By Order of the President

Chapter VII

[ONE]

Office of the Director

The Central Intelligence Agency

Langley, Virginia

1725 6 June 2005

"Secretary Hall is on Secure 2 for you, boss."

The director of Central Intelligence's private reaction to the announcement was somewhat less than unrestrained joy. He had a headache, for one thing, and for another he had promised his wife that he would really try to get home for once on time, if not early. They were having dinner at the White House.

But he smiled his thanks at his executive assistant, picked up his phone, and pushed the second of four red buttons on his telephone.

"And a very good afternoon to you, Mr. Secretary," he said. "And how may the Central Intelligence Agency be of service?"

"I'm glad I caught you, John."

"I was, literally, about to stand up and walk out the door. What's on your mind?"

"We have what might be a problem," the secretary of homeland security said.

"You sound serious, Matt."

"Unfortunately, I am."

"You're on a secure line?"

"Yeah."

"So tell me."

"Are you going to the White House tonight?"

"I don't think you're just idly curious, Matt. Yeah. Aren't you?"

"I think we should talk this through before we go there and are asked about it."

"Talk what through? You want to come over here? I'll wait for you."

"What I'd really like for you to do is come to the Mayflower. Suite 404."

"You mean right now?"

"Right now, John. I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important."

The director didn't reply for a moment. Then he said, "Matt, I don't want to have to come all the way into the District only to have to go back across the bridge to get dressed and then go back across that damned bridge again. At rush hour. Will this wait until I go home and put on a black tie? That way I can bring Eleanor with me and we'll be right around the corner from the White House."

"How would Eleanor feel about having a drink in the Mayflower bar with one of your bodyguards while we talk?"

"She won't like it but she'll do it."

"Okay, John, thank you. I'll be expecting you."

"I'll be there as soon as I can, Matt. Four-oh-four, you said?"

"Four-oh-four," Hall said.

"Okay," the DCI said and hung up.

Then he telephoned his wife, told her that he was just now leaving the office for the house, but as soon as he got there he would have to take a quick shower, put on a dinner jacket, and leave immediately. He told her she had her choice of going with him right now and having a drink in the bar of the Mayflower while he talked to someone or going into the District later alone and meeting him outside the Mayflower or at the White House, whichever she preferred.

Eleanor said that what she really would prefer was that he come home as he said he would really try to do and that they go to the White House together, but since that was obviously out of the question, again, she would do whatever was best for him.

"Let me think about it on the way home," he said.

"Do that, John," she said. "Think about it."

Then she hung up.

[TWO]

The Mayflower Hotel

1127 Connecticut Avenue NW

Washington, D.C.

1925 6 June 2005

The director of Central Intelligence had been driven alone-his choice-from his home to the Mayflower hotel in a dark blue GMC Yukon. The Yukon was armored and the windows were deeply tinted. There were three shortwave antennae on the roof.

But the vehicle, the director believed, would not attract very much attention. There were probably three hundred nearly identical vehicles moving around the district and by no means did all of them belong to the government. He suspected that maybe half of them belonged to, say, middle-level bureaucrats in, say, the Department of Agriculture, who had bought them to impress the neighbors, as a, say, middle-level bank manager in St. Louis, Missouri, would have bought a Jaguar or a Cadillac he really couldn't afford for the same purpose.

In Washington, prestige came with power rather than money. In Washington, and environs, the way to impress the neighbors was to look as if you were important enough to move around in an armored, window-darkened Yukon with antennae on the roof.

The DCI's Yukon and the DCI himself attracted little attention when he rolled up in front of the Mayflower, quickly got out, and marched across the lobby to the bank of elevators, even though he was preceded and trailed by security men.

They ascended to the fourth floor. One of the security men got off the elevator first, looked up and down the corridor, and then indicated the direction of Suite 404 with a nod of his head.

The security man waited until the DCI started off the elevator, then led the way down the corridor to 404, where he knocked three times on the door.

It was opened by a young man in a dinner jacket. The security man quickly scrutinized the guy. He was not of the beady-eyed political lackey sort that the security man was accustomed to encountering in this town. He showed confidence and control.

"Who are you?" the security man asked, not very politely.

The young man glanced down the corridor, saw the DCI approaching, and evenly replied, "If you're looking for Secretary Hall, this is it." He opened the door wider.

