Noble thought; dumb fucking thing to do. Good God, Miller, you’re a West Pointer and a field-grade officer. You know better than to do something like that.
“Yes, sir, that too,” Miller said.
What the hell does that mean? “That too”?
“ ‘That too,’ Miller?”
“Sir, Major Castillo told me he was—sir, what he actually said was that he had been sent by . . . ‘by a guy who lives part-time in a Gone With the Wind mansion on Hilton Head island.’ ”
Two hundred and six guys live part-time in mansions on Hilton Head!
“Which you understood to mean he meant the president? ”
“Yes, sir,” Miller said. “And, sir, he ordered me not to divulge that.”
“Did Major Castillo tell you what he was doing for the president in Angola?”
“Yes, sir. He said that he had been sent to look into the missing 727 aircraft.”
Jesus Christ, this is unreal. Every intelligence agency under the moon is looking for that aircraft and Miller is telling me the president personally sent a major to find it?
It is so unreal that I’m starting to believe it.
Colonel Grasher pressed the button on his intercom.
“Omar, would you see if General Potter can give me five minutes?”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Colonel, I have . . . uh . . . a message about Major Miller.”
“Bring it in,” Grasher ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
Master Sergeant Perez appeared almost immediately, walked to Colonel Grasher’s desk, and laid a sheet of radioteletype paper on it. Master Sergeant Perez avoided looking at Major Miller as he walked out of the office.
Colonel Grasher picked up the message and read it.
SECRET
PRIORITY
1005 8 JUNE 2005
FROM COMMANDING GENERAL DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE AGENCY WASH DC
TO COMMANDING GENERAL US CENTRAL COMMAND MACDILL AF BASE FLA
ATTN: SPECIAL ACTIVITIES SECTION, J-5
SUBJECT MILLER, H RICHARD, JR, MAJ, SPF, RELIEF OF1. THE DIRECTOR CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY HAS SUMMARILY RELIEVED SUBJECT OFFICER FOR CAUSE, REVOKED SUBJECT OFFICER’S SECURITY CLEARANCES, AND ORDERED THAT HE BE RETURNED TO US ARMY CONTROL.
2. IN VIEW OF THE FOREGOING, COMMANDING GENERAL, DIA, HAS RELIEVED SUBJECT OFFICER AS ASSISTANT MILITARY ATTACHÉ US EMBASSY, LUANDA, ANGOLA, REVOKED ANY SECURITY CLEARANCES SUBJECT OFFICER MAY HAVE BEEN GRANTED BY DIA AND ORDERED THAT SUBJECT OFFICER BE RETURNED TO HIS UNIT OF ORIGIN, SPECIAL ACTIVITIES SECTION, J-5, US CENTRAL COMMAND. SUBJECT OFFICER’ S TRAVEL ROUTING AND ETA WILL BE FURNISHED WHEN AVAILABLE.
3. IT IS THE UNDERSTANDING OF THIS HQ THAT THE ALLEGATIONS MADE AGAINST SUBJECT OFFICER INVOLVE A SECURITY BREACH OF THE MOST SERIOUS NATURE; INSUBORDINATION; EXCEEDING HIS LAWFUL
AUTHORITY; AND CONDUCT UNBECOMING AN OFFICER AND GENTLEMAN. THE REPORT OF AN INVESTIGATION WHICH WILL COMMENCE IMMEDIATELY WILL BE MADE AVAILABLE TO YOU WHEN AVAILABLE.
FOR THE COMMANDING GENERAL, DIA
ROBERT B. STAMMLE
COL, MI
CHIEF, DEFENSE ATTACHÉ SYSTEM
DIRECTORATE FOR HUMAN INTELLIGENCE
DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
SECRET
Grasher laid the message on his desk and looked at Miller.
“They don’t think much of you in Angola, do they?” he asked.
“Sir,” Master Sergeant Perez’s voice came over the intercom. “General Potter is in conference with General Naylor. It’s going to take at least another forty-five minutes. Shall I set it up for then?”
