“Betty tell you where I am?”
“Yeah.”
“I was ordered here, Dick,” Castillo said. “I’m not sure I can come back up there. Not tonight, anyway. Jesus, I don’t know how I’d get there. I’ll get back to you. If it’s really important, call Secretary Hall.”
“It’ll wait until you know for sure you can’t get up here,” Miller said.
“I’ll get back to you, Dick,” Castillo said and ended the call.
He pushed the autodial key for Secretary Hall, then changed his mind, broke off the call, and turned to Captain Brewster.
“What’s General McNab’s ETA here?”
Brewster obviously didn’t want to answer the question and when he said, “I really don’t know, sir,” it was equally obvious that he was lying. “In the van on the way over here,” Charley snapped, “General Whatsisname said something about everybody in the van being in on the Abéché Gray Fox operation, meaning you are. I really don’t have the time to fuck with you, Brewster. Now, give me McNab’s ETA or get General Whatsisname on the horn for me.”
Brewster met his eyes for a moment, then shrugged. “It’s General Gonzalez, Major. General McNab—and the backup force—will be airborne over Morocco in the Globemaster at midnight Bragg time. That’s 0600 Abéché time. The extraction from Abéché is scheduled for daybreak—0612 Abéché time; twelve after midnight here. If the general gets a successful wheels-up report, he plans to head directly back here. If something goes wrong in Abéché . . .”
“If nothing goes wrong?”
“Then he should be on the ground here at about 0615.”
“Thank you,” Charley said and pressed the autodial key for Secretary Hall again.
“Charley, sir. I’m sorry I’m calling so late.”
"I heard you were at Bragg. Any word about General McNab ?”
“He’ll probably be back here about six in the morning, sir.”
“See what he has to say and call me as soon as you can.”
“Yes, sir. There have been two developments, sir.”
“Let’s have them.”
“I heard from my friend Kennedy. He believes the 727 is headed for someplace in South America, if it’s not already there. It was in N’Djamena, Chad, took on a load of fuel, and filed a flight plan to Murtala Muhammad International Airport—Lagos, Nigeria—and took off. It never landed there ..."
“Does it have the range to make it across the Atlantic from N’Djamena?” Secretary Hall interrupted.
“It might if those fuel bladders were installed,” Charley said. “I just don’t know. Kennedy thinks it probably went to Yundum International, in Gambia.”
“Where?”
“On the west coast of Africa, about a hundred miles south of Dakar, Senegal.”
“He say why there?”
“Kennedy said it’s a convenient jumping-off place to cross the Atlantic to South America, which I suspect means he knows—probably from experience—that they don’t ask too many questions of transient aircraft.”
“He doesn’t know or wouldn’t tell you where the airplane is headed?”
“I think if he knew, he would have told me. He did tell me that it’s been painted with the color scheme of Air Suriname, so it may be going there, operative word may. I have the new registration numbers.”
“Let me have them. Wait ’til I get something to write with.”
Charley covered the microphone with the heel of his hand and turned to Captain Brewster.
“When you report this conversation to General Gonzalez —and that had better be on your agenda—I’m talking to my boss, Matthew Hall, the secretary of homeland security. How much have you been able to overhear?”
Brewster looked uncomfortable but said, “Most of it.”
“Okay, Charley,” Hall’s voice came faintly but clearly over the cellular, “let’s have the numbers. You said Air Suriname, right?”
“Yes, sir. The numbers are P as in Papa, Z as in Zero, 5059. Fiver-Zero-Fiver-Niner.”
“Pee-Zee-fifty-fifty-nine?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll get this to the CIA right away. Maybe, now that we have the registration numbers, their satellites may have a location on the plane.”
“Sir, I just talked to Miller. He said he’s come up with connections, plural, in Philadelphia.”
“He say what they were?”
“We don’t have secure phones, sir. He thinks I ought to hear what he’s got in person. I’d like to go back up there.”
