PRESIDENT CLENDENNEN--
BREAK MORE TO FOLLOW
"Sonofabitch!" the President said. He'd said it twice while reading the story, and a third time now that he'd finished.
Jack Parker announced: "He says, Mr. President, that he will give us seventy-two hours to respond."
"Sonofabitch!" the President said again. "Porky, the way this goddamn thing is written, it sounds as if I'm responsible. It doesn't even mention my predecessor, goddamn him to hell."
Parker, who wondered if the President was calling the wrath of the Almighty upon the head of his predecessor, or on that of Mr. Whelan, did not reply.
The President said nothing for sixty seconds, during which time the contortions of his face and the somewhat angry tapping of his fingers on his desk suggested he was deep in thought.
"Deny it, Porky," he said finally. "Tell the sonofabitch to publish anything he wants. We'll just deny everything. I didn't know a goddamn thing about the OOA or Castillo until Ambassador Stupid walked into the Oval Office the day after my predecessor, that sonofabitch, dropped dead. Just deny any knowledge. What's he going to do, ask Castillo, for Christ's sake?"
"Mr. President, I don't think that will work," Parker said.
"Why not?"
Parker handed him another sheet of paper.
"Mr. Whelan said he thought you might… What he said, sir, was that our trying to stonewall wouldn't bother him at all; that it was always a better story when you can prove the White House lied. He said it was only because of his admiration for you that he was giving you the chance to see what he's going to write, so it wouldn't come as a sucker punch. And so far as asking Colonel Castillo is concerned, Mr. Whelan says the only way to keep him from publishing would be for Colonel Castillo, personally, to convince him he had his facts wrong. I had the impression, sir, that he thinks we have Colonel Castillo and are hiding him someplace where the press can't get to him."
As Clendennen looked at the sheet, Parker added, "Then he gave me that, which he says he will publish if we deny any of the facts in the first story."
"Sonofabitch!" Clendennen said again as he read:
BY C. HARRY WHELAN, JR.
COPYRIGHT 2007
WORLDWIDE RIGHTS RESERVED
SLUG: FORMER CIA STATION CHIEF IN VIENNA CONFIRMS "PRESIDENTIAL CIA" STOLE TWO VIP RUSSIAN DEFECTORS FROM HER; SAYS IT COST HER HER JOB WASHINGTON-(INSERT DATE) ELEANOR DILLWORTH, A TWENTY-NINE-YEAR VETERAN OF THE CIA'S CLANDESTINE SERVICE, HAS TOLD THIS REPORTER THAT THE OFFICE OF ORGANIZATIONAL ANALYSIS-THE SUPER-SECRET, POSSIBLY ILLEGAL INTELLIGENCE ORGANIZATION OPERATING OUT OF THE WHITE HOUSE AND ANSWERING ONLY TO THE PRESIDENT-DID IN FACT MAKE OFF WITH TWO VERY SENIOR RUSSIAN INTELLIGENCE OFFICERS AND TOOK THEM TO AN UNKNOWN DESTINATION "HOURS BEFORE" THEY WERE TO BOARD A CIA AIRCRAFT SENT TO VIENNA, AUSTRIA, TO FLY THEM TO THE UNITED STATES.
DILLWORTH TOLD THIS REPORTER--BREAK MORE TO FOLLOW
"Can't we shut this Dillworth broad up?" the President asked. "Why is she determined to embarrass my administration?"
"Sir, I believe she thinks she was unfairly treated after Castillo stole the Russians from under her nose. She was relieved of her duties in Vienna and brought back to Langley."
"Jesus Christ, didn't it occur to her that if she allowed Castillo to steal the Russians from her that that's proof she wasn't doing her fucking job?"
The President reached for the red telephone on his desk.
"Get me Jack Powell," he ordered, then slammed the handset back in the cradle.
The protocol dealing with telephone calls between the President and those on the priority list-of whom John Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, was one-required the person called to "be available"-in other words, be on the line-within sixty seconds.
Thirty-two seconds after the President had slammed the handset into its cradle, a blue light-emitting diode on the cradle began to flash.
