Private line?
The one in what he calls his working office?
“Colonel Castillo for the President, please.”
“Colonel, the President is in a do-not-disturb conference in the Oval Office. If you will kindly give me a second—”
“Can you tell me with whom?”
There was a long pause, then:
“The secretary of State, Ambassador Montvale, and the directors of the CIA and the FBI. However, the President’s given special instructions should someone call about you, sir.”
There was another long pause, then Castillo heard the President’s voice snap, “Yes, what is it?”
“Are you free to speak with Colonel Castillo, Mr. President?”
“Oh, am I ever. Are you on here, Castillo?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Hang on a minute. I’m going to the little office.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Castillo quickly formed a mental picture of what was happening. The President of the United States was rising from his desk in the Oval Office—or from an armchair or a couch—and marching into the smaller office just off the Oval Office, officially known as “the President’s working office,” leaving behind him Secretary of State Natalie Cohen, FBI Director Mark Schmidt, Director of Central Intelligence John Powell, and Director of National Intelligence Charles W. Montvale, all of whom had just come to the same conclusion: that the President didn’t want any one of them to hear what he was going to say to a lowly lieutenant colonel, and that they were going to be furious to varying degrees, none of them minor.
“Okay, Charley, I’m in here.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I think you’d agree that Mark Schmidt is not given to colorful speech,” the President said.
“Sir?”
“He just came up with something very colorful. He said, ‘As far as out-of-control loose-cannons rolling around are concerned, Castillo by comparison makes Oliver North look like the Rock of Gibraltar.’ ”
The President let that sink in.
“Of course, that may be because he is just a little humiliated that the FBI can’t find you or those two Russians you stole from the CIA.”
Castillo didn’t reply.
“Why did you steal those defectors from the CIA, Charley?”
“Sir, the CIA never had them.”
“Then there is another side to this horror story I have just heard?”
“Yes, sir, there is.”
“Did you tell the DCI that you refused to turn over the stolen Russians to him?”
“Sir, they were not stolen. I told him that the Russians did not wish to turn themselves over to the CIA.”
“And also that the CIA was nothing more than a very few very good people, or words to that effect, trying to stay afloat in a sea of left-wing bureaucrats?”
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid I did.”
“What are you doing in Las Vegas?”
“Sir, I’m not in Las Vegas.”
“Charles Montvale says you are.”
“Ambassador Montvale has been wrong before, too, sir.”
“Right now, Charley, you are not in a position where you can afford sarcasm.”
“Yes, sir. No offense intended. I actually meant it as a statement of fact. Sorry, sir.”
The President sighed. “Charley, I have to ask this: Did you personally assassinate or did you set up the assassination of a Russian in Vienna in circumstances designed to make it appear the CIA station chief was the villain?”
“I learned of that, sir, only after it happened.”
“Frankly, I didn’t believe that one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, Charley, here it is. You’ve earned the right to tell me your side of the incredible things I have been hearing that you have been doing. The question is how to do that? Where are you?”
“In Texas, sir.”
“In about an hour, I’m going to Philadelphia. Two speeches, one tonight and one tomorrow at lunch. If you can give me a more precise location than ‘Texas,’ I’ll send a plane to pick you up. I can give you half an hour tomorrow morning. Say, at nine. The Four Seasons Hotel.”
“Sir, I’m in Midland, Texas. On my ranch.”
“Is that where you’ll go after you retire?”
“Possibly, sir. Sir, you don’t have to send a plane. I have one.”
“I have to ask this, too: You’re not thinking of getting on your plane and flying off to, say, Argentina, are you?”
“No, Mr. President, I’m not. I’ll see you in Philadelphia tomorrow morning.”
“And once more, probably proving that there is such a thing as too much loyalty downward, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”
There was a click.
Castillo, in deep thought, stared wordlessly at the handset.
“Colonel?” Sexy Susan said. “Colonel . . . ?”
“Disaster time,” Castillo announced five minutes later. “I just promised the President I would report to him at nine tomorrow morning in Philadelphia. I also told him where I am.
“Priority one is keeping Sweaty and Dmitri out of the hands of the CIA.”
He looked at Casey. “I need a really big favor, Aloysius.”
“I’ll take care of them, Charley.”
“I’ll need you to fly them to Cozumel . . .”
“I’ll take care of them, Charley,” Casey repeated.
“ . . . as soon as possible.”
Casey turned to the AFC. “Casey. Ellwood Doudt.”
“Good afternoon, sir,” Doudt answered almost immediately.
“Pick me up an hour ago.”
“Roger that. On our way, sir.”
“Casey out.” He looked at Castillo. “Soon enough, Charley?”
“Thank you.”
“Why don’t I go with you, Carlos?” Dmitri Berezovsky asked.
“I am going with you,” Svetlana announced.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Castillo said. “For one thing, they wouldn’t let either of you get near the President. For another, even if I could get you in to see him, you’d be Russian embezzlers facing Montvale and the DCI, and they both are convinced you’re liars.
