Castillo was surprised at Delchamps’s little speech. He often thought that the veteran CIA agent was as voluble as a clam.
And Delchamps wasn’t through.
“A good idea went wrong. That happens. What you do when that happens is make the necessary adjustments.”
“Such as?” Castillo asked.
“Remove temptation,” Delchamps said. “The information stream becomes one way. They tell us . . . only us . . . what they know, and we decide who, if anybody, also gets to know. And they don’t tell anybody what we’re doing unless we tell them they can. I don’t think the admiral here or the chopper pilot would have any problem with that.”
He paused and looked at first Radio and TV Stations and then at Annapolis, and then asked, “Would you?”
“No,” Radio and TV Stations said.
“None at all,” Annapolis said.
“You’re not going to ask me?” Investment Banker asked.
“What you two, and especially the Evil Quintet, would have to fully understand is that whoever breaks the rules has to go.”
“What do you mean, ‘has to go’?” Investment Banker asked.
Delchamps shrugged. “I think you take my meaning,” he said.
“My God!” Hotelier said. “Was that a threat?”
“I have never threatened anybody in my life,” Delchamps said. “I’m just outlining the conditions under which we could have a continuing relationship.”
Dmitri Berezovsky smiled.
They all know, Castillo thought, that the CIA establishment refers to Delchamps and perhaps a dozen other old clandestine service officers like him as “dinosaurs.”
They were thought to be as out of place in the modern intelligence community as dinosaurs because to a man their operational philosophy had been a paraphrase of what General Philip Sheridan said in January 1869 vis-à-vis Native Americans.
The dinosaurs believed that the only good Communist was a dead Communist.
They all also know that Delchamps is alleged to have recently applied this philosophy to the SVR rezident in Vienna and to a member of the CIA’s Clandestine Service who had sold out. The latter was found dead in his car in the CIA parking garage in Langley with an ice pick in his ear, and the former had been found strangled to death with a Hungarian garrote in a taxi outside the U.S. embassy in Vienna.
Neither the FBI nor the Austrian Bundeskriminalamtgesetz was able to solve either murder.
And maybe proving that I’m a young dinosaur, the truth is I wasn’t at all upset that they had been unsuccessful.
The question then becomes how are These People going to react to Delchamps’s “outlining the conditions under which we can have a continuing relationship”?
“Would you like a moment alone to discuss this?” Delchamps asked.
“So far as I’m concerned, that won’t be necessary,” Annapolis said. “I can accept those conditions.”
“And if anyone else doesn’t like it,” Radio and TV Stations said, “they’re out.”
He looked at Investment Banker and Hotelier.
“In or out?” he asked.
“I can’t remember ever having been in a negotiation before, even with the Mafia,” Hotelier said, “where the options were to go along or ‘go away.’ ”
“Is that a yes or a no?” Radio and TV Stations asked.
“I think what Mr. Delchamps has proposed is reasonable under the circumstances. I’m in.”
“I always look for the bottom line,” Investment Banker said. “And the bottom line here is that both parties need each other to do what we know has to be done, and that no one else can do. I accept the conditions.”
“I’ll deal with . . . what did you call them, Mr. Delchamps? ‘The Evil Quintet’?” Radio and TV Stations said.
“That’s what I call them when there are ladies present,” Delchamps said. “When you ‘deal with’ them, you might mention that.”
He looked at Castillo.
“Your call, Ace,” he said. “You’ve heard the proposal. Okay by you?”
Castillo stopped himself just in time from saying, “I’m going to have to consult with my consigliere.”
But he did just that, by looking first at Sweaty and then at her brother. Both nodded just perceptibly.
“Okay,” he finally said, simply.
Annapolis walked to him and offered his hand. Castillo shook it. Annapolis then offered his hand to Sweaty, as Radio and TV Stations walked to Castillo with his hand extended. Wordlessly, all of Those People solemnly shook the hands of all of the Merry Outlaws.
