“So, we’re back to: Then who?”
“I don’t know, Frank. But I think it behooves us to make a serious effort to find out. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a connection with the coup d’état business.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
[EIGHT]
1655 18 April 2007
“Mental telepathy, Frank,” Charley Castillo said. “I was just this moment thinking of calling you.”
“To tell me, a little late, that you told Roscoe that Clendennen’s moving Abrego to the La Tuna facility outside El Paso?”
“No shit? I didn’t know that. Who the hell told Roscoe?”
When Lammelle didn’t answer, Castillo said: “Well, what I was going to ask is what I should tell the cops if I’m arrested stealing my Black Hawk back?”
“What?”
“Before, I thought it might be nice to have in case I needed it; now I know I have to have it, preferably late tomorrow afternoon, when I get back to the States.”
“Why do you have to have it?” Lammelle said, and immediately regretted it.
What I should have said is: “Sorry, Charley, forget that helicopter.”
“Frank, I don’t think you really want to know. Do you?”
“Yes, I do, Charley.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind? Who told Roscoe what?”
“Roscoe called the attorney general about an hour ago and gave him until five minutes before Andy McClarren goes on Wolf News tonight to explain why Félix Abrego is being transferred from Florence ADMAX to a minimum-security prison near El Paso.”
“Okay, I’ll ask again: How the hell did Roscoe hear about that?”
“Until just now, I thought maybe you told him.”
“Not me. Natalie Cohen?”
“No. The suspect right now is Montvale, but why would he do that?”
“If that story gets out, Clendennen can’t send Abrego to Mexico,” Castillo said thoughtfully.
“Because it would be irrational, right? Think that through, Charley.”
“Jesus!” Castillo said, and a moment later asked, “Frank, that letter Clendennen wants President Whatsisname of Mexico . . .”
“Martinez,” Lammelle furnished. “Notice what? Natalie and I aren’t quite sure what to think about it.”
“Didn’t either of you think there was something strange in Clendennen wanting Martinez to tell him he wanted Abrego sent to the Oaxaca State Prison?”
“That went right over my head,” Lammelle said after a moment. “And Natalie’s, too, or else she would have said something. What’s that all about? What’s so special about the Oaxaca State Prison? For that matter, where is it?”
“In the middle of nowhere in Oaxaca State. Not anywhere near the U.S.-Mexican border. But not far from the Guatemalan border.”
“Where there is a new cultural affairs officer of the Russian Federation . . .”
“Valentin Komarovski, aka Sergei Murov,” Castillo furnished.
“Which means what?”
“Somebody’s planning for something to happen at that prison.”
“Who? What?”
“There are three—at least three—things going on here, Frank. One is that the drug people want their guy Abrego back, and kidnapped Ferris so they can swap him. We don’t know if they’re doing that by themselves or whether it’s being orchestrated by the Russians. It’s possible that there is some sort of coup d’état going on. Natalie said that McCarthy, the President’s new press secretary, wrote that letter, and we don’t know if the President was responsible for the ‘send Abrego to Oaxaca’ clause, or whether that was put in by McCarthy. Clendennen either didn’t see it or did see it and didn’t smell the Limburger. But who told McCarthy to put that in, and why? It could’ve been Sergei Murov, but that’s a stretch. Or maybe Montvale, which also is a stretch.
“But one scenario there has that whatever is going to happen at that prison will go wrong, that the letter will be leaked to the press, and Clendennen will be in trouble.
“And that raises the question of who told Roscoe and why. That seems to point at Montvale.”
“Natalie said he’d do that after something goes wrong, not before.”
“And since she is smarter than you and me combined, she’s probably right.”
Lammelle grunted his agreement, then said: “And while all this is going on, Schmidt and the FBI are dealing—or are about to deal—with the drug cartels, if they are the drug cartels—and not the Russians.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
After a moment, the DCI said, “Charley, do you really believe the Russians are after you and your friends?”
“Absolutely.”
“And where do they plan to do you in?”
“My scenario there is even more vague than anything else. I would suspect that it would happen around the Oaxaca State Prison. But so far my name hasn’t come up, so how do they get me to Oaxaca? Is that a diversion, so that they can whack Aleksandr Pevsner and company here in Argentina?”
“Interesting. So what are you going to do, Charley?”
“Go with what I’ve got. I’m going to put people on the ground near the prison. I’m going to have another talk with an old friend—delete that—old acquaintance who just happens to be the chief of the Federales in Oaxaca State to see what he knows. What I’d like to do is grab either Abrego or Ferris, or both, when they show up at that prison and see who that brings out of the woodwork.”
He paused and then added, “What I really would like to do is get my hands on Sergei Murov.”
When Lammelle didn’t respond, Castillo went on: “And to do any of the foregoing, I’m going to need that Black Hawk.”
“And how would you suggest I let you have that Black Hawk without finding myself in jail?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Castillo said. “What I need is either a set of CIA credentials—better yet, a CIA agent who knows his way around and can be trusted to keep his mouth shut.”
“And what could a CIA agent who knows his way around and can be trusted to keep his mouth shut do?”
