“Are you suggesting, Fred, that we don’t rein Major Castillo in?” the president said.
“Exactly. I was about to suggest sending him to Fort Bragg to bring Delta and Gray Fox—which, I submit, we’re really going to have to use to take this airplane out—up to speed on this, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Do you know General McNab?” Beiderman asked. “I mean, personally? Feisty little bastard. He’s not going to listen to a major. Maybe I better go down there myself, or at least get on the horn to McNab.”
“Charley Castillo flew McNab’s helicopter around Iraq in the first desert war,” Hall said. “And after 9/11, Charley commanded one of McNab’s Delta Force operations in Afghanistan. McNab will listen to him.”
“Especially,” the president said, “after we tell General McNab that I personally ordered him to Fort Bragg.”
[FOUR]
The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 1910 9 June 2005
Fifteen minutes after Natalie Cohen, the national security advisor, had telephoned John Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, to tell him “the president would like you to come to the White House as soon as you can,” the director’s Yukon XL was passed onto the White House grounds by the Secret Service.
As he got out of the vehicle at the side door of the White House, he heard the familiar sound of Marine One, the President ’s Sikorsky VH-3D “Sea King” helicopter, on its final approach to the South Lawn.
He reached the outer office of the Oval Office before the president did. Natalie Cohen was there.
“Natalie,” Powell said, nodding at her, and then he asked, “Where’s he been?”
“At Camp David,” she said.
“What’s going on?”
“I think we’re both about to find out, John,” she said.
The president came into the outer office just over a minute later.
“John,” he said. “Good. You’re here.”
“Good evening, Mr. President.”
Beiderman, Hall, and Powell nodded at each other but didn’t speak.
“I’d like a moment with the DCI before we start this,” the president said. “And I just remembered: Natalie, did you call Fort Bragg?”
“No, sir. I thought you were going to.”
“How about doing that right now?” the president ordered.
The president waved Powell ahead of him into the Oval Office, closed the door, and waved him into one of the chairs before his desk. The president remained standing, looking out the window onto the meticulously manicured lawn, as he composed his thoughts.
“Yes, Mr. President?” DCI Powell asked.
After a moment, the president turned and spoke. “I was hoping you’d be prepared to tell me whether the missing 727 is in Chad or not. Or, if it’s not, where it might be.”
“There will be satellites over Abéché at first light, Mr. President. Actually, there are—have been—satellites over that site for some time, but the heat-seeking, metallic-mass-seeking sensors haven’t come up with anything we can rely on. With daylight . . .”
“In other words, you don’t know?” the president interrupted.
“I’m afraid I don’t, Mr. President.”
“I don’t know where it is,” the president said, “but I know it’s not in Abéché, Chad.”
“Then Matt Hall’s information was not reliable, Mr. President? ”
“Matt Hall’s information was right on the money,” he replied, meeting Powell’s eyes. “We have confirmation that the airplane was there, that the seats have been removed, fuel bladders loaded aboard, and that after new registration numbers were painted on it, that it took off for an unknown destination.”
Powell shifted uncomfortably in his chair and after a moment said, “I have to ask, Mr. President, why you think that information is credible?”
“Because I authorized a Gray Fox insertion and that’s what they reported.” The president let that sink in and then went on: “Our problem now is to find where the airplane is now, something more precise than on its way to Philadelphia. ”
Powell raised his eyebrows but didn’t respond.
“I wasn’t sure whether I should get into this with you now, John, but I think I will. If nothing else, it will clear the air between us before the others come in here.”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“You took action based on faulty intelligence someone gave you, action that I had to correct.”
“I don’t think I follow you, Mr. President. What action did I take?”
“You relieved for cause your station chief in Luanda, the causes including a serious breach of security, exceeding his authority, and . . . Jesus Christ . . . conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. What the hell was that? Making sure the spikes held him to the cross?”
“Obviously, sir, you’re making reference to Major Miller.”
“Yes, I am.”
“My information came from his immediate supervisor, sir.”
“Well, giving any kind of classified information to my personal representative doesn’t constitute a breach of security of any kind,” the president said.
“No, sir. Of course not. I was apparently misled.”
“Yeah, you were. Miller didn’t make a pass at that woman; she made a pass at my man.”
“If those are the facts, sir, I will . . .”
“Those are the facts,” the president interrupted.
“. . . take immediate steps to rectify the situation.”
“So far as Major Miller is concerned, that won’t be necessary, ” the president said. “I’ve done that myself. And as far as rectifying the rest of it, I’ve always found it useful to be able to trust the people who work for me.”
The president locked eyes with Powell for a moment. “Would you ask the others to come in now, please?” he said.
[FIVE]
West Seltzer and West Somerset Streets Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 1925 9 June 2005
Castillo could see much better out of the deeply tinted windows of the five-year-old, battered and rusty BMW sedan Betty Schneider had selected from the cars lined up in the Internal Affairs Division garage than he thought he would be able to.
