By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Maybe because I would feel I was chewing while Rome burns?” Charley replied.

  Pevsner chuckled.

  Oh, to hell with it. I am hungry.

  He found a chair and put it beside Fernando’s and then went to the buffet.

  Kennedy picked up another chair, wordlessly offered it to Pevsner, who smiled and shook his head. Kennedy then put the chair beside that of Colonel Torine and went to the buffet table and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  Charley, on tasting the eggs Benedict, smiled.

  “I’m pleased that you are pleased, Charley,” Pevsner said. “They are to your satisfaction, no?”

  “They’re fine,” Charley said. “Okay, Howard, shoot.”

  “This scenario needs to take certain things as given,” Kennedy began. “One of them is that the people who have this airplane are considerably more skilled than those who flew the 767s into the World Trade Center. These guys are pilots, skilled enough to fly—navigate—a 727 across the Atlantic . . .”

  “Supposition granted,” Castillo said. “They’re graduates of the Spartan School of Aeronautics in Tulsa. What else?”

  “You know who these people are?” Pevsner asked, surprised.

  Castillo nodded. “We even have their names and photographs. ”

  “How do you know?” Kennedy asked, almost openly suspicious.

  Well, what the hell, he used to be an FBI agent; good cops check.

  “I’ll admit it’s circumstantial. Two guys from Somalia, mullahs, were in Philadelphia at a Muslim temple. The Philadelphia cops—their counterterrorism people—took their pictures and gave them to the FBI to run. The FBI ran them and hit. They were legally in the States to go to flight school. We have confirmation from Spartan.”

  “So there is a Philadelphia connection,” Pevsner said.

  “Circumstantial or not, that sounds solid,” Kennedy said. “The one thing the bureau is good at is making IDs. They can do that with a computer; no original thought required.” He paused as if gathering his thoughts and then went on: “And, knowing this, it would be reasonable to assume several more things. They may not know how close we are to them, but they know we’re looking for the airplane. So how would intelligent pilots get a 727 to Philadelphia?”

  “It’s your off-the-wall scenario, Howard. You tell me.”

  Kennedy had just opened his mouth to speak when there was a faint musical rendition of the opening bars of Strauss’s Weiner Blut. Pevsner took a cellular telephone from his trousers pocket. He spoke in Russian.

  “Yes?—

  “TI? That’s all he got—

  “Call him back and make sure that’s all he got.”

  He punched the END key and put the telephone back in his pocket and looked between Castillo and Kennedy.

  “I’m making up my mind whether I should tell you what that was,” Pevsner said. “I’m concerned that Charley might act impulsively.”

  Everyone waited while he made up his mind. It took no longer than thirty seconds, but it seemed longer.

  “The pilot of an aircraft that had to make an unscheduled stop—a warning light on the instrument panel suggested a hydraulic pressure problem—at El Vigia,” Pevsner said, finally, “reports that while the problem was being attended to he happened to see a 727 aircraft in a hangar. Registration numbers and other painting were going on. Unfortunately, all he could see was the TI prefix. He said it was still dark.”

  “Damn!” Charley said. “What’s ‘TI’ mean?”

  “And that they were pulling masking tape from freshly painted red, white, and blue stripes on the vertical stabilizer, ” Pevsner added.

  “When was this?” Charley asked.

  “About four hours ago,” Pevsner said. “He had to wait until he got to Bolivia—La Paz—before he could call.”

  “TI is the Costa Rican registration suffix,” Colonel Torine said. “This pilot, Mr. Dondiemo . . .”

  “If you call me ‘Mister,’ ” Pevsner said with a smile, “I’ll think you’re suggesting I call you ‘Colonel.’ ”

  “Not at all, sir. Alex. How reliable is this pilot? Does he work for you?”

  “He flies for an air cargo company with which I have a certain relationship. All of their pilots are reliable. As a matter of fact, now that I think about it, this one’s an American.”

  “So they’re painting red, white, and blue stripes on the vertical stabilizer of a Costa Rican 727, so what?” Charley said.

