“Yes, sir.”
* * *
As Oxley was about to make his next call, Anna said, “Sir, Mr. Quinlan is here and—”
“—threatening to break down the door. Okay. Send him in.”
“Falcone was just here,” Quinlan blurted.
“Yes, and you want to know all about it,” Oxley said, sounding exasperated and still holding the handset. “I’ll tell you in the fullness of time.”
“That’s exactly what Falcone says. And usually the time never comes, sir.”
“It’s a useful phrase, Ray.”
Quinlan knew the etiquette. He had not been invited to sit down. He stood for another moment, then turned and left.
Oxley spoke into the phone. “Okay, Anna, now I want to speak to the commanding officer at Guantanamo. I don’t want to talk to anyone else. Can you get me through to him without involving the Pentagon and the SecDef?”
She went to a secure Department of Defense webpage and a moment later said, “Well, sir, there is a protocol. You—that is, anyone—must go through the military communications satellite network. It seems to be the only telephone system available.”
“All right, Anna. Let’s give it a try.”
He heard the call going through, some buzzing, and what he assumed were voice recorders switching on. Then a voice: “Joint Task Force Guantanamo. Captain Newman speaking. This call is being recorded.”
“This is the President, Captain. I am ordering you to shut off the voice recorder.”
“I am sorry, sir, but—”
“I said shut it off, Captain. And get me your CO.”
Nothing happened for several seconds, and Oxley added, “Right now, Captain.”
A few more seconds, a couple of clicks. And then: “Major General Robert Dafoe speaking … sir.”
That ‘sir’ was slow, Oxley thought before saying, “I am responding to your message requesting national command authority.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am sending two lawyers by military aircraft. They are to remove Robert Hamilton from Guantanamo on my authority. The details of this matter are being handled by Major Joseph Galafano, a Marine in the White House military office who is acting directly for me. I have instructed him, as I am now instructing you, to keep this matter absolutely secret. There will be no documentation of this matter. Also, Secretary Winthrop tells me you have ordered an investigation of Mr. Hamilton’s rendition; I am countermanding that order. There will not be an investigation.”
“But, sir—”
“No investigation, no documentation, General. Everything about Mr. Hamilton’s arrival and departure must be treated as secret, top secret, on my authority. Is that clear, General?”
“Yes, sir. And when will they arrive?”
“As soon as possible.”
“And, sir, what of the psychiatrist? What is he to be told? Does he also leave?”
“Psychiatrist? I know nothing about a psychiatrist, General.”
“Dr. Korbin. He was sent here … to examine Mr. Hamilton.”
“And who sent him, General?”
“That is classified, sir.”
“I believe that, as commander-in-chief, I can be told classified information, General. Tell me. That’s an order.”
“The order came from General Carlton, sir,” Dafoe replied with obvious reluctance. “He said he was acting on White House authority, sir. Yes, that is what he said. ‘White House authority.’”
“And that was how Mr. Hamilton was taken to Guantanamo? By ‘White House authority’?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have any paperwork on that, General?”
“No, sir. What General Carlton said was just like what you just said, sir: no documentation. Everything so classified it is beyond classification, sir.”
Oxley hated to hear Carlton referred to as “general.” But he shrugged it off as one general being clubby about another. “Thank you, General. Goodbye.”
* * *
Major Galafano was assigned to the White House military office, whose responsibilities included Marine Helicopter Squadron One and the security force at Camp David. Ribbons on his uniform included those for the Silver Star and the Purple Heart. Oxley had spotted the ribbons when he first met Galafano. Oxley knew that heroes don’t like to talk about their medals. By asking the Pentagon for the medals’ citations, the President had learned that Galafano had been wounded saving a fallen Marine during a firefight in Helmand Province.
Ten minutes after the call to Guantanamo ended, Galafano entered the Oval Office, looking as if he had stepped out of a recruitment poster. He closed the door and stood at attention until Oxley said, “Sit down, Major,” and pointed to the chair next to his desk. Even sitting, Galafano was at attention.
