The Outlaws

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “Okay.”

  “The CIA station chief set things up. The CIA sent a plane to Vienna with the plan that, as soon as Dmitri and Svetlana got into it, it would take off, and eight hours later Dmitri and Svetlana would be in one of those safe houses the agency maintains not far from our dacha on the Eastern Shore here.

  “So far as General Sirinov was concerned, the business at the Kunsthistorisches Museum was going to provide him with two things. First, an opportunity to get all his people together without attracting too much attention. Second, when everybody was gathered, and people asked the whereabouts of Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky and Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva, Sirinov was going to tell them they were under arrest for embezzling funds of the Russian Federation, and then put them on an Aeroflot aircraft to Moscow.”

  “Sirinov ... is that his name?”

  Murov nodded.

  “He knew these two were going to defect?”

  Murov nodded.

  “And here is where the plot thickens,” Murov said. “There were CIA agents waiting in Vienna’s Westbahnhof for Dmitri and his sister. And there were representatives of the SVR waiting for them. And they never showed up.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “It took General Sirinov several days to find out. There were two problems. First, the officer responsible for meeting them at the railway station, the Vienna rezident, Lieutenant Colonel Kiril Demidov, was found the next morning sitting in a taxicab outside the American embassy with the calling card of Miss Eleanor Dillworth, the CIA station chief, on his chest. Poor Kiril had been garroted to death.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Whelan exclaimed.

  “And then, the second problem was that General Sirinov was naturally distracted by world events. You will recall that your President somehow got the idea that the Iranians were operating a biological warfare laboratory in the Congo and rather than bring his suspicions to the United Nations, as he was clearly obligated to do, instead launched a unilateral attack and brought the world dangerously close to a nuclear exchange.”

  Do I let him get away with that?

  What good would arguing with him do?

  “Are you going to tell me what happened to Colonel Whatsisname and his sister?”

  “That is the real question,” Murov said. “Eventually, General Sirinov learned that within hours of their scheduled arrival in Vienna, they were flown out of Schwechat on Lieutenant Colonel Carlos G. Castillo’s Gulfstream airplane. That was the last time anyone has seen them.”

  “How did Castillo get involved?”

  Murov shrugged.

  “General Sirinov’s intention had been to present the arrest of Dmitri and Svetlana to Putin as a fait accompli. Now he had to report that not only were they not under arrest, but no one had any idea where they might be, although of course the CIA was presumed to be somehow involved.

  “Putin—who, as I said, has known Dmitri and Svetlana for years—thought there was something fishy about the embezzlement charges and ordered Sirinov to have another look. Sirinov discovered Evgeny’s little scheme. Putin was furious, both personally and professionally.”

  “What does that mean?” Whelan asked.

  “In addition to his personal feelings about the injustice done to Colonel Berezovsky and Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva, Putin knew that SVR officers all over the world were thinking, That could happen to me.”

  “Including you, Sergei?”

  “Well, since I’m not an SVR officer, no. But to answer what I think you’re asking, ‘Was the Washington rezident thinking that what happened to two fine SVR officers like Berezovsky and Alekseeva could happen to him?’ I happen to know he was. And Putin, knowing this, ordered that things be made right. If he could get through to Berezovsky and Alekseeva and get them to come home, and they were promoted ... If the injustice done to them ...”

  “I get the point,” Whelan said.

  Why am I starting to believe him?

  “So Putin went to Vladlen Solomatin and told him what he wanted to do. And that letter was written. The problem then became how to get the letter to Berezovsky and his sister. The decision was made—by Putin personally—to go right to the top. So the Washington rezident invited Frank Lammelle to our dacha on the Eastern Shore—you know where I mean?”

  Whelan nodded.

  “And explained the situation, gave him the letter from Solomatin, and asked that he deliver it, and made it clear that his cooperation in the matter would not be forgotten.

  “Lammelle, however, said he was sorry, but he didn’t think he could help, as much as he would like to. Then he related an incredible story. Castillo had had no authority to take Berezovsky and Alekseeva from Vienna. Castillo had never been in the CIA, but had been in charge of a private CIA—called the Office of Organizational Analysis, OOA—that your late President had been running. OOA was disbanded, and its members been ordered to disappear the day before you bombed the Congo. Lammelle said he had no idea where Castillo or Berezovsky and Alekseeva could be.”

  “You’re right. That’s incredible,” Whelan said.

  “What’s really incredible, Harry, is that the rezident believed Lammelle. They had over the years developed a relationship. In other words, they might say ‘No comment’ to one another, but they would not lie to one another. Over time, that has worked to their mutual advantage.”

  Murov topped off their wineglasses.

  “That’s why I asked you to dinner, Harry,” Murov said. “To propose something I think will be mutually advantageous.”

  Whelan said, “‘And what would that be?’ Harry Whelan, suspicious journalist, asked, as he put one hand on his wallet and the other on his crotch.”

  Murov chuckled.

