By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  [THREE]

  Homicide Bureau Police Administration Building 8th and Race Streets Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 0225 10 June 2005

  Chief Inspector Dutch Kramer was almost visibly of two minds when he saw Major C. G. Castillo in his Class A uniform.

  “What’s with the uniform?” he asked.

  “I never really got out of the stockade, Chief,” Castillo said. “They sort of paroled me to the Secret Service.”

  “So why are you wearing it now?”

  “I just came from the stockade,” Castillo said. “Most of the guys in there think the Secret Service is a bunch of candy asses.”

  “And they’re right. They’re not as bad as the fing FBI, but they also think their sh—”

  Kramer remembered gentlemen don’t say things like “their shit don’t stink” in the presence of ladies, and Betty Schneider was both one hell of a cop and a lady.

  “Schneider tell you about what Britton came up with?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “I think this is good stuff, Chief,” Castillo said. “We’ll have to check it out, but if these two at Britton’s mosque went to flight school in Oklahoma they probably went to Spartan, in Tulsa. And I know they teach the 727 at Spartan.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I went there,” Castillo said. “But we can’t check it out until I get the names. What about their photos? Do you still have them?”

  “I had one of my guys go through the files. He brought them over here.”

  “But no names?”

  For an answer, Kramer shook his head and slid a manila folder across his desk—actually, that of the captain commanding the Homicide Bureau—to Castillo. It was labeled, using what looked like a broad-tipped Magic Marker, UNKNOWN MULLAHS 1 & 2.

  There were perhaps twenty eight-by-ten-inch color photographs in the folder. Some showed the men, wearing robes and loose black hats—the sort of floppy berets favored by mullahs—but with creased trousers and wingtip shoes peeking out the bottoms of the robes, entering and coming out of a building Castillo presumed was the mosque where Britton was working undercover.

  They had intelligent faces, and in several photographs— some of those in the folder were blowups of their faces— they were smiling.

  Are these the guys?

  How the hell can anybody calmly plan to fly an airplane into the ground?

  He looked at Chief Inspector Kramer.

  “We need their names,” he said.

  “Well, the FBI must have them. If I call down there, the duty officer’ll stall me, and we can’t tell him why we want them. Or can we?”

  “Can I have the number?” Castillo said. “I’ll give it a shot. If that doesn’t work, I’ll think of something else.”

  “FBI.”

  “Are you the duty officer?”

  “Who is this, please?”

  “My name is Castillo. I’m with the Secret Service. Are you the duty officer?”

  “I’ll need more than that, Mr. Castillo.”

  “Okay. Write it down. Castillo, I spell: Charley-Alpha-Sierra -Tango-India, Lima-Lima-Oscar. Initials: Charley-Golf. Supervisory Special Agent. Assignment, Secret Service, Washington. Verification telephone number . . .”

  As he gave the number, he sensed Betty’s eyes on him and when he met her eyes she looked away.

  “. . . I’ll hold while you verify,” Charley finished.

  That took four minutes, during which time Sergeant Betty Schneider looked at everything in the room but C. G. Castillo.

  “How may I help you, Agent Castillo?”

  “On or about twelve December 2004, Chief Inspector Kramer of the Philadelphia PD Counterterrorism Bureau gave you some surveillance photographs he had made of two Muslim mullahs he considered suspicious. You ran them, identified the men, and told Chief Kramer they were okay. Somehow, Chief Kramer didn’t get the names you came up with when you made these people. He and I need them, and right now.”

  “That would come under ‘Counterterrorism,’ I suppose. If we ran these people, I’m sure their names are in the file.”

  “Can you get them for me, please?”

  “What I’ll do is make a record of this telecon and I’ll put it on the chief of counterterrorism’s desk so he’ll see it first thing when he comes in in the morning.”

  “I need these names now, not in the morning. If you can’t get into the files, how about calling this guy up and having him come in?”

  “Well, I suppose I could do that, but I’m not sure if he’d be willing . . .”

  “Call him,” Castillo interrupted. “Please. I’ll hold.”