  “El Vigra is not a maintenance facility, Charley,” Kennedy said. “But if you want to change an airplane’s identity without anybody seeing you or asking questions . . .”

  “Okay,” Castillo said, looking out the window at the ocean view then turning to the others, “let’s go with our 727 now flying Costa Rican colors. How does that fit in with your off-the-wall scenario?”

  “I think it fits in very nicely, now that I’ve a moment to think,” Kennedy said. “Okay, let’s pick up the scenario . . .”

  He stopped when Sergeant Sherman, trailed by the large East European Charley thought of as the guy who suckered me in the men’s room came into the apartment.

  “Pretty soon, Major,” Sherman said as he sat down at the table where he’d put the control box and the special laptop computer. He plugged in the tan cable.

  “One possibility, Charley,” Kennedy went on, “that you might wish to consider is that these people are going to substitute the airplane they’ve stolen for an airplane that can approach Philadelphia without causing suspicion; an airplane that routinely goes to Philadelphia.”

  “Jesus,” Charley said.

  “For the sake of argument, let’s say a 727 belonging to a Costa Rican airliner. All that they would have to do would be make sure that the bona fide Costa Rican airplane wasn’t in United States airspace at the same time.”

  “How would they do that?” Castillo asked, and the answer, Sabotage the clean airplane, quietly sabotage the clean airplane, came to him as he spoke.

  “How do you think a mechanic in, say, San José, Costa Rica,” Pevsner asked, slowly, “would react to an offer of ten thousand dollars to do something to an aircraft that would take it out of service for twenty-four hours? Not blow it up, nothing that would cause suspicion, just take it temporarily out of service for a day?”

  “What was Marlon Brando’s line in The Godfather, ‘Make him an offer he can’t refuse’?” Kennedy asked. “In this case, he would probably have the choice between taking the ten thousand, doing what he was asked to, or having his wife and children disemboweled.”

  Castillo looked over at Sergeant Sherman, who sat wearing a small headset in front of the control device.

  “Sherman, how we doing?” Castillo asked.

  Sherman held his left hand above his head, the fingers extended.

  One by one, he folded them.

  “All green, sir,” Sherman said.

  Castillo walked to him and picked up a small telephone handset.

  “Are we into Philadelphia?” he asked.

  “Major Miller’s at City Hall,” Sherman said. “He’s on a secure line to the arsenal base.”

  “Get him on,” Castillo ordered.

  Sherman pushed several buttons. “Line’s green, encryption green,” he said.

  “Sergeant Schneider,” Betty’s voice came very clearly down from the satellite.

  “Castillo here. Can you get Miller on here?”

  “Hold one, Major,” Sergeant Schneider said.

  “Charley?” Miller asked a moment later.

  “Right.”

  “Did you get the word they’ve located the 727 in Suriname? ”

  “No, they haven’t. It’s not in Suriname and never has been.”

  “What?” Miller asked, incredulously. “Charley, just before Secretary Hall and the commissioner went in to see the mayor—that’s where we are, City Hall—he had a call from the CIA—from the DCI himself—that the airplane’s at a field called ‘Zandery’ in Suriname. That’s what he’s t
elling the mayor.”

  “Well, the CIA is wrong again.”

  “McNab has been ordered to neutralize it,” Miller said. “He’s already at Hurlburt, about to go wheels-up.”

  “Listen carefully, Dick. This is what I need from you. Go out to the airport and find out what airplanes regularly land—I don’t mean on schedule, just all the time—from Costa Rica and get back to me. Find out what Costa Rican airline regularly goes to Philadelphia.”

  “Were you listening, Charley? Did you hear what I said? The CIA has found the airplane. Confirmed. They even have a visual.”

  “That’s not the one we’re looking for. Now, goddammit, do what you’re told! Now!”

  He touched Sergeant Sherman’s shoulder.

  “Get General McNab on here.”

  [FIVE]

  Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., looked around the small room off the outer office of the mayor of the City of Philadelphia. There were three other people in it. Sergeant Betty Schneider of the Philadelphia Police Department and Supervisory Special Agents Joel Isaacson and Thomas McGuire of the United States Secret Service.

