “The deputy director of the CIA and Scotty McNab. What the hell’s going on?”

  Colonel Brewer had wanted to ask the same questions, first when Lammelle had been waiting for him and General Naylor at Andrews Air Force Base in Washington, and later at MacDill, when General Naylor had walked into his office and, even before he sat down, had told Sergeant Major Wes Suggins to get General McNab on the horn.

  But he hadn’t asked. He knew Naylor would tell him what he thought he should know when he thought he needed to know it.

  Brewer’s natural curiosity—both personal and professional—was not to be satisfied now, either.

  “I thought you were fetching the bottle of Macallan,” General Naylor said.

  “Yes, sir,” Allan Junior said. “Coming right up, sir.”

  The younger Naylor returned with two bottles of Scotch whisky—the single malt Macallan and a bottle of blended Johnnie Walker Red Label. General Naylor’s father had taught him—and he had taught his son—that one never took two drinks of really superb Scotch in a row. One drank and savored the superb whisky. A second drink of the superb would be a waste, however, as the alcohol had deadened the tongue to the point where it could not taste the difference between a superb Scotch and an ordinary one—or even a bad one.

  General Naylor drank his Macallan without saying a word. When that was gone, he poured a double of the Johnnie Walker, added a couple of ice cubes to his glass, moved the cubes around with his index finger, and then looked up.

  “Did either of you see that actor—the guy who usually has a big black mustache—in the movie where he played Eisenhower just before D-Day?”

  “Tom Selleck,” Brewer said. “Countdown to D-Day.”

  “Something like that,” Naylor said. “Allan?”

  “Yeah, I saw it. Good movie.”

  “Very accurate,” Naylor said. “Down to his chain-smoking those Chesterfields. My uncle Tony, who was at SHAEF, said Eisenhower’s fingers were stained yellow from the cigarettes.”

  He took another swallow of his drink, and his son and aide waited for him to go on.

  “There was a segment where one of his officers, a two-star, let his mouth run in a restaurant. Do you remember that?”

  His son and his aide nodded.

  “That was also quite accurately shown in the movie. Uncle Tony knew all the players. The officer was in his cups, in a restaurant, and came close to divulging when the cross-channel invasion would take place. He was overheard, and someone reported him.”

  “Eisenhower should have had the sonofabitch shot,” Allan Junior said. “Instead, they knocked rings and he walked. He didn’t even get thrown out of the Army.”

  “Did you read that line in the Bible that says something about ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged’?” General Naylor said. “He was Ike’s roommate at the Point.”

  “What are you saying, Dad? That if that general had gotten his commission from ROTC and/or wasn’t Ike’s classmate, that would have been different?”

  “Would you so callously order your roommate at West Point shot under similar circumstances?”

  Allan Junior raised his eyebrows, then said, “I thought about that when I saw the movie. I don’t know whether I’d have either one of them shot, but I damn sure wouldn’t let either one of them walk. When that two-star put men’s lives at risk letting his mouth run away with him, he forfeited his right to be an officer.”

  “He was reduced to colonel and sent home,” General Naylor said.

  “And the men whose lives he put at risk were sent to the landing beaches of Normandy. This Long Gray Line we march in, Dad, isn’t perfect, and I don’t think we should pretend it is.”

  Allan Junior turned to Colonel Brewer and started to say something.

  “Stop right there, Allan,” Brewer cut him off. “I’m not going to get in the middle of this.”

  “I am now facing a somewhat similar, personally distasteful situation,” General Naylor said, “involving an officer who also marches in the Long Gray Line, and of whom I’m personally very fond.”

  His senior aide-de-camp and his son looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

  “If I have to say this, this is highly classified, and to go no further,” General Naylor said. “Classification, Top Secret, Presidential.”

  “Which explains why Mr. Lammelle is here?” Brewer asked.

  Naylor nodded.

  “President Clendennen this afternoon ordered me to locate Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, Retired, wherever he might be, and to place him under arrest pending investigation of charges which may be laid against him under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”

  “What charges?” Allen Junior demanded.

  “Mr. Lammelle was similarly ordered by the President this afternoon to accompany me wherever this mission might take us. If, when we find Colonel Castillo, he has two Russian defectors with him, as he most probably does, Lammelle is to take them into custody. It is President Clendennen’s intention to return them to the Russians.”

  “What are the charges someone’s laying against Charley?” Allen Junior demanded.

  His father did not reply directly. He instead said, “Jack is thoroughly conversant with all the details of our strike on the Congo. How much do you know, Allan?”

  “Not very much beyond the Russians and the Iranians were operating a biological weapons lab, and the previous POTUS decided that taking it out made more sense than taking the problem to the UN. If that’s correct, then I say, hooray for him.”

