She held a gold-filigree-covered fountain pen and ticked off the details. “There are some minor points to be worked out,” she concluded. “The number of bodyguards they travel with is a problem. We don’t have enough rooms for them all in the guest houses and I would like to split them up. But we must keep their numbers balanced so one group doesn’t outnumber the other.” Chiang nodded his approval. “And I am arranging companions and entertainment to keep them occupied.”
“James has a portfolio of escorts,” Chiang told her. “I would suggest two for one and about ten percent should be young men and boys. We have some new cottages in the village. Why don’t you see if they can be made suitable while James and I discuss other matters.”
“I’ll get on it right away,” she said, beaming with pride and success as she hurried from her office. This was her first opportunity to leave the compound on her own, proof that she was becoming more than just his mistress.
Chiang walked back into his office and James followed, closing the door behind them. Both men sat down. James was much more than a majordomo in charge of the domestic affairs of the compound. He was Chiang’s chief of security and second-in-command. “She is proving very helpful,” James said in Chinese. “It is a sad thing to lose her.”
“It was your idea,” Chiang replied. “Besides, it will provide a certain entertainment for our guests. And the other two?”
“They are in the cells,” James said.
“I was listening in on your conversation,” Chiang said. James’s expression did not change. He had supervised the installation of the hidden microphones in the villa and was mindful of how Chiang eavesdropped at will. “I would rather you did not discuss your past with Miss Courtland.” All color drained from James’s face. In all the years he had been in Chiang’s service, this was the first time he had been criticized. It was a warning. “Please make the other arrangements.” Chiang gave him a pleasant smile.
James stood and left, his knees very weak. He had been granted a reprieve.
The Executive Office Building, Washington, D.C.
Mazie’s stubby fingers flew over the keyboard of the computer as she switched scales on the map. The video screen flashed and the map changed, showing a larger area around Chiang’s compound. “I don’t think it will work,” she told Mackay, who was peering at the screen over her left shoulder. She used a pencil as a pointer. “The distances are too close together where they should be farther apart and too far where they should be close together.”
“Trust me,” Mackay said. “It can be done.”
“First you tell the President that we need a cast of thousands to crack this place open and now you’re telling me you can do it with a small unit.”
“With the right group, you bet.”
Mazie drummed on the video screen with the pencil’s eraser. “Let’s run it past the boss and see what he says. Personally,” she groused, “I think you’re simply looking for a way out of here.” He only grinned at her. “Please stop smiling,” she told him.
National Security Adviser Cagliari’s first reaction to Mackay’s proposal had been a simple “That’s dumber than dirt.” Mazie got up to leave, satisfied that it was a dead issue. But the lieutenant colonel would not give up easily.
“Sir,” Mackay persisted, “the reason we keep doing pushups on our sword in small-scale rescue operations is because our government is too damn big and we keep having problems with duplication of effort and jurisdictional disputes.”
Cagliari relented and motioned for Mazie to sit back down. “For example?” he asked.
“We cannot do a damn thing in Burma without the ambassador’s approval. Then the CIA gets involved and makes sure that all intelligence is funneled through their Far Eastern Division. CIA division chiefs run the show like feudal barons and nothing gets by without their approval. By this time, the whole operation starts to resemble a bureaucratic nightmare as everyone starts to get a piece of the action.”
“I see you’ve learned how this place works in a very short time,” Cagliari said. “So how do you intend to get around all this?”
“Simple,” Mackay replied. “We don’t tell anyone what we’re doing and keep the operation small and under close wraps until we’re ready to execute. Then we chop to the normal chain of command.”
“Chop?” Mazie asked.
Mackay explained, “Chop means change of operational command to another authority.”
“And who exercises that tight control until we chop?” Cagliari asked.
“You.”
“You’re asking me to take one hell of a chance,” Cagliari growled. “This place has infected you with delusions of grandeur and you seem to have forgotten what happened the last time the NSC got involved in covert operations.”
“But I can make it work,” Mackay interrupted. “And we only get the operation ready. We never assume the authority for execution.”
“Details, I need details,” Cagliari said. He was intrigued and saw possibilities where none had existed twenty minutes before.
“I don’t have the details all worked out…yet,” Mackay told him. “Let me put together a small unit disguised as routine training. All I need is to get the right people talking to each other and we’ll fill in the details.”
“And who are these right people.”
“Well, we’ll need one squadron from Delta, the same contingent from the First SOW that rescued Anderson would be preferable, and some help from the ISA….” He hesitated when he saw Cagliari stiffen. The Intelligence Support Activity was so secret that even most of the intelligence community did not know it existed. Mackay plowed ahead. “Specifically, I want the ISA’s shooters.”
“That tears it,” Cagliari said, slapping his desk with both hands and coming to his feet. “How in God’s creation did you learn about them?”
Mackay grinned. “Mazie has access to System Four and worked it out. There is only one possible explanation for what happened in Beirut—the ISA has shooters—very good ones.”
Cagliari sat back down. “You snookered me. You weren’t even sure they existed until I confirmed it. How do you propose to fund this operation?” he asked.
