The Outlaws

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “How do you know that?”

  “He came to me, sir.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him I had no idea where he was,” Parker said.

  “Charles?”

  “Sir?” Montvale replied.

  “Where is Castillo?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. President.”

  “I told you the next time I asked that question, I would expect an answer.”

  “I’m working on it, Mr. President, but so far without any results.”

  “Wonderful! It’s so nice to know that whenever I want to know something, all I have to do is ask my director of National Intelligence!”

  There was another thirty-second silence, and then the President went on: “Far be it from me to try to tell the director of National Intelligence how to do his job, but I have just had this probably useless thought: If Roscoe Danton is looking for Colonel Castillo, perhaps he has an idea where he is. Has anyone thought of that? Where’s Danton?”

  There was no reply.

  “Find out for me, Charles, will you, please?”

  “I’ll get right on it, Mr. President,” Montvale said.

  [FOUR]

  The Office of the Director of National Intelligence

  Eisenhower Executive Office Building

  17th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  1805 5 February 2007

  “I can’t think of anything else to do, can you?” Ambassador Montvale asked Truman C. Ellsworth, his executive assistant.

  When Ellsworth had called The Washington Times-Post for Roscoe J. Danton, they refused to tell him where he was. They said they would contact Danton and tell him Ambassador Montvale wanted to speak with him. Ellsworth finally called the publisher, Bradley Benjamin III, and told him what had happened, and asked for his help. Mr. Benjamin told him that what he had already been offered was all he was going to get, and please give Ambassador Montvale his best regards.

  Since both Truman C. Ellsworth and Charles M. Montvale would swear—because they believed it—that they were incapable of letting anger, or a bruised ego, interfere in the slightest with their judgment, or the execution of their offices, what happened next was attributed to the fervor with which they chose to meet the President’s request to locate Mr. Roscoe J. Danton.

  The National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland, was directed as the highest priority to acquire and relay to the ambassador’s office any traffic by telephone, or over the Internet, containing Mr. Danton’s name.

  The Department of Homeland Security was directed to search the flight manifests of every passenger airliner taking off from either Reagan International Airport or Dulles International Airport during the past forty-eight hours for the name of Roscoe J. Danton, and if found to immediately report his destination and time of arrival thereat.

  The Secret Service was ordered to obtain the residential address of Mr. Roscoe J. Danton and to place such premises under around-the-clock surveillance and to immediately report any sighting of Mr. Danton. They were further ordered to send agents to the National Press Club to see if any clue to his whereabouts could be obtained.

  The cooperation of the FBI was sought and obtained to put out an immediate “locate but do not detain” bulletin on Mr. Danton.

  “I just had an idea,” Mr. Ellsworth said when asked if he could think of anything else that could be done.

  He told the White House operator get The Washington Times-Post for him again, this time the Corporate Travel department.

  Montvale’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t comment.

  “Hello, Corporate Travel?” Ellsworth then said. “Yes, hi. Brad Benjamin just told me you would know where I can find Roscoe Danton.”

  Not sixty seconds after that, he said, “Got it. Thank you,” hung up the phone, and turned to Ambassador Montvale and reported, “Danton went to Buenos Aires. They made a reservation for him at the Marriott Plaza.”

  “The Marriott Plaza?” Montvale replied, obviously surprised.

  “That’s what they told me. You want me to put in a call to our ambassador?”

  “I wouldn’t believe that sonofabitch if he told me what day it is.”

  “The CIA station chief, then?”

  “Get me John Powell. I’ll have the DCI call the station chief and tell him I’ll be calling.”

  Ellsworth told the White House operator to connect the director of National Intelligence with the director of Central Intelligence on a secure line and then pushed the LOUDSPEAKER button and handed the receiver to Montvale.

  “Jack, Charles M. Montvale. I want you to give me the name of the station chief in Buenos Aires, and something about him, and then call him and tell him I’ll be calling on an errand for the President.”

  “Hang on a second, Charles,” Powell replied.

  He came back on the line ninety seconds later.

  “Got a little problem, Charles. We had a really good man there, Alex Darby, but he went out the door with Castillo. A kid just out of The Farm has been filling in for Darby, until Bob Lowe, another good man, can clear his desk in Mexico City. I don’t know if Lowe made it down there yet.”

  “Well, please call the kid, and tell him I’ll be calling.”

  “Clendennen.”

  “Charles M. Montvale, Mr. President. I’ve located Mr. Danton. He’s in the Marriott Plaza Hotel in Buenos Aires.”

  “That would suggest he knows where Colonel Castillo is, wouldn’t you say?”

  “That’s a strong possibility, Mr. President.”

  “I presume your next call will be to the ambassador down there.”

  “I was thinking of calling the CIA station chief, Mr. President.”

  “Okay, your call. That might be best, now that I think of it.”

  “There’s a small problem there, Mr. President. The acting station chief is a young man just out of agency training. John Powell just told me that the man he’s sending down there to replace the former station chief, who, sir, fell off the face of the earth with Castillo, has not reported for duty.”

  “So what are you planning to do?”

  “I thought I would send Truman Ellsworth down there, sir. Just as soon as he can get to Andrews.”