“No. Call General Naylor’s office, Omar, and tell Sergeant Whatsisname that I have to see General Naylor and General Potter right now and that Major Miller and I are on our way over there. Got it?”
"Yes, sir.”
[FIVE]
“Hey, Allan. What’s up?” the secretary of Homeland Security asked, over the secure telephone in his office, the commanding general, U.S. Central Command, who was sitting at his secure telephone in the small room off the conference room of his headquarters.
“One question, Matt.”
“Shoot.”
“Did the president send Charley to Luanda, Angola?”
“Damn,” Hall said, and then asked, “Where’d you hear that?”
“From Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., formerly the CIA station chief in Luanda.”
“Formerly the CIA station chief?”
“He was relieved for cause and sent back here.”
“He’s in Tampa?”
“He’s in Tampa. He got here just now, and, just before, we got a TWX from DIA saying he had been relieved for cause. ‘Cause’ apparently meaning everything from a serious breach of security to conduct unbecoming.”
“That sonofabitch!” Hall said.
“You’re not referring to Major Miller?” Naylor said, testily.
“No, I am not,” Hall said. “Major Miller is one of the good guys, Allan.”
“I’m really happy to hear that,” Naylor said. “You going to tell me what’s going on?”
“Not right now,” Hall said after a moment’s hesitation. “Did DIA tell you what you’re supposed to do with him?”
“DIA can’t tell me what—or what not—to do. But their TWX said that I would be furnished with the results of an investigation that will begin immediately. I had the feeling they will be disappointed if I don’t nail him to a cross,” Naylor said.
“Nothing like that is going to happen,” Hall said, firmly. “What I’d like you to do, Allan, is send him up here. Is there any reason you can’t do that?”
“Not that it matters, but officially or unofficially?”
“Whichever is easiest for you.”
“Where do I tell him to go?”
“Can you get him a cell phone? Or does he have one?”
“If he doesn’t, I’ll see that he gets one.”
“Get the number to me. And give him my personal number, to be used only if he thinks he has to.”
“Okay.”
“And tell him the key to Charley’s apartment will be waiting for him at the Mayflower’s front desk. Tell him to hang around the apartment as much as possible, that I’ll contact him if—when—I need him.”
"Okay.”
“That probably won’t be until Charley gets back.”
“Back from where?”
“I told him to bring me a Sacher torte,” Hall said.
It took Naylor a moment to take the meaning of that. “What’s Charley doing in Vienna?”
“Meeting with a Russian arms dealer by the name of Aleksandr Pevsner,” Hall said.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Allan, I think it would be better if Miller wore civvies. But make sure he has a uniform with him.”
“Done.”
“As soon as I can, I’ll explain all this to you, Allan.”
“I’d like that, Matt. I hate to stumble along in the dark.”
“As soon as I can, Allan.”
“Good enough,” Naylor said. “And thanks, Matt.”
“We’ll be in touch,” Hall said and broke the connection.
[SIX]
Hotel Sacher Wien Philharmonikerstrasse 4 Vienna, Austria 1650 8 June 2005
There had been no familiar faces in the lobby of the Bristol, nor on the sidewalk outside, nor on Kaertnerstrasse as Castillo walked to Philharmonikerstrasse and the Sacher.
And there was no one in the bar when he went inside.
The barman remembered him from last night.
“Ein anderes Dzbán, meine herr?” he asked.
“Ja. Bitte,” Castillo said.
He had finished about half of the beer when the American couple he had seen last night came. The man remembered him, too, apparently. He nodded and gave Castillo a brief smile as he walked past him to sit where they had sat last night.
Castillo had just signaled the barman for another Dzbán when two men came in. He could not remember havin
g seen them before. They were in their forties, and, from the cuts of their suits, Castillo decided they were from somewhere east. Czechoslovakia or Hungary. Or maybe Poland.
That aroused his interest.
But neither man paid any interest to Castillo at all. One of them took some stapled-together papers from a ratty-looking briefcase and both men studied them with care. They spoke very softly—almost whispered—as if afraid that someone would eavesdrop on their conversation. Castillo could not make out what they were saying.
