“Sir, with all respect, you’re a colonel . . .”
“Who’s an old Air Commando, which will be handy when you’re dealing with the friendly folks at Hurlburt,” McNab said.
“. . . and I’m a major,” Castillo finished.
“An old special operator,” McNab said, evenly, “knows the guy in charge is the guy in charge.”
“I don’t see rank as a problem,” Colonel Torine agreed. “You’re the guy in charge.”
“You’ve got civvies in your bag, right?” McNab asked. Torine nodded. “You better send somebody for it. The sooner you get on your way to Cozumel, the better.”
“I already sent for it; from what you told me about the worst aide-de-camp in the Army, I didn’t think I’d be going back to Charleston anytime soon.”
“Okay, that’s it,” McNab said. “You two remember to duck.” He walked to the office door. “Will you come in now, please, gentlemen?”
As they walked up to the Lear, Fernando asked, “Would you like to ride in the right seat, Colonel?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” Colonel Torine said.
Four minutes later:
“Pope clears Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five direct to Cozumel Airport, after takeoff, fly heading two-zero-nine, climb and maintain 5,000 feet, expect flight level three-five-zero ten minutes after takeoff. Contact departure on 120.9, squawk three-one-four-five. You are number one to go after the One-Thirty departing.”
Colonel Torine replied: “Understand Pope clears Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five to Cozumel Airport, after departure fly heading two-zero-nine, climb and maintain 5,000 feet, expect flight level three-five-zero ten minutes after takeoff. Contact departure on 120.9, squawk three-one-four-five, number one to go after the One-Thirty departing.”
Fernando turned around in the pilot’s seat and looked into the cabin to make sure nobody was wandering around.
Sergeant Sherman was strapped into his seat, holding a can of Coke, looking out the window.
Charley was also securely strapped into one of the seats. He had reclined it to nearly horizontal and was sound asleep.
“Takeoff power,” Fernando ordered. Colonel Torine carefully moved the throttles fully forward.
“Pope, Zero-Seven-Five rolling,” Torine said into his microphone.
[FOUR]
Office of the Director The Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia 0810 10 June 2005
Mrs. Mary Leonard, the statuesque, gray-haired executive assistant to the director of Central Intelligence, went into the DCI’s office and closed the door.
John Powell looked up from his desk.
“Mr. Jartmann is here, boss,” Mrs. Leonard said.
“Bring him in, Mary, please,” he said to the female who probably knew more of the nation’s most closely guarded secrets than any other female except Dr. Natalie Cohen.
“And,” Mrs. Leonard added, raising her eyebrows, “Mrs. Wilson walked in on his heels. I think she went to the beauty parlor just for you; I must say she looks stunning this morning. ”
“I told her quarter to eight,” the DCI said. “Have her wait, please, and curb your legendary charming hospitality. No coffee. Not even a goddamned glass of water.”
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Leonard said.
“I’ll deal with Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson just as soon as I’ve seen what Harry Jartmann has for me.”
“You’re about to make a mistake there,” Mrs. Leonard said. “A great big mistake.”
“I am? How do you know that?”
“When you said her name just now, spittle flew. It’s burning holes in the carpet.”
He looked at her, shook his head, and smiled but said nothing.
“Let me handle her, between us girls,” Mrs. Leonard said.
“You really think that’s the way to go, Mary?”
“It’s the only way to go. You want to get rid of the problem or exacerbate it?”
“You being a lady, I can’t tell you how I’d like to get rid of the problem,” Powell said. He waited for her to smile and then went on: “So what do I do?”
“Depending on what Jartmann’s got for you—and I think he’s got something—when you’re finished go out the back door with him. Go to Photo Analysis. I’ll transfer important calls to you there, and I’ll let you know when I’m through with her.”
“Jesus!” Powell said and then, “Okay, Mary. I again defer to your wise judgment. Bring Harry on.”
