By Order of the President

Chapter IX

[ONE]

Baltimore-Washington International Airport

Baltimore, Maryland

1440 8 June 2005

The beagle headed for Major Carlos G. Castillo's suitcase with a delighted yelp, dragging his master, a hefty, middle-aged, red-haired woman in too-tight trousers, and who wore both a cell phone and a Smith amp; Wesson. 357 revolver on her belt, after him.

The other passengers who had traveled from Munich aboard Lufthansa 5255 and were waiting for their luggage to appear on the carousel were fascinated.

"Excuse me, sir," the woman said to Castillo. "What do you have in that bag?"

"Just personal possessions," Castillo said. "A couple of gifts."

"You don't happen to have any fresh bakery products in there, do you?"

"I think it would be a good idea if you called your supervisor," Castillo said.

"First, I'd like to have a look at what you have in that suitcase, sir," the redhead said.

She snatched the cell phone from her belt, spoke into it, and in a very short time another uniformed, armed, female officer, this one a wiry black whose hands didn't look large enough to handle her. 357, appeared. She was pushing a small cart.

"Sir, if you will put your luggage on the cart and come with me, please?" the wiry woman said.

"I have one more bag," Castillo said. "What about that?"

Castillo's second bag had somehow become lost deep in the Airbus's baggage compartment and it was ten minutes before it finally appeared on the carousel and he could load it on the cart.

"Right this way, sir," the wiry female said, pointing to a door with an AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sign hanging above it.

Castillo resisted the temptation to wave good-bye to his fellow passengers.

There was a low counter in the room.

"Place your bag on the counter, please, sir," the wiry woman said.

"May I ask that you call your supervisor?"

"Sir, it is a violation of federal law to bring fresh bakery products, meat, fruit, or vegetables into the United States. If you have any such products in your luggage and declare them now, they will be confiscated. If you do not make such a declaration and I am forced to search your luggage:"

"Please call your supervisor," Castillo said.

The wiry woman snatched her telephone from her uniform belt and ninety seconds later a very large, uniformed, armed black man with captain's bars on his collar points appeared.

"Probably bakery products," the wiry woman said.

"Sir," the captain said, "would you please open your luggage?"

"That one," the wiry woman said, pointing.

"That one," the captain parroted.

Castillo worked the combination and opened the suitcase.

It was almost concealed beneath Hotel Bristol toweling, but there it was, a box nine inches deep and about a foot square. It was wrapped in white paper, sealed with silver tape, with a gold label reading DEMEL stuck in the middle.

"What's that, sir?" the captain said.

"It's a cake. What they call a Sacher tone," Castillo said. "My boss asked me to bring him one from Vienna."

"Your boss should have known better," the captain said, not unkindly. "And what you should have not done was bring it onto the airplane in the first place. And then you should have declared it. We'd have confiscated it and you would be out the cost of the cake and that would have been the end of this. But now:"

"I understand," Castillo said.

"May I see your passport, sir?"

Castillo handed him instead his Secret Service credentials. In the leather folder was the business card identifying him as the executive assistant to the secretary of homeland security.

The captain handed both back to Castillo, looked at him without expression, and said nothing.

"Either way, I will tell him-and he always asks-that the security procedures at BW seemed to be working just fine," Castillo said. "Your call, Captain."

The captain looked at Castillo for a long moment.

"I've heard tell he's a pretty good guy," the captain said, finally.

"What did he show you?" the wiry woman asked.

The captain held up a massive hand to tell her to shut up.

"He's a really good guy," Castillo said.

"I'll take this from here," the captain said. "You can go back on the floor."

When the wiry woman hesitated, the captain pointed somewhat impatiently at the door.

When she went through it, the captain said, "Close your suitcase, sir."

"Thanks," Castillo said.

"I heard he was a sergeant in Vietnam," the captain said.

"He was," Castillo said and closed his suitcase.

The captain picked up one of the suitcases and led Castillo out a back door and then into the arrival lobby.

"Tell him another Nam sergeant hopes he likes the cake," the captain said.

"I will," Castillo said and then started dragging his suitcases toward the buses and taxis door.

[TWO]

The Mayflower Hotel

1127 Connecticut Avenue NW

Washington, D.C.