“He goes to Martindale Army Airfield at Fort Sam, asks for the rotary-wing maintenance officer, waves his credentials at him, says the U.S. of A. is going to give the Black Hawk to the Mexican cops, and he would really appreciate it if they could fuel it and have an auxiliary power unit standing by when the pilots come to pick it up for a test flight.”
“And then you show up and fly away with it?”
“Dick Miller does. He and a guy named Kiril Koshkov.”
“Who the hell is Koshkov?”
“Ex-Spetsnaz,” Castillo replied. “And when the Black Hawk is at Hacienda Santa Maria, Dick will call you, and then you call your guy and he calls Martindale and tells the maintenance officer it flew so well that they decided there was no point in bringing it back to Fort Sam, so they took it to Mexico. And thanks so much for your courtesy. Since that Black Hawk was destroyed in the war against drugs, and Natalie Cohen told you to get rid of it—”
“What’s Hacienda Whatever-you-said?”
“A grapefruit farm that’s about thirty-five minutes Black Hawk flight time from the Oaxaca State Prison. It belongs to my family.”
“And what makes you think you can—or Miller and your Russian buddy can—fly a Black Hawk across the border and then all the way to your grapefruit farm—Jesus Christ, a grapefruit farm?—without being seen by either the Border Patrol and five thousand Mexicans, many of them wearing police uniforms?”
“Because the flight will be at night and nap-of-the-earth. That means just off the ground, Mr. Director.”
“Miller can do that?”
“Before he dumped his Black Hawk in Afghanistan—actually he didn’t dump it; they took an RPG hit—he was very good at it. And Kiril, with whom I just flew through the Andes at night, is just as good—maybe better.”
“This sounds insane, Charley, even coming from you. You realiz
e that?”
“The other option is Dick and me sneaking onto Martindale at night and just stealing it. The odds against getting caught are better if you have some spook you can loan me. Or, maybe, make up a set of CIA credentials for Miller and me and FedEx them to me—”
“One question, Charley,” Lammelle said, cutting him off. “Have you been talking to Vic D’Alessandro lately?”
“No. Why?”
“Is that the truth?”
“Boy Scout’s honor. Why?”
“Because Vic is in El Paso watching the post office with the help of a Clandestine Service guy named Tomás L. Diaz. General McNab does not know that Vic is there, and I don’t know that Tommy Diaz is there. Getting the picture?”
“I think so.”
“He’ll be expecting to hear from you.”
“You will get your reward in heaven, Frank.”
“Will that be before or after we both go to Leavenworth? Leavenworth, hell, Florence ADMAX.” He chuckled. “This is not the sort of excitement I thought I’d get when I joined the CIA.”
Then he hung up.
[NINE]
The President’s Study
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
1730 18 April 2007
“You sure took your own sweet time to get here,” President Clendennen said to Attorney General Crenshaw and FBI Director Schmidt when Secret Service Agent Douglas had passed them into the President’s study.
“I didn’t think it would be wise to come here with sirens screaming, Mr. President,” Crenshaw said. “I thought it would make people wonder what’s going on.”
The President glared at him but didn’t reply directly.
“Let’s start with you, Director Schmidt. What’s going on in El Paso?”
“SAC Johnson is standing by at the La Tuna prison, Mr. President, waiting for the Marshals to deliver Abrego. Once he arrives and is taken into the prison—in other words, comes under the authority of the Bureau of Prisons again—he will be outfitted in civilian clothing and taken to the Magoffin Home—”
“What the hell is that?” the President interrupted.
“It’s the former home of the Magoffin family, Mr. President. Now a museum. It’s a large adobe structure—”
“A well-known El Paso landmark, in other words?” President Clendennen interrupted again.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why didn’t you just say that? I don’t need the Chamber of Commerce bullshit.”
“Yes, sir. Photographs of Abrego shaking hands with SAC Johnson will be taken—”
“What the hell is that all about?”
“SAC Johnson will be identified—under another name—as an officer of the Magoffin Home Foundation, and Abrego—also under another name—as a contributor to the Magoffin Home Foundation. SAC Johnson has arranged for the photo to be published in tomorrow morning’s El Diario de El Paso. This, SAC Johnson—and I—feel will satisfy the cartel’s requirement, quote, to publish a photograph of him taken in an easily recognizable location near El Paso, close quote. The next move will be up to them.”
“Okay,” the President said, “so who told that sonofabitch Roscoe J. Danton that we’re moving Abrego to Texas?”
“Mr. President, I have no idea.”
“Neither does the attorney general,” President Clendennen said, looking at Crenshaw. “So I have the director of the FBI and the attorney general telling me that they have absolutely no idea of the identity of the treasonous sonofabitch whose meddling is interfering with the foreign policy of the President of the United States. Would either of you find it hard to understand why I find that unacceptable?”
Crenshaw cleared his throat, then said, “Mr. President, I have begun an investigation—”
“Somehow that doesn’t reassure me,” the President snapped. “So tell me what you have on this sonofabitch Danton.”
“Excuse me?”
