“On one hand, he apparently is not the kind of source in which the CIA, the FBI, the DIA, etcetera, etcetera, would place much credence, as they have chosen either (a) not to tap him for information or (b) to ignore him. He’s a Russian arms dealer. Perhaps the most infamous of that breed. A fellow named Aleksandr Pevsner . . .”
“I know that name,” Beiderman interrupted.
“So far, as I’ve said, what he’s given us has been right on the money.”
“Given you how?”
“Through Major Castillo.”
“I’m having a hard time understanding this, Mr. President, ” Beiderman said. “What’s in it for Pevsner? Why should we trust a man like that?”
“I think we’d better take it from the top,” the president said.
Beiderman nodded.
“Have a drink, Fred,” Hall said. “You’re probably going to need one, and, when you write your memoirs, I’d rather you didn’t recall that we were drinking and you weren’t.”
Beiderman looked at Hall and then at the president, who was holding his Maker’s Mark, then shrugged.
“Why not?”
The president pressed the button that would summon the steward and then looked at Beiderman.
“When I became annoyed that no one in the entire intelligence community—no one, mind you—seemed to be able to locate the airplane stolen in Angola,” the president began, “I called in Natalie and Matt and . . .”
[TWO]
303 Concord Circle Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania 1731 9 June 2005
The "Yes, sir” that Major C. G. Castillo said to his cellular telephone was more a reflex action than a reply to Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall. Castillo had heard the click of the breaking connection a split second after Hall had said, “I’ll have to get back to you, Charley.”
As he slipped the telephone into his shirt pocket, he saw that Major General H. Richard Miller, Sr., had come into the corridor where Charley had gone to take the call after leaving the living room.
“I was not trying to overhear your call, Major,” the general said. “But I would like a word with you in private.”
“Major”? What is he up to now?
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
General Miller opened a door and motioned Charley ahead of him. Inside was a small, book-lined, very neat study. There were a dozen framed photographs on the bookcase shelves. One was of the general—then a colonel—and Major Colin Powell, obviously taken in Vietnam. There were three photographs of Dick Miller. One was of him in dress uniform standing with his father at West Point taken— Castillo knew; he had taken the picture—just before the final retreat parade. A second showed Miller getting his captain’s bars from General Miller and the third showed General Miller, now retired and in civilian clothing, pinning on Dick’s major’s leaves.
“This will do,” General Miller said, closing the door. “Please feel free to use my office for any further calls.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ll understand, Major, that I am not asking for information that may be classified.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You are obviously in command here and I would like to offer to help with whatever it is you’re doing.”
“That’s very kind of you, General, but I can’t think of a thing.”
“I understand,” General Miller said. “Thank you for your time, Major Castillo.”
He turned and started to open the door.
Fuck it! If you can’t trust a West Point two-star whose grandfather was at San Juan Hill with the 10th Cavalry . . .
“General, now give me a minute, please,” Castillo said.
General Miller turned around.
“What I’m about to tell you, sir, may not be shared with anyone without my express permission,” Castillo said. “Mine or Dick’s.”
“Then perhaps it would be best if you told me nothing,” General Miller said. “Sentiment has no place in matters of security or intelligence.”
A lecture. I should have known that was coming.
He still thinks of me as a cadet who almost got himself— and Dick—booted out of West Point and then not only became a Special Forces cowboy promoted before his time but who dragged Dick from the holy family cavalry tradition into the Green Beanies with him.
On the whole, were I Major General Miller I wouldn’t like Major Castillo much, either.
“That was Secretary Hall just now, General . . .”
“Is that who you work for?”
“Yes, sir. But on indefinite TDY. I am still a serving officer. May I go on, sir?”
“Of course. Excuse me.”
“Secretary Hall called to tell me that a Gray Fox team that made a Halo insertion to the airfield in Abéché, Chad, has confirmed that the 727 stolen from Luanda has been in Abéché, where it was given new registration numbers and loaded with several fuel bladders.”
“May I ask why he thought you should be made privy to that information?”
Lowly majors—especially ones promoted before their time—should not even know what Gray Fox is, right? Much less be “privy” to operational details?
“Because I gave him the initial intel, sir, that the airplane was probably there.”
General Miller looked at Castillo for a long moment, almost visibly deciding whether to believe him or not.
Not that he’s wondering if I’m lying. He really believes that West Pointers do not lie, cheat, or steal nor tolerate those who do. It’s just that, as a general, based on his own experience, he knows that I simply can’t have the experience to really know what I’m talking about.
“What is the connection between that missing aircraft and Philadelphia?” General Miller asked, finally. “Can you tell me that?”
“My best intel is that a group of Somalians calling themselves the Holy Legion of Muhammad intends to crash it into the Liberty Bell complex here.”
“May I ask where that came from? The Liberty Bell does not seem, symbolism aside, to be a worthwhile target.”
“That I can’t tell you, General, because we just don’t know. But the Gray Fox team confirmed what my source gave me—first, that the airplane was in Chad, that the registration numbers had been changed and fuel bladders placed aboard, and, second, that it had left.”