“We need to know for sure what General McNab found out.”
“Sir, what I was thinking was talk to General McNab, then go to Philadelphia.”
“It would take you all day to go up there and back, Charley. And I agree with the secretary of defense that you should be at Bragg. Whatever happens, it will involve Gray Fox. Maybe all of Delta. You should be there, if for no other purpose than staying in the loop—and keeping me in it.”
“Yes, sir. I agree. And I agree going commercial wouldn’t work; it would take too long, and we’re running out of time, but . . .”
“Yes, we are,” Hall interrupted. “At four tomorrow afternoon, the police commissioner’s going to tell the mayor what he knows. I don’t even like to think what’s going to happen when he does.”
“Yes, sir. But if I had a plane, I could get up to Philadelphia and be back in a matter of hours.”
“I need my plane here,” Hall said, evenly, answering the question he expected next. “That’s why it barely did more than a touch-and-go when it dropped you at Bragg.”
“I can get a plane—I’m almost sure I can—but what I need is permission for it to land at Pope.”
“What are you talking about, renting a plane yourself?”
“No, sir. My family has an airplane. I can—presuming it’s not down for maintenance or something—just borrow it.”
“You think it’s important?”
“Yes, sir. I do. I also may need it to meet with Kennedy.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Charley replied, comfortable in the fact that he did not know for certain if Kennedy was telling the truth about being en route to Mexico City and that it was always better to pass only information that had been con firmed. “But I expect another call at any time.”
“I’m going to have to give the FBI this latest bulletin, and, when I do, they’re going to ask where Kennedy is.”
“I’m glad I really don’t know, sir.”
“Okay, Charley, I’ll call Secretary Beiderman and have him get landing clearance for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Wait a minute, Charley. I just thought there’s probably one—or more—of those Army Beechcraft King Airs . . .”
"C-12s,” Charley furnished.
“. . . at Fort Bragg. I can have Beiderman arrange for you to use one. For that matter, I can probably just as easily have Beiderman get you a small Air Force jet.”
“Sir, that would cause problems, starting with talk. And I’d really rather have what the cops would call an unmarked airplane.”
“But is your family’s airplane fast enough? The clock is ticking.”
“Yes, sir. It’s a Learjet 45XR.”
Castillo heard Hall exhale.
“You’re going to borrow your family’s Learjet 45XR? Every time I think there’s nothing else you could tell me that could possibly surprise me, you do. Okay, Charley. Do it your way. You better give me the registration numbers.”
“Jesus, I don’t know,” Charley said and then corrected himself immediately. “Yeah, I do. I flew it into Baltimore just before I went to Angola. Five-Oh-Seven-Five.”
“Learjet 45XR. Five-Oh-Seven-Five,” Hall repeated.
“Anything else, Charley?”
“I’m going to see if I can’t borrow some Gray Fox radios, ” Charley said. “The secure kind.”
“I can have Beiderman arrange that, too, if you want.”
“I thi
nk the Gray Fox people who have them—or I hope do have them—would probably stall even him until McNab okayed it,” Charley said. “Let me see how far I get by myself. ”
“Your call. Are you running into any kind of hassle with anyone down there? I thought I picked up . . .”
“No, sir. General Gonzalez even loaned me his aide to see that I get whatever I think I need.”
He looked at Captain Brewster as he spoke.
“Okay. Keep me in the loop, Charley.”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
He broke that connection and pushed another autodial number.
“Maria,” he said a moment later, in Spanish, “this is Carlos. I realize it’s late, and I hope I didn’t wake you up, but I really have to talk to Fernando.”
He saw the surprise on Captain Brewster’s face at the Spanish and wondered how much Spanish Gonzalez’s aide knew.
He probably speaks it. Or at least has been trying hard to learn it. A wise move, considering his general is named Gonzalez and he likes to speak Spanish.