The President grabbed the handset and began the conversation by asking, "Why the hell did you fire this Dillworth woman?"
Then he pushed the LOUDSPEAKER button on the cradle, so that Parker could hear the conversation.
"You're speaking of Eleanor Dillworth, Mr. President?" the DCI asked.
"The one with twenty-nine years in the Clandestine Service. Used to be our head spy in Vienna. That one."
"She wasn't fired, Mr. President."
"That's not what she told C. Harry Whelan, Jr. She also told him that our friend Castillo stole the Russians from under her nose. Unless I can somehow talk him out of it, Whelan's going to publish that in I don't know how goddamn many hundred newspapers and chat about it on Wolf News. That's going to make her and the CIA look pretty foolish, wouldn't you say?"
"Mr. President, Miss Dillworth has not been fired. What happened was that it was decided-after they found the dead Russian in a taxicab outside our embassy…"
"And when the CIA looks pretty foolish, this administration looks pretty foolish, wouldn't you say?"
"… the decision was made to get Miss Dillworth out of Vienna to avoid undue press attention there."
"The last I heard, Austrians can't vote in our elections. Who the hell cares about Viennese newspapers?"
"Perhaps that decision was ill-advised, Mr. President."
"Who made it? Ambassador Stupid? You've heard about that? Ambassador Stupid is in that town with the funny name at the bottom of Argentina looking for this guy Darby, who is in Alexandria."
"Yes, Mr. President, that has been brought to my attention."
"I asked you who made the decision to fire this female."
"I did, Mr. President. At the time-"
"At the time, it was a stupid decision. Well, how are we going to shut this woman up?"
"Mr. President, I just don't see how that's possible."
"So, what do we do?"
"Mr. President, there is some good news. Actually, I was just about to call you when you called me."
"Let's have the good news. God knows we need some."
"I just got off the phone with Frank Lammelle, sir. He said that General Naylor has sent General McNab to find Castillo."
"Where did he send him? Nome, Alaska? I don't think we've looked there yet. Or in Timbuktu."
"I believe General McNab went to South America, sir."
"Haven't we already looked there?"
"Sir, Colonel Castillo spent most of his career working for General McNab. They have a close personal relationship. It's possible that Castillo would turn over the Russians to McNab."
"That raises a presumption and a question: We're presuming that McNab can find Castillo. And if he does, what if Castillo tells him to go fuck himself? He already told Ambassador Stupid and the colonel Naylor sent down there with him to do that."
"As far as presuming that General McNab can find Castillo, sir, I think we can safely do that. People with knowledge of Castillo's location who would not tell anyone else would tell General McNab. Because of their close relationship."
"I wonder."
"And after General McNab locates Castillo, there is a Plan B in case Castillo remains intractable."
"Which is?"
"Lammelle and I feel, Mr. President, that once Castillo knows he has been found, he would agree to a face-to-face meeting with McNab and Lammelle. To see if some accommodation could be reached. He knows he can't remain on the run forever."
"What do you think he wants that we're prepared to give him?"
"That doesn't matter, sir. What we're trying to do is arrange the meeting. General Naylor, General McNab, meeting at a place of Castillo's choice, a place he will feel is safe."
"And what will that accomplish?"
"The place will not be as safe as Castillo thinks."
"How are you going to arrange that?"
"At this moment, there is an agency airplane-a Gulfstream V-sitting at Saint Petersburg-Clearwater International. On it are four officers of the Clandestine Service. When the meeting is set up and Lammelle and Naylor go to
meet him, the airplane will follow them. Anywhere in the world."
"That sounds too simple," Clendennen said after a moment. "It presumes that Castillo won't suspect the CIA would try something like that. And from what I've seen of the sonofabitch, whenever he gets in a battle of wits with the CIA, you lose."