  “What was being made in that laboratory was a substance now known as Congo-X. It is highly dangerous to an almost unimaginable degree. Our leading expert on that sort of thing, a colonel at our biological warfare operation at Fort Detrick, told the previous POTUS—to borrow your nomenclature—that any accident at the Congo laboratory would be infinitely more catastrophic than the nuclear meltdown at Chernobyl was. It is not hard to extrapolate from that what damage would result should this substance be used as a weapon against us.

  “It can be fairly said that the previous POTUS took action not a minute too soon.”

  “Then thank God he had the balls to do it,” Allan Junior said.

  General Naylor nodded, sipped his Scotch, then said, “Unfortunately, the raid—as massive as it was—apparently did not destroy all the Congo-X. Two quantities of it—packed in what look like blue rubber beer barrels—have turned up. One was sent to Fort Detrick by FedEx from a nonexistent laboratory in Miami. A second was found on our side of the Mexican-U.S. border where the Border Patrol could not miss it. Colonel Hamilton, the expert at Fort Detrick, has confirmed both barrels contained Congo-X.

  “The next development was when the Russian rezident in their Washington embassy had Lammelle to their compound—they call it their dacha—in Maryland. Th
ere he as much admitted that they had sent the Congo-X to Fort Detrick. He then strongly implied that Prime Minister Putin is personally determined to have the two Russians returned to Russia. Putin also, it was implied, holds Castillo personally responsible for the deaths of several SVR officers in various places around the world. He wants Colonel Castillo, too.

  “If this is done, the Russians will turn over to us all stocks of Congo-X in their control and offer assurances that no more of it will ever turn up.”

  “Dad, Clendennen’s not actually thinking of caving in, is he? He can’t possibly believe the Russians—Putin, specifically—will live up to their promises.”

  “The President has decided the most prudent course for him to follow is to turn the defectors over to the Russians. He said several times he’s always held traitors in the utmost contempt.”

  “And Charley? Is he going to turn Charley over, too?” Allan Junior asked incredulously.

  “I can’t believe that he would do so,” General Naylor said.

  “Did you ask him?”

  “No, I didn’t ask him. He’s the President of the United States.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Follow my orders.”

  “What are the charges they’re bringing against Charley?” Allen Junior asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you’re going to arrest him anyway?”

  “I don’t like the tone of your voice.”

  “And I don’t like what I’m hearing here.”

  “That’s not really germane, is it?”

  “What I’m hearing is bullshit,” Allan Junior pursued.

  “That’s quite enough, Allan.”

  “Starting with that Top Secret Presidential classification,” Allan Junior went on. “Information is classified to keep it from our enemies. The Russians know all about this. This is classified to keep it off Wolf News, so that Clendennen can cover his political ass.”

  “I said, enough!”

  “Tell me this, Dad: What has Charley done wrong? Exactly what article of the Uniform Code of Military Justice has he violated?”

  “Willful disobedience of a lawful order.”

  “What order was that?’

  “When he flew the defectors out of Vienna to Argentina—without any authority to do so—Ambassador Montvale came to me and suggested the best way to deal with the problem was for me to send an officer from Special Operations Command—Charley was then assigned to Special Operations Command and thus subject to its orders—down there and order him to turn the Russians over to the CIA officers Montvale would have with him. I did so. I sent a colonel from Special Operations with Ambassador Montvale. He ordered Charley to turn the Russians over to Montvale. Charley refused to do so.”

  “Charley was then working for the President,” Allan Junior said. “He was not subordinate to Special Operations Command. Your colonel had no authority to order him to do anything.”

  “Okay, that’s it, Allan. I am not going to debate this with you.”

  Allan Junior stood up, and said, “Good evening, Colonel Brewer. It’s always a pleasure to see you, sir.”

  He walked to the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” General Naylor challenged.

  “I’m going to see if I can find Charley, and if I can, I’m going to warn him about what you’re trying to do to him.”

  “Major, you have been advised that what you heard here tonight is classified Top Secret Presidential,” General Naylor said, coldly angry.

  “So court-martial me. Let’s see how Wolf News plays that story.”

  He walked out of the kitchen and slammed the door closed after him.

  After a long moment, General Naylor said, “I don’t think he knows where Castillo is any more than we do.”

  “I hope he doesn’t. In his frame of mind, if he finds him, he will tell him.”

  “Suggestions solicited.”

  “I think you ought to keep him on a short leash until this is over.”

  “Particularly since I know the lieutenant colonel promotion board is sitting.”

  “Has sat. And selected Allan from below the zone. I suspected that was why he was here when we got here; he wanted to tell you.”

  “Get him back here, Jack,” Naylor ordered.

  Brewer took a cell phone from his pocket and pushed an auto-dial button.

  “Major Naylor,” he said twenty seconds later. “This is Colonel Brewer. General Naylor’s compliments. It is the general’s desire that you attend him immediately. Acknowledge.”