“I think another toast is in order,” Hotelier said when that was over. “More champagne, or something stronger?”
“I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me a taste of that twenty-five-year-old Macallan,” Delchamps said, pointing to a long row of whisky bottles on a bar.
“I’ll go along with Patrick Henry,” Agnes Forbison said.
The two waiters quickly took orders for drinks, and quickly and efficiently distributed them.
Castillo wondered how much he could trust Investment Banker’s waiters to forget what they had just heard.
Well, I think we can safely presume if they already don’t know of Edgar’s reputation, he’ll tell them. That should ensure their silence.
“If I may,” Hotelier said, raising his glass. “To the successful conclusion of difficult negotiations and our success in future operations.”
Everybody sipped.
“And if I may,” Castillo then said. “To full understanding of the conditions of our new relationship, and to the long, long time it’s going to be between now and our having to put that understanding to the test.”
Everybody took another swallow.
“I hate to rain on our happy little parade,” Annapolis said, “but that time may be a good deal shorter than we all hoped.”
When no one replied, he went on: “Just before you came in, we were watching Wolf News. We recorded it. I think you should have a look at it.”
He waved at the long couch and at the armchairs around it.
There was a muted whirring and a screen dropped from under the upper-level foyer, and then another whirring as drapes slid over the windows looking down at the Miracle Strip.
When everybody had found a seat, the lights dimmed, and the stirring sounds of the fourth and final part of Gioacchino Antonio Rossini’s William Tell Overture—sometimes known as the Lone Ranger theme—filled the room.
A blond, crew-cut head filled the screen.
“I’m J. Pastor Jones,” the head announced. “It’s five P.M. in Los Angeles, and eight in Montpelier and time for the news!”
It wasn’t quite time. There followed a ninety-second commercial for undetectable undergarments for those suffering from bladder-leakage problems, and then came another ninety-second commercial for those who suffered heartburn from eating spicy pizza and “other problem-causing goodies.”
This gave Castillo plenty of time to consider that he disliked TV anchors in general and J. Pastor Jones in particular. Jones reminded Castillo of the teacher’s pets of his early childhood and the male cheerleaders of his high school years. J. Pastor Jones was not only from Vermont—which Castillo thought of as the People’s Democratic Republic of Vermont—but had appointed himself as a booster thereof, hence the reference to Montpelier, which few people could find on a map, rather than to Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Washington, D.C., or Miami, which were also in the Eastern time zone.
J. Pastor Jones reappeared on the screen, this time sharing it with C. Harry Whelan, Jr., who was a prominent and powerful Washington-based columnist and a Wolf News contributor.
“There is bad news in the war against drugs,” J. Pastor Jones announced. “Very bad news, indeed. Wolf News contributor, the distinguished journalist C. Harry Whelan, has the details. What happened, Harry?”
C. Harry Whelan, Jr., now had the entire screen to himself. It showed him sitting in what looked li
ke a living room whose walls were lined with books.
“We don’t know much,” Whelan announced pontifically, “but what we do know is this: Wolf News has learned exclusively that tomorrow’s Washington Times-Post will carry a story by the distinguished journalist Roscoe J. Danton that three American officers in Mexico to fight the drug cartels were shot to death near Acapulco at noon today. They were, according to Danton, Antonio Martinez and Eduardo Torres, both of whom were special agents of the Drug Enforcement Administration, and Chief Warrant Officer Daniel Salazar, who was attached to the U.S. embassy in Mexico City.”
“Shit,” Castillo said.
“According to Danton, the three murdered men were known to be traveling to Acapulco with Lieutenant Colonel James D. Ferris, an assistant military attaché of the U.S. embassy, for a conference with Mexican officials. Colonel Ferris and the embassy vehicle, a Suburban bearing diplomatic license plates, are missing, according to Danton.”
“Oh, Jesus H. Christ!” Castillo said.