  “I dislike micromanagement, Charles, as you know. But if I were in your shoes, I would go down there myself. Take What’s-his-name with you if you like.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s probably the right thing to do.”

  “It would be better if someone of your stature were the person to suggest to Costello that he would be ill-advised to get anywhere near our little problem. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep me advised,” President Clendennen said, and Montvale heard the click that signaled the commander in chief had terminated the call.

  “I’ll call Andrews and have the plane ready,” Truman Ellsworth said.

  Their presidential mission began in a two-GMC-Yukon convoy from the Executive Office Building. The first Secret-Service-agent-driven, black-tinted-window Yukon held the driver; the two Secret Service agents assigned to protect Montvale; and the two assigned to protect Ellsworth. The second Yukon carried Montvale and Ellsworth and everyone’s luggage.

  On the way to Andrews Air Force Base, Montvale and Ellsworth consoled themselves for having to travel all the way down to Argentina by agreeing that it wouldn’t be that bad a trip. The C-37A—the Air Force designation for the Gulfstream V—on which they would fly was just about as nice an airplane as airplanes came.

  It had a range greater than the 5,100-odd miles between Washington and Buenos Aires, and could cruise nonstop at Mach 0.80, or a little faster than five hundred miles per hour. There was room for eight passengers, which meant that Montvale and Ellsworth—rank hath its privileges—could make the most of the journey spread out on bed-size couches. Or they could sit up on the couches and have a drink or two from the portable bar in one of the Secret Service agent’s luggage. />
  And they were sure to get one of the two Gulfstream Vs at Andrews: Ellsworth had made a point of telling the commanding officer of the presidential flight detachment that he and Montvale were traveling at the direct personal order of President Clendennen.

  That, however, did not come to pass.

  At Andrews, they learned that one of the two Gulfstream V jets had carried Mrs. Sue-Ellen Clendennen to Montgomery, Alabama, where the First Lady’s mother was sick in hospital.

  Both Montvale and Ellsworth habitually took a look at the reports of the presidential security detail. They therefore knew the President’s mother-in-law was not in a hospital per se but rather an “assisted-living facility” and that her being sick therein was a sort of code which meant the old lady had once again eluded her caretakers and acquired a stock of intoxicants.

  That was moot. They knew they were outranked by the First Lady. And the second Gulfstream V at Andrews was not available to them either, as it was being held for possible use by someone else who outranked them, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, who could be counted upon to throw a female fit of monumental proportions if a Gulfstream V was not immediately available to take her to her home in Palm Beach if she suddenly felt the urge to go there.

  That left only a C-20A—what the Air Force called the Gulfstream III—from the half-dozen kept by the Air Force for VIP transport at Andrews for their flight to Buenos Aires. While just about as fast as a C-37A, the C-20A is a somewhat smaller aircraft with a maximum range of about thirty-seven hundred miles. That meant that not only was a fuel stop necessary en route to Buenos Aires, but that the couches on which Montvale and Ellsworth would attempt to sleep were neither as wide nor as comfortable as those on the Gulfstream V would have been.

  They had finally gotten off the ground at Andrews just before midnight. Flight time was a few minutes under twelve hours. The fuel stop added another hour and forty-five minutes. There was a one-hour difference between time in Washington and in Buenos Aires. They would arrive, if there were no problems, at Jorge Newbery Airport in Buenos Aires at about one in the afternoon.

  [ONE]

  Estancia San Joaquín

  Near San Martín de los Andes

  Patagonia

  Neuquén Province, Argentina

  2130 5 February 2007

  Aleksandr Pevsner took a sip of his after-dinner brandy, then took a puff on his after-dinner cigar, and then pointed the cigar at Castillo.

  Castillo also had a cigar, but no brandy. In the morning he was going to have to fly the Bell Ranger to the airport at San Carlos de Bariloche, where, Pevsner had decided earlier, his Learjet would be waiting to fly them over the Andes to El Tepual International Airport in Puerto Montt, Chile. They would travel to Cozumel on a Peruaire cargo plane carrying foodstuffs for the cruise ship trade and Pevsner’s Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort. Castillo would have to do that twice; there wasn’t room in the helicopter to fly everybody at once.

  “I have been thinking, friend Charley ...” Pevsner announced.

  “Uh-oh,” Castillo replied.

  Pevsner shook his head in resignation, and then went on: “Two things: First, I think it would be useful if I went to Cozumel with you. I have contacts in Mexico that might be useful, and if you’re going to use the Beach and Golf as a base, certain arrangements will have to be made. Comments?”

  “Makes sense,” Tom Barlow said.

  “I agree,” Svetlana said.

  “Pay attention, Marlon Brando,” Delchamps said. “Your consiglieri have been heard from.”

  “This meets with your approval, Charley?”

  “Who am I to argue with my consiglieri?”

  But I wonder what you would have said if I had said, “That’s a lousy idea.”

  “Second, I’ve been thinking that it would be best if you flew the Aero Commander to Puerto Montt. That would both save us time in the morning, and we would be less conspicuous. The latter depends, of course, on whether you can fly that airplane over the Andes. Can you?”