[TEN]
Apartment 606
The Watergate Apartments
2639 I Street, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
1735 18 April 2007
���How the hell did you get in here?” Roscoe J. Danton demanded of Edgar Delchamps and David W. Yung when they walked into his kitchen. Danton and John David Parker were sitting at the kitchen table sharing a pizza.
“The door was open,” Delchamps said. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I locked that door very carefully,” Danton said.
“How they hanging, Porky?” Delchamps said, ignoring the challenge.
“What the hell do you want?” Danton demanded.
“Charley wants to talk to you,” Two-Gun Yung said.
“Then why doesn’t he call?”
“He said it would be better if Edgar and I were here when you had your little chat,” Yung said. “So we could clear up any misunderstandings that might come up.”
“Can I have a slice of that?” Delchamps asked as he reached for the pizza.
Yung took his CaseyBerry from his pocket, punched a number, and then handed the instrument to Danton.
“Leave it on speakerphone,” he ordered.
Danton held up the cell phone.
“Danton,” he said.
“My favorite journalist,” came Castillo’s voice from the speakerphone. “How are things in our nation’s capital?”
“What’s going on, Charley?”
“In the very near future—in the next couple of minutes, probably—you will get a telephone call from the White House. Unless they’ve already called?”
“The White House has not called. I expect them to.”
“Well, when they do, they’re going to ask you not to go on The Straight Poop with Andy McClarren . . .”
“That’s Straight Scoop,” Roscoe corrected him in a Pavlovian response.
“Forgive me. As I was saying, they are going to ask you not to go on Mr. McClarren’s widely viewed program tonight with the story of the attorney general ordering the movement of Félix Abrego from Florence ADMAX to the La Tuna facility. Or they are going to threaten you with all the terrible things they will do to you if you do.”
“How the hell do you know about that?”
“The question, Roscoe, is, who told you about it?”
“A confidential source,” Danton said, again responding in a Pavlovian reflex.
“First, Roscoe, we’ll deal with what you say when the White House calls. Handle it any way you want—enjoy yourself and make them grovel, whatever—but in the end you will agree that you will not go on The Straight Scoop tonight. Got that?”
“The hell I won’t. Nobody tells me what to write or what to say on the tube.”
“Wrong. I can, and in this case I have to. Edgar, is Porky there?”
“Sitting right across from Roscoe,” Delchamps replied.
“Roscoe, if I told you that your going on The Straight Scoop tonight would probably get Colonel Ferris killed, would this change your mind?”
“I can’t believe you’re serious,” Danton replied.
“Two-Gun, you have the CIA’s Whiz Bang Super Duper air pistol?” Castillo asked.
Yung went into his attaché case and came out with what looked like a Glock semiautomatic pistol, except that the slide was perhaps twice as large.
“Got it,” Yung said.
“You’re not actually going to threaten me with that gun,” Danton said.
“Two-Gun, shoot Porky,” Castillo ordered.
Yung raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger.
There was a pfffffft sound.
John David Parker suddenly screamed: “Ouch! Shit!”
He looked down at his shirtfront. A plastic thumb-size dart had penetrated the shirt pocket and then his skin. The dart’s feathers hung limply on his chest.
“Sorry, Porky,” Castillo said. “Don’t worry. You’ll wake up in about fifteen minutes. I had to make the point to Roscoe that I am abo
ut as serious as I ever get, and I just don’t have the time to get into an esoteric philosophical argument about journalistic ethics with him.”
John David Parker, now with a dazed look on his face, suddenly slumped forward, his upper torso landing on the kitchen table with a thump.
Two-Gun Yung bent over Porky and removed a slice of pizza from under Parker’s forehead.
“We’re not playing games here, Roscoe,” Castillo said evenly. “Am I getting through to you on that?”
“Jesus Christ, Castillo!”
“Do you understand what you’re to do when either the attorney general, or Clendennen’s press agent, or maybe Clendennen himself calls?”
“Yeah, I understand.”
“Good. Now, back to my original question: Who told you about Abrego getting moved by the attorney general? It’s important that I know.”
“And if I refuse to reveal my source?”
“Then I will be very disappointed in you, and you will wake up in the basement of Lorimer Manor, where Edgar will sooner or later get you to tell us. I need the name.”
Danton didn’t immediately reply.
“I presume, Two-Gun, that you’re locked and cocked?” Castillo said. It was more an order than a question.
“Two-Gun,” Delchamps put in helpfully, “wait until I move the rest of the pizza out of the way.”
Danton’s eyes widened considerably.
“Willy the Lion Leon,” he said quickly.
“Who the hell is he?” Castillo said.
“Warden of Florence ADMAX.”
“Why did he tell you?”
“One of the three DEA guys Abrego shot was his nephew.”
“Did he know why Abrego was being transferred?”
“No.”
“Roscoe, when the White House calls, you can get on your journalist’s high horse and refuse to divulge your source. Let’s keep them guessing.”
“Yes, sir,” Danton said sarcastically.
“That’s more like it,” Castillo said. “Once you take the king’s shilling, you’re supposed to ‘yes, sir’ to the man in charge.”
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