When he finished—slowly—the second bottle of Dzbán, Castillo signaled for another and then went to the men’s room.
He had just begun to relieve himself when he heard the door whoosh open and turned from the urinal, aware that his heart had jumped.
It was the American from the bar.
The American smiled. “Beer goes right through me,” he announced.
Castillo nodded and returned his attention to the urinal, more than a little embarrassed at his jumping heart.
And then . . . Oh, shit!
Someone had pulled his jacket down, effectively immobilizing his arms.
“Careful,” the American said, “you don’t really want to piss all over the silk brocade wall.”
The American patted him down, finding both knives. He took the folding knife and flipped it open with a flick of the wrist.
“Nice,” he said. “I suppose a journalist does need something like this to sharpen his pencils, doesn’t he?”
Then he closed the knife and put it back in Castillo’s shirt pocket.
“What I was looking for was a wire,” the American said, and then, in Russian, said, “Adjust Mr. Gossinger’s jacket, Sergei.”
Whoever was behind him pulled the jacket back in place.
Castillo had trouble maintaining the direction of the flow of his urine into the urinal but did well under the circumstances.
The American went to the adjacent urinal and pulled down his zipper.
He looked over at Castillo.
“Beer really does go right through me,” he said.
Castillo said nothing.
When his bladder finally emptied he pulled up his zipper and wondered what he was going to do next.
He saw that the men’s room wall was indeed upholstered in red silk brocade.
If they were going to hurt—kill—me, they certainly had the opportunity. What the hell is going on?
The American completed his business with a satisfied sigh and Castillo heard him pull up his zipper.
The American went to a washbasin and started to wash his hands.
Over his shoulder, he said, “When you finish, Mr. Gossinger, Mr. Pevsner hopes that you will join him on the Cobenzl.”
“May I turn around?” Castillo asked.
“Of course.”
Castillo turned.
One of the Eastern Europeans—the larger one—was standing three feet from him with his hands crossed at his crotch. The American was still washing his hands.
As much to have something to do as for reasons of hygiene, Castillo took the half steps to the small row of wash-basins and started to wash his hands.
The American carefully dried his hands.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well, what?”
“Are you going to join Mr. Pevsner on the Cobenzl?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you do.”
“Why the Cobenzl?”
“You know the Cobenzl?”
Castillo nodded. It was on top of a hill at what Castillo thought of as the beginning of the Vienna Woods. The street leading up it—he remembered the name: Cobenzlgasse—was lined with Heuriger, Gasthausen that sold new wine, which, Castillo also remembered, had a hell of a kick and produced memorable hangovers.
“Mr. Pevsner likes to watch the sun set over Vienna at this time of the year,” the American said. “He thought you might enjoy it yourself.”
“I’ll go,” Castillo said.
“Mr. Pevsner will be pleased,” the American said.
This guy thinks I’m an asshole and wants me to know he does.
Unfortunately, he’s right.
I was taken just now like a bumbling idiot. Like Peter Seller’s Inspector Clouseau.
Castillo dried his hands.
“The car’s outside,” the American said. “I took care of your tab.”
“Thank you,” Castillo said, adding mentally, the asshole said politely.
The car at the curb was a Mercedes, a new 220, with deeply tinted windows and Prague license plates. The other East European stood on the curb holding the rear door open. The large East European got in the front seat and the American motioned for Castillo to get in the back.
“It’ll be a little crowded in here, I’m afraid. Say hello to Ingrid.”
The woman Castillo had thought was the American’s wife was already in the car. She smiled at him.
“Guten abend, Herr Gossinger,” Inge said offering her hand.
“Guten abend,” Castillo replied.
She was, he saw now, a trim woman with luxuriant dark red hair.
She’s much better looking than I remembered. I just didn’t pay attention to her before.
Does terror kill my sex drive, or is it that that area of my brain is completely filled with lewd images of Patricia Wilson?
The American got in the backseat—and it was a little crowded; he could feel Inge’s hip against his—and the door was closed.