  “Quick answer, no,” Castillo replied. “The Commander’s cabin is not pressurized, and the service ceiling is about thirteen thousand feet. There are lots of rock-filled clouds in the Andes much higher than that.”

  “Actually, the average height is about thirteen thousand feet,” Pevsner said. “Could you fly around the peaks?”

  “Probably,” Castillo said. “I’d have to look at the charts, and I don’t have any charts.”

  “János, call down to the hangar and have them bring the necessary aerial charts,” Pevsner ordered. “And when you’ve finished that, call the house and have our luggage prepared.”

  “If, after I look at the charts and decide I can fly around the peaks, I’d still have to make two flights,” Castillo said. “We can’t get everybody in the Commander at once. Have you considered that?”

  “You’d have to make two flights in the Lear, too. Taking the little airplane still makes more sense,” Svetlana said.

  “Concur,” Tom Barlow said.

  “There they go again!” Delchamps said. “What would you do without them whispering sage advice in your ear, Don Carlos?”

  Tom Barlow chuckled. Svetlana gave him the finger.

  [TWO]

  El Tepual International Airport

  Puerto Montt, Chile

  0830 6 February 2007

  The first flight in the Aero Commander from Estancia San Joaquín through the Andes mountains had carried Alek Pevsner—who had said he wanted to make sure things went smoothly in Puerto Montt—plus János, Tom Barlow, Sweaty, and of course Max.

  The Casey avionics worked perfectly, and everyone but the pilot seemed to enjoy the flight. In the early light of day, the snow-capped Andes were incredibly beautiful. The pilot spent much time during the flight—whenever the altimeter showed that he was at or just over thirteen thousand feet—remembering that the U.S. Army had taught him that at any altitude over twelve thousand feet, the pilot’s brain is denied the oxygen it needs.

  Despite its grandiose title, El Tepual International was just about completely deserted when they landed. There was no Peruaire cargo jet in sight; just three Chevrolet Suburbans whose drivers looked more Slavic than one would expect of Chileans.

  Svetlana immediately exercised her female right to change her mind and announced she would return to Estancia San Joaquín with Castillo to pick up Alex Darby and Edgar Delchamps.

  That could be because my lover can’t bear to be even briefly separated from me.

  But on the other hand it could be because former Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva of the SVR thinks she had better keep an eye on the crazy American to make sure that he doesn’t do something stupid.

  The second flight went smoothly, and this time the pilot elected to fly more closely to the terrain, rather than trying to attain as much altitude as he could.

  And when he turned on final approach, he saw that there was another aircraft on the tarmac: a Peruaire Boeing 777-200LR.

  Jesus, that’s one great big beautiful sonofabitch!

  When he taxied up close to it, feeling like one of the little people Gulliver had encountered in his travels, he saw that a swarm of workers had just about finished loading it with refrigerated containers.

  What was the Triple-Seven freighter’s revenue payload?

  I think Alek said just over a hundred tons—one hundred twelve tons, was what he said.

  Jesus, that’s a lot of seafood and beef!

  Ten minutes after he landed at El Tepual, he was strapped into one of the ten seats in the passenger compartment just behind the 777’s cockpit.

  The plane began to taxi and when it turned onto the main runway, the pilot simply advanced the throttles and it began the takeoff roll.

  One of Marlon Brando’s consiglieri caught his hand with one of hers and crossed herself with the other.

  [THREE]

  Jorge Newbery International Airport

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  130
5 6 February 2007

  As the Gulfstream III carrying Ambassador Montvale and his party had made its approach to the airport, Montvale had remembered that the last time he had met with the sonofabitch in Argentina, Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo had pointed out to him that inasmuch as they were in a foreign and sovereign nation, his Secret Service security detail did not enjoy diplomatic immunity and therefore had no right to bear arms, and were thus liable to be arrested for doing so.

  He elected not to mention this to anyone. If there was a problem, Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio would have to deal with it. And deal with it, he would have to: I’m here at the direct order of the President of the United States. I look forward to making that point to that slick bastard and pal of Castillo’s.

  Before the Gulfstream III had reached the end of its landing roll, Jorge Newbery ground control directed it to the commercial side of the airfield on the bank of the River Plate.

  There they were met by Argentine immigration and customs officers and two members of the staff of the United States embassy. They were passed through both bureaucratic procedures quickly and without incident. Importantly, no Argentine official searched the persons of anyone, which neutralized the problem of his armed security detail, at least for the moment.

  There were two diplomats from the American embassy on hand to meet the Gulfstream. One introduced himself as Colonel C. C. “Call me CC” Downs, the military attaché. He said he was there to take care of the crew. There were three crew members: the male pilot, a major; the male co-pilot, a captain; and a stout woman wearing the chevrons of a senior master sergeant. She had delivered a stewardess-type speech about the safety features of the C-20A, ordered everybody to fasten their seat belts, and then taken a seat, from which she had arisen only once to announce that intoxicants were prohibited aboard Air Force C-20A aircraft and if the Secret Service agent in the process of pouring Scotch into glasses for the Montvale party continued to do so, she would have to make an official report to her superiors.