“By using the funds that were sequestered during the Yellow Fruit investigation and court-martials.”
Cagliari only shook his head and did not bother to ask how Mackay had learned about Yellow Fruit. Yellow Fruit was an Army special operations unit that had gone astray in the mid-1980s and its officers had been court-martialed for misappropriation of government funds. When the bureaucrats started scrapping over the carcass of Yellow Fruit with its huge multinational secret bank accounts, the attorney general had ordered all moneys impounded and held in a special account until the investigation was complete. The account had grown and in the last secret budget for clandestine operations, it had been transferred to Cagliari as part of the NSC’s contingency fund. “Is there anything else?”
“I want one other person,” Mackay concluded.
“Why not?” Cagliari conceded. “You seem to have this all worked out. Now you only need my approval.”
“Have I got it?” Mackay asked.
“You have my limited approval to put a team together, plan, and train for the operation. That’s all.”
“Thank you, sir.” Mackay smiled as he bolted from the office, anxious to get out of Washington.
“I wish he wouldn’t smile,” the national security adviser told Mazie before she followed him.
The Capitol, Washington, D.C.
Senator William Douglas Courtland sat in his office hurrying his way through the stack of documents and reports on his desk. The task never took much time since his staff had reviewed and prepared a three- or four-paragraph summary cover sheet for each one. Then the summary had been further distilled to a three- or four-sentence minimemo that was stapled to the top. Like all good staffers on the Hill, Courtland’s people knew what would upset the senator and had carefully massaged each summary and memo, presenting unpal
atable topics in a way that would not scratch his prickly personality too deeply.
“Goddamn it,” he growled, becoming more frustrated as he worked his way into one report that detailed the recent successes of the Drug Enforcement Administration in rolling up a major Canadian-based drug ring. His face flushed when the report covered the evidence that tied the drug ring to Chiang Tse-kuan. How does that dumb Polack do it? he raged to himself. The senator had focused on the DEA as a prime political issue for his upcoming drive for the presidency and had planned to beat Pontowski about the head and shoulders with it, claiming only he could turn the DEA around. But the President had honed the DEA into an effective law enforcement agency and ripped the issue out of Courtland’s hands. Courtland’s mental political calculator tallied it up, giving Pontowski another credit. Not good, he cautioned himself, coming so hard on the heels of Nikki Anderson’s rescue. A warning light was flashing on the calculator, telling him that he had to do something very soon as Pontowski’s side of the balance sheet was much longer than his.
His intercom buzzed, demanding his attention. It was Tina Stanley wanting to see him. The senator scribbled a “no action” note across the memo and tossed the report into his out basket, glad for the chance to shift his attention. A secretary announced Tina and held the door open. A tall, immaculately groomed and handsome Air Force three-star general preceded her into the office.
“Senator Courtland”—Tina smiled—“I’d like you to meet Lieutenant General Simon Mado.”
Courtland stood up and extended his hand. “I am glad to meet you, General. I’ve heard some good things about you.” They shook hands and exchanged the customary courtesies, each sizing up the other. Courtland was struck by the man’s presence, for the general was in excellent physical condition that complemented his reputation as a first-class intellect. He started to add up the political possibilities.
“General Mado,” Tina said, “the senator is very worried about his daughter and we would appreciate your personal assessment of the situation.”
“Needless to say,” Courtland interrupted, “I applaud your rescue of Miss Anderson and wish to offer my congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mado replied. “Your support is greatly appreciated. As you know, we did experience high casualties and are being severely criticized by the media and a few of your fellow senators. Of course, I am not in a position to set the record straight in public, nor will I since I am a subordinate officer.”
It was the response Courtland wanted to hear. “I am appreciative of your position,” Courtland reassured him. The two men nodded at each other, both considering an alliance. No deals would be cut and no promises exchanged; however, both men were aware of how they could help each other. Open collusion was out of the question; active support of each other’s goals was not. But they had to reach an understanding. The senator adopted the look of a concerned parent. “General, I would like to know the truth about the rescue and my daughter’s situation.”
Mado carefully considered his reply. “Sir, given my position, I’m not sure what I should say at this time.”
Courtland nodded understandingly. “My committee will be conducting hearings into the matter. As chairman of the Armed Services Committee, I must oversee the effectiveness of our defense establishment.” The senator watched Mado’s face as he offered the bait. “Without the right leaders in command of our military services, we become a paper tiger.”
“If I am called on to testify,” Mado said, “and I am asked the right questions, the truth will come out.”
“And what is the truth?” Courtland asked.
Mado ran through his own decision making process and decided to commit. “It was my intention to free all the hostages simultaneously. I was overruled and Operation Dragon Noire was executed prematurely. If my recommendations had been followed, we would have freed all the hostages and I am confident that six members of Delta Force would still be alive.” He fell silent, letting them digest his “revelation.” “Your daughter’s release will have to be negotiated now because another rescue operation is out of the question. By going after Nikki Anderson when we did, we lost the element of surprise and Chiang will be expecting another attempt. He’s ready and waiting for us.”
