The Outlaws

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “General, the President of the United States has ordered me to order Colonel Castillo—”

  “General, how can you order someone to do anything who has disappeared and will never be heard from again?”

  D’Allessando chuckled again and smiled at Naylor.

  “Something amuses you, D’Allessando?” Naylor snapped.

  “Looks like you have a problem, General,” D’Allessando said.

  “Get the hell out of my office!”

  “Yes, sir,” D’Allessando said, and put out his hand. “May I have my CaseyBerry, please?”

  You sonofabitch, that’s going to cost you!

  “What Herr von und zu Gossinger said he is willing to do, General,” McNab went on, “is meet you in Cancún tomorrow morning.”

  “Cancún, Mexico?” Naylor asked incredulously.

  “That’s the one. And he wants you to fly there commercially. There’s an Aeromexico flight out of Lauderdale tonight at seventeen-thirty; it’ll put you in there a little after oh-one-thirty. They call it the Drug Dealer’s Red-Eye. He says it probably would attract less attention if you didn’t wear your uniform ...”

  Sonofabitch!!!

  “. . . and he hopes you and your party will be his guests at El Dorado Royale in Cancún. People from El Dorado Royale—it’s a five-star hotel—will meet your flight. How many will there be in your party, General?”

  “That would presume I’m going along with this, wouldn’t it?”

  “Excuse me, General?”

  “Myself, Mr. Lammelle, Major Brewer, and, I presume, Mr. D’Allessando. And my son.”

  “Oh, Allan’s coming? Good. I’m sure Herr von und zu Gossinger will be glad to see him. And it’ll be educational for him, won’t it?”

  “Is that about it?”

  “General, I think I should tell you that I don’t think Char . . . Herr von und zu Gossinger is going to be in Cancún. I don’t think he entirely trusts Frank Lammelle. But it’s the first step. And we are playing by his rules, aren’t we?”

  “For the moment,” Naylor said.

  “Your tickets will be waiting for you at the airport. First class, of course. There’s nothing cheap about our ... Herr von und zu Gossinger, is there? Nice to talk to you, General.”

  There was a muted click and General Naylor realized that General McNab was no longer on the line.

  [THREE]

  Office of the Director

  The Central Intelligence Agency

  Langley, Virginia

  1625 10 February 2007

  “What are you going to do, Frank? Send the Gulfstream down to Cancún ahead of you?” Jack Powell asked.

  “No. I think what I’ll do is move it to the Lauderdale airport now, and then have it follow the Aeromexico flight once they’re sure we’re actually on it. Castillo may be up to something clever, like actually being in Disney World, or someplace, and this whole Mexican thing may be a diversion.”

  “Well, wherever you go, the people in the Gulfstream will know. Keep me posted, Frank.”

  The director of the Central Intelligence Agency hung up.

  “Have a nice wild-goose chase, Frank,” he said aloud, although there was no one to hear him.

  Then he said, slowly, savoring each syllable, “John J. Powell, the director of National Intelligence.”

  He thought it had a certain ring to it, a certain je ne sais quoi.

  [FOUR]

  Room B-120

  El Dorado Royale Spa Resort

  Kilometer Forty-five, Carretera Cancún-Tulum

  Riviera Maya

  Quintana Roo, Mexico

  0230 11 February 2007

  Vic D’Allessando had almost wished, as he crawled across the floor of Frank Lammelle’s room toward the bed, that the sonofabitch would wake up. He would have loved an excuse to pop the bastard with one of the darts in the Glock-like air pistol he held in his hand.

  But luck—at least, that kind of luck—had not been with him.

  Frank Lammelle hadn’t stirred as D’Allessando first pried the heels off Lammelle’s shoes, removed the GPS transmitter from the right heel, and then replaced both. Not even when D’Allessando had grunted with the effort.