“Danton has declined to reveal his sources, even to me, and Roscoe and I have been friends and fellow journalists for years. He has put his distinguished reputation on the line with this story, and I believe him. Calls to the State Department, the Pentagon, and the U.S. embassy by Wolf News reporters have elicited only this response, which I quote: ‘The alleged incident is under investigation.’
“Wolf News will stay on top of this story, and when we know more, you will. This is C. Harry Whelan.”
The screen now filled with the head of J. Pastor Jones.
Just as Castillo was about to order that Mr. Jones be cut off, someone pushed the PAUSE button.
Castillo punched a button on his CaseyBerry, and then the LOUDSPEAKER button.
“I thought you might be calling, Charley,” Roscoe J. Danton said.
“That’s odd,” Annapolis said. “When I tried that, I got a message, ‘Not authorized.’ ”
He looked at Aloysius Casey.
“That was before you and Charley kissed and made up,” Casey said.
“Where’d you get the Mexican story, Roscoe?” Castillo asked.
“From a lady friend in Foggy Bottom,” Danton replied.
Castillo had a quick thought.
Nobody really believes the CaseyBerrys are as good as they are; we talk on them as if someone might be listening.
“You have anything more than we got from your buddy Whelan on Wolf News?” he asked.
“I talked to your old boss; he said Vic is on his way down there,” Danton replied, “and about twenty minutes ago, there was an e-mail from Porky saying Clendennen will have an announcement to make tomorrow at eleven.”
“Keep me in the loop, Roscoe,” Castillo said.
“What about Those People?”
“Annapolis and Radio Stations are good to go,” Castillo said. “I’m still making up my mind about the banker and the hotelier.”
He thought: And I’m glad Investment Banker and Hotelier heard me say that. Let that sink in a while, and then I will let them back in the tent.
“You met with them?”
“Yeah. Just now.”
“Casey told me that was going to happen. I thought maybe there’d be an AP flash: ‘Mass Murder in Sin City.’ ”
“I was thinking of feeding them to the sharks in the aquarium in the Mandalay Bay. But my merciful nature took over. Thanks, Roscoe.”
“We’ll be in touch,” Danton said.
Castillo put his CaseyBerry away.
“Well, if McNab has sent Vic D’Alessandro down there,” he said, “then until we hear from him, I can’t think of anything else that can be done to get Ferris back from the goddamn drug cartels.”
“Carlos,” Berezovsky said, “what makes you think the drug people have your friend?”
“Jesus, I never even thought about that,” Castillo asked.
“Am I permitted to ask, ‘Thought about what?’ ” Investment Banker said. “Or are you still making up your mind if my word is any good?”
“Why don’t you and Hotelier think of yourselves as being in a halfway house?” Castillo said. “Where one slip from the straight and narrow will turn you into shark food?”
“What Ace didn’t think about is that Dmitri’s pal Vladimir doesn’t like being humiliated,” Delchamps said.
“And that Vladimir Vladimirovich might think a good way to get his hands on Carlos,” Berezovsky picked up, “would be to grab him when he gets on his white horse and gallops into Mexico to rescue his friend from the drug people.”
“Who’s Vladimir?” Hotelier asked.
“His last name is Putin,” Annapolis furnished.
“Carlito would have thought about Vladimir,” Sweaty said loyally.
Sure I would, Castillo thought, probably by a week from next Thursday. Jesus!
“And now that this has come up,” Sweaty went on, “we have time to think about it. Carlito is right; until we hear from Vic D’Alessandro, there’s nothing we can do.”
“Except remember what you and Dmitri are always telling me,” Castillo said. “Putin always has a Plan B.”
“I don’t follow you, Ace,” Delchamps said.
“Dmitri,” Castillo asked, “One, how many ex-Spetsnaz does Aleksandr have raking the sun-swept beaches at the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort? Two, how many of same would he be willing to loan me right now?”