The DCI appeared in the doorway.

"Come on in, John," the secretary of homeland security called.

The DCI entered the suite.

The living room looked like someone lived there, he thought, rather than as if it were just one more "executive suite" occupied by some businessman-not government employee; a government per diem allowance wouldn't come close to paying for this place-in Washington for a few days.

The young man in the dinner jacket started to close the door in the face of the security guard, who held it open with his foot and hand and looked to the DCI for guidance.

"It's okay," the DCI said, and the security man removed his foot and hand and the door closed in his face.

"John, this is my executive assistant, Charley Castillo," the secretary said.

The DCI smiled and put out his hand but didn't say anything.

"How do you do, sir?" Castillo said politely, shaking the hand.

"Eleanor downstairs?" the secretary asked.

"No. She's coming in later. I told her to call my cellular when she got close," the DCI said.

"Well, maybe we can wrap this up before she gets here," the secretary said. "Can we get you a drink, John?"

"Thank you, no. What's this all about, Matt?"

The secretary picked up a folder from the coffee table-the DCI noticed that it bore no security stamps of any kind-and handed it to him.

The document inside, six single-spaced pages, also was barren of security stamps of any kind. But two sentences into it, the DCI was aware he was reading an intel filing.

This one suggested the strong possibility that the Boeing 727 that had gone missing from Luanda, Angola, had been stolen by or for a Russian arms dealer by the name of Vasily Respin either for parts to be used by one of his enterprises or to be sold to others.

"This sounds more credible than some of the other theories I've heard," the DCI said. "Where did this come from? And is this why you asked me to come here?"

"I asked you to come here because I thought we could handle something that's come up between us," Hall said. "I'd rather, if possible, that we kept this out of school, John."

The DCI nodded and waited for Hall to go on.

"John, did you see Natalie Cohen's memo that I was to get everything, including raw data, from everybody about the 727?" Hall asked.

"I saw it, wondered about it, and ordered that it be carried out," the DCI said.

"Would you say that that file met the criteria for material I was to get?"

"Obviously."

"I didn't get it, John. That's the problem," the secretary said.

"You obviously got it from somebody, Matt. I don't understand."

"The problem is that I should have gotten it from you and I didn't. The satburst was filed to Langley by your station chief in Luanda," Hall said, nodding at the file the DCI was still holding in his hand.

"And the filing?"

"The satburst was either spiked or lost, or something, in Langley. I never got it from you."

"And the filing?" the DCI repeated, somewhat impatiently.

"That was never sent, because there was no response to the satburst."

"I can't believe that," the DCI said.

"Well, that's what happened, John," Hall said.

"Then where did you get it? The satburst and the filing?"

"Charley brought them to me just before I called you," the secretary said, and then added, "When he came back from Luanda."

The DCI glanced at Castillo. I thought he said this guy was his executive assistant. So what was he doing in Luanda? And with his nose obviously into something that's none of the Department of Homeland Security's business? How did he come into possession of this file? How did he know this file was sent to Langley? That it was either spiked there or that something else happened to it?

"You are going to tell me what's going on here, right, Matt?"

"I am, and I'm afraid you're not going to like it."

"We won't know that until you tell me, will we? How about starting with what Mr. Castillo was doing in Luanda and how he came into possession of this?" The DCI held up the file.

"He was in Luanda because the president ordered him to find out what everybody knows about the missing 727 and when they learned it," Hall said.

"Everybody meaning who?"

"The CIA, the DIA, the FBI, the State Department, the Office of Naval Intelligence: everybody," Hall said.

"I wasn't told," the DCI said, a little coldly.

"Nobody was," Hall said.

"Except you," Powell said, more coldly.

"That's the way the president wanted it, John."

"Is Natalie involved in this?"

"She knows about it," Hall replied. "The president told her why he wanted everybody to send me everything: why she was to send the memo."

"I will be goddamned!" Powell said, white-faced.

"Charley thought, after he'd gone through all the material Natalie's memo produced, that the obvious place for him to start was in Luanda. I agreed, and that's where he went."

"You're telling me, unless I'm getting this wrong, that the president authorized you to sniff around on my lawn," the DCI said.

"He did. Yours and everybody else's," Hall said.

"I wonder whose idea this was?" the DCI asked, almost of himself.

"It doesn't really matter, does it? The president ordered that it be done."