“I think,” Tina said, “that thanks to the recent activities of the DEA, Chiang is in no mood to negotiate.” She had read the same report that had caught Courtland’s attention earlier.
“So, my daughter’s continued captivity is the price we paid for rescuing Miss Anderson.” The senator was not upset by this latest calculation and saw some new equations forming, creating definite political opportunities. “But surely,” he continued, “we are capable of mounting another rescue. What with the forces available to us…”
“Senator,” Mado said, “I cannot encourage you on that point. We were lucky in getting Miss Anderson out with only six casualties.”
Courtland fixed his gaze on Mado. “General, I would like for my committee to hear what you’ve told me.” He held up his hand. “Before you make that decision, I want you to know that I appreciate your position and understand that your testimony could hurt your career. But I protect those loyal Americans who put duty and honor above career.”
“Thank you for your concern, Senator,” Mado said. “I will answer any questions from your committee with candor and honesty. I won’t pull any punches.”
“That’s all I can ask,” Courtland replied, his face serious and full of concern. The alliance was signed, sealed, and delivered.
Tina escorted Mado out of the senator’s office. “General,” she said, “perhaps you can tell me the exact questions the senator should be asking during the hearings.”
The White House, Washington, D.C.
“You see what the newspapers are calling us these days?” Bobby Burke, the director of central intelligence, asked Michael Cagliari as they entered the Oval Office.
“It could be worse,” Cagliari replied. “They could have called us the Three Stooges.” They exchanged brief smiles, both accepting the recent spate of publicity that the President’s top three advisers had been getting in the press. One reporter had labeled Burke, Cagliari, and Leo Cox, the President’s chief of staff, as the three most powerful men in the United States. Burke and Cagliari were smiling because the reporter obviously didn’t appreciate just how strong-willed and independent their chief was. The reporter had misread the President’s courtly and gracious manner as a sign of indecision. In reality, no one controlled the President of the United States or set his priorities.
Cox was already there, going over the day’s schedule with Pontowski. “We’re here to do our ‘daily number’ on you,” he told the President, quoting the same reporter.
“Do your damnedest.” Pontowski smiled, waving Burke and Cagliari to seats. “What nefarious schemes are you three trying to perpetuate on this poor old unsuspecting soul today?” He had read the same story in the press. The three men briefly expounded on their favorite schemes before turning to business. For the next forty minutes they covered the most pressing concerns the White House was addressing that spring day. Finally, they turned to the matter of the three hostages and the rescue of Nikki Anderson.
“The Senate Armed Services Committee hearings are turning into a bloodbath,” Cagliari said. “Courtland is treating our people from Defense like hostile witnesses and ripping them apart. He really grilled General Mado.”
“I thought Mado held his own and came out looking pretty good,” Burke said.
“He personally looked good,” Cox interrupted. “He passed the buck up the chain of command. Wait until Courtland starts grilling the NMCC. And you’re next, Mike.”
Cagliari accepted the prediction calmly. “I expected to be called to testify,” he said.
“The trouble,” Cox continued, “is that Courtland is asking all the right questions. It’s as if he has an inside line to our decision cycle.”
“Some one is feeding him,” Burke grumbled. “H
e’s making the rescue of Miss Anderson look like a complete fiasco. It would help if Anderson presented a better public image. She looks and talks like a freak.”
“That,” Cox interrupted, “is exactly how heavy-metal weirdos want to look. But what happens when Courtland starts probing for the reasons we ordered Delta in when we did? That has me worried. We need a way to muzzle him.”
“There is a way,” Pontowski said. The men fell silent and waited. From long experience they knew that the President had reached a decision and they were about to get their marching orders. “First, send word to the committee that Bobby is available as a witness only for today. They will jump at the chance to get the head of the CIA on the stand. Once you’re there, Bobby, force the committee into closed-door session so you can discuss classified information. That will muzzle Courtland. Tell the committee everything except our sources. We don’t need Willowbranch compromised. There are some good men on the committee and they can accept the truth.
“Second, have Special Operations Command start working on a rescue mission. I want this to be a major effort and all concerned agencies involved. The State Department will veto any large-scale military action and claim it would totally destabilize the new Burmese government, which it would, and which we do not want. But we will override State’s objections and press ahead with the planning. Another leak will magically appear and the word will be passed to the press, forcing us to cancel the operation.”
“Isn’t it wonderful how decisions are made in our government?” Cagliari complained.
A disgusted look played across Cox’s face. “We’re wasting a lot of time and effort on this when we’ve got more pressing problems.”
“That’s politics, Leo,” Pontowski said. “Rationality and logic have nothing to do with what’s important. While all this is going on, I want to explore every contact we have to negotiate for the hostages’ release. Get the DEA and the FBI involved. They’ve got contacts inside the drug cartels. Finally, I want to get a second rescue operation on the boards and keep it totally dark.” He pointed at his national security adviser. “Mike, see what you can do.”
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