“Jack will go with you,” Castillo went on. “Les, I’d like you to go with me, if you’re willing. And you, too, Two-Gun. Les to work the radios, Two-Gun to explain the money trail in his report if I can get the President to listen.”
“Sure,” Yung said.
“Yes, sir,” Bradley said.
“Jack, as soon as you can,” Castillo went on, “get on the horn to the Pilar safe house. Have someone there get in touch with Aleksandr, give him a heads-up that Dmitri and Svetlana are headed back to his Cozumel resort. He’ll have an idea or two on how best to get them from there back to Argentina quietly and safely.”
“Done,” Davidson said. “When are you going to leave?”
“Just as soon as I can wind it up, I’ve got to stop at Midland for fuel and to file a flight plan. Keep an eye on my pal Max, okay?”
Dmitri repeated his offer to go with them as they shook hands at the house, and Castillo repeated his reasons why that wouldn’t make any sense.
Svetlana and Doña Alicia went as far as the plane. Bradley and Two-Gun boarded the Lear, and Doña Alicia waited in the Yukon while Castillo and Svetlana said their good-byes.
“I have this terrible feeling I will never see you again, my Carlos,” Svetlana said.
“Don’t be silly. The worst that can happen to me is that they’ll have somebody sit on me until I go through that retirement charade. As soon as that’s over, I’ll get on a plane and fly to Gaucho Land, where you’ll have my golf clubs all waiting for me.”
“I wish I was with child. At least I would have that.”
“I already have one of those, and from what I have seen, one is enough.”
“It is all right, my Carlos. We had what we had, and we both know the rules of the game we’re in. I w
ill pray for you.”
If I thought it’d work, I’d pray myself.
“I have to go, sweetheart.”
They kissed.
The kiss was unlike any he could remember. That frightened him.
The last thing he saw as the Lear broke ground was Doña Alicia and Svetlana standing in front of the Yukon. Doña Alicia had a comforting arm around Svetlana, who was weeping.
Castillo caught himself thinking that it looked funny.
Sweaty’s so much taller and larger than Abuela.
Jesus Christ, that’s tremendously touching, not funny.
I really am a callous bastard!
[ELEVEN]
Atlantic Aviation Services, Inc.
Philadelphia International Airport
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
0810 14 January 2006
Getting to Philadelphia should have been as simple as Castillo had hoped: fuel the Lear, file the flight plan, get in the bird, and three and a half hours later give or take, land in the City of Brotherly Love.
It wasn’t. There was really bad weather all up and down the eastern seaboard—which he learned when he tried to file his flight plan—and it was not much better most of the way between Midland and the eastern seaboard.
Arriving in Philadelphia at 1800 for a long conversation with Jack Britton over a nice lobster dinner somewhere and then getting a good night’s rest before facing the President the next morning at 0900 proved impossible.
He hadn’t been able to get off the ground at Midland until almost eight at night, and then only because he was going to fly first south-southeast from Midland to Houston, then due east to pass over Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama, then north-northeast over Georgia and on to Norfolk, Virginia, the closest airport to Philadelphia that was not experiencing weather-interrupted operations.
At 0720, he finally received clearance to fly ORF-PHL direct, which was fortunate inasmuch as a good deal of research had revealed there was no ground transportation that could carry them there from Norfolk rapidly—if at all—as the roads were covered with snow and ice.
En route, Corporal Bradley managed to contact Jack Britton, who said he would do his best to meet them on arrival, but the roads were icy and he would be personally surprised if the airport didn’t shut down again before they got there.
Britton was waiting for them when they landed.
The Lear had forty-five minutes’ remaining fuel.
Waiting with Britton was Chief Inspector F. W. Kramer, who commanded the Counterterrorism Bureau of the Philadelphia Police Department. Perhaps equally important, Kramer had done much of his military service with the Tenth Special Forces Group.
“How they hanging, Charley?” Kramer greeted Castillo. “Getting much? What can we do for you?”
“I need to be at the Four Seasons Hotel at five minutes to nine, and Corporal Bradley and Two-Gun Yung have to be there ten minutes before that.”
“I can get you there by then, but maybe not in. The President’s in town, and that’s where he stays.”
“I know,” Castillo said.
“Why don’t we send them in that?” Kramer said, pointing to a fully equipped patrol car. “And I’ll take you in mine.”
“Can they use your room to set up the AFC, Jack?”
“Hell, no,” Britton said. He tossed Bradley a door-opening plastic key. “Show that to the doorman if you get there before we do. He’s a retired cop.”
[TWELVE]
The Four Seasons Hotel
130 North 18th Street
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
0855 14 January 2006
There was no sign of the patrol car or of Bradley or Yung when Chief Inspector Kramer’s unmarked car pulled up before the door of the Four Seasons.
“I’ll put the arm out for them, Charley,” Kramer said. “You go on in. You don’t want to keep the President waiting.”
“Let him in,” the President of the United States said when the Secret Service man announced there was a Lieutenant Colonel Castillo seeking an audience.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Castillo said. His eyes scanned the room, and he added, “Madame Secretary, Gentlemen,” to the secretary of State, the DCI, the secretary of Defense, and Ambassador Charles Montvale.