“Nice neighborhood,” he said, looking at litter-strewn streets and sidewalks and the run-down brick row houses, many of them with concrete blocks filling their windows.
Betty had told him she had used the car before but didn’t think anyone had made it.
“It was a forfeiture,” Betty said. “But from a customer, not a dealer. It looks like something a less than successful dealer would drive, but no dealer is going to make it. Or, so far, none has.”
“What’s the drill?” Dick Miller asked.
He was in the backseat, now dressed in a torn and soiled light blue jumpsuit, a light zipper jacket, and a well-worn pair of white Adidas shoes. He had the general officer’s model pistol in the side pocket of the jacket; he would have to keep his hand in the pocket to conceal the outline of the pistol, but there was no other place to put it. His cellular telephone was in the chest pocket of the coveralls.
“We’ll loop through here again,” Betty said. “This time, when we’re at the corner I’ll stop and you get out. Quickly, and don’t slam the door. The turn-the-interior-lights-on thingamajib in the door has been disabled. When you’re out, walk quickly away in the opposite direction. Go to the corner, stop, look around, then walk slowly back toward the corner and either lean against one of the buildings or sit on one of the stoops. Our guy is supposed to be in one of the buildings. He’ll wait to see if you attract any attention.”
“Has he got a name?”
“He knows your name is Miller and he has a description. Let him make the approach. You don’t talk to anybody. Okay?”
“Got it. Then what happens?”
“You go where he takes you; more than likely, into one of the bricked-up buildings. You tell him what you want and he may
or may not be able to help you. When you’re finished, you call. He’ll show you how to get back on West Seltzer and then go on his way. You go back to the stoop, or leaning on the wall, and when I come by you get in. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“If something goes wrong, there’s an unmarked Counterterrorism car somewhere around here and a Highway supervisor —actually, my brother—in the area, probably parked near the North Philadelphia Station. Either or both can be here in a minute or so. But the real name of the exercise is not blowing the cover of our guy. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Then when we finish here, there’s another meet set up, we hope, for half past nine at North Twenty-fifth and Huntington streets, about twenty blocks from the station. And maybe one more after that.”
“Watch your back, Dick,” Castillo said as Betty slowed the BMW and approached the intersection of West Seltzer and West Somerset streets again.
“You behave, Casanova,” Miller said.
Betty stopped the car. Miller got out, pushed—rather than slammed—the door closed, and walked away. Betty made a left turn on West Seltzer, then a right turn on North Broad Street.
“There’s my brother,” she said as they passed the station. “And another Highway car.”
“They won’t attract attention?”
“Highway is all over the city, all the time. Not that it would bother him. He takes very good care of his baby sister. ”
“I saw that in the bar at the Warwick. I really thought he was your boyfriend.”
“And he asked me if you had hit on me,” she said.
“You will recall I had not.”
“I also recall that you told me you were the catering manager for some oil company. And I believed you. You’re a very good liar. You could have been a con man.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Take that as a statement of fact,” Betty said. “I also suspect that your not hitting on me in the hotel was the exception to your normal behavior.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Dick keeps warning me about you, and telling you to behave. ”
“Trust me, Sergeant,” Charley said. “Your virtue is not about to be attacked.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” Betty said.
“Would you feel better if I got in the backseat?”
“Unnecessary. I can take care of myself.”
“Changing the subject, where are we going now?”
“I’m going to turn off Broad in a couple of blocks and make our way back to the general area where we dropped Dick off.”
She had just made the turn when Castillo’s cellular rang.
“Hello—
“Yes, sir—
“We just dropped Dick off to meet with one of the undercover cops—
“Sergeant Betty Schneider of the Intelligence Unit.”
“Organized Crime and Intelligence Unit,” Betty corrected him.
“Organized Crime and Intelligence Unit, I have just been corrected—
“When he calls, we’ll go pick him up. There’s at least one more meet tonight—
“Probably late into the night, sir. This is difficult to do—
“No. Chief Inspector Kramer made it pretty clear that Dick would do much better at this than me. Dick’s black.
“No, sir. I’m not really needed for this—
“Fort Bragg? What for?—
“Yes, sir. I don’t know how long it will take me to get there. Probably Philly-Atlanta-Fayetteville. I’ll call you—
“What time will it get to Philly, sir?—
“It’ll take me that long to pack and get out to the airport, sir—
“Yes, sir. Mr. Secretary, could I stay here until Dick finishes doing what he’s doing? Maybe he’ll come up with something—
“Yes, there is the telephone, sir. But it’s not secure. And I really hate to just leave Dick—
“Yes, sir. I understand. Secretary Beiderman’s now in the loop, is he?—
“Yes, sir. I’ll call you when I get there. If Dick comes up with something while I’m in the air—
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
As Castillo put his cellular into his pocket, he realized that Betty Schneider had pulled the BMW to the curb and stopped.