  “Interesting question,” Isaacson said, dryly. “Who do you believe? The director of Central Intelligence or Don Juan?”

  “I’ll go with Don Juan,” Agent McGuire said.

  “He sounded very sure of himself,” Sergeant Schneider said.

  “Don Juan is always very sure of himself,” Isaacson said. “Which is not the same thing as saying he’s always right.”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea where to get that information at the airport. Or that they’ll give it to me without a lot of hassle.”

  “I’ll go out there with you, Sergeant,” Tom McGuire said. “Maybe my badge, plus my Irish charm, will be useful.”

  “You think I should barge in the mayor’s office and tell Secretary Hall?” Miller asked.

  “Not without more to go on than what Don Juan told you, I don’t,” Isaacson said. “But I think you should do what Don Juan wants done.”

  “Anytime you’re ready, Sergeant,” Tom McGuire said.

  “I just had a wild hair,” Sergeant Schneider said, thoughtfully.

  She took out her cellular, scrolled through the names and numbers displayed on it, and pushed the CALL button when she had found it.

  “Mr. Halloran, this is Sergeant Schneider, Betty Schneider. Remember me?—

  “This is a strange question, Mr. Halloran, but please bear with me. Off the top of your head, do you know of any airline from Costa Rica that comes to Philadelphia frequently? I don’t mean a passenger service, especially—

  “Oh, you do know one? Could you tell me about it, please?”

  Less than sixty seconds later, she covered the microphone with her hand and said, “Bingo! I think you’d better get Castillo back, Dick.”

  And thirty seconds after that, Miller reported, “The channel ’s in use.”

  “Keep trying,” Sergeant Schneider ordered.

  [SIX]

  “Before you say anything, Charley,” Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab said, “let me tell you the latest words of General Allan Naylor vis-à-vis you and me. ‘You’re a goddamned lieutenant general. You don’t take goddamned “suggestions ” from a goddamned major! And you goddamn well know it!’ ”

  “He found out you’re at Hurlburt?” Castillo asked, but it was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes, he did. And apparently he’s not nearly as impressed with your status as the personal representative of the president as I hoped he would be.”

  “Well, I’ll take the heat, sir. I still think it was a good idea to pre-position at Hurlburt.”

  “That’s very noble of you, Charley, but he’s right. Lieutenant generals should not take suggestions from majors, and, if they do, they should expect to feel the heat. What’s up?”

  “The airplane is somewhere in Costa Rica; it’s been rerenumbered and rerepainted.”

  “Jesus, are you sure? The only reason we’re not on our way to Suriname right now is because they haven’t been able to find us someplace where we can sit the C-17 down.”

  “It’s not in Suriname,” Castillo said.

  “You got that from your friend the Russian arms dealer, right?”

  “Right.”

  “My God, Charley! Fort Meade has photographs of the airplane at Zandery. The CIA guy in Suriname made a visual and you’re telling me they have the wrong airplane?”

  “Yes, sir. They probably have a photograph of an Air Suriname 727 with the right numbers, because it’s an Air Suriname 727. The airplane the Holy Legion of Muhammad has is probably in Costa Rica.”

  “Where in Costa Rica?”

  “I don’t know that yet.”

  “Have you told anybody else this?”

  “No, sir. What I’ve done is send Miller out to the airport in Philadelphia to see what airplanes from Costa Rica routinely land there. What they’re obviously trying to do is get into the Philadelphia area without ringing alarm bells.”

  “How are they going to do that?” McNab asked, dubiously.

  He thinks I’ve lost my mind.

  Have I?

  “By immobilizing a bona fide Costa Rican 727 for twenty-four hours and sending the one they have in its place.”

  “You’re going to have a tough time selling that to Naylor. He already thinks you’re drunk out of your mind with authority you don’t have.”

  “What if I’m right, General?” Castillo said. “And I’m not going to try to sell General Naylor anything. I’m going to tell Secretary Hall. I work for him, not General Naylor.”

