By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I’ll be a sonofabitch!” General McFadden said. “Thank you, General McNab.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll be in touch, General McNab,” General Naylor said. “Is there any part of my orders, which you are to stand ready to implement this operation at my orders and only at my orders, that you don’t completely understand?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Naylor out,” General Naylor said.

  “When you have your talk with General McNab and this Castillo fellow, General, I’d like to be there,” General McFadden said. “What the hell did he take Torine to Cozumel for? Why the hell did Torine go?”

  Naylor threw up his hands in a sign of frustration. “There is a strong element of lunacy in special operators, General, and it’s highly contagious,” Naylor offered, resignedly. He looked at Lieutenant General Potter, who was his J-5 (Special Operations) officer.

  “I was about to say, ‘No offense,’ ” Naylor said. “But, goddammit, George, why should I apologize for stating the obvious?”

  “No offense was taken, General,” General Potter said.

  [THREE]

  Cozumel International Airport Cozumel, Mexico 0940 10 June 2005

  The preparations to get through Mexican customs without having to explain Sherman’s radio and their small arms turned out to be unnecessary. As the Lear trailed a FOLLOW ME jeep down a taxiway at the small but grandly named Cozumel International Airport, Castillo saw an off-brown Mexican customs Ford F-150 pickup truck and three white Yukon XLs—with heavily tinted windows—parked where they were apparently being directed. A tall, dark-haired man wearing powder blue slacks and a yellow short-sleeved shirt—dressed for the golf course—was sitting on the hood of one of the Yukons.

  Aleksandr Pevsner had come to the field himself to meet them. Castillo didn’t see Howard Kennedy or any of Pevsner ’s bodyguards anywhere.

  But they’re almost certainly in the Yukons.

  “That’s Pevsner,” Charley said. “But the odds are, he’s not calling himself that now. Play along with me.”

  Two Mexican customs officers, armed with chrome-plated .45 ACP semiautomatic pistols, approached the Lear as the engines wound down and Charley opened the door.

  “Welcome to Cozumel,” one of them said in Spanish. “May we come aboard?”

  “Of course,” Charley said in Spanish.

  Customs and Immigration lasted no longer than it took for the customs officers to rubber-stamp Fernando’s certificate of permission for unlimited, frequent, unscheduled entry into Mexican airspace. They didn’t even look very closely at anyone in the cabin.

  Castillo waited until they had driven off in the pickup before getting out of the airplane.

  Pevsner, smiling, waved at him.

  “Welcome to Cozumel,” he called in Spanish.

  “Thank you, señor,” Charley replied in Spanish as he walked to the Yukon and Pevsner slid nimbly off the hood. They shook hands.

  “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name, señor,” Charley said.

  “Why not call me Dondiemo, Alex Dondiemo?” Pevsner said. “What’s in a name?”

  “Roberto’s cousin, perhaps?”

  Pevsner smiled at him. “Something like that,” he said, and asked, “And who are you, today?”

  “An American golfer named Charley Castillo, Señor Dondiemo.”

  “Funny, I would have thought a snorkler,” Pevsner said, switching to English. “Snorklers are usually busy looking for something. Anyway, Charley, it’s good to see you again. And who did you bring with you?”

  “My cousin, Fernando Lopez, a copilot for the airplane, and a . . . I guess you could call him a super cellular telephone technician.”

  “And that’s all?”

  Charley nodded.

  “And who are they really?”

  “Fernando is really my cousin. The pilot is an Air Force colonel, an expert in 727 aircraft, and the technician is really a Special Forces sergeant.”

  “And no old associates of Howard’s, excuse me, Roberto?”

  “Not a one.”

  “He was so worried about that that he just couldn’t bring himself to come out here to greet you himself,” Pevsner said.

  “He had no cause for worry,” Castillo said.

  “I tried to tell him that,” Pevsner said. “But Howard is a worrier.”

  He gestured—a casual wave—in the direction of the two Yukons behind his. Doors on both immediately opened and half a dozen men got quickly out. They were all holding Uzi submachine pistols.