1625 8 June 2005

A bellman pushing an ornate baggage cart followed Castillo into his apartment.

"Just put them in the bedroom, please," Castillo said as he handed him his tip.

"I keep telling you, Charley, we have to stop meeting in hotel rooms like this," Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., said from behind him. "People are going to talk."

Charley startled, looked around the living room.

Miller was sprawled low in an armchair. He was wearing a suit. His shirt collar was open and his tie pulled down. A bottle of Heineken beer sat on the table beside him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Charley asked.

"An old pal told me not to worry, he could cover for me. Turns out he couldn't. You are looking at a disgraced you-know-what relieved for cause."

"Oh, shit," Castillo said. "Relieved for cause?"

"They did everything but cut off my uniform buttons and march me through the gate at the Luanda airport while a band played 'The Rogue's March.' "

"How did you know where to find me?"

"General Naylor knew where you were, or at least about this apartment. He told me a key would be waiting for me and I was to make myself as invisible as possible until whatever is going to happen happens."

"I'll be damned," Charley said.

"Nice place, Charley. You must be on a different per diem scale than I am."

"It's close to where I work," Charley said. "My boss likes to have me available."

"Yeah," Miller said, disbelievingly, then added, "I have a cell phone with the number of your boss, to be used only if necessary."

"What does that mean?"

Miller shrugged. "General Naylor gave it to me. I guess if somebody shows up here with a cross to nail me to, your boss wants to know."

"Well, let me see what's going on," Charley said and took out his cellular telephone.

"Where the hell have you been?" Miller asked.

Castillo put up his hand to tell him to wait.

"Sir, this is your personal FedEx international courier," he began. "I have your Sacher torte for you "Yes, sir. I just walked into my apartment "Yes, sir. He's here. If I can have twenty minutes for a shower and a shave, I'll be right over "Sir, I can come over there "Yes, sir. I'll be waiting for you."

He hung up and turned to Miller.

"Get your ass off the chair and try to look respectable, my boss is on his way over here. And before he gets here, I need a shower."

"You want me here?" Miller asked.

"I think he wants to see you, too," Charley said after a just barely perceptible hesitation.

Castillo, freshly shaved and wearing crisp trousers and a dress shirt, opened the door to Secretary Hall.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"I tried to call you in Vienna," Hall said. "I had all kinds of second thoughts about you and Pevsner. And all the Bristol would tell me was that you had checked out early this morning. I was really getting worried, Charley."

Hall saw Miller.

"I'm Matt Hall, Major Miller," he said, putting out his hand.

"How do you do, sir?"

"Now that our friend is back, in one piece, I'm feeling a lot better than I was a half hour ago. Did he tell you where's he's been, what he was trying to do?"

"No, sir," Miller said. "I picked up on 'Vienna.' "

Charley walked into the bedroom and came back with the Sacher torte from Demel's.

"Here you go, sir," he said. "One cake of fourteen raspberry layers."

"I was kidding, Charley!"

"You sounded serious to me, sir. And it's fresh. I picked it up on the way to the airport this morning."

Hall took the box and shook his head.

"How'd you get it into the country?"

"A customs service captain at BW is one of your admirers. He said to tell you, one Vietnam sergeant to another, that he hopes you enjoy it."

"You told him you worked for me?"

"It was either that or go to jail. I was in custody. Two armed females and a beagle. The beagle sniffed the cake."

Hall shook his head but chuckled.

"My God, Charley!" he said. "But thank you. What do I owe you?"

"My pleasure, sir. I was happy to do it."

"We'll argue about that later," Hall said. "Right now all I want to say is that I'm glad you had second thoughts about trying to meet with Pevsner, too."

"Sir?"

"He's really a dangerous character, Charley. I asked Joel Isaacson if he knew anything about him and got a five-minute lecture. All frightening."

"He's a frightening man," Charley agreed.

"The FBI is sending me his dossier," Hall went on, and then he thought aloud: "Which I should have had by now. Anyway, I'm glad you missed him."

"I met with Pevsner, sir."

"You met with him?"

"Yes, sir. I've got a long story you're going to have a hard time believing. I'm not sure I believe it myself."

"Well, let's hear it, Charley."