  Neither had he stirred when D’Allessando went into Lammelle’s briefcase, found Lammelle’s Glock-like dart gun, removed the gas cylinder from the stock, and replaced it with a gas cylinder he had exhausted earlier shooting darts at the pineapple atop the tray of fruit that the El Dorado management had sent to his room as a welcoming gift.

  Once he was back in his room, one floor up and directly above B-120—it might have been necessary, had Lammelle fastened the mechanical door lock, to gain entrance to his room by climbing down from the balcony—Vic checked his watch. The entire operation had taken twelve minutes, thirty seconds.

  “Here,” D’Allessando said in Russian, handing the GPS transmitter to a tall blond man in a nautical uniform. “Tell me, Captain, on the Queen of the Caribbean, are there lifeboats on an upper deck exposed to the sky?”

  “Lifeboats, no,” the blond man said. “Life rafts, yes.”

  “Then please put it someplace on one of the life rafts where it will not be seen, not get wet, and is in the best position to send a clear signal.”

  “I know just the place.”

  “And what time do you sail?”

  “At half past eight.”

  “Marvelous! Bon voyage!”

  “And when we get to Málaga, what do I do with the GPS transmitter?”

  “I expect the battery will go dead before you’re halfway across the Atlantic. Just put that gadget in a life raft, check it a couple of times a day, and after a week, toss it over the side.”

  [FIVE]

  En route to Cancún International Airport

  Cancún

  Quintana Roo, Mexico

  0915 11 February 2007

  They were traveling in the same kind of minibus sent the night before to bring them from Cancún International Airport to El Dorado Royale Resort. It was manufactured in Mexico on a Mercedes-Benz chassis, and could hold fourteen passengers and their luggage in air-conditioned comfort.

  This morning it held General Naylor, Colonel Brewer, Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor, Mr. Lammelle, Mr. D’Allessando, and two rather massive white-jacketed members of the El Dorado Royale’s staff, one driving the bus and the other sitting in a jump seat beside him to handle the luggage and an enormous insulated container that held their lunches.

  “Where are we going?” Frank Lammelle suddenly demanded to know. He was sitting alone on the row of seats at the back of the bus.

  “We’re off to see the Wizard, Frank,” Vic D’Allessando said. “I told you where we’re going: Where Charley told me to take you.”

  “Not good enough, D’Allessando. I want to know where.”

  “Pull to the side of the road, please,” Vic called in Russian.

  The bus pulled off to the side and stopped.

  “That was Russian!” Lammelle challenged.

  “God! You could tell?”

  “What the hell is going on here?” Lammelle demanded. “I want you to tell me where we’re going!”

  “Or what? You’ll stamp your foot?”

  Lammelle’s face showed that he understood, but he said nothing.

  “Wouldn’t do you any good, anyway, Frank,” D’Allessando said. “Charley’s not anywhere close.”

  “I know that. Castillo’s in Budapest.”

  “Your computer tell you that, Frank?”

  “You know fucking well it did. So what’s going on here?”

  “Allan—Allan Junior—did you ever see Ol’ Frank’s computer? He thinks—he’s wrong, but that’s what he thinks—it shows where Charley is. Why don’t you let Allan Junior see your computer, Frank?”

  “Fuck you, D’Allessando,” Lammelle said.

  “That’s not nice!”

  “Get out of the aisle, you sonofabitch. I’m getting off the bus.”

  “Sor
ry. Not permitted. When you go off to see the Wizard, you’ve got to go all the way.”

  Lammelle came out with his Glock-like air pistol, aimed it at D’Allessando, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He squeezed the trigger again.

  “Funny thing about air pistols, Frank,” D’Allessando said. “They don’t work without air.”

  And then he took his Glock-like air pistol from under his pillowing Mexican resort shirt, aimed at Lammelle, and squeezed the trigger. There was a psssst sound.

  “Shit!” Lammelle said, looking down at the dart in his chest.

  “Allan Junior,” D’Allessando said, “why don’t you help Ol’ Frank sit down before he falls down? And on your way back, bring his computer.”