  Charley recognized two of them from Vienna. One of them was the large East European who had pulled his jacket down, skillfully immobilizing him when he had been meeting nature’s call in the men’s room of the Hotel Sacher.

  “You can put those away,” Pevsner ordered in Russian. “And help our guests with their luggage.” He turned to Charley and, still in Russian, said, “Why don’t you ask your friends to join us, Charley?”

  “What language are we going to speak?”

  “Good point, Charley,” Pevsner said in Russian and then switched to English. “How about English? A good hotelier like Alex Dondiemo would speak pretty good English, wouldn’t you think?”

  Charley smiled at him and asked, “And is it Señor Dondiemo?”

  “Alex, of course, Charley. We’re friends, right?”

  “I hope so,” Charley said and waved at the airplane. Fernando got off first, followed by Colonel Torine and Sergeant Sherman.

  “Welcome to Cozumel,” Pevsner said, offering his hand. “I’m Alex Dondiemo, your innkeeper. Charley and I are old friends.”

  “Fernando Lopez,” Fernando said.

  “Jack Sherman,” Sergeant Sherman said.

  “Jake Torine, Mr. Dondiemo.”

  “The bellmen will take care of your luggage,” Pevsner said. “And it’s hot out here in the sun. Why don’t we go to the hotel? A little breakfast is probably in order.”

  He gestured toward the Yukon and then walked around the front of it. When Charley got in, he saw that there were two more “bellmen” sitting in the rear seat of the Yukon.

  What did he expect, that an FBI SWAT team was going to erupt from the airplane, slap cuffs on him, and haul him off to the States?

  He didn’t think that was likely to happen, but it could have, and Pevsner stays ahead of his game by expecting— being thoroughly prepared for—the unexpected.

  When Pevsner started up the Yukon and began to move, the Yukon parked behind him got in front of him and stayed there on the three-mile drive along a wide white beach to the Grande Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort.

  When Pevsner cheerfully volunteered, “We like to think our beach is much nicer than Miami. Much nicer than any I know in Europe. The only one I know as nice is in the Florida Panhandle, around Pensacola.” Charley understood that Pevsner was not going to talk about the airplane while they were in the Yukon.

  He thinks we might be wired. Keep that in mind, Charley: He doesn’t trust you.

  [FOUR]

  The Grande Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort was larger than Charley expected. The main building—there were cottages as well—was a sprawling, four-story white building right on the beach. There was a very verdant golf course. As Charley watched, a long-legged blonde whose white shorts failed to conceal much of the cheeks of her derriere missed a long putt.

  The main building had an underground garage, access to which was guarded by a muscular Mexican in a police-type uniform standing by a barrier that looked like it could stop anything up to an Abrams tank.

  They had just gotten out of the Yukon when the third one, with the “bellmen” carrying their luggage, pulled into the garage.

  They didn’t have time to get into Sherman’s suitcase.

  Or did they?

  Take nothing for granted, Charley.

  There was a bank of elevators, guarded by another man in a police-type uniform.

  Do they guard the elevators all the time or only when Pe
vsner’s here?

  They got in the elevator and Pevsner put a key in the control panel, then pushed a button marked PENTHOUSE B.

  When the elevator started to move, Pevsner took the key from the control panel and handed it to Castillo.

  “There will be more keys upstairs,” he said.

  When the elevator door opened, Castillo saw they were in a small lobby. There was only one exit from it: Open double doors showed a large living room overlooking the water.

  As they walked through the lobby, there was an electronic buzz.

  “Usually,” Pevsner said, “that goes off only when a departing guest has souvenirs in his clothing. People just can’t seem to bear to part with one—sometimes, more than one— of our silver bowls when they leave us.”

  Somewhat sheepishly, Fernando reached under his shirt and came out with the .45 ACP semiautomatic pistol he had been carrying in the small of his back.

  “Well, while I admit there are people here who regard visiting North Americans as an easy source of income,” Pevsner said, “you’re really not going to need that.”

  “Fascinating detector,” Castillo said. “I guess it would detect anything—say, a wire—right?”

  “It’s a very good detector, Charley,” Pevsner said.