"Sir," Miller asked, "would you like me to make myself scarce?"

Hall looked at him.

"No," he said after a moment. "It was your filing, after all, that started this whole thing." He paused. "And I have the feeling that what one of you knows, so does the other. So, no, Major Miller, don't make yourself scarce."

He looked at Charley.

"The bottom line," Castillo began, "is that he said he didn't steal the 727:"

"Which is precisely what one would expect him to say," Hall said.

": and that he's going to help us find it," Charley said. "In exchange for which he wants you to use your influence to get the government to: reduce the attention it's paying to him."

The telephone rang. Castillo looked at Hall for guidance.

"Answer it," Hall said.

Charley walked to the telephone and picked it up and said, "Hello."

He was silent a moment, then replied, "Yes, it is "The Drei Hussaren "No. Wait."

He patted his chest, and finding no pen, gestured to Miller to give him something to write with. Hall beat Miller to it.

"Okay," Charley said. "Now I need some paper."

Miller picked up The Washington Post from the couch and handed it to Castillo.

"Okay," Castillo said into the receiver. "Shoot."

He made notes on the newsprint, then said, "Let me make sure I have that right. I spell Able-Baker-Echo-Charley-Hotel-Echo. Right? Hello? Hello? Shit."

He put the phone back in the cradle.

"He hung up."

"Come on, Charley," Hall said, gesturing for details.

"It was a man. American accent. He asked if I was Major Castillo. I said I was. He said he had a message from Alex, if I would tell him where I had dinner last night. I told him. He said that as of 1700 last night, the 727 was on the ground in Abeche, Chad."

"Alex being Pevsner?" Hall asked.

Yes, sir.

"Why would he refer to you as Major Castillo?"

"He knew who I was before he called Otto Gorner," Charley said. "That's why he agreed to the interview. Before he knew I'm me, he was going to take out Gossinger."

"He told you that?" Hall asked.

"The way he put it was that Gossinger was going to get an Indian beauty mark," Charley said. "That's a small red circle in the middle of the forehead."

" Jesus!" Hall said. "And he was serious, right?"

"I believed him," Charley said.

"I never should have let you go over there. At least not alone."

"If I hadn't been alone, I don't think he would have met with me."

"Permission to speak, sir?" Miller asked.

Hall gave him a strange look but said, "Permission granted."

"Two things," Miller said. "I don't think it was a coincidence that phone call came fifteen minutes after Charley walked in here. That's the first time it's rung since I've been here. Which means they have somebody here, are paying a bellman or someone."

"Yeah," Castillo grunted his agreement.

"Two," Miller went on, "Pevsner would know where the 727 is because he put it there."

"I don't think he stole it," Charley said. "He told me he has airplanes. That he just bought a nearly new 767 from an Argentine airline that went belly-up."

"Charley, I think you should take it from the top," Hall said.

"Yes, sir."

"And you, Miller, if you have any questions while he's telling us ask them."

"Yes, sir," Miller said.

"Sir, I sent an e-mail saying he didn't show at the Sacher the first night," Charley began. "So I went back the next night-that's last night-and:"

"So how did you handle the woman who went to your room?" Hall asked with a smile. "You left it that she showed up at your door with a bottle of cognac and then drove you to the airport in the morning."

"I was hoping you wouldn't ask, sir," Charley said.

"You dumb sonofabitch, Charley!" Miller said.

"Agreed," Charley said. "And that brings up the equally embarrassing fact that I was at least half drunk, which should be factored into this."

"You think Pevsner purposefully got you drunk?" Hall asked.

"We all had a lot to drink," Charley said. "But do I think there was a conscious effort to get me drunk? No. He was drinking cognac when I met him on the Cobenzl, offered me some, which I didn't think I should refuse, and I kept up with him. He had as much to drink-for that matter, so did Kennedy-as I did."

"And how reliable do you think this information is-that the 727 is or was last night in Chad?"

"I think Pevsner thinks it is," Charley said. "I don't think he would take a chance, at the beginning of the 'long and mutually profitable association' he says he wants, by giving me anything that was doubtful-and certainly he wouldn't give me anything false."

"Okay. That means we're going to have to tell Powell," Hall said.

He took his cellular telephone from his jacket pocket and pressed one of the autodial numbers.