The DCI turned to Castillo.

"Castillo, isn't it?" Yes, sir.

"How did you come into possession of this?" the DCI asked. "How do you know that it was sent to Langley?"

Castillo looked at Hall, who nodded.

"The officer who wrote it gave it to me," Castillo said.

"And who is this officer?"

Castillo looked at Hall again and Hall nodded again.

"H. Richard Miller, sir."

"And he is?"

"He's the CIA station chief in Luanda, sir," Castillo said. "His cover is assistant military attache at the embassy."

"And why would he do any of the foregoing?" the DCI asked, icily.

"Easy, John," the secretary said.

": Reveal his CIA connection?" the DCI went on, angrily. "His cover? Give you access to classified CIA files?"

Castillo didn't reply.

"Answer the question, Mr. Castillo," the DCI said, not pleasantly.

"That sounded like an order, John," the secretary said. "I think you should keep in mind that Charley doesn't work for you:"

The DCI glared at the secretary.

": And that the only superior authority either one of us can appeal to is the president," the secretary went on. "Given that, I think we should really make an effort to deal with this between us."

The DCI looked at the secretary for a moment but didn't speak.

"Answer the director's question, Charley, please," the secretary said. "Tell him what you told me."

"Yes, sir," Castillo said. "Sir, I informed Miller that what I was doing was at the direct order of the president," Castillo said. "I can only presume that he felt that orders from the commander in chief carried greater weight than any others to which he was subject."

"Disclosure of classified material to unauthorized persons is a felony under the U.S. Code," the DCI said. "As is the receipt by unauthorized persons of classified material."

"The operative word there, John, is 'unauthorized,' " the secretary said. "Charley was authorized to see the file first because of Cohens memo, and, second: or maybe first: because he was acting at the orders of the president. There has been no disclosure of classified material to unauthorized persons. Let's get at least that straight between us. I don't want Miller to get in trouble over this."

"Miller doesn't work for you, Matt," the DCI said. "I decide what is acceptable-for that matter, criminal-behavior on his part and what's not."

Hall looked at him for a long moment and then said, "That being the case, I don't think we have anything more to talk about, do you, John?"

The telephone on the side table by the couch rang.

Castillo looked at the secretary for guidance.

"Answer it, Charley," Hall ordered.

Castillo went to the telephone and picked it up.

He said "Hello" and then immediately switched to German. The conversation lasted not much more than a minute and then he hung up.

"That was very interesting, sir," he said to Hall.

"Well, as soon as the director leaves, you can tell me what it was all about," the secretary said. "You are about to leave, Mr. Director, aren't you?"

It was a moment before the DCI answered. "I don't want to leave on this kind of a sour note, Matt. Exactly what is it you want of me?"

"My hope, which, now that I think about it, was probably naive, was that you would accept this situation as a problem for both of us. Instead:" He paused, obviously searching for the right words.

"Go on, Matt."

"Instead, you're acting like a typical bureaucrat protecting his turf."

"That's what you think, eh?"

"Frankly, John, you seem far more concerned that somebody has found out the CIA has egg on its face-and that the president's going to hear about it-than you do about fixing what's wrong."

"Is that so?"

"What I had hoped our friendly chat would accomplish was that I could truthfully tell the president that we had uncovered a stoppage in the flow of information at Langley, that I had told you about it and had your assurance you would personally look into it and get back to me."

The DCI looked at him.

"The president's going to know about that filing tonight, John, and hear how I came by it," Hall went on. "And I'm going to relay Charley's concern that Miller is probably-how do I put this?-in some jeopardy because he decided his first duty was to obey the orders of the commander in chief and acted accordingly."

The DCI looked as if he was going to say something, then changed his mind.

"And now if you'll excuse me, John," Hall said, "I have to go home and put on my tux."

"And if I gave you my assurance that I will personally look into this-what did you call it? 'stoppage in the flow of information'-and get back to you?"

"Then that's what the president will hear," Hall replied. "I would also like to tell him I had your assurance that you're not going to make a sacrificial lamb of Miller."

"Frankly, I haven't made up my mind about Mr. Miller."

"I suggest you do, John. The president's going to hear one thing or the other."

Powell did not respond directly.

"You said you're going to give the president that filing?" he asked.