“What’s up, Gringo?” Fernando Lopez, sounding sleepy, asked.
“Fernando, I need the Lear,” Castillo said.
There was a just perceptible hesitation before Fernando replied, “As long as you deal with the lawyers and the IRS, Gringo, you’re welcome to it. You know that.”
“I mean, I need it right now. Tonight.”
The hesitation was more evident this time.
“You want to tell me why?” Fernando asked.
“How soon can you find a pilot to fly it here?”
“Where’s here? The last I heard from you, you were on your way to Africa.”
“I’m at Fort Bragg.”
“Welcome home, Gringo. How was the Dark Continent?”
“Hey! I’m not fooling around. I need you to find a pilot and have it brought up here.”
“Jesus Christ, do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah, I do. This is important.”
“But you’re not going to tell me why?”
“And leave your Jeppson case in it. I’m presuming you’ve got approach charts for Mexico?”
“Yeah, I’ve got them. Until the lawyers screamed, I was going to take the family to Cozumel and call it a proficiency flight. What the hell are you going to be doing in Mexico?”
“Just do what I ask. For the third or fourth fucking time, Fernando, this is important.”
“Okay, okay. If you don’t hear from me in an hour—your cellular is up and running?”
Charley replied by giving him the number.
“I have that number,” Fernando said. “If you don’t hear from me in an hour, you can presume the Lear is wheels-up for Fort Bragg. Which, I just realized, is a restricted zone. And I don’t think they allow civilian airplanes to land at Pope Air Force Base. What to do about that?”
“The plane’ll be cleared for the restricted area and to land at Pope. Have the pilot give them his ETA and I’ll meet him and get him a ride into Fayetteville. You better give him some money, too. I haven’t had a chance to cash a check lately.”
“Jesus Christ, Gringo, this better be important. I think you’ve just destroyed my happy marriage.”
“I’m sorry, Fernando.”
“But it’s important, right?” The line went dead in Fernando ’s ear.
Charley turned to Captain Brewster.
“We’re going to need wheels,” he said.
“I can probably get the staff duty officer’s van,” Brewster replied. “Where do you want to go?”
“Out to the stockade.”
“Now, sir?”
“Now. And I think it would be better if I—we—had our own wheels.”
“Major, I just don’t know . . .”
“Call the motor pool, identify yourself as General Gonzalez ’s aide, and tell them to send a car, or a pickup, a van— something—here right now. And call Delta Force and have them have the senior officer present meet me at the stockade in twenty minutes.”
"Major ..."
“Alternatively, Captain, get General Gonzalez on the phone. I told you before, I just don’t have time to fuck with you.”
Without waiting for an answer, Castillo picked up his laptop briefcase and the go-right-now bag and carried them into the bedroom.
He was not going to try to talk the Delta/Gray Fox communications officer out of Mr. Aloysius Francis Casey’s latest communication jewels while he was dressed in his Washington middle-level bureaucrat’s gray-black suit.
As he unzipped the go-right-now bag, he heard Captain Brewster on the telephone:
“This is Captain Brewster, General Gonzalez’s aide. I need a van and driver right now at the VIP guesthouse.”
Among other things, the go-right-now bag held a very carefully folded Class A uniform. He hated it. It—and the shirt that went with the tunic and trousers—were sewn from miracle fabrics that didn’t pick up unwanted creases. But the by-product of that convenience was that he itched wherever the material touched his skin. If he had the damn thing on for more than six hours, he could count on having a rash around his neck and on his calves and thighs. And the miracle fabrics did not absorb perspiration as cotton and wool did; after wearing it a couple of hours, he smelled as if he hadn’t had a shower for a couple of days.
That thought, as he held up the uniform to confirm that it indeed did look amazingly crisp, triggered the thought that a lot had happened since he had taken a shower in the Warwick hotel early that morning.
He took fresh linen and the go-right-now toilet kit from the go-right-now bag, stripped off the clothing he was wearing, and marched naked into the bathroom.