"Matt Hall for the DCI, please," he said.

"John, I'm on my cellular, but I wanted to get this to you as soon as possible. The thing we're looking for was, according to information I consider reliable enough to pass on to you, at a place called Abeche-Able-Baker-Echo-Charley-Hotel-Echo-Chad last night at five o'clock "No, not over a cellular I'm not. I'll tell you more in the situation room tonight. What I'm doing is giving you information I consider reliable enough for you to really look into "Okay. Again. Able-Baker-Echo-Charley-Hotel-Echo. Got it? "I'll see you shortly."

He put the cellular in the palm of his hand and pressed another autodial key.

"Matt Hall for Director Schmidt, please "I'm fine, Mark. Thank you. Yourself? "Mark, I never got the FBI's dossier on Aleksandr Pevsner I asked for. Is something holding it up? "Well, if it's on your desk, I can't read it, can I? "What do you mean, you weren't sure I still wanted it?"

The tone of Hall's voice changed and both Miller and Castillo looked at him. His face showed that he didn't like what he was hearing.

"Well, Mark, first the DCI has not found time in his busy schedule to tell me he doesn't think there's much to 'this Pevsner nonsense scenario from that loose cannon Special Forces guy in Luanda,' but that doesn't really have anything to do with this, does it? "Yes, of course, I still want it "As soon as I can have it. Send it over by messenger right now "Yes, of course, I realize it's classified "Then I'll send one of my Secret Service agents to get it "I sound like I'm angry? I can't imagine why "Actually, I'm not in my office. I'm in Room 404 at the Mayflower. But if that's going to cause any problems, I can have a Secret Service agent in your office in five minutes "Okay. Fine. I'll be looking for him. And while I've got you on the line, Mark, there's something else I need as soon as I can have it. I want the dossier on one of your special agents, maybe an ex-special agent. A man named Howard Kennedy "That's right. Howard Kennedy "Well, if you have probably a half-dozen agents named Howard Kennedy I guess you'll have to send me the dossiers on all of them "I don't mean to sound confrontational, Mark, and I'm sorry you feel that way. I don't suspect for a moment that you and the DCI are deciding together what to send me in response to Dr. Cohen's memo, because that would probably make me confrontational, but I am getting more than a little curious why this is turning into a problem "What would you call it, Mark? "How long is it going to take you to assemble the dossiers on how ever many Howard Kennedys are, or were, FBI special agents? "Frankly, I don't think I should have to wait that long. If there's some reason I can't have the Kennedy dossiers by nine tomorrow morning, why don't you send me a memo for record that I can show Dr. Cohen? "Yes, I think you're right. We do seem to be having a communications problem. I'll be waiting for the Pevsner dossier. Nice to talk to you, Mark."

He pushed the END CALL button and put the phone in his pocket.

"The turf war has begun," he announced. "I was afraid of that." He turned to Major Miller and said, "I hope you'll understand I have to ask this."

"Sir?"

"Did you make a pass or anything that could be construed as a pass at Mrs. Wilson?"

"No, sir, I did not."

"When you had dinner with her, how much did you have to drink?"

"I have never had dinner with Mrs. Wilson, sir."

"Did you have drinks with her?"

"No, sir."

"I did," Charley said.

" You did?" Hall asked, and, when Charley nodded, asked, "And did you make a pass at her?"

"It was more that she made a pass at me," Charley said.

"And?"

"I was in a receptive mood, sir," Charley said.

"Jesus Christ!" Miller said. "I told you she was dangerous!"

"You also told me she wasn't getting what she needed at home. And she is a very attractive female. At the time, I was supposed to believe her story that she was a reporter for Forbes and she thought I was a fellow journalist named Gossinger."

"But you knew who she was?" Hall pursued.

"Yes, sir. Dick told me who she was."

"And that 'she wasn't getting what she needed at home.' Just what did you mean by that, Miller?"

"Sir, the fact is that Mrs. Wilson is twenty years or so younger than her husband. The rumors going around have it he likes young men and married the lady as a beard."

Hall looked at him for a long moment but didn't respond. Instead, he turned to Castillo.

"Tell me, Charley. And the truth, please. The cow is out of the barn, so to speak. Why did you take Mrs. Wilson to bed?"