Mrs. Leonard went to the office door, opened it, and announced, “The DCI will see you now, Mr. Jartmann.”
When Harry Jartmann, a tall, tweedy, thin man with unruly hair, came into the office, she closed the door from the inside and leaned against it, watching and listening.
“Good morning, Mr. Director,” Jartmann said.
“Good morning, Harry. What have you got for me?”
Jartmann held up a manila folder and wordlessly asked if he could lay it on the director’s desk. Powell gestured for him to do so. Jartmann unwound the cord holding the folder closed, took out a sheaf of photographs, and spread them on the desk.
“What am I looking at?” Powell asked.
“These are fresh from Fort Meade. That’s satellite imagery of the airfield at Zandery, Suriname,” Jartmann said, “at oh-seven-oh-five this morning. That’s probably the 727 we’re looking for.”
“Probably won’t cut it, Harry,” Powell said.
“There was early morning fog,” Jartmann said. “These have been enhanced, but, obviously, they’re not what we’d like to have.”
“Have to have, Harry,” Powell clarified. “What makes you think this is the airplane?”
“Well, it’s a 727, for one thing. We’re sure of that. And while we can’t read the registration numbers, we made out enough of the paint scheme to compare it with the known paint scheme of Air Suriname.”
He paused as Mrs. Leonard walked across the room to the director’s desk, picked up a telephone, and punched one of its buttons.
“Mary Leonard,” she said, softly. “The DCI would like to see you right now. Come in the back door.”
“And?” Powell said to Jartmann.
“Eighty percent probability that it’s the same.”
“If we don’t have the registration numbers, all that proves is that an Air Suriname 727 is on an airfield in Suriname,” Powell said, very softly.
He looked at Mary Leonard.
“He’s on his way,” she said.
Ten seconds later, the private door to the DCI’s office opened and a man who could have been Jartmann’s younger brother came in. He was J. Stanley Waters, the CIA’s deputy director for operations.
“What’s up?” Waters asked.
“Tell me about our assets in Suriname,” Powell said.
“Off the top of my head, not very much,” Waters said. “If memory serves, we have a guy just out of the Farm there, undercover as a vice-consul. Sort of first assignment, on-the-job training. What do we need?”
“There’s a 727 sitting on the airfield at . . . where, Harry?”
“Zandery,” Jartmann furnished. “Zandery, Suriname.”
“That 727?” Waters asked.
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Jartmann replied. “There was a ground fog this morning . . .”
“Through which we can’t see the registration numbers,” Waters said.
“Right.”
“How long before we can get another satellite over Zandery, Suriname?” Waters asked, pronouncing each syllable.
“Reprogramming has begun,” Jartmann said. “Probably an hour, hour and a half. Figure another thirty minutes to get the downloads here.”
“Can we get our man out there and get the numbers sooner than that?” Powell asked.
“How much will be compromised if I get on the telephone? ”
“Just tell him to get out to the airport and get us the registration numbers of any 727 on the field. We don’t have to tell him why.”
Waters picked up o
ne of the telephones on Powell’s desk.
“Get me the American embassy in . . . Jesus, what the hell’s the capital of Suriname?”
“Paramaribo,” Powell furnished in a quiet voice, suggesting to Mrs. Leonard that he was about to lose his temper.
“Paramaribo,” Waters told the operator. “Put the call in to the ambassador—
“All right, the consul general. But I’ll talk to anybody. I’ll hold.”
He looked at Powell.
“No embassy. Consulate general.”
Powell nodded but said nothing.
Thirty seconds later, Waters ended the call with a stab of his finger to the switch hook and quoted, furiously, “ ‘Good morning, this is the consulate general of the United States. Our office hours are, . . .’ Goddammit!”
He slammed the handset into its cradle and picked up another and punched several keys.
“This is Waters,” he said. “We have a man in Paramaribo, Suriname. I don’t know his name. I need his home phone number. And while you’re at it, get me the home phone of the consul general—I don’t know his name, either. I’ll hold. But I’m in the DCI’s office if we get cut off.”