"The satburst and tell him about the unfiled filing. I don't think he'll want to take the time to read the filing, but if he asks for it I'll of course give it to him. I'll tell him what's in it, and I'll also make sure that Charley is available to personally answer any questions the president might have."

"Okay. Deal," the DCI said. "I'll take your word that Castillo here is authorized to be made privy to material like this. Since that's the case, Miller did nothing to violate the law. So he gets a pass on this."

Powell walked to Hall, handed him the file, and put out his hand.

Hall shook Powell's hand and said, "It was never my intention, John-and, damn it, you should know it-to go to the president with the intention of embarrassing you or the CIA."

"I know that, Matt," the DCI said, not very convincingly.

The DCI looked at Castillo-closely, as if trying to figure him out-then nodded at him, but neither spoke nor offered his hand. Then he crossed the room to the door, opened it, and walked out.

The automatic closing mechanism didn't quite work and Castillo went to the door and pushed it closed.

"Your lady friend called at what I think they call a propitious moment, Charley," the secretary said. "I really didn't want Powell to walk out of here marshaling his troops for a turf war."

"It wasn't my lady friend, sir," Castillo said. "It was my boss."

"Excuse me?"

"My editor, Otto Gorner," Castillo corrected himself.

Hall's eyebrows showed interest. "What did he want? You said it was interesting."

"Very interesting," Castillo said. "He said that he'd heard from Respin/Pevsner or whatever the hell his real name is-the Russian?"

"He heard from him?" Hall asked, sounding as if he was either confused or disbelieving.

"From some guy who said he was speaking for him," Castillo said. "Otto said he's made several requests for an interview of Respin/Pevsner and this was the first time there's been any kind of a response."

"What was the response?"

"That he will give me-Karl Gossinger-an interview in Vienna."

"You specifically?"

"Yes, sir. Otto asked me what I wanted him to do."

"How much does your editor-what's his name?"

"Otto Gorner."

"How much does Gorner know about what you do?"

"That's a tough question, sir. He's a highly skilled journalist and very intelligent. That specific question has never come up between us, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have a very good idea of what I do."

"And he won't talk because why? You own those newspapers?"

"That's part of it, sure. But Otto is like an uncle to me. He was very close to my mother."

"The kind of relationship you have with Allan and Elaine Naylor?"

"Just about, sir. I've known Otto all of my life. Even before I met the Naylor's."

"What about your real family?" Hall asked. "What do they think you do for a living?"

"My cousin, Fernando-he's a Texas Aggie; he won a Silver Star as a tank platoon commander in the first Iraqi war-has got a pretty good idea. Nothing specific, but he knows where I work, for example; that I was at the Carolina White House. He knows how to keep his mouth shut. I'm not close to any of my other relatives in Texas and none of them has any idea. Or, for that matter, is interested."

Hall thought that over a minute and nodded.

"Why do you suppose this Russian arms dealer suddenly changed his mind about talking to the press?" he asked.

"It probably had something to do with the story I wrote for the Tages Zeitung, sir. Otto gave me a byline."

Hall grunted and then said: "Until just now, I guess I didn't understand that that story would be printed. I thought it was just a means to give me a heads-up about what you'd found over there."

"It was printed in the Tages Zeitung on 5 June, sir," Castillo said. "Before I even left Luanda. A number of the German papers picked it up, and so did the Associated Press. It's logical to presume Respin/Pevsner saw it. Hell, he might even have a clipping service. His man called Otto just before Otto called here. The timeline works."

"What do you think I should do with that interesting bit of information? Turn it over to the DCI and see what the CIA can find out from-or about-this guy?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me to get on a plane to Vienna."

"My God, Charley, those people are dangerous! Somebody-the police commissioner in Philadelphia, as a matter of fact-told me the Russian immigrant gang there makes the Italian Mafia look like choirboys, and from everything I've read-not only your pal Miller's filing-Respin, or whatever else he calls himself-"

"Respin and Pevsner and there are probably other names," Charley furnished and chuckled and then asked, "Hereafter Pevsner, sir?"

It was a reference to the rules laid down for writing intelligence reports, which permitted, for example, references to the Arabic scholar Sheikh Ibn Taghri Birdi, to be shortened after the first use of his name in a filing by adding the phase "hereafter Birdi."