"In hindsight, sir, it was irresponsible. What happened was that she wanted to look at my story:"

"Why?"

"Probably to see if I really had a story; was, in fact, a journalist. She smelled something; she sent Dick to check me out. And then, presuming I had a story, she wanted to know what I had found out and was reporting about the missing 727."

"What's that got to do with taking her to bed?"

"I told her she could have the story just as soon as the Tages Zeitung went to bed. She replied, 'Why not as soon as we do?' "

"Whereupon you shut off your brain and turned on your dick," Miller blurted, almost in disbelief.

"You could put it in those terms, I suppose," Charley said.

"That strikes me as a succinct summing-up, Charley," Hall said, shaking his head. "A little crude but right on the money. I hope she was worth it. That-little dalliance-is likely to turn out to be costly."

Hall looked at his wristwatch.

"I don't know how soon the FBI will show up, but I don't think I can risk going back to the office. I very much doubt if they'd give the Pevsner dossier to you. Could we get coffee and something to munch on, do you think?"

"Coffee and a large hors d'oeuvres coming up, sir," Charley said, heading for the telephone.

"Sir, am I allowed to make a suggestion?" Miller asked.

Hall considered that before replying, "Sure, why not?"

"What Pevsner said-or the ex-FBI agent, one of them-about there being a Philadelphi a connection?"

Hall nodded his understanding.

"Sir, I might be useful in running that down."

"How?"

"My father and the police commissioner are friends, sir. Commissioner Kellogg?"

"Miller, I'm going to pass on to the FBI what Charley heard in Vienna. They'll certainly look into it, including asking the police what they might have."

"Sir, sometimes the cooperation between the FBI and the police isn't all that it should be."

"Meaning?"

"I'm sure the cops will answer any specific questions put to them by the FBI. But probably not very quickly. And I'm also sure they're not going to volunteer anything that might give up their snitches, or if they have somebody undercover with the Muslims, his identity. Or:"

"And you think they'd confide in you?"

"More than they would in the FBI," Miller said. "Particularly if Commissioner Kellogg knew I was asking the questions for you."

Hall exhaled and shook his head.

"Charley, did you hear this?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"That wasn't really the question, Charley, and you know it. What do you think?"

"I was thinking, sir, that if the president: may I talk about that?"

Hall studied Miller a moment, then turned to Castillo. "He knows you're working by order of the president, doesn't he?"

"I think he's figured that out, sir."

"Since the cow is out of the barn:" Hall said, gesturing for Castillo to continue.

"Sir, if the president wants to know who knew what and when, and the cops in Philadelphia know something, isn't he going to want to know when the FBI found out about it?"

Hall looked at him a long moment.

Charley thought, He's thinking, but not about Miller going to Philadelphia.

"I just had a Washington bureaucrat's thought that I'm a little ashamed of," Hall confessed. "I was thinking, My God, if we find the 727 before anyone else does a lot of people are going to have egg on their face and really be annoyed with us. We can count on payback. "

"So Miller doesn't go to Philadelphia?" Charley asked.

"That depends," Hall said. He took his cellular telephone from his pocket again and pressed an autodial key.

"Matt Hall for General Naylor "Well, I have to talk to him, and now."

He turned to Castillo and Miller.

"The commander in chief of Central Command is out jogging on the beach," he announced with a smile.

The commanding general of Central Command is never out of touch; it took fewer than ninety seconds to get a telephone to Naylor.

"You sound a little winded, Allan," Hall said. "And what about sunburn? At your age:"

The commanding general was apparently not amused. Hall smiled.

"Temper, temper, Allan. And, no, this couldn't wait. It's important, but we're both on cellulars, okay? So you're just going to have to trust me. That last fellow you just sent to me? I would like to use him the same way I'm using the first one. Would that be okay with you? More important, if it will get him in any trouble, say so "Of course he volunteered."

Hall handed Miller the telephone.

"Yes, sir? "Yes, sir, I understand. Thank you, sir. Yes, sir."

He handed the phone to Castillo.

"Yes, sir? "Yes, sir, I'm fine "Yes, sir. I will."

Castillo handed the cellular to Hall.

"Thank you, Allan. I'll be in touch when we can talk. Have a nice jog."