  “What the hell is that you shot him with?” Allan Junior asked, as he moved down the aisle.

  “I guess I’m not the only one your father didn’t tell about Lammelle’s CIA wonder gun,” D’Allessando said. “Which raises the question, What do I do with General Naylor and his faithful sidekick, Colonel Brewer?”

  Everyone watched as Lammelle went limp and as Allan Junior lowered him onto the row of seats. Then Allan Junior came down the aisle carrying a laptop.

  D’Allessando called out in Russian.

  The minibus began to move.

  “General,” D’Allessando said, “Charley said I was to treat you with as much respect as possible under the circumstances. Are you going to try anything brave and noble? Or . . . are you willing to give me your parole, sir?”

  “That’s a seldom-used term, isn’t it?” General Naylor said. “The last time I think an officer gave his parole was when Colonel Waters—General Patton’s son-in-law—gave his to his German captors, who then took him to the Katyn Forest and showed him the graves of the thousands of Polish officers the Russians had murdered.”

  “With all respect, General, thanks for the history lesson, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

  “It seemed germane here. One of the German officers to whom Colonel Waters gave his parole was Oberst Hermann von und zu Gossinger, Colonel Castillo’s grandfather. Yes, Mr. D’Allessando. If you give me your word that we are en route to see Colonel Castillo, I will offer my parole. And if memory serves, the Code of Honor says that my parole includes that of my immediate subordinates, which would mean you also have the parole of Colonel Brewer and my son, Major Naylor.”

  “Isn’t that Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor, General?” D’Allessando asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Thank you, sir,” D’Allessando said. “Okay, we’re headed for the business side of Cancún International. An airplane will be waiting for us. What I would like to suggest to anyone watching is that one of our number has been at the sauce and needs help to board the airplane. Now, will your parole permit you to help me do that?”

  “I’ll carry the sonofabitch aboard myself,” Allan Junior said.

  [SIX]

  Laguna el Guaje

  Coahuila, Mexico

  1105 11 February 2007

  Looking with frank fascination out the window of the Cessna Mustang as it was towed under what looked like an enormous tarpaulin, General Allan Naylor saw a number of very interesting things.

  There were four aircraft already in the cave/hangar/whatever it was: One of them he recognized as what he thought of as “Doña Alicia’s Lear.” There were two Gulfstreams, a III and a V. He presumed the III was Castillo’s airplane, the one in which he and Dick Miller and the others had flown away from their retirement parade at Fort Rucker. He had no idea who the Gulfstream V belonged to.

  And there was a Black Hawk helicopter, with its insignia and a legend painted on the fuselage identifying it as belonging to the Mexican Policía Federal Preventiva. Naylor knew the U.S. government had “sold” a dozen of them to Mexico to assist in the war against drugs. He had smarted at the time—and smarted again now—at the price the Mexicans had paid for them, which came to about a tenth of what the Army had paid for them. And he naturally wondered what a Policía Federal helicopter was doing here.

  But what he found most fascinating was Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, who was standing with another man, a woman, and Castillo’s dog, Max, watching the aircraft come into the cave. The humans were dressed identically in yellow polo shirts and khaki trousers.

  Now that I think about it, just about everybody in the cave is wearing yellow polo shirts and khaki trousers. Is there something significant in that?

  The woman—who was wearing an enormous gaudily decorated sombrero that looked like it belonged on the head of a trumpet player in a mariachi band—was leaning her shoulder against Castillo’s and holding his hand.

  And the other guy—he looks like her, and they’re brother and sister—has to be Berezovsky.

  What I am looking at is former Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky of the SVR, the Russian Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System; and former Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva, also of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki.

  McNab was right—she is built like a brick . . . outdoor sanitary facility.

  “Hey, Dick,” Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor called to the Mustang pilot, Major H. Richard Miller, Jr. (U.S. Army, Retired), whom he had known since his plebe year at the U.S. Military Academy. “Is that Charley’s Russian spy holding his hand?”