  “Well, now that you know we’re not trying to steal your silver,” Castillo said, “can we get to the business at hand?”

  “Absolutely,” Pevsner said. “But first, come in and say hello to another old friend of yours.”

  He gestured for them to pass through the double doors. Charley went first, and, as he entered the room, Howard Kennedy walked up to him, smiling, and put out his hand.

  “Mr. Dondiemo,” Castillo said.

  “Mr. Castillo,” Kennedy said. “How good to see you.” He looked at Pevsner. “Did I hear a buzzer just now?”

  “This is Mr. Lopez,” Pevsner said. “Charley’s cousin. He has a .45.”

  “And that’s all, Howard. We’re not wired,” Charley said.

  Kennedy ignored the remark.

  “You said something about needing a flat roof?” he said and motioned for Charley to follow him onto an unusually wide balcony, furnished with upholstered cast-aluminum deck furniture. Kennedy pushed a button on the wall as he went through open sliding-glass doors. There was an electric hum and the awning shading the balcony began to retract.

  “Will that do?” Kennedy asked, pointing to the roof.

  “Sherman?” Castillo called and Sergeant Sherman came out on the balcony.

  Castillo pointed to the roof.

  Sherman looked and then nodded.

  “I’ll probably even have room to put it far enough from the edge so it won’t attract attention from the ground,” Sherman said.

  “Do you think you could find a bellman to show Mr. Sherman how to get to the roof? And help him with his luggage? ” Castillo asked.

  “As I told you on the phone, Charley, your wish is our command,” Kennedy said.

  “How long is that going to take you, Sherman?” Castillo asked.

  “Not long,” Sherman said.

  He went to his enormous hard-sided suitcase, removed the control panel and its laptop-sized computer, and put them on a small desk beside the windows leading to the balcony and then closed the suitcase. When he started to pick it up, Pevsner snapped his fingers and two of the bellmen went quickly to him to take it from him.

  Sherman looked at Castillo, smiled, and shrugged, as if to say, “What the hell, why not,” and then started after the men with the suitcase.

  Sherman touched the small of his back, as if adjusting a pistol in his waistband.

  Sure, he’s got a pistol. Delta Force, like Mr. Pevsner, tries to be prepared for anything.

  I wonder why the detector didn’t pick it up?

  Or probably it did. It picked up both pistols at the same time but only Fernando fessed up.

  Alex, my friend, your security isn’t as hole-proof as you think.

  As Sherman went out of the apartment, two white-jacketed waiters came in, each pushing a serving cart before him.

  “I thought you might need a little something to eat after your flight,” Pevsner said. “But before we do that, has everyone met my cousin, Roberto, sometimes called ‘Howard’?”

  Everyone shook hands with Howard Kennedy.

  The waiters began laying out an elaborate breakfast buffet. When one of the chrome domes over a large plate was removed, Castillo saw eggs Benedict.

  When they had finished setting up the buffet, both waiters took up positions behind the tables—much like “Parade rest,” with their arms folded on the smalls of their backs— and waited to make themselves useful.

  Pevsner snapped his fingers again, said, “Gracias,” and pointed toward the door. The waiters quickly scurried out.

  “Now that we’re alone, Alex,” Castillo said, “are you going to tell us where the 727 is?”

  “Have some eggs Benedict, Charley. There’s plenty of time.”

  “No, there is not plenty of time,” Castillo snapped. “Where’s the goddamned airplane?”

  The look on Howard Kennedy’s face made it clear that Pevsner was not used to being addressed in that tone of voice and that he wasn’t at all sure how Pevsner would react.

  A cold look flashed across Pevsner’s face, quickly replaced by a smile.

  “If you eat your eggs Benedict, my friend, I will tell you where it is not,” Pevsner said.

  There was a sharp whistle, and, a moment later, Sergeant Sherman called, “Coming down!”

  Everybody looked at the balcony.

  An electric extension cord began to come down from the roof, followed immediately by a heavy, flat, tan rubber-covered cable.

  Fernando said, “I’ll get them,” and walked quickly onto the balcony and caught the extension cord and cable.