“To what end, Major? Where is the aircraft now?”
“We don’t know, sir.”
“With the fuel bladders would it have the range to fly here?”
“That’s possible, sir. But I think the purpose of the bladders is to have a large amount of fuel—either JP-4 or gasoline —aboard as explosive material. They’re trying to duplicate the effectiveness of the big birds the terrorists turned into bombs on 9/11 with the smaller 727 that, being old and common, is effectively off everyone’s radar.”
“And you believe this aircraft is headed for Philadelphia? ”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that’s why you’re here?”
“Our source believes there is probably a connection between the Holy Legion of Muhammad and someone here in Philadelphia. Commissioner Kellogg’s trying to help us find it, if there is one.”
“Does Kellogg know about the airplane? Your belief that it will be used as a flying bomb?”
“Yes, sir. And after 1615 tomorrow, he’s going to tell the mayor.”
“The mayor doesn’t know?” General Miller asked, surprised.
"Not yet, sir.”
"He’s the mayor!”
In other words, the commanding general, right?
“The decision not to tell the mayor was Commissioner Kellogg’s, sir.”
“The mayor should be informed,” General Miller said.
Jesus Christ, is that an announcement that he’s going to tell him?
“I really believe that’s Commissioner Kellogg’s decision to make, sir.”
General Miller thought that over and finally nodded.
“Yes, it is,” he said. “And Dick’s role in all
this? Can you tell me about that?”
"CentCom—General Naylor—put him on TDY to Secretary Hall, sir. We’re working together on this.”
“Why was he relieved for cause in Angola?”
“For doing his duty, sir. And that unjustified relief is being dealt with. There will be nothing on his record about Angola except that he received a letter of commendation from the president.”
General Miller considered that for a moment and then asked, “Is there something I can do to be helpful?”
“Not that I can think of, sir,” Castillo said. “Except . . . you may tell Commissioner Kellogg that I have told you what I have. I don’t know the nature of your relationship with him . . .”
“We have been friends for a very long time.”
“Perhaps you might be helpful to him.”
“Yes,” General Miller said, thoughtfully.
He was about to say something else when there was a knock on the door.
“Hello? Major Castillo?” Sergeant Betty Schneider called, softly.
General Miller opened the door.
“Ah, Sergeant Schneider,” he said.
She ignored him.
“We’ve had a call. We’re going to meet those people we talked about in forty-five minutes.”
“Where?” General Miller asked.
Betty Schneider looked at Castillo for guidance.
“I’ve been bringing General Miller up to speed on what’s happening,” Castillo said.
“A couple of blocks from the North Philadelphia station,” she said. “But we’re going to have to change cars.”
“Change cars? Why?” Castillo asked.
“Because on West Seltzer Street—where we’ll do the meet—a new Ford is either a fool from the Main Line trying to score dope or an unmarked car,” Betty said. “We’re trying not to attract attention, Major.”
“I thought you agreed to call me Charley,” Castillo said.
“Now we’re working, okay? And this is my turf.”
“Oddly enough, Sergeant,” General Miller said, “I really didn’t think you were from the Visitors’ Bureau.”
The presence of Sergeant Betty Schneider of the Philadelphia Police Department had been explained with a rather convincing fabrication, loosely based on the facts but not touching in any way on the possibility that the Liberty Bell was about to be the target of a terrorist attack.
Castillo had told Mrs. Miller, and the rest of the family, that the Department of Homeland Security, to which he had been assigned for some time as a liaison officer between the department and Central Command, and to which Major Miller had just been assigned, wanted to establish a closer relationship with the Philadelphia Police Department, in particular the Counterterrorism Bureau and the Organized Crime and Intelligence Unit. Commissioner Kellogg, more as a courtesy to Secretary Hall than to Castillo or Miller, had arranged for the Visitors’ Bureau—which dealt with visiting movie stars and the like—to provide them with a car and a driver, Sergeant Schneider, to escort them around and answer what questions she could.
Castillo smiled at Betty Schneider.
“You may tell him, Sergeant,” he said.
“I’m with the Organized Crime and Intelligence Unit, General,” she said.
“And we got lucky with the commanding officer of the Counterterrorism Bureau, General,” Castillo explained. “He served with Special Forces. He ‘asked’ the commanding of ficer of Organized Crime and Intelligence if he could spare Sergeant Schneider to help us.”
“There’s one more thing, Major,” Betty said. “Chief Inspector Kramer strongly suggests that Major Miller do the meet, not you. And that he dress appropriately.”
“Because of where you’re going?” General Miller asked.
She nodded and said, “White men, like new Ford sedans, on West Seltzer Street, after dark . . .”
“Dress appropriately?” General Miller asked.
“Work clothes, preferably dirty and torn,” Betty said.
“I think we have what you need in the garage,” General Miller said.
“You said change cars,” Castillo said. “Where do we do that?”