“And you didn’t think he would show, did you, Charles?” the President said, then looked at Castillo, and added, “I don’t think I’ve seen you needing a shave before, Charley.”
“I apologize for my appearance, Mr. President.”
“Don’t worry about it. Needing a shave pales to insignificance beside the manifold other sins Mr. Powell and the ambassador are alleging you have committed.” He paused, then turned to a steward. “Get the colonel a cup of coffee. He looks as if he desperately needs one.”
“Thank you, sir. I do.”
“Good morning, Charley,” Secretary of State Natalie Cohen said.
None of the others said a word.
“Okay, let’s get to it,” the President said once the steward had delivered Castillo’s coffee and left the room. “In as few words as possible, Charley, take it from the beginning. You have five minutes.”
It wasn’t hard for Castillo to start. He had expected the question and had spent all of his time in the air mentally rehearsing what he would say.
It took him longer than five minutes, however, and he wasn’t quite finished when the door opened and a Secret Service agent put his head in.
“Excuse me, Mr. President. There’s a kid being held at the elevator who says he’s Colonel Castillo’s bodyguard. He also says he’s a Marine corporal. He says he has something Colonel Castillo absolutely has to have.”
Montvale looked at the agent and blurted: “Jesus Christ! You actually came in here with something like that for me?”
“I think he was talking to me, Charles,” the President said, and looked at Castillo.
“Corporal Lester Bradley, sir,” Castillo confirmed.
“Get him in here. I can’t pass up the opportunity to see the colonel’s bodyguard.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Bradley came into the room two minutes later. He carried Castillo’s laptop, Yung’s report, Torine’s Proposed Operational Orders, and the AFC handset.
He popped to attention and saluted the President, who crisply returned it.
“You’re Colonel Castillo’s bodyguard, are you, son?” the President asked.
“Sir, yes, Mr. President, I am, sir.”
“For God’s sake, he’s not old enough to vote,” Montvale said disgustedly.
“Sir, no sir, I’m not old enough to vote, but I am Colonel Castillo’s bodyguard, sir.”
“Who has twice saved my life, so lay off him, Montvale,” Castillo snapped, then heard himself. “I’m sorry, Mr. President.”
“If he’s your bodyguard, I would presume he already knows what we’re talking about here?”
“Yes, Mr. President, he does.”
“Stick around, son. I want a word or two with you when this is finished.”
“Aye-aye, Mr. President, sir.”
“Okay, Charley, wrap it up. We’re running out of time.”
It took Castillo another three minutes.
“That’s about it, sir.”
“It’s about time,” Ambassador Montvale said.
“Shut up, please, Charles. I’m thinking,” the President said.
That took a full twenty seconds.
“Bottom line, Charley,” the President said. “Even if I believed everything you have told me, there’s just not enough there for me to authorize a clandestine mission—or even an overflight, except by satellite—to look into it.”
“Mr. President, may I say how relieved I am to hear you say that?” Secretary Cohen said. “The ramifications of a black operation going wrong—”
“Right now,” the President interrupted, “the answer is no, Colonel Castillo. But I will give you one more chance to turn your Russians over to the agency. If they a
re able to convince the DCI there is even a remote chance that what they’re selling is true, I will authorize a mission to the Congo.”
“Mr. President, I have people in the Congo,” Castillo said.
“What the hell did you just say?” the DCI barked.
“I find that hard to believe, Charley,” the President said. “Why should I?”
Castillo turned on the AFC handset, and his speakerphone.
“C. G. Castillo. Colin Leverette. Encryption Level One.”
I know Colin’s twenty-four hours are far from up, but, please, Lord, let him answer.
“What is that thing?” the President asked. “Some kind of telephone?”
Sexy Susan’s voice said: “Colonel Castillo, I have Mr. Leverette. Encryption Level One.”
“Hey, Charley! You bastard—I haven’t been here an hour.”
“Where are you, Uncle Remus?”
“Kisangani. You want to buy a parrot?”
“What is that, some sort of a code?” the secretary of State muttered.
“What are you doing in Kisangani?” Castillo asked.
“Well, the colonel needed someplace to set up his laboratory, so we rented a house. He’s using the kitchen for his lab, and I’m buying parrots in the living room. I have fifty of them and have promised to buy another hundred.”
“Uncle Remus, I’m with the President and some very important people—”
“Oh, God! I have a sick feeling that you’re not pulling my chain.”
“Do you think the colonel has come up with anything the President should hear?”
“Yes, sir. He has.”
“Can you get him on here, please?”
“Hold on.”
“What colonel is that?” Montvale asked.
“Colonel J. Porter Hamilton of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute at Fort Dietrich,” Castillo said. “Ring a bell?”
“Not with me it doesn’t,” the President said. “Who is he?”
“The preeminent expert on biological and chemical warfare,” the DCI said.
“And you sent him into the Congo?” Montvale said. “You really are crazy, Castillo.”
Black Ops Page 57