Hall smiled at Charley. "Hereafter Pevsner," he said. "Hereafter Pevsner is the head thug. If he didn't like seeing his name in the newspaper, he's entirely capable of having you assassinated. Both for writing the story and to discourage others."

"I don't think he would telegraph his moves, sir. He would simply have sent somebody to eliminate me in Fulda. I think we ought to see what he wants."

"What could he want?"

"I don't know, but I don't think he's really going to give an interview as the first step to getting on Larry King Live. He wants something."

Hall smiled again.

"But what could he want, Charley?"

"We'll never know, sir, unless you tell me to get on the next plane to Vienna."

"I don't know," Hall said, doubtfully.

"Sir, I also respectfully suggest that having me out of town for the next few days might be a good idea."

"Because of our encounter with the DCI just now?" Hall asked.

Castillo nodded, then said, "I had the feeling he thinks killing the messenger is probably a very good way to handle something like this."

"I don't think he'd go that far, Charley, but he didn't seem to be taken very much with your charm and good looks, did he?"

"No, sir. I didn't think so."

Hall looked at Castillo thoughtfully for fifteen seconds and then said, "Okay, Charley. Bring me a Sacher torte. And I mean bring me,. I don't want it shipped here with your body."

"Yes, sir. White or dark chocolate, sir?"

Hall shook his head, touched Castillo affectionately on the shoulder, and walked out of the apartment.

[THREE]

The Mayflower Hotel

1127 Connecticut Avenue MW

Washington, D.C.

1925 6 June 2005

The leading security officer accompanying the DCI-the trailing security officer was following the DCI-glanced through the plate-glass door leading from the Mayflower lobby, saw the Yukon was where he expected it to be and that there was nothing suspicious on the street, and pushed the door open.

Then he turned and found the DCI was nowhere in sight.

Jesus Christ!

He hurried back into the lobby.

The trailing security officer was standing, his hands folded in front of him, near the front desk. He made a small gesture indicating what looked like the entrance to a hallway near the end of the front desk and smiled at his colleague.

The sonofabitch thinks it's funny!

The leading security officer started into what he thought was a corridor.

It was instead an alcove, holding four house telephones and two pay telephones. The DCI was using one of the pay phones.

The leading security officer sort of backed out of the alcove and took up a position facing the trailing security officer, who smiled at him and said, "Vigilance, Pete. Constant vigilance!"

The leading security officer mouthed, Fuck you!

The DCI was on the pay phone for almost twenty minutes. In that time he had spoken with the CIA's regional director for Africa and the deputy director for Personnel, both of whom were in their homes.

The regional director for Africa told him that he had not seen either a satburst or a filing suggesting that a Russian arms dealer had stolen the Boeing 727 missing in Angola.

"Get on the horn, and right now, to whoever is directly responsible for Angola:"

"That would be the regional director for Southwest Africa, Mr. Director."

"Whatever. And find out what he knows about this. I'll call you back in ten minutes. Have a number where I can reach him."

"It's a her, Mr. Director. Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson."

"All right, when I call you back have a number where I can reach her."

"She's over there, Mr. Director."

"In Luanda?"

"Yes, sir. Actually, sir, she's on her way back. By now, I think she'd probably be in either London or Paris."

"Find out," the DCI said. "If there's time to make contact with her in London or Paris, get word to her that she is to come directly to my office from the airplane and is to speak to no one but you or me about anything."

"Has something come up, Mr. Director?"

"That's pretty obvious, wouldn't you say? And if you can't contact her before her plane takes off, have someone-you, if that's possible-meet her plane when it lands and bring her directly to my office."

"I don't have an ETA on her plane, Mr. Director."

"Well, get one!"

"If I have to contact you, Mr. Director, will you be at home?"

"I'll be at the White House. I don't want you calling me there about this. I'll get back to you later."

"Whatever you wish, Mr. Director."

The deputy director for Personnel, when asked "Who is this man Miller we have in Luanda?" didn't know off the top of his head, but he called his duty officer in Langley, who got the information.

The station chief in Luanda was an H. Richard Miller, Jr. His cover was assignment as the assistant military attache.

"Where did he come from? How long has he been with us? What do we know about him?"

It took another ten minutes to get the answers: H. Richard Miller, Jr., had come to the agency from the Army, that he was a major in the Army, that he had been on temporary duty with the agency for seventeen months, five months as an instructor at the Farm, and since then in Luanda. Since he had been in Luanda, he had received two letters of official reprimand from the regional director for Southwest Africa, one for exceeding his authority and the other for exceeding the limits of his discretionary operating funds.