“Major, I’m going to ask you to arrange a highly classified operation. I am personally issuing these orders as commander-in-chief.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to escort two civilians to Guantanamo.”
“Enemy combatants, sir?” Galafano asked, looking surprised.
Oxley laughed and said, “No. They’re not bad guys. Due to a screwup I need not describe, an American citizen, Robert Hamilton, has been taken to Guantanamo. I am permitting two lawyers—Sean Falcone and Christo Christakos—to go there and bring him back.”
“Sean Falcone? I traveled with him a few times. Good man, sir.”
“I agree, Major. I want you to call Falcone and Christakos—Anna will give you their numbers—and arrange to drive them to Andrews in your own car tomorrow morning. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I also want you to arrange the round-trip flight from Andrews to Guantanamo. I know there are Special Ops officers at Andrews who know how to keep flights like this invisible. That is what I want. Invisibility. And no documentation.”
“Yes, sir. I know the drill. I’ll get on that right now.”
“Fine. If anyone questions my authority, tell him or her to be ready for a general court-martial for failure to obey an order from the commander-in-chief.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s one more thing. I just found out there’s a psychiatrist with Hamilton. It’s a surprise that I’ll sort out later. Bring back the shrink, too.”
“Yes, sir,” Galafano said, looking puzzled, but only for an instant.
“Call me as soon as you take off from Andrews. Tell Anna to patch you into an encrypted satellite line so you and I can talk to each other directly if necessary. Your duties will end when the aircraft returns to Andrews. Other people will take over at that point.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, one more thing. You’re not wearing an aiguillette.”
“No, sir. Regulations. I can only wear it while actually performing duty as aide to the President.”
“Well, you’re sure performing a Presidential duty, starting right now. I want you in dress blues with those gold cords draped over your right shoulder to advertise that you are working for me. Okay?”
“Yes, sir,” Galafano said, smiling. “It’s an honor, Mr. President.”
“Thank you, Major. That will be all.”
* * *
“One more call, Anna,” Oxley said. “Sam Stone.”
In moments he heard a gravelly voice: “Stone here, Mr. President.”
Oxley had taken Falcone’s advice about how to deal with Sam Stone: Treat him as a lone-wolf agent, not the director of the CIA. Stone had dependable deputies assigned to deal with West Wing deputies. He rarely visited the White House, and he detested the orchestrated Situation Room meetings. But when the President called him directly, Stone knew the call would always be about something real, something that the President did not want handled by deputies.
“Sam, I’m sure it’s no surprise to you that I am calling about a certain rendition. For now, forget about how it happened and how he landed where he did.”
“Sir? Landed where?”
“He’s in Guan
tanamo. I assumed you knew.”
“Jesus, sir! No. I had no idea—”
“Never mind that right now, Sam. What I want from you, with as much secrecy as possible, is a safe house.”
“Excuse me, sir. But for your use?”
Oxley laughed. “No. I’m just the producer. I’m not in the cast. I want to have a place for some business that has to do with relocating the space man.” Oxley knew that Stone did not like using names on the phone. “The redhead is privy.”
“Yes, sir,” Stone said, as usual keeping his opinions about Quinlan to himself. And he wisely left unsaid any reference to Carlton. “Any idea when this is going to happen, sir?”
“There are a lot of moving parts, Sam. I guess tomorrow night, maybe early the next morning before the sun’s up.”
“I have found, Mr. President, that’s the best time to do certain things.”
* * *
Oxley, back on the phone, said, “Thanks for all your work, Anna. It’s very important. That’s all I can say about it. Now, please send in the impatient Mr. Quinlan.” He hung up and replaced the phone in the desk drawer.
Not a minute passed before Quinlan charged into the Oval Office.