  “Charley,” McNab said, softly, “you’re an Army officer assigned to CentCom J-5.”

  Castillo didn’t reply for a moment, then he said, “General, until I’m told otherwise I will continue to obey the last orders I have—which are from the president—to coordinate with you the neutralizing of the 727. In that capacity, I am recommending to you that you prepare to neutralize the 727 in Costa Rica.”

  It took McNab ten seconds to reply.

  “What the hell, Mr. Castillo, in for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “I’m now going to report to Secretary Hall what I’ve learned,” Castillo said. “I’ll let you know what he says.”

  “Do that,” McNab said. “McNab out.”

  Charley touched Sergeant Sherman’s shoulder.

  “Get me Philadelphia again, please.”

  “Coming up,” Sherman said, and, a moment later, “All green, encryption, green.”

  “Miller?”

  “Sergeant Schneider, Major.”

  “Put Miller on, please.”

  “I think you better hear this first,” Betty Schneider said. “Costa Rican Air Transport makes frequent flights into Philadelphia using its 727 aircraft at least once a week, sometimes two or three times.”

  “Jesus, that was quick!” Castillo said. “Are you sure?”

  “Halloran—Lease-Aire—sold them the airplane. He services it when it’s here. Flowers into Philadelphia and household goods into San José.”

  “Flowers and household goods?”

  “Fresh flowers. They grow them in Costa Rica and fly them here to sell in supermarkets. And the household goods are for Americans who retire down there. They can bring their household stuff into Costa Rica without paying any duty on it.”

  “Jesus Christ, there’s the connection,” Castillo said.

  “There’s more,” Betty Schneider said. “On the way up here, they stop at Tampa, go through customs there, drop off some flowers, and then come here.”

  “As a domestic flight,” Castillo said. “Not an international flight.”

  “Right.”

  “And, obviously, there would be no questions asked when they topped off their tanks,” Castillo said. “Where’s Secretary Hall?”

  “In the mayor’s office with the commissioner.”

  “Get him on here, Betty.”

  “I don’t think he or the mayor’s going to like be
ing interrupted. ”

  “Go get him,” Castillo said.

  XVIII

  [ONE]

  Office of the Mayor City Hall Broad and Market Streets Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 1015 10 June 2005

  “What is it that’s so important, Charley?” the secretary of homeland security said impatiently into the secure telephone, leaving unspoken the rest of the question: that you decided you should interrupt my meeting with the mayor?

  Castillo knew what had not been said.

  “The 727 is not in Suriname, Mr. Secretary,” Castillo said.

  “You mean it’s taken off?”

  “No, sir. What I mean is that the 727 stolen in Angola was never in Suriname.”

  “The DCI obviously has information, including satellite imagery and a visual by his station chief, that you’re apparently not aware of.”

  “The Air Suriname 727 at Zandery, sir, is a legitimate Air Suriname 727. The one we’re looking for, with a new identity, is somewhere in Costa Rica.”

  “You have this from your friend the arms dealer, right?” Matthew Hall asked, half sarcastically, half sadly.

  “Yes, sir,” Castillo said. “But Sergeant Schneider has just made the Philadelphia connection, which confirms what I’m telling you.”

  “What did she do?”

  “What Pevsner suggested—he’s in the process of finding out more—was that the Holy Legion of Muhammad plans to get through our security by substituting the airplane they have for an airplane that routinely comes to Philadelphia. Schneider found there is an airplane, owned by Costa Rican Air Transport, that flies fresh flowers to Philadelphia at least once a week. Lease-Aire sold them the airplane, and they service it when it’s in Philadelphia. This ties in with what Pevsner told me: that our airplane was at a private strip in Venezuela getting repainted as a Costa Rican Air Transport plane.”

  Secretary Hall looked across the small room at Sergeant Betty Schneider, who was leaning against the wall. He was aware that Joel Isaacson, Tom McGuire, and Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., were looking at him, waiting for his reaction.

  That means they know about this Philadelphia connection, and, if they let Miller burst into the mayor’s office, they believe it.