Hall put the cellular back in his pocket.

"What did he say to you, Miller?"

"Sir, he said that, VOCG, I am to place myself at your orders. CentCom orders will be published tomorrow."

"VOCG?" Hall asked.

" 'Verbal Orders of the Commanding General,' sir," Miller furnished.

"Okay. I'd forgotten that phrase. If I ever knew it. I never saw a general up close when I was in the Army."

"It's SOP, sir," Charley said, "when there is no time to get a set of orders published."

Hall nodded.

"I understand your security clearances have been revoked," he said to Miller. "So I'm unrevoking them as of right now. Charley, call the office and dictate a memorandum for the record."

"Yes, sir. What are you going to give him?"

"Everything he had before they were pulled," Hall said. "In addition, I authorize you to tell him anything you think he needs to know about your orders from the president." Yes, sir.

"Put that in the memo for record, too," Hall ordered.

"Yes, sir," Castillo said and punched an autodial key on his cellular.

"While he's doing that," Hall ordered, "see if you can get Commissioner Kellogg on the phone."

"Yes, sir," Miller said.

"Thank you, Commissioner," Hall said. "When you get to the office at eight, Major Miller and my executive assistant, a man named Castillo, will be waiting for you. This is important and I'm grateful for your understanding."

He saw Castillo's eyes on him as he pushed the phone's call end button.

"Yeah, you're going. For several reasons. We obviously don't have time to get Miller any identification, for one. For another, I want you both out of town for a while."

"Yes, sir. What if there's another message from Pevsner?"

"I thought, if it's all right with you, that I'd have Joel Isaacson put a man in here, in the apartment. He would know only what he has to know. That if there is a call for you, you're out of town but can be reached on your cellular and give the caller your number."

"That'll work, sir, so far as Pevsner is concerned. But if you put Secret Service people in here, they'll know I live here. Isn't that going to cause problems?"

"They already know where you live. And a lot more about you than you probably think. Why do you think your code name is Don Juan?"

"Really?" Miller chuckled.

"And you didn't think Isaacson and McGuire let me walk over here by myself, did you?"

"I wondered about that, sir. But once they get in here:"

"You're talking about the improbability of your being able to pay the rent on this place on your Army pay?"

"That's the sort of thing that causes gossip, sir."

"Why should it? If I know about it, my approval is implied."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't think I'd have to tell Joel to remind them to keep their mouths shut but I will."

"When do you want us to go, sir?"

"I'd like you to see what the FBI has on your friend Pevsner, but that can wait until you get back. I'd like to have you out of town before I go to the White House."

Castillo looked at his watch.

"We just missed the Metroliner," he said. "There's another in an hour?"

"That'd do it," Hall ordered.

Castillo went to the telephone.

"Who're you calling?" Miller asked.

"The concierge," Castillo answered and then spoke to the phone: "This is Mr. Castillo. I'll need two first-class tickets on the next Metroliner to New York, charge them to my room, and have a cab waiting in thirty minutes to take me to Union Station."

"You said 'two tickets to New York,' you know," Miller said when Castillo had hung up.

"Yeah, I know. I think you were right about the timing of that call from Pevsner's man. I was thinking that if I wanted information about somebody in a hotel, I would lay lots of long green on the concierge. I think he's probably the villain. I'm pretty sure that's how Kennedy found out that Carlos Castillo was not Karl Gossinger's boyfriend. And I wouldn't:"

"He thought that?" Miller asked, highly amused.

"Yeah, he did. And I wouldn't be surprised if someone from the CIA asked him about the guy in 404, either. DCI Powell seemed very curious about me."

"You really think he would order something like that?" Hall asked.

Castillo nodded. "And either promised money or appealed to his patriotism to have him keep an eye on me. Maybe I'm wrong-I'd like to be wrong-but if I'm right, I sort of like the idea of two pairs of spooks-Powell's and Pevsner's-frantically searching through the people getting off the train in Penn Station in New York looking for me and whoever's with me."

"What have you got against the DCI?" Hall asked.

"I don't like the way he handled Dick," Castillo replied. "He told you he wouldn't do anything to him and then he had him relieved for cause. Once that happens to an Army officer, he might as well resign and he knew it."