  “Your wallet, maybe, Harry. But I am really not interested in your crotch. Would you like me to go on, or should we just forget we ever had this conversation?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Putin wants this problem resolved. There is great pressure on the rezident to solve it. He came to me and said he thought the greatest obstacle to solving it is President Clendennen ...”

  “Clendennen? He’s the obstacle? How’s that?”

  “The rezident thinks the President just wants the problem to go away, and he thinks the President believes the best way to do that is to do nothing. His predecessor never told him a thing about the OOA. He has no idea what it is, or was. He’s never heard of Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, and therefore knows nothing of Castillo taking two Russian defectors away from the CIA, and if he did, he has no idea why, or what Castillo has done with the defectors. Getting the idea?”

  “Yeah,” Whelan said. “So, what am I supposed to do about it?”

  “Start looking for Castillo and the OOA ... at the White House. Ask Clendennen to tell you about his secret private CIA, and the man who runs it for him. When he tells you he knows nothing about it, ask him why you can’t find Castillo. Tell him you suspect he’s hiding Castillo, and that unless you can talk to Castillo and get a denial from him, that’s the story you’re going to write: ‘President Denies Knowledge of Secret Special Operations Organization.’”

  “And he says, ‘Go ahead, write it. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Then what?”

  “Then you tell him that after you write it, and he denies it, you’re going to write another story: ‘Former CIA Station Chief Confirms That Rogue Special Operator Stole Russian Defectors from CIA.’ And that the only way you’re not going to write the story is if Castillo tells you it’s not true.”

  “And who is this former CIA station chief? And why would he tell me this?”

  “It’s a she. Her name is Eleanor Dillworth. The day after Kiril Demidov was found in the taxicab outside the American embassy with Dillworth’s calling card on his chest, she was fired. She feels she has been treated unfairly.”

  “Why should I believe her?”

  “Roscoe J. Danton does. She went to him with this story. He’s now in Buenos Aires looking
for Castillo.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The rezident there told me. He’s actually very good at what he does.”

  He wouldn’t tell me that if it wasn’t true.

  It’s too easy to check out.

  “Just for the sake of argument, Sergei: Say I believe you. Say I do all this—I’d start by talking to this Dillworth woman—what’s in it for me?”

  “Well, Harry, it would be a hell of a story. Especially once we get Colonel Berezovsky and his sister out in the open, if they told their story to you, and only to you. And of course I would be very grateful to you. And so would the rezident. That might be very useful in the future, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I can see that,” Whelan said. “But I can’t help but wonder why you’re being so good to me.”

  “Because you are not only a very nice fellow, Harry, but the most important journalist I know.”

  “Oh, bullshit!” Whelan said modestly.

  But I probably am the most important journalist you know.

  Murov took his cell phone from the breast pocket of his suit, opened it, punched buttons, and then put it on the table.

  “What’s this?” Whelan asked.

  “It’s what they call a cell phone, Harry.”

  Whelan took a closer look, and then picked it up.

  The telephone was ready to call a party identified as DILLWORTH, E.

  “You said you’d want to start by talking to Miss Dillworth,” Murov said.

  If I push the CALL button, I’ll probably wind up talking to some female Russian spy.

  But what good would that do him?

  He pushed the CALL button.

  A female voice answered on the third buzz.

  “Miss Eleanor Dillworth, please.”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “My name is C. Harry Whelan.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Whelan?”

  “Do you know who I am, Miss Dillworth?”

  “If this is the talking head I see on Wolf News, yes, I do.”

  “Miss Dillworth, I’m running down a story that a rogue special operator named Castillo stole two Russian defectors from you. Would you care to comment?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I’d rather not say just now, Miss Dillworth, but if this story is true ...”

  “It’s true.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about it at some length.”

  “Okay. When and where?”

  I have had too much of the Egri Bikavér.

  “It’s too late tonight. But what about first thing in the morning? Would it be convenient for you to meet me at the Old Ebbitt Grill? Do you know it?”

  “What time?”

  “Half past eight?”

  “See you there, Mr. Whelan.”

  “How will I recognize you?”

  “I’ll recognize you. Half past eight.”

  She hung up.

  Whelan closed the cell phone and handed it back to Murov. Murov returned it to his jacket pocket and then put out his hand.

  “I presume we have a deal, Harry?” he asked.

  Whelan took the hand.

  Forty-five minutes later, Sergei Murov laid three one-hundred-dollar bills on the waiter’s leather check folder and told him to keep the change.

  “Mind if I look at that?” Whelan asked, and picked up the bill.

  “They don’t give that Egri Bikavér away, do they?” he asked.

  “They don’t give anything at all away,” Murov said.

  Whelan slipped the check in his pocket, and followed Murov out of the restaurant.

  [ONE]

  Quarters #1

  MacDill Air Force Base

  Tampa, Florida

  2015 8 February 2007

  The driveway of Quarters One was empty as the Chrysler Town & Country minivan that General Allan B. Naylor, Sr., had chosen over a staff car for his official vehicle pulled into it. The vehicle had of course come with a driver, and Naylor was traveling with his senior aide-de-camp, Colonel J. D. Brewer.