  “Agent Castillo? You still there?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “I’ve got Special Agent Lutherberg on the line. He wants to know what this is all about.”

  “It’s about the Secret Service needing the names of two men you ran and identified.”

  “That’s not really telling us very much, is it?”

  “That’s all I’m going to tell you.”

  “Hold one.”

  “Agent Castillo?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Special Agent Lutherberg said to tell you he’ll be happy to discuss this with you first thing in the morning if you want to come into the office.”

  “In other words, he’s not going to get me the information I need now?”

  “He’ll be happy to talk to you about it in his office in the morning.”

  “I’d like to leave a message for him—one that applies to you, too—if that would be possible.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Fuck you, you candy-ass bureaucratic sonofabitch. I’m going to do whatever I can to burn your ass, his ass, and the ass of the special agent in charge over this. You would be wise to deliver the message and dig out the information that I need, because someone who can get you people off your candy asses will be calling shortly.”

  He slammed the phone down in its cradle.

  “They do try one’s patience on occasion, don’t they?” Chief Kramer asked, innocently.

  Charley took out his cellular telephone and punched an autodial key.

  It was answered on the second ring.

  “Three-zero-six.”

  “Charley Castillo. I need to speak with Joel Isaacson right now.”

  “Hold one.”

  That took three minutes.

  “Isaacson.”

  “Charley, Joel.”

  “I knew I wasn’t going to get any sleep. What’s up, Don Juan?”

  “I think there’s a very good chance we have an ID on the guys who stole the 727,” Charley began, explained why, and related the details of his telephone conversation with the duty officer of the Philadelphia office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  “My, we do use some really naughty words when we’re peeved, don’t we?” Isaacson said.

  “Peeved is the fucking understatement of the year, the fucking decade. Can you do anything about those bastards, Joel?”

  “I think so, yes. Where are you?”

  “I’m in the Homicide Bureau of the Philadelphia Police Department. But call me on the cellular.”

  “Have they got a fax machine where you are?”

  Charley looked at Sergeant Betty Schneider.

  “I need a fax machine number,” he said.

  She left the office and returned in less than a minute with the number written on a sheet of notebook paper. He gave it to Isaacson.

  “It was sent to you at the Mayflower,” Isaacson said, “marked ‘Please Deliver Immediately.’ They did, and my guy sitting on your apartment sent it out to Nebraska Avenue, thinking I was still there. My guy there read it to me over the phone. So I’ll call out there and have them fax it to you.”

  “What the hell is it?”

  “I don’t know; I don’t want to know. It’s probably a mistake. ”

  “Jesus Christ, Joel!”

  What he’s saying, of course, is that he thinks it�
�s from Kennedy. I wonder what the hell it is?

  “As soon as I do what I can about the FBI, I’ll let you know,” Isaacson said. “Good job, Don Juan.”

  He hung up.

  “Your boss?” Chief Inspector Kramer asked.

  “A heavy-duty Secret Service guy. Good guy.”

  “You think he’ll be able to do something?”

  “If anybody can, Isaacson can. But fighting the FBI is like punching a pillow.”

  “Uh-huh,” Kramer agreed.

  “Can I talk to your undercover guy now?”

  Kramer rose from behind the desk and motioned for Castillo to follow him.

  They’d barely had time to introduce themselves when Betty Schneider came into the interview.

  “Your fax came in, Mr. Castillo,” she said and handed it to him. “It’s addressed to somebody named Gossinger, but I have a hunch it’s intended for you.”

  Castillo took the fax from her and read it.

  A Φαξ. . . . . <<

  Φρoμ: Poβερτo Boνδιεμo

  Pεσιδεντ Γ∴<<ενεραλ Mαναγερ

  Γρανδε Xoξυμελ Bεαϰη & Γoλφ Pεσoρτ

  Xoξυμελ, Mεξιϰo

  Boσσ

  Boσσσσσ

  Φoρ:SEÑOR KARL W. GOSSINGER

  THE MAYFLOWER HOTEL

  WASHINGTON, D.C., USA

  PLEASE DELIVER IMMEDIATELY ON RECEIPT!