"I'm dealing with that," Hall said. "I'm:"

The door knocker rapped.

It was a bellman with a large tray of hors d'oeuvres and two pots of coffee.

Fifteen minutes later, there was another rapping of the door knocker.

Castillo opened it. There were two men in business suits. One of them carried a briefcase. When Charley glanced down the corridor, he saw Joel Isaacson coming toward the door from one direction and Tom McGuire coming from the other.

There must be something about these two people they think is fishy.

"Yes?" Castillo said.

"We're looking for Secretary Hall," the elder of the two men at the door said.

"Who are you?"

The man who had spoken took a leather folder from his pocket and held it up.

"Oh, my, the FBI!" Castillo said, more loudly than was necessary.

He got a smile from Isaacson before Isaacson stopped at a nearby door, and appeared to be slipping a plastic card into its lock.

"Come in, please," Castillo said. "The secretary expects you."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Secretary," the man from the FBI said. "I'm Inspector Doherty from Director Schmidt's office."

Hall smiled at him and put out his hand.

"Mr. Secretary, we have a dossier for you," Inspector Doherty said, "but it's from the director's personal files and he'd like it back-if possible, he'd like us to take it back now, after you've had a chance to read it."

He handed Hall an expanding cardboard folder. Hall looked at the folder and then at Doherty. The look on his face showed he didn't like at all hearing that Schmidt wanted his dossier back right away.

"Director Schmidt will have everything xeroxed for you, sir," Doherty offered.

"In that case, Charley," Hall said, handing the folder to Castillo, "I think you and Miller had better have a quick look at the dossier before you go."

The look on Doherty's face showed he didn't like that announcement at all.

"With all respect, sir, do these gentlemen have the proper security clearances?"

Hall didn't reply. The look on his face was answer enough.

"You understand, sir, I had to ask."

Inside the expanding folder was the dossier, a thick stack of paper held together with a large aluminum clip.

"There's coffee, Mr. Doherty," the secretary said.

"Thank you but no thank you, sir."

Castillo walked to the couch, laid the dossier on the coffee table, and started flipping through it. After a minute, Miller sat down beside him.

"I hope you, Mr. Secretary-and these gentlemen-understand that some of the material in these files has not been confirmed," Doherty said.

Castillo closed his dossier.

"Sir, I'll need more time than Miller and I have," he said.

"Okay," Hall said. "Then you better leave. You and Miller can read the Xeroxes when you get back."

Castillo took the dossier and started to put it back in the expanding file.

"Just leave it there, please," Hall said. "I'll read as much as I can before I have to go to the White House."

"Yes, sir," Castillo said.

He and Miller went into the bedroom. In five minutes-Castillo now wearing a necktie and suit jacket-they came out carrying suitcases.

Hall looked up from the dossier on the coffee table.

"Keep in touch," he ordered.

[THREE]

The White House

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW

Washington, D.C.

1725 8 June 2005

Secretary Hall had heard-and it had not displeased him-that the passengers of only three vehicles were ever exempted from careful scrutiny before being passed onto the White House grounds: the presidential limousine, the vice-presidential limousine, and the blue GMC Yukon XL that he ordinarily rode in.

He thought of that as his Yukon approached the gates and was pleased to realize he enjoyed that little perk and John Powell and Mark Schmidt did not. Right now, he was not very fond of the DCI or the director of the FBI.

And he was therefore surprised, and a little disappointed, when the uniformed Secret Service officer waved the Yukon to stop.

Joel Isaacson rolled down the driver's window.

"Good evening, Mr. Secretary," the guard said. "Sir, the president requests you to go to the quarters before you go to the situation room."

Natalie Cohen was sitting with her legs tucked under her skirt on a couch in the sitting room of the president's apartment. She raised her hand in a casual greeting when Hall walked in.

The president was sitting slumped in an armchair, holding a crystal tumbler of what was almost certainly his usual bourbon, Maker's Mark, on the rocks.

"You want one of these, Matt?" he asked, raising the glass. "To give you courage to grovel before Powell?"

"I'm not going to grovel before Powell," Hall blurted, then remembered to add, "Mr. President, am I?"

"Let me tell you where our little fishing expedition has crashed on the rocks," the president said.