“Inge works in our Prague office,” the American said. “Among other things, she brought the cars from Prague for us to use.”
What the hell is he doing? Telling me that Inge is available? Or even, presuming I’m a good boy, that Inge is the prize?
Or just making polite conversation?
“Do you know Prague, Herr Gossinger?” Inge asked as the car started to move.
“Yes, I do,” Castillo said, politely.
[SEVEN]
The other car was another black Mercedes, another new one, but the big one, like Otto Görner’s, the 600 with the V-12 engine. Its windows were similarly deeply tinted, and it, too, carried a Prague license tag.
It was parked sideway, across three pull-in spaces, at the observation point on the Cobenzl, which was nothing more than a flat area paved with gravel, and with a steel, waist-high fence to keep people from falling down the hill. There were no other cars, although there was space for seven or eight.
A tall man, dark-haired, well dressed, was leaning on the metal guardrail puffing on a long light brown cigar. Another hefty East European type was resting his rear end on the front left fender of the Mercedes.
There was a small folding table beside him, something like a card table but smaller. On it was a bottle of cognac, two snifters, and a small wooden box.
The tall man, who appeared to be in his late thirties, turned and looked at the smaller Mercedes.
The American got out of the 220 and Castillo followed his lead. The American got back in the car.
“Herr Gossinger?” the tall man asked in German.
Castillo walked toward him and put out his hand.
“I’m Gossinger,” he said. “And you’re Herr Pevsner?”
“Why not? What’s a name, after all?” Pevsner said with a warm smile. Pevsner’s German was fluent and he sounded like a Berliner.
The next thing that Castillo noticed was Pevsner’s eyes. They were large and blue and extraordinarily bright.
I wonder if he’s on something?
Pevsner’s grip was firm without being aggressive. Castillo noticed that his teeth were not only healthy looking but clean. That was not always the case with Russians.
Well, I guess if you’ve made multiple fortunes in the arms business you can afford a good dentist.
“Tell me, Herr Gossinger,” Pevsner asked, “are you by chance a cigar smoker?”
“Yes, I am.”
Pevsner picked up the wooden box, a small cigar humidor, and extended it t
o Castillo.
“Try one of these. These are the good Upmanns,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Castillo asked as he took one.
“From the Canary Islands factory,” Pevsner said. “I don’t think there’s any question that they’re much better than the ones Castro is making in Cuba, in the plant he took away from the Upmann people in the name of the people.”
“I’ve heard that,” Castillo said. “Thank you.”
And an arms merchant can afford really good cigars. And big black Mercedeses.
Pevsner handed him a silver guillotine and Castillo trimmed the cigar.
“I’ve always wondered if those things were patterned after the head chopper or the other way around,” Pevsner said.
“I think the . . . big one is named after a French doctor named Guillotin, without the e,” Castillo said.
“Well, I’m glad to know that,” Pevsner said. “And not surprised that you knew. I suppose journalists have to have brains stuffed with odd facts, don’t they?”
“I’ve heard that, too,” Castillo said.
Pevsner handed him a gold Dunhill butane lighter and Castillo carefully lit the cigar, took a couple of good puffs, then said, “Very nice indeed. Thank you, Herr Pevsner.”
And gold Dunhill butane lighters.
“My pleasure, Herr Gossinger,” Pevsner said. “Now, another question. Do you like French cognac?”
“Yes, I do.”
Pevsner picked up the bottle and poured three-quarters of an inch into one of the snifters, and then added more to his glass.
That’s a big snifter; there’s a lot of booze in that glass.
Castillo picked up the snifter and began to warm the bowl in his palm.
“We are now equipped to watch darkness fall over Vienna, ” Pevsner said. “But, as aviators know, darkness doesn’t fall, it rises. Isn’t that so?”
“That’s what I’m told,” Castillo said.
“Tell me what you think of the cognac,” Pevsner said.
Castillo held up a finger, indicating he wanted a moment, and then swirled the cognac around in the snifter for another twenty seconds. Then he took a sip.
“Very good,” he pronounced.
By Order of the President Page 28