Mrs. Leonard looked at DCI Powell. He was looking at the satellite imagery.
“Ground fog!” he said, very softly. “Fucking ground fog!”
“Mr. Peterson,” Waters said, two minutes and thirty seconds later. “My name is J. Stanley Waters. You know who I am?—
“If I told you I was calling from Langley, Virginia, would that give you a clue?—
“Yeah, that J. Stanley Waters. Now listen carefully. Just as soon as you hang up the phone, I want you to get out to Zandery airfield and get me the numbers, the registration numbers, of any Boeing 727 you see sitting out there—
“It’s an airliner, three engines, one of them in the vertical stabilizer—the big fin in the back. I’m sure you’ve seen one of them. Now, don’t take pictures, just get the numbers, write them down, go back to the consulate general—do you have satburst capability?—
“Then get on the telephone and call Langley. Ask for me or Mrs. Mary Leonard. The switchboard will be expecting your call. Got it?—
“Good. Now, how long do you think that’s going to take you?—
“Why the hell should it take two hours?—
“Then break the goddamned speed limit! You’ve got diplomatic immunity! Jesus H. Christ! Get your ass out to the airport and get those goddamned numbers and get them now!”
He slammed the handset in its cradle.
“The airport is thirty-five miles from Paramaribo,” Waters said. “And there’s a strictly enforced thirty-five-mile-per -hour speed limit.”
“Mr. Director,” Mrs. Mary Leonard said, “why don’t you go with Mr. Jartmann and see if they can’t do something to further enhance the photos we have? Or maybe there will be some others they can work on.”
The DCI looked at her and said, very softly, “I think that’s probably a very good idea, Mrs. Leonard.”
He stood up and walked deliberately to the private door of his office and went through it. Jartmann followed him.
“I’ll deal with the switchboard,” Mrs. Leonard said to Mr. Waters.
“What that dumb sonofabitch is likely to do is take his camera with him—just to be sure—and get himself arrested for photographing a Suriname military installation. I’m sure they’re concerned with terrorists in Suriname.”
“He’ll get you the registration numbers, Stan,” Mrs. Leonard said with a conviction she didn’t at all feel.
Waters walked to the outer office door. Mrs. Leonard walked behind him. He continued to the corridor, which he took back to his office.
Mrs. Leonard smiled at Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson and said, “I’ll be with you in just a minute, Mrs. Wilson.”
Then she closed the door and called the chief switchboard operator and told her there would be a call, probably within the next two hours, from a Mr. Peterson in Suriname. It was to be routed to Mr. Waters’s private line first and then to hers, but under no circumstances to the DCI. “He’s got too much on his plate this morning to be bothered with this,” she explained.
Then she went and opened the door to the outer office.
“Would you come in, please, Mrs. Wilson?”
Mrs. Wilson put on a dazzling smile and walked into the office. When she saw that Director Powell was nowhere in sight, she looked at Mrs. Leonard, curiously.
“Why don’t you have a seat, please, Mrs. Wilson?” Mrs. Leonard said, waving at one of the armchairs. She walked to the DCI’s desk and leaned against it.
“The DCI has been called away,” Mrs. Leonard said. “Sorry. He asked me to deal with this for him. Perhaps if you had been able to get here at seven forty-five . . .”
“The traffic was unbelievable!” Mrs. Wilson said. “Perhaps it would be better if I came back when the DCI has time for me.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mary Leonard said. “This won’t take any time at all and I know the DCI wants to get it behind him.”
“What is it?”
“You’ve been reassigned,” Mrs. Leonard said. “You’re going back to Analysis. I don’t know where they’ll put you to work, but somewhere, I’m sure, where you’ll be able to make a genuine contribution to the agency.”
“But I like what I’m doing! I don’t want to go back to Analysis.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mary Leonard said. “But the decision has been made.”