"He's relieved, as of now," the DCI said. "His security clearances are suspended as of now. I want him out of Angola in twenty-four hours or less. I want somebody-somebody good; somebody we wouldn't ordinarily send someplace like Angola-on his way there within four hours to replace him."

"Gregory Leese is in Johannesburg, Mr. Director."

"I don't think I know him."

"Good man, sir. He was in Caracas until recently. Did a fine job there."

"Okay, if you say so. Send him. Tell him I ordered it and I'll be in touch with him."

"Yes, sir. May I ask what this is all about?"

"Not right now."

"Should I have this man Miller report to Langley, Mr. Director? If so, to whom? If he asks why he's being relieved, what may I tell him?"

"You don't know, to answer that first. No. I don't want him in Langley until I have a chance to chat with this Mrs. Wilson."

"Yes, sir?"

"If he's on temporary duty to us, that must be from someplace. Where do military people like that come from?"

"Usually either from the Pentagon, Mr. Director, or from Central Command. In this case-I'll have to check-I should think it would be Central Command. Major Miller is Special Forces."

Why am I not surprised to hear that?

"Well, find out and send him back where he came from. Say that he's under investigation."

"Yes, sir. Investigation concerning what?"

"Don't say."

"Yes, sir. Anything else, Mr. Director?"

"Secretary Hall of Homeland Security has an assistant named Castillo. I want to know about him. If we don't have anything, make inquiry-very discreet inquiry-of the Civil Service Commission. They should have the results of his background investigation. If that doesn't work, ask somebody we know we can trust in the FBI."

"You have a first name on this fellow, Mr. Director?"

Hall called him "Charley. "

"It's probably 'Charles.'"

"I'll get right on it, Mr. Director."

"Thank you," the DCI said and hung up.

Then he pulled his head out of the translucent shell over the pay phone and looked down the alcove to the lobby.

The security guys were waiting for him.

The DCI made a gesture toward the Connecticut Avenue entrance and the lead security man started to move in that direction.

[FOUR]

Apartment 6-B

Rua Madre Dios 128

Luanda, Angola

0515 7 June 2005

The peculiar tinkle of the telephone that came with the apartment woke Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., quickly more as a strange sound than as a telephone. He rarely used the French-manufactured dial instrument. The cellular phone system was far more efficient.

He picked up the handset, which placed a brass conelike microphone before his mouth as well as the speaker against his ear.

Ten-to-one, it's a wrong number.

"Hello," he said.

"Major Miller?" an American male voice inquired.

"Speaking."

"Major, this is Colonel Porter."

What the hell does he want at oh-dark-hundred?

"Yes, sir?"

"I am five minutes from your apartment, Major," Lieutenant Colonel James R. Porter, Artillery, the defense attache of the United States embassy in Luanda, said, somewhat stiffly. "Please be prepared to admit me."

"You're coming here?" Miller asked, really surprised. He belatedly added, "Sir?"

"I am coming there. Please be prepared to admit me."

"Yes, sir," Miller said.

There was a click as the connection was broken.

Miller found the light switch in the dark, put the old telephone handset in its cradle, and then swung his legs out of bed, wincing at the pain in his knee.

"Fuck!" he said aloud and then walked to the bathroom, where a terry cloth robe hung on the back of the door.

If Porter's going to be here in five minutes, I'm not going to have time for a shower and to get dressed.

He pulled the robe around him and then decided he'd better add undershorts. Then he went back in the bathroom and swirled Scope around in his mouth.

What the hell does he want?

The lobby buzzer went off three minutes later. Miller went into the kitchen and pushed the intercom's speak button.

"Yes?"

"This is Colonel Porter, Major Miller," Porter's voice came metallically over the wire.

"Pushing the solenoid now, sir," Miller said.

Miller had the door to his apartment open by the time the elevator came up. Colonel Porter, in uniform, walked off the elevator, followed by one of the embassy's Marine guards.

The Gunny, Miller thought as he recognized the noncommissioned officer in charge of the guard detachment. Miller knew the large and muscular shaven-headed man a lot better than he was supposed to. Majors and E-7s are not supposed to socialize. But Miller and the gunny had in common both being black and not quite being fully recovered from the hits they had taken from the rag-heads in Afghanistan. This was not the gunny's first visit to Miller's apartment.