  “I wonder where the hell she is,” Naylor said, making obvious reference to his wife.

  “Does she know you’re here?” Brewer replied.

  “Who knows?” Naylor said as he opened his door. “Can I interest you in a drink? I hate to drink alone.”

  “Allan’s here,” Colonel Brewer said, pointing back to the street at a Chevrolet Suburban.

  “Offer’s still good,” Naylor said.

  “Offer is accepted.”

  “You can take off, Tommy,” Naylor said to the driver. “I’ll see that Colonel Brewer gets home. Don’t be late in the morning.”

  “No, sir. I won’t be. Good night, sir. Good night, Colonel.”

  The two got out of the van and walked up the driveway and entered the house by the kitchen door.

  Major Allan B. Naylor, Jr., in khaki trousers and a flowered Hawaiian shirt, was sitting at the kitchen table holding a bottle of Heineken beer.

  “Well, if it isn’t the commanding officer of Headquarters and Headquarters Company,” Brewer said.

  “With all possible respect, Colonel, sir, go fuck yourself,” Allan Junior said.

  When Allan Junior had been released from the hospital, mostly recovered from mortar shell wounds suffered in Afghanistan, he had been placed on limited duty and assigned “temporarily” as executive officer of Headquarters and Headquarters Company, Central Command. It was a housekeeping job and he hated it.

  Armor Branch Officer Assignment had asked him where he would like to be assigned when he was taken off the “limited duty” roster. He had requested, he’d said, “any of the following”: the 11th Armored Cavalry at Fort Irwin, California, where The Blackhorse now served as “the enemy” in training maneuvers; Fort Knox, Kentucky, the Cavalry/Armor Center; or Fort Hood, Texas, which always had at least one armored division.

  When his orders had come, ten days ago, they had named him commanding officer of Headquarters and Headquarters Company, Central Command, and informed him it was at least a two-year assignment.

  Brewer was not really offended by Allan Junior’s comment. For one thing, he had known the young officer since he was a kid in Germany; he thought of him as almost family. And he really felt sorry for him.

  “If you don’t watch your mouth, Major, you’re liable to find yourself an aide-de-camp. Trust me, that’s a much worse assignment.”

  “Well, Jack, you can go to hell, too,” General Naylor said, and then asked, “Allan, where’s your mother?”

  “She and my wife and my sister and all your grandchildren are in Orlando, at Disney World. I am under maternal orders to look after you.”

  General Allan B. Naylor, Sr., USA, Commanding General, United States Central Command, had four aides-de-camp—a colonel, two lieutenant colonels, and a captain.

  They were his personal staff, as opposed to his command staff at Central Command. The latter was headed by General Albert McFadden, USAF, the deputy commander. Under General McFadden were nine general officers—four Army, three Air Force, and two Marine Corps—plus four Navy flag officers—one vice admiral, two rear admirals (upper half), and one rear admiral (lower half), plus enough full colonels, someone had figured out, to fully staff a reinforced infantry platoon if the fortunes of war should make that necessary.

  Approximately one-third of these generals, admirals, and colonels was female. All of General Naylor’s personal staff were male.

  Despite what Senator Homer Johns frequently said—and apparently believed—General Naylor’s personal staff did not spend, at God only knows what cost to the poor taxpayer, their time catering to the general’s personal needs, polishing his insignia, mixing his drinks, shining his shoes, carrying his luggage, peeling his grapes, and myriad other acts, making him feel like the commander of a Praetorian Guard enjoying the especial favor of Emperor Caligula.

  Colonel J. D. Brewer, whose lapels had carried the crossed sabers of Cavalry before h
e exchanged them for the insignia of an aide-de-camp, was in overall charge. One of the lieutenant colonels dealt with General Naylor’s relationship with Central Command. The other dealt with General Naylor’s relationship with Washington—the Pentagon, the chief of staff, Congress, and most importantly, the White House.

  The captain was in charge of getting the general—which meant not only Naylor, but those officers he needed to have at his side, plus the important paperwork he had to have in his briefcase—from where he was to where he had to be. This involved scheduling the Gulfstream, arranging ground transportation and quarters, and ensuring that Naylor never lost communication with either MacDill or Washington.

  Jack Brewer and his boss went back together a long time. Brewer had been a second lieutenant in The Blackhorse on the East German-West German border when Naylor had been there as a major. Later, Brewer, as a major, had been the executive officer of a tank battalion in the First Desert War. He had been a promotable light colonel during the Second Desert War, and now he was waiting, more or less patiently, to hear that his name had been sent to Capitol Hill for confirmation by the Senate of his promotion to brigadier general.

  It was said, with a great deal of accuracy, that Brewer’s rapid rise through the ranks had been the result of the efficiency reports that Naylor had written on him over the years.

  “Following your mother’s orders,” General Naylor said, “you can start looking out for your old man by getting that bottle of Macallan from the bar and fixing Jack and me a drink.”

  “The Macallan?” Allan Junior asked. “What are we celebrating?”

  “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.