“Internal Affairs has been told to give us whatever we want,” she said. “They have a garage full of them, mostly drug bust forfeitures. Dungan Road. Downtown. Not far from where we’re going.”
“Is there a weapon Dick can have, General?” Castillo asked.
“Is he going to need one?” General Miller asked, looking at Betty Schneider.
“You never need a gun unless you really need one, General, ” she said.
General Miller opened the center drawer of his desk and took out what looked like a cut-down Model 1911A1 .45 ACP semiautomatic pistol. He ejected the magazine, racked the action back to ensure the weapon was not loaded, and then handed it to Betty.
“They used to make these at the Frankford Arsenal,” he said, “cutting down a standard Model 1911A1. Shorter slide, five- rather than seven-shot magazine, etcetera. They were issued to general officers; the American version, so to speak, of the general officer’s baton—swagger stick—in other armies.”
She examined it carefully.
“Very nice,” she said, then raised her eyes to his. “I can put this in my purse and give it to him later,” she said.
“Why don’t you do that?” General Miller replied, handing her the magazine he had ejected and a second one, also loaded with five rounds, he pulled from the drawer. “And when you do, please tell him that if at all possible I’d like it back in the same condition it is now.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, but she was obviously confused by the remark.
“That is, never fired in anger,” General Miller said.
[THREE]
Camp David Catoctin Mountains, Maryland 1755 9 June 2005
“May I speak freely, Mr. President?” Beiderman asked several minutes later.
The president held up both hands, palms upward, yielding the floor.
“Until about thirty seconds ago,” the secretary began, “I wasn’t buying your argument that you were justified, or fair, in not bringing me in on this from the git-go. I am the secretary of defense. I have the right to know what’s going on.”
“And what happened thirty seconds ago?” the president asked, softly.
“I realized that I was letting my delicate ego get in the way of reality,” Beiderman said. “The two pertinent facts— maybe it’s only one fact—here are that you’re the president and the commander in chief of the Armed Forces of the United States. The Constitution lays the defense of the nation on your shoulders. You have all the authority you need to do any goddamned thing you want to do.
“Once I got past that, what I had decided was the dumbest idea you’ve had in a long time, sending a goddamned major—a major, for Christ’s sake—to check on how all the generals and the top-level civilians are doing their jobs, didn’t seem so dumb after all.
“It made a hell of a lot more sense than setting up one more blue-ribbon panel—particularly after the 9/11 commission ’s report—which would have taken three months to determine that what wasn’t working the way it should— what was wrong—was the other guy’s fault.
“And, knowing you as well as I do, I knew that what you had against using a commission or panel or something of that ilk to find out what’s wrong had nothing to do with the other—perhaps the most significant—thing that panels are good for, giving your political enemies ammunition to use against you.”
“The truth, Fred,” the president said, “is that forming a blue-ribbon panel never entered my mind. All I wanted to do was quietly find out who knew what and when they knew it. I thought this would put us ahead of the curve. Using Major Castillo to that end seemed to be the way to do that very quietly. No one was going to pay attention to a major. It just got out of hand, is all.”
“Out of hand, Mr. President?” Beiderman said. “I don’t follow that.”
“I’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest. If you’
ve learned about this Gray Fox operation—and you were, you admit, furious when you did—wait until the DCI and the director of the FBI find out.”
“Excuse me, Mr. President. And with all respect, so what? You found out—this Major Whatsisname found out . . .”
“Castillo,” Secretary Hall interrupted. “Major Carlos G. Castillo.”
“. . . among other things,” Beiderman went on, “that the DCI was prepared to hang another major out to dry for doing his job in Angola and was far more interested in covering his ass about his connections with this Russian arms dealer than getting the intelligence that was apparently there for the asking.”
The president looked at him with a raised eyebrow but said nothing.
“And without Charley, Mr. President,” Hall interjected, “we would never have found out about Kennedy. Schmidt damned sure wasn’t going to volunteer that information.”
“About Kennedy?” Beiderman asked. “Who’s he?”
“A former FBI agent who now works for Pevsner,” the president said. “We don’t know how important he was in the FBI before he left but, to judge from Mark Schmidt’s reluctance to come up with his dossier when Matt asked for it, I don’t think he was a minor functionary.”
“If I were paranoid,” Hall said, “and, God knows, I’m starting to feel that way, I’d say there’s a conspiracy on the part of Schmidt and the DCI to tell us—the president—only what they want him to hear.”
“That’s a pretty strong accusation, Matt,” the president said.
“What other interpretation can we put on it, Mr. President? ” Hall responded.
“Mr. President,” Beiderman said, “wouldn’t giving Matt anything and everything he asked for as soon as he asked for it come under that memo Natalie Cohen sent around?”
The president looked at him for a moment.
“Point taken, Fred,” he said.
“More important,” Beiderman went on, “Major What-sis . . . Castillo has come closer to finding this airplane than anybody else. And isn’t that the priority? Neutralizing the goddamned airplane before these lunatics fly it into the Liberty Bell or do something else insane with it?”
By Order of the President Page 44