She was looking at him.
“The secretary of defense now knows what’s going on,” Castillo said, “and thinks I should go to Fort Bragg to meet with General McNab. So I’m going to Fort Bragg. Right now. My boss has sent his plane here to pick me up.”
“Dick will be all right, Charley,” Betty said. “We have him pretty well covered. The risk is really to the undercover cops.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“You really are worried about him, aren’t you? I would have thought . . .”
“What?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Macho stuff. Green Berets can do anything. But you really care.”
“Dick and I go back a long way. And he doesn’t have any experience with anything like this.”
“And you’ve always taken care of him, right?”
“Meaning what?”
“His mother told me what you did in Afghanistan. No wonder she hugged you the way she did.”
Castillo met her eyes for a moment.
“Can you take me someplace where I can catch a cab?”
“I can do better than that,” she said and took out her cellular and punched an autodial key.
“Tom, I need to transport our guest first to the Warwick and then to the airport. And right now.”
She looked at Castillo.
“My big brother,” she said.
“I figured.”
“Okay,” Betty said to the telephone. “On the south side, in five minutes. Thanks, Tom.”
She broke the connection, dropped the cellular into her purse, and pulled away from the curb.
“Tom’s sending a Highway car to North Philadelphia Station. They’ll take you to the Warwick and out to the airport. ”
“Thank you.”
There was nothing that looked like a Highway Patrol car near the North Philadelphia Station when they got there.
Betty drove the BMW to an unlit area, stopped, and turned the headlights off.
A moment later, two cars pulled into the area beside the station.
“There’s your Highway car,” Betty said. “And, more than likely, Tom.”
Betty flashed the headlights once.
“Do I go there or will they come here?”
“You start walking, and when they see you . . .”
“You’ve been great, Betty. Thank you very much.”
“And I’ll take care of Dick,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
And then their faces were close.
And then she moved her face even closer and he felt her lips—warm and soft—on his.
Not chaste, Castillo thought. And certainly not passionate. Something in between. Tender.
“Jesus!” he said.
“Yeah, Jesus,” Betty said, softly. “I really didn’t mean for that to happen.”
Castillo touched her cheek with the pads of his fingers but made no attempt to kiss her again.
“Go, Charley,” Betty said.
He moved his head quickly and kissed her again. She responded for a moment, then averted her head.
“Go, Charley,” she said. “Please.”
He got out of the car and walked toward the railroad station.
One of the Highway cars started toward him. He stopped walking and waited. The car drove right past him. The second car moved toward him and stopped next to him.
Castillo got in and pulled the door shut.
There was a barrier between the front and rear seats. The upholstery in the back was of heavy plastic material.
A very large, very black police officer wearing a brimmed cap that seemed several sizes too small for him turned in the seat as the car started to move.
&n
bsp; “The Warwick and then the airport, right?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Sit back and enjoy the ride,” the Highway Patrol officer said as the car started down North Broad Street.
[SIX]
The very large Highway Patrol officer—Castillo saw for the first time he was a sergeant—was leaning against the car when Charley came out of the Warwick with his luggage.
He took the suitcase from Charley, opened the rear door, tossed the suitcase in the trunk, waited for Charley to get in, then closed the door.
The Warwick’s doorman was obviously wondering what was going on.
They were five or six blocks down South Broad Street, stopped at a light, when the officer’s cellular telephone rang.
“Hold on, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said and turned on the seat. “It’s for you, but the phone won’t go through the barrier.”
The car pulled to the curb, the sergeant got out, opened the rear door, and handed the phone to Castillo.
“Hello?”
“This is Tom Schneider.”
“I think we’ve met before,” Charley said. “I really appreciate the . . .”
“Yeah. So what are you, DEA or something?”
“Or something.”
“Well, listen good, Mr. DEA hotshot. I saw what you was doing with my sister in her car.”
“I don’t really know how to respond to that,” Charley said. “It was . . .”
“Don’t respond. Just listen. You fuck around with my sister again, I’ll break both of your legs. You understand me?”
“I hear you loud and clear, Lieutenant.”
“See if you can not come back to Philadelphia,” Lieutenant Schneider said and broke the connection.
Charley handed the cellular back to the sergeant, who had apparently been able to hear the conversation because he said, “He means it. You better pay attention.”
Then he closed the door, got back in the front seat, and the car moved into the traffic flowing down South Broad Street.
“Which airline?” the Highway Patrol sergeant said as they approached Philadelphia International Airport.
That subject had not previously been considered by Major C. G. Castillo, whose mind had, all the way down South Broad Street, been occupied with the memory of Betty Schneider’s eyes—and then her lips—on his, and the multiple ramifications thereunto pertaining.
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