  MY DEAR MR. GOSSINGER:

  THIS IS TO CONFIRM YOUR RESERVATION FOR OUR FOUR DAY ALL INCLUSIVE GOLF AND SNORKELING PACKAGE (FOR TWO) COMMENCING JUNE 10, 2005.

  WE LOOK FORWARD TO HAVING YOU AND YOUR GUEST IN THE GRANDE COZUMEL BEACH AND GOLF RESORT, WHERE WE ARE SURE YOU WILL FIND EVERYTHING YOU ARE LOOKING FOR, AND THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING US.

  UNFORTUNATELY, THERE SEEMS TO BE A SMALL PROBLEM WITH YOUR AMERICAN EXPRESS CREDIT CARD. THE DATE HAS EXPIRED AND WE REQUIRE AN UPDATE. I MUST ASK YOU TO CALL ME AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE TO HELP STRAIGHTEN THE MATTER OUT. MY PRIVATE NUMBER IS 52-00-01 456-777.

  I HOPE TO HEAR FROM YOU VERY SHORTLY.

  WITH ALL BEST WISHES,

  Roberto Dondiemo

  ROBERTO DONDIEMO

  Roberto Dondiemo, my ass!

  “It’s for me. Thank you very much, Sergeant Schneider,” Castillo said.

  “Sometime, when you can find time, you can tell me about Mr. Gossinger.”

  “I’d love to. I’ll make time,” Castillo said and then turned to Detective Britton. “I’ll be right back, Detective Britton. I have to deal with this.”

  “Sure,” Britton said.

  He went to Fernando, who was talking—in Spanish—to a Homicide Bureau detective, handed him the fax, and said—in Spanish: “I sure hope you brought your Cozumel International approach charts with you.”

  “What the hell is this?” Fernando asked, in English, as Castillo punched numbers into his cellular.

  “You said you wanted to go snorkeling in Cozumel,” Castillo said.

  “What?”

  The call went through much quicker than Castillo thought it would.

  “Roberto Dondiemo.”

  “Gee, you sure don’t have much of an accent when you speak English, Señor Dondiemo.”

  “Thank you. I could say the same thing about you, Herr Gossinger. There’s hardly any trace of German.”

  “Dare I hope you’ve straightened out the problem with my American Express card by now?”

  “Indeed I have. Absolutely. It was . . . what’s the English phrase? . . . a glitch of some kind. Can I take it that we’ll soon have the pleasure of your company in the resort?”

  “If I was sure I could find what I’m looking for, I would certainly come.”

  “I have a good idea where you can find what you’re looking for, Mr. Gossinger. I could say I’m almost positive I can locate it for you.”

  “You wouldn’t want to tell me now, I suppose?”

  “I really think you should come down here, Mr. Gossinger. All work and no play, as they say.”

  “I probably will. But if I do, my party will be a little larger than originally planned.”

  “Why does that worry me?”

  “It shouldn’t. One of the people will be my cousin and the other two will be soldiers, taking sort of a busman’s holiday. ”

  “None of whom, I hope, have ever heard of me?”

  “None of them have ever heard of you.”

  “I don’t know why the hell I trust you, Mr. Gossinger. Maybe it’s that boyishly honest face you have.”

  “But you do, right?”

  “Against my better judgment.”

  “Tell me, does the Grande Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort have a flat roof?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes, it does. Is that important, somehow?”

  “And the rooms you’ve reserved for me, are they on the top floor?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, you can walk directly from your accommodations onto the beach. We’ve put you into the Jack Nicklaus Suite. Will that be satisfactory?”

  “That’s very kind, but we’d much prefer to be on the top floor, which would give us a good view of the beach and where we could watch the waves go up and down. Will that be a problem?”

  “Not at all. You’ll be among friends here, one of whom happens to own the hotel. Your every wish will be our command. ”

  Jesus, is he telling me Pevsner’s there?

  “How nice!”

  “I was about to suggest that the best way to get here, probably, is through Miami.”

  "I have a plane.”