“I want to hear this from the DCI himself.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
“I’m being relieved of my duties, which, to the best of my knowledge, I have carried out to everyone’s complete satisfaction.”
“That’s not exactly the case, I’m afraid. But I don’t think we want to get into that, do we?”
“I demand an explanation!”
“Can I say you’ve demonstrated a lack of ability to deal with the problems you’ve encountered in the field and let it go at that? I really don’t think you want to open that Pandora’s box, Mrs. Wilson.”
“Well, you think wrong,” Mrs. Wilson said, flatly. “I have the right to appeal any adverse personnel action and I certainly will appeal this one.”
Mary Leonard didn’t say anything.
“This has something to do with what happened in Angola, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
“Yes, it does.”
“Well, I may have made an error of judgment, but certainly not of a magnitude to justify . . .”
“Your major error in judgment . . . May I speak frankly?”
“Please do.”
“Was in thinking you could lie to the DCI and get away with it.”
“I never lied to the DCI. How dare you!”
“Didn’t you tell the DCI that when you were in Luanda the assistant military attaché, a Major Miller—who was also the station chief—made inappropriate advances to you?”
“And he did. Of course he would deny it.”
“At the time you said you were having dinner with him, during which you said he made inappropriate advances, you were actually otherwise occupied, weren’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“For the sake of argument, if you weren’t having dinner with Major Miller when you said you were that would be dishonest, wouldn’t you say? A lie?”
“You’re going to take the word of an incompetent Army officer who never should have been given an assignment like that in the first place over mine? Well, let’s see what the appeals board has to say about that!”
She got out of the armchair and started for the door.
“Before you start the appeals process, Mrs. Wilson, I think you’d better take a look at something I have.”
Patricia Wilson stopped and turned.
“What is it?”
Mrs. Leonard walked behind the DCI’s desk, opened a drawer, and came out with a manila folder. She took an eight
-by-ten-inch photograph from the folder and held it out to Patricia Wilson.
“You ever see this man before?” Mary Leonard asked.
“Yes, I have,” she said.
“And who is he?”
“He’s a German journalist. His name is Grossinger, Gossinger, something like that. He works for a small newspaper in Germany. Or so he said. I ordered Major Miller to check him out.”
“Was that before or after you went to bed with him? With this man?”
“What did you say?”
“I said, did you tell Major Miller to check him out before or after you went to bed with this man?”
“I don’t believe this,” Patricia Wilson said. “I just don’t believe it. This man actually said I went to bed with him? And you believe him?”
Mary Leonard nodded. “Yes, he did. And I believe him. So does the DCI.”
“Why—not admitting it for a minute, of course—would he say something like that?”
“Well, he probably decided that taking foreign journalists to bed after the most brief of associations was dangerous behavior for a regional director of the CIA—a married woman—and that the agency ought to know about it.”
Patricia Wilson glowered at Mary Leonard.
“Your friend is not a German journalist, Mrs. Wilson,” Mary Leonard said. “He’s an American, an intelligence officer working directly under the president to find flaws in the intel community. And he found one.”
She locked eyes with her and let that sink in.
“I think this conversation is over, Mrs. Wilson, don’t you?” Mary Leonard asked.
Patricia Wilson stalked angrily out of the DCI’s office.
XVII
[ONE]
Aboard Learjet 45X N5075L 23.01 degrees North Latitude 88.01 degrees West Longitude Over the Gulf of Mexico 0930 10 June 2005
“I think from here on in, I better stop calling you colonel,” Fernando said to Colonel J. D. Torine, USAF, “and you start playing the role of pilot-for-hire. Okay with you?”
“Yeah, sure. Call me ’Jake.’ ”
“And when we’re dealing with Mexican customs and immigration, I think it would best if you called me ‘Mr. Lopez’ and Charley ‘Mr. Castillo.’ ”
By Order of the President Page 57