"What we think will happen is this, Mr. President. We believe Castillo will announce that he will be at a certain location. Probably in Argentina. He will not be there. His people will be. They will search General Naylor and Mr. Lammelle. In Mr. Lammelle's briefcase, skillfully concealed, they will find the very latest version of an AFC Corporation GPS transmitter. It permits the tracking of a target within six feet anywhere in the world. They will naturally confiscate it before Lammelle and the general are permitted to get back on the airplane to go to where Castillo will actually meet them."
"Leaving the four spooks on your airplane where?"
"Prepared to follow Lammelle and Naylor to wherever the chase leads them. There is a second GPS transmitter concealed in the heel of Lammelle's shoe. And when he actually sees Castillo and hopefully the Russians, he will stamp his foot three times in rapid succession, which will cause the transmitter to send a signal that will mean, 'We've found him. Come and get him.'"
"That sounds like something you saw in a bad spy movie," the President said. "And what happens then? Castillo says, 'Okay. You got us,' and he and the Russians get on the airplane? Bullshit."
"The Clandestine Service officers are armed with a weapon that fires a dart that causes the target, within fifteen seconds, to fall into a harmless sleep lasting between two and three hours."
"And then they are taken where?"
"To the nearest airport served by Aeroflot, Mr. President. All that has to be done is for us to tell Mr. Sergei Murov where they are. He will arrange for the repatriation of the Russians."
"And the 'expatriation' of Castillo," the President said. "Does that bother you, Jack?"
"I've given that some thought, Mr. President. Frankly, I don't like it. But if Colonel Castillo is the price the Russians want for their Congo-X, I don't see where you have much of a choice. I have even come to think that Castillo would understand why you were forced to that conclusion."
"Well, Jack, you know what Harry Truman said: 'The buck stops here.' I have to do what I think is best for the country."
"Yes, sir."
"I have serious doubts about this plan of yours, Jack. But right now I don't see we have much choice but to go forward with it. When does Lammelle say we'll hear something from General McNab?"
"He didn't, sir. I would guess within seventy-two hours, one way or the other."
"Ambassador Stupid will be back from Argentina a lot sooner than seventy-two hours. Maybe he'll have some ideas, as unlikely as that sounds."
"Yes, sir."
"Not to go any further, Jack, but as soon as I can figure out how to get rid of him quietly, Montvale's going to have to go. That job will be open. You get Castillo and the Russians on that Aeroflot airplane and it's yours."
"I'm sure that was another very difficult decision for you to make, Mr. President. And I would be honored to take over, if you decide that's what should be done."
"Let me know of any developments, Jack. Any."
And then the President hung up. [THREE] Level Four BioLab Two U.S. Army Medical Research Institute Fort Detrick, Maryland 1510 9 February 2007 The senior scientific officer of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute-Colonel J. Porter Hamilton (B.S., USMA, '84; M.D., Harvard Medical School, '89; Ph.D., Molecular Physics, MIT, '90; Ph.D., Biological Chemistry, Oxford, '91)-and his principal assistant-Master Sergeant Kevin Dennis, USA (Certificate of High School Equivalency for Veterans, Our Lady of Mount Carmel High School, Baltimore, Maryland, '98)-were both attired in the very latest Level Four chemical/ biological hazardous material protective gear.
It was constructed of a multilayer silver-colored fabric completely enclosing their bodies. The helmet of the garment had a large glass plate so they could see pretty well, and was equipped with a communications system that when activated provided automatic video and audio recording of whatever they said and whatever they were looking at. It also provided access to both the BioLab Two and Fort Detrick switchboards and-a modification personally installed by Colonel Hamilton, assisted by Master Sergeant Dennis-encrypted communication with an underground laboratory at the AFC Corporation in Las Vegas, Nevada. Finally, there was provision for Colonel Hamilton and Master Sergeant Dennis to communicate with each other privately; no one could hear what they were saying and it was not recorded.
Each suit was connected by two twelve-inch-diameter telescoping hoses on their backs to equipment which provided purified air under pressure to the suits, and also purified the "used" air when it flowed out of the suits.
Colonel Hamilton had more than once commented that when he looked at Kevin Dennis "suited up," he thought he looked as if they were in a science fiction movie and would not have been at all surprised if Bruce Willis joined them to help in the slaying of an extraterrestrial monster.