  "What kind of a plane?”

  "A Lear 45X. Getting there will be no problem. But I always worry about getting delayed at customs.”

  “Put your mind at rest about customs. When may we expect the pleasure of your company?”

  “I’ll call again when I know.”

  “I’ll be expecting your call, Mr. Gossinger.”

  When he put his cellular telephone back in his pocket, he saw that Betty Schneider and Fernando were looking at him. She had a telephone in her hand, her palm covering the mouthpiece.

  “This one’s for Supervisory Special Agent Castillo of the Secret Service,” she said. “Wouldn’t give his name.”

  He nodded and took the telephone from her.

  “Castillo.”

  “Something wrong with your cellular, Charley?” the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security said.

  “Sir, I was talking to . . . my new friend from Vienna.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “He wants me to come to Cozumel.”

  “He’s in Cozumel?”

  And doesn’t want the FBI—for that matter, anybody, but especially the FBI—to know.

  But Hall has every right to know.

  “Yes, sir. And he says he’s almost positive he knows where what we’re looking for can be found.”

  “But he wouldn’t tell you where? And he wants you to go to Cozumel?”

  “No, sir, he wouldn’t tell me. And, yes, sir, he wants me to go to Cozumel.”

  “He didn’t say why?”

  “No, sir, he didn’t. I think I’d better go, sir.”

  “And what about General McNab?”

  “After I see General McNab, sir, and presuming nothing turns up there that would shoot down Cozumel.”

  “That’s a pretty bad choice of words, Charley.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Castillo thought he heard Secretary Hall exhale.

  “Charley,” Hall said, “when I said I wanted you to keep me in the loop I meant it.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand. I will, sir.”

  “You didn’t tell me about your run-in with the FBI,” Hall said, flatly. “I had to hear that from Joel.”

  “I thought I’d see what Joel could do first, sir. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Bother me? Jesus Christ, Charley, we’re running out of time!”

  “I understand, sir.”

&n
bsp; “I’m not sure you do. Tomorrow morning—this morning, when I meet with the mayor at half past nine, I’m going to have to tell him.”

  “Sir, I thought we had until four something in the afternoon. ”

  “The president said I’m to inform the mayor this morning. He said the mayor has the right to know. Which means I have to ask—more accurately, beg—the mayor for a little time before he pushes the panic button. And I’d like to be able to tell him something more than we’re looking for the airplane and hope to find it.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Like I said, we’re running out of time,” Hall said. “But the reason I called: When Joel came to me with your yarn about the FBI’s intransigent stupidity, taking you at your word, I got Mark Schmidt out of bed. Taking me at mine, Schmidt seems as angry as you were. He told me that he would deal with it personally. You should be hearing from the special agent in charge of their Philadelphia office any minute. If you don’t hear from him in the next fifteen minutes, call me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call me in fifteen minutes, whether or not you hear from them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  [FOUR]

  For the next fifteen minutes, Castillo sat in the interviewee chair in interview room 3. Sergeant Betty Schneider sat on the table beside Detective Jack Britton. Chief Inspector Dutch Kramer and Dick Miller leaned against the wall as all three—but mostly Castillo—tried to pull from Britton any bit of information that would fill in the blanks. Britton understood what was being asked of him, and why, and pulled all sorts of esoteric information about the mosque and its mullahs from his memory. None of it seemed useful, although Castillo found what Britton told him fascinating.

  Castillo had kept looking at his watch and when fifteen minutes had passed he decided to wait one more minute before calling Secretary Hall and telling him there had been no contact from the FBI.

  He was actually watching the sweep second hand on his wristwatch waiting for it to go back to twelve when the interview room door opened.

  “Chief,” one of the Homicide Bureau detectives said, “there’s a guy from the FBI out here looking for a Secret Service Agent Castillo.”

  Kramer looked at Castillo, who made a wry face, and then gestured to the detective to bring him in.

  A moment later a middle-aged, somewhat portly man with a plastic badge with FBI in large letters on it hanging from the breast pocket of his suit came into the room. He was neatly dressed, but he needed a shave.