“Sit down, Ray,” Oxley said, pointing to Quinlan’s usual chair at the side of the desk, a gesture that greatly pleased Quinlan. “Here’s what’s going on,” Oxley began. He delivered a short, speedily delivered account of the plan—without saying that Falcone had suggested it. “Major Galafano is handling tomorrow’s Guantanamo trip. I want you to handle the safe house. For now, just tell J. B. and Attorney General Malcomson to stand by for a possible night shift tomorrow. Then check in with Sam Stone and tell him you’re in this.”
73
Christakos arrived at Falcone’s residence at 6 a.m. and promptly made himself at home. With hardly a word, he entered the kitchen, found the necessary ingredients and utensils, and began producing his specialty, a cheese omelet.
“Please bring me up-to-date,” Christakos said over his shoulder, eyes on his creation. Falcone briskly described his meeting with President Oxley.
“Can we assume that all will be smooth at Guantanamo?” Christakos asked.
“Yes. I’m sure the boys there will love to see Hamilton go. I expect that he’ll be the problem. What do you think? You’ve met him.”
“A short but illuminating meeting,” Christakos said, serving the omelet and taking a stool at the counter alongside Falcone. “No sense of humor. Rigid, stiff. No sense that there’s anyone else on Earth. His number one assistant told me that he ‘never tells anybody anything.’ Those were her words.”
“And,” Falcone interjected, “he’s a religious zealot. Supposed to be a believer in The End Times.”
“I heard that, too. From Philip Dake.”
“Dake called you?” Falcone asked sharply. “When?”
“While you were in Russia.”
“What did he want to know?”
“He was trading gossip for information. Said he had heard something about Hamilton and the Apocalypse. Then he asked me when was the last time I saw my client. I merely said ‘recently.’ He pushed a little more, but I politely swatted him away. He’s writing a Hamilton biography, you know.”
“Yes. But I’m more concerned about what he writes in the Post. You know his system: big news story for the Post that shakes up Washington. Then, a while later, a book that expands on the news and becomes a best seller. If Dake exposes Hamilton’s rendition and the asteroid in a big-headlines news story, it could maybe start a march to impeach Oxley … not to mention a global panic.”
Falcone was making coffee when Sam Stone called. As usual, he did not bother to say hello. “I’m told you’re the point man.”
“Well, a Marine Major is setting up the trip.”
“I know. We’re in on the details. When you get back, you, your co-counsel, and your other passenger will be taken to a place in Virginia. Anyone else?”
“There’s the shrink,” Falcone said. “I guess we pick him up … And then what?”
“He gets a lift to his embassy,” Stone replied. “You can guess which one.”
“God! Their hands are all over this!”
“No comment. Anyone else joining you?”
“Yes. Two others. You’ll get a call about them from the redhead.”
“Okay. We’ll start setting the table.”
* * *
Galafano drove the twenty miles to Joint Base Andrews in eighteen minutes, zigging and zagging through the early-morning commuter traffic. His White House ID tag and fast talking about his passengers whizzed him through the gate and into the lot nearest the VIP Lounge. Countless members of Congress and bureaucrats, along with their special guests, had waited there for U.S. Air Force aircraft that catered to worthy civilians.
Galafano, Falcone, and Christakos did not enter the lounge. As soon as Galafano parked, an Air Force master sergeant appeared and led them to the nearest runway, where they boarded a Gulfstream C-20G, a military variant of the commercial aircraft. Falcone, settling once more into a spacious seat, knew he never again would be a contented commercial passenger even in first class. Each man celebrated the luxury of space by selecting a solo seat. Christakos and Falcone had to lean toward each other and slightly raise their voices to talk to each other.
As soon as they were airborne, a man in black slacks and a black hooded jacket appeared from the forward cabin, nodded to Galafano, and crouched down to speak to him. After a short conversation, the man returned to the front cabin.