  He pushed the OFF button.

  “Major Naylor is on his way, sir.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘Lieutenant Colonel (Designate),’ Jack?”

  Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Allan Naylor, Jr., returned to the kitchen of Quarters One two minutes later.

  He walked to where his father was sitting, came to attention, saluted, and recited, “Major Naylor reporting to the Commanding General as ordered.”

  General Naylor glanced at Colonel Brewer, then met his son’s eyes.

  “Major,” he said, “you are attached to my personal staff for an indefinite period. You are not to communicate with Lieutenant Colonel Castillo or anyone connected in any way to him in any way under any circumstances. Neither will you communicate in any way under any circumstances with any sort of media. That is a direct order. Indicate that you understand and intend to comply with that order by saying ‘Yes, sir.’”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will proceed to your quarters and will remain there until you receive further orders from either myself or Colonel Brewer. You will pack sufficient uniforms and civilian clothing to last for a period of seven days. You will go into no further detail when discussing this with your wife or anyone else than that you will be accompanying me on official business. The foregoing has been a direct order. Indicate that you understand and intend to comply with that order by saying ‘Yes, sir.’”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Major Naylor saluted his father, and when it was returned, did an about-face, and marched out of the kitchen.

  When General Naylor heard the sound of Allan Junior’s Suburban starting, he held up his glass in a toast, and said, “Congratulations on your promotion, son. You’ve made me very proud of you.”

  [TWO]

  7200 West Boulevard Drive

  Alexandria, Virginia

  0705 9 February 2007

  The convoy of four blackened-window Secret Service GMC Yukons turned off West Boulevard Drive and drove—not without difficulty; four inches of snow had fallen during the night—up the steep drive to the house.

  Four men in business suits quickly got out of the first vehicle in line and moved as swiftly as they could through the fresh snow and the drifts of previous snowfalls to the sides and rear of the house.

  Three men—Supervisory Special Agent Thomas McGuire, Special Agent Joshua Foster, and Mason Andrews, the assistant secretary of the Department of Homeland Security—got out of the second Yukon and made their way—again not without difficulty; the snow-covered walk was steep—to the front door. McGuire pushed the button for the doorbell. Chimes could be heard.

  They waited a full minute. Nothing happened.

  McGuire pushed the doorbell again, and again there was no response from within the house.

  McGuire took a cell phone from his pocket and punched an auto-dial number.

  “With whom am I speaking, please?” he asked a moment later. Then he said, “Mrs. Darby, this is Supervisory Special Agent McGuire of the United States Secret Service. We are at your front door. Will you please open it to us?”

  He put the telephone back in his pocket and announced, “She said she’ll open the door as quickly as she can.”

  “She damned well better,” Mason Andrews said, brushing snow from his bald spot.

  The door opened. Mrs. Julia Darby stood there in
her bathrobe. Another woman, also in her bathrobe, stood beside her. To their side stood a man of obvious Asian extraction. The unknown woman in the bathrobe held a cell phone to her face and there was a flash.

  Mason Andrews thought: I’ll be goddamned! She just took our picture.

  “Hello, Tom,” Mrs. Darby said. “I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. We gave at the office.”

  Andrews stared at her. What did she say?

  “Mrs. Darby,” McGuire said, holding out his credentials for her to see, “this is Secret Service Agent Foster, and this is Mr. Mason Andrews, the assistant secretary of Homeland Security.”

  “Hello, I’m Julia Darby.”

  “May we come in?” Mason Andrews asked.

  “I don’t think so,” the Asian man said. “The introduction of Mr. McGuire’s credentials implies this is somehow official business of the Secret Service. The Third Circuit Court of Appeals has held that granting law enforcement officials access to a residence constitutes a waiver by the home owner of his or her rights against unlawful search and seizure. We do not wish to waive those rights.”

  Mason Andrews thought: Who the fuck is this guy?

  He demanded: “Who are you?”

  “My name is David W. Yung, Jr. I am Mrs. Darby’s attorney.”

  “And you’re refusing to let us in?”

  “That is correct,” Two-Gun Yung said. “Unless you have a search warrant, I am on behalf of my client denying you access to these premises.”

  “We’re the Secret Service!” Special Agent Foster announced.

  “So Mr. McGuire has said,” Two-Gun said. “We are now going to close the door, as all the cold is getting in the house.”

  “We’ll be back with a search warrant!” Assistant Secretary Andrews announced as the door closed in his face.

  “I don’t believe that!” Assistant Secretary Andrews said in the front seat of the Yukon. He mopped at the melting snow on his bald spot with a handkerchief. “Absolutely incredible! We should have just pushed that little Jap out of the way and grabbed Darby.”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Secretary, the lawyer was right. Without a search warrant, we have no right to enter those premises,” McGuire said.