There was all sorts of equipment in the laboratory, including an electron microscope which displayed what it was examining on as many as five fifty-four-inch monitors. Colonel Hamilton placed the communication function of the helmet on INTER ONLY, and then asked, vis-a-vis what was on the left of the five monitors, "Opinion, Kevin?"
"Colonel, that shit's as dead as a doornail."
"Let us not leap, Kevin, to any conclusions that, if erroneous, might quite literally prove disastrous."
"Okay, but that shit's as dead as a doornail."
"What are we looking at?"
Master Sergeant Dennis consulted a clipboard that was attached, through the suit, to the six-inch stump that was all that remained of his right arm.
"Batch two one seven decimal five."
"And what have we done to this?" Colonel Hamilton inquired.
"The same thing we've done to two one seven decimals one through four."
"Which is?"
"Fifteen minutes of the helium at minus two-seventy Celsius."
Minus two hundred seventy degrees Celsius is minus four hundred fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit. To find a lower temperature, it is necessary to go into deep space.
"Present temperature of substance?"
"Plus twenty-one decimal one one one one Celsius, or plus seventy Fahrenheit."
"And it has been at this temperature for how long a period of time?"
"Twenty-four hours, sixteen minutes."
"What was the length of thawing time?"
"Exposed to plus twenty-one decimal one one one one Celsius, it was brought up from minus two hundred seventy Celsius in eight hours and twelve minutes."
"With what indications of chemical or biological activity during any part of the thawing process?"
"None, nada, zip."
"Sergeant Dennis, I am forced to concur. That shit is as dead as a doornail."
"And so's all of batch two one seven. You give Congo-X fifteen minutes of the helium at minus two hundred seventy Celsius, and it's dead."
"It would appear so."
"Who are you going to tell, Colonel?"
"I have been considering that question, as a matter of fact. Why are you asking?"
"I don't like what Aloysius told us they're trying to do to Colonel Castillo."
"Frankly, neither do I. But we are soldiers, Kevin. Sworn to obey the orders of officers appointed over us."
"But what I've been wondering, Colonel, is what happens if we tell the CIA and somehow it gets out. Either we tell the Russians, 'Fuck you, we learned how to kill this shit' or they find out on their own?"
"Frankly, Kevin, I don't understand the question."
"Two things we don't know. One, how much Congo-X the Russians have."
"True."
"And, two, we don't know if they know how to kill it. But let's say they do know that helium at near absolute zero kills it. You know how much we had to pay
for the last helium we bought?"
"I entrust the details of logistics to my trusted principal assistant," Hamilton said.
"A little over fifteen bucks a liter. You know how many liters it took to kill batch two-seventeen?"
"I don't think, Kevin, that cost is of much consequence in the current situation."
"Eleven liters to freeze about a half a kilo. Call it a hundred and sixty bucks. And that was freezing decimal two kilos at a time. I haven't a clue how much helium it would take to freeze just one beer keg full of Congo-X. But a bunch."
"I am not following your line of thought, Kevin."
"I had to go to four different lab supply places to get the last shipment. Not one of them could ship us one hundred liters, which is what I was trying to buy. There's not much of a demand for it out there, so there's not a lot of it around. And we don't have the capability of making large amounts of it, or of transporting it once it's been liquefied.
"The Russians know this. If they hear we know how to kill Congo-X, they're liable to use it on us-whether or not the President gives them Castillo and the Russians-before we can make enough helium to protect ourselves."
"We don't know how much Congo-X they have," Hamilton said.
"We have to find out, Colonel, and I'd rather have Castillo try to find out than the CIA."
"But is that decision ours to make, Kevin?"
"Well, it's not mine, Colonel, and I'm glad I'm not in your shoes."
Colonel Hamilton tapped his silver-gloved fingertips together for perhaps thirty seconds.
"Kevin, there is a military axiom that the worst action to take is none at all. If you don't try to control a situation, your enemy certainly will."
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