  “That’s her. We call her ‘Sweaty.’ She calls him ‘my Carlos.’”

  “Nice,” Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor said. “Very nice. Maybe thirteen on a scale of one to ten.”

  “She’s okay, Allan,” Miller said. “But don’t let her looks dazzle you. Sweaty’s’s one tough little cookie.”

  “Here comes General McNab,” Colonel Brewer said.

  General McNab, when he climbed aboard the Mustang, was also wearing a yellow polo shirt and khaki trousers.

  “General Naylor, welcome to Drug Cartel International Airfield,” McNab said, and then, raising his voice, asked, “Everything under control, Vic?”

  “I had to—hold that. With great pleasure, I darted Lammelle. He’s about to come out of it. Got a place to put him on ice?”

  “Just the place. I’ll put him in with Roscoe J. Danton. Then when Frank wakes up, he’ll have someone to talk to.”

  Naylor thought: Roscoe J. Danton? Is he talking about the reporter from the Times-Post?

  I will be damned if I’ll give him the satisfaction of asking.

  McNab backed down the stair doors and said something in Russian. A moment later two burly blond men came onto the airplane.

  “Over there,” D’Allessando said in Russian. “Be careful, he’s dangerous.”

  Forty-five seconds later, the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency was off the airplane and, slung in a fireman’s carry over the shoulder of one of the burly men, was being carried toward a stainless-steel elevator door set in the rock wall.

  McNab appeared again at the stair door opening.

  “General,” D’Allessando said, “General Naylor has given me his parole, which also covers Colonel Brewer and Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor.”

  “Wonderful! If we had to chain him, it would have been hard to get him down the stairs. Anytime it’s convenient, General, you may disembark.”

  Castillo and the Russians were at the foot of the stair door when Naylor came down it. He noticed that Charley and the woman were still—or again—holding hands.

  Castillo waited until Colonel Brewer, Allan Junior, and Vic D’Allessando had come down the stairs.

  “At the risk of being rude, and with great respect, General Naylor, if you have something to say to me, let’s get it out of the way,” Castillo said.

  “Colonel, I have been ordered by the President of the United States to place you under arrest. Mr. Lammelle was ordered by the President to take possession of the two Russian defectors you are believed to hold. You will, therefore, consider yourself under arrest, and when Mr. Lammelle is capable of receiving them, you will turn them ove
r to him.”

  “Sir, again with great respect, that’s just not going to happen. Will you explain to me, please, what your understanding of the parole you have given Mr. D’Allessando is?”

  “Colonel, as I understand the Code of Honor, I have waived my right to attempt to escape or take any hostile action against my captors until after I inform you that I am withdrawing my parole. My parole covers both Colonel Brewer, whom I don’t believe you know, and Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor.”

  “Thank you, sir. Gentlemen, may I present Dmitri Berezovsky, formerly colonel of the SVR, and Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva, also formerly of the SVR. They are here of their own volition, not as my prisoners. Having said that, I am responsible for their being here, and consider them to be under my protection.”

  “I see the way you’re hanging onto her, Charley,” Allan Junior said. “I wondered what that was all about.”

  General McNab laughed. General Naylor glared at him.

  “This is very difficult for my Carlos,” Sweaty flared. “You will not mock him!”

  “Colonel Sweaty, I wouldn’t think of it!” Allan Junior said.

  “Only my friends can call me Sweaty,” she replied evenly.

  “Right now, Colonel Sweaty, getting to be your friend is right at the top of my list of things to do. Let me begin by saying I love your sombrero and that adorable puppy.”

  Berezovsky, having wordlessly shaken hands with General Naylor and Colonel Brewer, now offered his hand to Allan Junior.

  “Be careful, Colonel,” Berezovsky said. “Her bite is twice as bad as her bark.”

  “I’m not a lieutenant colonel yet. Just picked to be one. I’m glad to meet you.”

  “If our official business is over for the moment, General Naylor?” Castillo said.

  “I have nothing further to say to you officially, Colonel.”