But this time Gunnery Sergeant Roscoe Fortenaux, USMC, was obviously on duty. He had a Smith amp; Wesson. 357 in a holster on his hip.

Roscoe had told him that the State Department insisted the Marine guards be armed with the S amp;W revolver, rather than with the standard-issue Beretta 9mm semiautomatic. Neither of them had been able to understand the logic of that. Even the cops had gone to semiautomatic pistols.

"Good morning, sir," Miller said to Lieutenant Colonel Porter. "How are you, Gunny?"

"Good morning, sir," Gunny Fortenaux said.

"After you, sir," Miller said, motioning Porter into the apartment.

Porter took six steps into the corridor of Miller's apartment, then turned as if to make sure Miller had followed him inside.

Miller gestured for him to go farther into the apartment.

Porter turned and walked into the living room, then turned again to wait for Miller.

"Major Miller," Lieutenant Colonel Porter said, formally, "you stand relieved, sir. And you will consider yourself under arrest to quarters."

Oh, shit! Charley couldn't cover me!

"Yes, sir," Miller said. "Sir, relieved of what?"

"Of your duties with the CIA, and, of course, as assistant military attache. Your security clearances have been suspended, pending an investigation."

"An investigation of what, sir?"

"You will be informed in due time," Porter said.

"Sir, with all possible respect, I don't believe you have the authority to relieve me of my CIA duties," Miller said.

"A message from Washington, from the CIA in Washington, has ordered your relief. The ambassador has ordered me to implement your relief."

"May I see the message, sir?"

"Don't make this any more difficult than it already is, Miller," Porter said. Sir:

Porter cut him off.

"I am also to take possession of any and all classified materials in your possession."

"Sir, I am not in possession of any classified material of any kind."

Porter looked at him closely, almost visibly deciding whether or not to believe him.

"You will remain under arrest to quarters until such time as transportation can be arranged for you to leave Angola. That will occur within the next few hours."

"Yes, sir. Sir, two questions?"

After a moment, Porter nodded his head.

"Sir, transportation to where?"

Porter started to reply but stopped and took a small notebook from his shirt pocket. He flipped through the pages, then said, "You will report to the Special Activities Section, J-5, U.S. Central Command, MacDill Air Force Base, Tampa, Florida."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. And with all respect, sir, I again ask the nature of the charges against me."

"You will be informed in due time."

"Yes, sir. With respect, sir, in that circumstance, I will not consider myself under arrest to quarters until such time as I am advised of any charges against me."

Porter lost his temper. "You're under arrest to quarters because I say you are! Is that clear enough for you, Major?"

"Sir, if the colonel will consult the Uniform Code of Military Justice, 1948-I have a copy, sir-I think you will find that prior to being placed in confinement, including arrest to quarters, the accused will be notified of the nature of charges being considered against him."

"You're a guardhouse lawyer, too, are you, Miller?"

"Sir, I am simply informing you of my position in this matter."

Porter inhaled and then exhaled slowly.

"Very well, Major Miller. I am informing you that in the very near future you will be advised of your travel plans. With that in mind, I am ordering you to remain in your quarters until that happens. Does that satisfy you?"

"Yes, sir. So long as we are agreed that I am not in arrest to quarters."

"I suggest that you start packing, Major Miller."

"Yes, sir."

"Sergeant Fortenaux, you will station yourself outside Major Miller's door and report to me immediately by telephone if the major leaves his apartment."

"Yes, sir."

"May I suggest, sir," Miller said, "that the sergeant could keep a closer eye on me if he was inside my apartment. I also suggest, sir, that if my neighbors see an armed Marine standing outside my door there would be talk."

Porter glowered at him.

"Very well," he said finally, then started for the door. He turned. "I'll be in touch shortly, Major Miller, just as soon as your transportation has been arranged."

Yes, sir.

Porter went down the corridor to the door. After a moment, they heard it close.

Miller went to the corridor to see if Porter was really gone, then turned to look at Gunnery Sergeant Fortenaux.

"Relax, Roscoe," Miller said. "I read the sign. I understand your problem."

"What sign is that, sir?"

"The one behind Station One at the embassy: A MARINE ON GUARD HAS