Galafano stood between the other two and said, “We’ll be there in about two hours, Mr. Falcone. We are in contact with the White House communications system. It’s like we’re flying on a small-scale Air Force One.”
Falcone tried an occasional conversation with Christakos, who kept dozing off. Falcone finally fell asleep himself. When he awakened, he rummaged through a stack of magazines and settled on a two-month-old New Yorker, whose subscription label had been neatly cut away. He was halfway through a surprisingly long short story when he felt the aircraft begin its landing approach.
74
Looking down on Guantanamo Bay, Falcone could easily see the embracing contours of a safe harbor that for decades served as a coal station for U.S. Navy warships. A trophy of the Spanish-American War, the coal station evolved into a naval base and naval air station, whose runways and hangars now appeared as the Gulfstream banked. Beyond, on a patch of open land amid miles of cactus and scrub, he could make out the buildings of the Guantanamo prison.
Pointing to the landscape rushing up, Falcone turned to Galafano and said, “I wonder which one Hamilton is in.”
“I believe, sir, that he is in another facility,” Galafano replied. “You can see it, just behind a ridge, to the right of that long road.”
“I can see a cluster of what I guess are small buildings. They’re not connected with the prison?”
“No, sir. Those are cottages, built originally for people working at the naval base. The CIA took a couple of them over right after the detention center was built. That was classified for a long time.”
Falcone winced at detention center. The closing of Guantanamo prison was a personal passion for Falcone. He didn’t want to get into a legal discussion with Galafano, but he did say, “I guess the CIA torturers wanted to get far away so the other prisoners couldn’t hear the screams.”
“No, sir. That’s where they took the prisoners that the CIA wanted to turn into agents. They were promised freedom, protection of their family, and lots of money. The CIA treated them like hotel guests—good meals, comfortable bed, showers. Even TV. How many agents they got will probably never be known. The code name for the place was Penny Lane, after the Beatles song.”
“Funny name.”
“It was a takeoff on the name of one of the camps: Strawberry Fields. That’s where they keep the really bad guys. The song’s title is really ‘Strawberry Fields Forever.’ Well, anybody who went to that camp
was never going to get out. The sentence was forever.”
“You seem to know a lot about Guantanamo, Major,” Falcone said.
“I was assigned to the Guantanamo Marine security unit, sir. We heard a lot about the camp. But I didn’t have any official duties there.”
Falcone wanted to ask about those duties, for he assumed that Galafano had been involved in Special Forces operations and wondered how they involved Guantanamo. But he had talked to enough people carrying secrets to know when to stop asking questions. And he had done enough research about Guantanamo to realize much could be hidden within the complexity of its structure as a secretive site with two distinct commands, each under a separate commanding officer.
Guantanamo Bay Naval Base—“Gitmo” to generations of sailors—is also a naval air base. The base is like a small town of several thousand officers and enlisted men and women, and their families, complete with a school system, restaurants, bars, and an outdoor movie theater. The place is also like an aircraft carrier because it is self-sufficient—producing its own water from seawater, generating its own electricity, and under surveillance by an enemy behind a vast minefield that marks the border between Cuba and the forty-five square miles occupied by the United States.
The prison and its miles of surrounding desolate grounds form the Detention Center Zone, which is commanded by an officer who is a warden without that title. He watches over buildings designed to federal penitentiary specifications and known as camps.
Because the prison is primarily linked to the outside world by naval aircraft, the base serves as the prison’s airport. A dozen soldiers appeared at the terminal where the Gulfstream landed. Galafano, the first passenger down the stairway, assumed that he and his charges would be met by the prison’s commanding officer, Major General Robert Dafoe. But a lieutenant colonel stepped forward. Galafano saluted and said, “I am escorting two guests of General Dafoe, sir.”
“General Dafoe is unable to be here, Major,” the officer said, introducing himself as Lieutenant Colonel Harry Young. “I am to take you to the facility where Mr. Hamilton is staying.”
Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel Page 31