Five minutes later, freshly showered and shaved—he had shaved under the shower, a time-saving trick he’d learned at West Point—he replaced the razor in the toilet kit and saw the ring that testified to his graduation from Hudson High with the Class of 1990.
He slipped it on.
Ninety seconds after that, he was sitting on the bed lacing up his highly polished jump boots. And ninety seconds after that, after having walked back into the bath in the unfamiliarly heavy boots, he was examining himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
Something was missing, and, after a moment, he understood what. He went back to the go-right-now bag and took out his green beret. Then he took one more check in the mirror.
He thought: Okay. Major Carlos G. Castillo, highly decorated Special Forces officer, all decked out in his incredibly natty Class A uniform, is prepared to try to talk the Delta/Gray Fox commo officer out of his best radios.
Then he had a second thought.
Shit, my ID card is still in the lid of the laptop briefcase and I’m going to have to have it. Otherwise, I’m likely to get myself arrested for impersonating an officer.
He had the lid open and was extracting his ID card when Captain Brewster knocked on the jamb of the open door.
“Sir, a van is on the way, and Lieutenant Colonel Fortinot will be at the Delta compound when we get there.”
“Good,” Castillo said and smiled at him.
“That was a quick change,” Brewster said.
“I also do card tricks,” Castillo said.
[TWO]
Police Administration Building 8th and Race Streets Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 2305 9 June 2005
Two detectives, one a very slim, tall white man, the other a very large African American, came out of the Roundhouse and walked purposefully to an unmarked Crown Victoria, which had just pulled up to the entrance.
The slim white man opened the rear door and got in beside the African American in the backseat.
“Face the other door and put your hands behind you,” he ordered matter-of-factly as he produced a set of handcuffs.
“Is this necessary?” Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., asked as he complied.
“No. I just do it for laughs,” the detective said as the cuffs clicked closed.
Then he put his hand on Miller’s wrist
s and half-pulled, half-helped him back out of the rear seat.
As soon as Miller was on his feet, the slim detective put his hand firmly on Miller’s left arm while the large detective put his hand even more firmly on Miller’s right arm and they marched him into the Roundhouse.
Miller expected that he would be led into the entrance foyer of the Roundhouse and then to the elevator bank, as he, his father, and Charley Castillo had entered the building when they’d gone to see Commissioner Kellogg. Instead, he was marched to the right, through a procession of corridors, through a room lined with holding cells, and finally down another corridor to an elevator door guarded by a uniformed police officer.
“You just shut the fuck up!” the larger detective snarled and pushed Miller’s arm, although Miller hadn’t said a word.
The cop at the elevator shook his head in understanding and put a key in the elevator control panel. The door opened and Miller was almost pushed inside. The door closed.
“Keep to yourself whatever you want to say until we get to Homicide,” the larger detective said, conversationally. “You never know who’s liable to get on the elevator.”
The elevator stopped, the door opened, and a black woman pushed a mop bucket onto elevator, looked without expression at everyone, then pushed the button for the fourth floor.
When the door opened again, Miller was half-pushed off and then down a curved corridor to a door marked HOMICIDE BUREAU, and then pushed through that. Inside, there was a railing. The slim detective reached over it, pushed what was apparently a solenoid release, and then pushed the gate in the railing open.
Inside a door just past the railing was a large, desk-cluttered room. Against the interior wall were a half-dozen doors, three of them with INTERVIEW ROOM signs on them. Miller was pushed into the center of these.
Sergeant Betty Schneider and a black man wearing a dark blue robe, sandals, and with his hair braided with beads were sitting on a table. The last time Miller had seen the man, who was an undercover Counterterrorism Bureau detective, was three hours before in a room in a bricked-up row house in North Philadelphia. There hadn’t been much light, but there had been enough for Miller to decide the undercover cop was a mean-looking sonofabitch.
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