  “Plug the electric cord into the wall,” Sergeant Sherman said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s 110 or not. We have a built-in converter. I’ll plug the cable in.”

  “Got it,” Fernando called back.

  “We have 110-volt current,” Pevsner said.

  “Alex, where is it not?” Castillo asked, coldly.

  “It’s not at El Vigia,” Pevsner said. “It was, but it’s gone.”

  “Where’s El Vigia?” Castillo asked, visibly surprised.

  “About fifty miles south of Lake Maracaibo in Venezuela,” Pevsner said.

  “What about Zandery, Suriname? You’re telling me it’s not in Suriname?”

  “Where’d you get that?” Pevsner asked in surprise. “As far as I know, it’s never been in Suriname. Howard, did you tell him anything about Suriname?”

  “Only that it wasn’t going there . . . Oh, that’s right. The ten-dollar-a-minute phone in the plane cut us off before I could tell you that, Charley, didn’t it?”

  “Jesus Christ!” Castillo said. “We’ve been working on the premise that it went from Gambia to Suriname. Why the hell did they paint Suriname numbers on it?”

  “Possibly, they’re trying to confuse you,” Pevsner said, dryly, adding flatly, “The 727 went from Gambia to El Vigia. ”

  “How many fuel bladders were aboard?” Torine asked.

  “Thirteen were trucked into Abéché,” Howard Kennedy answered.

  “What was it doing in El Vigia? What’s in El Vigia?” Castillo asked.

  “There’s a pretty good field there,” Kennedy said. “Originally built as a private field by Shell to service their oil fields in Lake Maracaibo. Nobody could use it without Shell’s permission. After the Venezuelans nationalized the oil industry, it occurred to the powers that be that having a private airfield—a no-questions-asked airfield; one that could handle large jets—could sometimes be useful. So it’s still a ‘private landing strip.’ ”

  “So what’s the 727 doing there?”

  Pevsner and Kennedy looked at each other.

  “I’d rather not tell you until I’m sure,” Pevsner said.

  “W
hy not?”

  Kennedy looked at Pevsner for guidance. Pevsner gave it with a wave of his hand.

  “Well, when it comes to payback time for our cooperation in your investigation,” Kennedy said, “I don’t want somebody—my former colleagues are very good at this— saying, ‘Well, yeah, he did tell Castillo that the plane was in Chad, but we’d have heard about that anyway, and he did tell Castillo that the 727 was going to South America, but where else could it have gone? And when he told Castillo that the airplane was in El Vigia, having thus and so done to it, that was absolutely untrue. Pevsner gave Castillo nothing we couldn’t have gotten ourselves, and, therefore, we owe him nothing.”

  “Tell me about ‘thus and so,’ Howard,” Castillo said.

  Kennedy put up both hands, palms outward, signaling, Not from me, Charley.

  “Tell me, Charley,” Pevsner asked, “do you think the government of Venezuela would admit to any knowledge of a stolen airplane, possibly in the hands of terrorists, having flown to a private landing strip near Lake Maracaibo?”

  Castillo met his eyes but didn’t say anything.

  “Or,” Pevsner went on, “that while it was there, it took on new registration numbers—a fresh identity—and a great deal of fuel, much of it loaded into fuel bladders, and then took off again?”

  “Took off for where?” Castillo asked, softly.

  “I’ve got a good idea but I don’t want to tell you until I’m sure,” Pevsner said.

  “I have to know what you think,” Castillo said.

  “Let me run an off-the-wall scenario past you,” Kennedy said. “With the understanding that you know that this is not what Mr. Dondiemo and I are telling you is likely to happen. Just for the sake of conversation, all right?”

  “Okay.”

  Charley saw Fernando walk over to inspect the breakfast buffet. Then he found himself a chair, carried it to the table the waiters had set up, and then began to help himself to the food.

  Colonel Torine was apparently inspired by Fernando’s hunger. He got a chair and pulled it up to the table and then started filling a plate from the buffet.

  “The eggs Benedict here are really quite nice, Charley,” Pevsner said. “Why don’t you join them?”