“To do what, Ace?” Delchamps asked.
“To provide a little extra security for the people at the Lopez Fruit and Vegetables Mexico. I think Putin knows about that, too, and I don’t want them getting into the cross fire.”
“At least twenty,” Berezovsky said. “I think Aleksandr would give you, say, ten—all that could fit into the Gulfstream—right now. More men, as soon as they could be flown up from Argentina.”
“You sound pretty sure,” Castillo said.
“Carlito,” Sweaty said, “not only does Cousin Aleksandr love you, but he knows the best way to deal with Vladimir Vladimirovich is to—what is it Edgar says?—cut him off at the balls.”
“For the record, Sweaty,” Delchamps corrected her, “what I said is, ‘Cut him off at the knees.’ ”
Berezovsky took out his CaseyBerry and punched a key.
“Aleksandr, I’m with Charley in Las Vegas,” he said in Russian. “Vladimir Vladimirovich has raised his ugly head again, and we need some help to cut him off at the knees. This is the problem . . .”
II
[ONE]
Yadkin and Reilly Road
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
0845 12 April 2007
The Federal Express truck pulled to the curb before a two-story brick house, and the driver, after first taking a FedEx Overnight envelope from where he had stuck it on the dashboard, got out.
He took a quick look at the envelope as he walked around the front of the truck.
The Overnight envelope, sent by the Mexican-American News Service of San Antonio, Texas, was addressed to: LTC BRUCE J. MCNAB, YADKIN AND REILLY ROAD, FORT BRAGG, NC 28307.
The FedEx driver had served in the Army, and knew that LTC meant “lieutenant colonel.” And he had served long enough to know that lieutenant colonels do not live in large brick homes on what was known locally as “Generals’ Row.”
After a moment, he decided it was a simple typo; LTC was supposed to be LTG, the abbreviation for “lieutenant general.” A small wooden sign on the lawn of the house confirmed this analysis. It showed three silver stars, the rank insignia of a lieutenant general, and below that was neatly painted B. J. MCNAB.
The driver, now convinced he was in the right place, continued up a walkway through the immaculately manicured lawn toward the house.
He was almost at the door when a black Chevrolet Suburban came—considerably over the posted 25 mph speed limit—down Reilly Road, stopped and quickly backed up the driveway of the house. Doors opened. The driver, a young Green Beret sergeant in a camouflage-pattern battle-dress uniform, and a young Gre
en Beret captain in dress uniform got out of the front seat. The sergeant quickly removed a cover from a red plate bearing three stars mounted on the bumper and then rushed to open the passenger door. He was too late. The door was opened by a Green Beret colonel in a dress uniform who marched purposefully toward the house with the captain trailing him.
The driver stood beside the passenger door.
The front door of the house opened and General McNab came through. He was in dress uniform and wearing a green beret. Both breasts of his tunic carried more ribbons and qualification badges than the driver had ever seen on one man during his military service.
Colonel Max Caruthers, who was six foot three and weighed 225 pounds, and Captain Albert H. Walsh, who was almost as large, saluted crisply and more or less simultaneously barked, “Good morning, General.”
General McNab returned the salute and then turned his attention to the FedEx deliveryman.
“Far be it from me to stay a FedEx courier from the swift completion of his appointed rounds, but curiosity overwhelms me,” he announced. “Dare I hope that envelope you are clutching to your breast is intended for me?”
“It is, if you’re Bruce J. McNab,” the courier said.
“Guilty,” General McNab said.
The courier extended the clipboard for the addressee’s signature.
Captain Walsh snatched the Overnight envelope from the driver, handed it to the general, and then signed the receipt on the clipboard.
General McNab ripped open the strip at the top of the envelope and took from it an eight-by-ten-inch photograph.
“Oh, my!” he said, in a tone similar to what a grandmother would use when her cake batter slipped from her hands and splattered over her kitchen floor. “Oh, my!”
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