He pointed at an array of bottles on a sideboard. Hall walked to it, told himself he was in trouble, would need all his wits not a drink, and then poured two inches of the bourbon into a glass and took a sip.

Then he leaned against the sideboard and looked at the president.

"The FBI has learned that Lease-Aire, Inc., has filed a claim for the loss of its airplane, which is now with a seventy percent probability at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean."

"Sir, isn't that to be expected?"

The president held up his hand as a signal for him not to interrupt.

"The DCI has reported that he found it necessary to relieve the station chief in Luanda for, one, turning over to your major the linguist-classified material that had already been evaluated and found useless by Langley because your major told him he was working for me-this was to be a secret operation, remember?-and, two, incidentally getting shit-faced at dinner-sorry, Nat-"

Dr. Cohen raised her hand in exactly the same way she had raised it when Hall had walked into the room.

": and making a pass at his boss."

The president took a sip of his drink and then looked at Hall, waiting for his reaction.

The secretary of homeland security, after three seconds of thought, made a profound philosophical decision that he learned in Vietnam, when lives also were at stake: Pick men you trust, and trust the men you pick.

"In my judgment, Mr. President," Hall said, "there is an almost one hundred percent probability that the missing airplane is not at the bottom of the Atlantic."

" That's interesting," Dr. Cohen said.

"You don't happen to know where it is, do you, Matt?" the president asked very softly.

"Mr. President, there is an almost eighty percent possibility that as of five o'clock yesterday afternoon it was at a remote airfield in Chad, a place called Abeche. I have so informed the DCI."

"And the source of your information, Matt?" Dr. Cohen asked, very softly.

"A Russian arms dealer by the name of Aleksandr Pevsner."

"And what did the DCI say when you told him you had learned from Mr. Pevsner that the airplane was in Chad?" the president asked, and then, without giving Hall time to reply, asked, "And did Mr. Pevsner happen to tell you what the 727 is doing in Chad?"

"In a short answer, sir, the airplane is being prepared to be flown into the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia by a Somalian group which calls itself the Holy Legion of Muhammad."

"You told this to Powell?" the president asked.

"No, sir. Only that I had reliable information that the aircraft was at Abeche."

"He didn't ask for your source?"

"Yes, sir, he did. But I told him I was on a non-secure telephone."

"This guy Pevsner has come up before," the president said. "According to Powell, he's a Russian gangster, the head of the Russian Mafia. Are you aware of that?"

"Did the DCI also tell you, sir, that the agency uses Pevsner's fleet of airplanes to move things covertly for them? And as a source for weapons of all kinds?"

"No," the president said, thoughtfully. "He didn't happen to mention that."

"What was your contact with Pevsner?" Dr. Cohen asked. "How did that happen?"

"My contact was through Major Castillo," Hall said. "You want all the details?"

"Every one of them, Mr. Secretary," the president said. "Every goddamned last-minute detail!"

It took about ten minutes.

"Okay, Dr. Cohen," the president said. "You've heard this fascinating yarn; you're my security advisor-advise me."

"Have I got everything, Matt?" Dr. Cohen said.

"There's one or two more things, but nothing bearing on the location of the airplane or what the terrorists intend to do with it."

"Goddammit, I said I wanted every detail, Matt!"

"Yes, sir. Major Miller did not make a pass at Mrs. Wilson."

"So he would say, right?"

"Mrs. Wilson made a pass at Major Castillo when she thought he was the German journalist. And he caught it."

"Interesting," Dr. Cohen said.

"And:"

"I'd like to hear that from Major Castillo," the president said. "I'd like to hear the whole goddamned wild, incredible story again from him."

"Sir, at the moment he's on the Metroliner to Philadelphia. I can call him and have him return, but that would take several hours:"

"He's checking into the possible Muslim connection in Philadelphia?" Dr. Cohen asked, and, when Hall nodded, went on: "Mr. President, you're not going to have time to check Castillo's story out yourself. You're going to have to make a decision and right now."

"I know that I have to make a decision, Natalie," the president said. He sounded tired rather than sarcastic. "What I want from you is advice on what that decision should be."

She did not immediately reply.

"Come on, Natalie. This is why you make the big bucks," the president said.

"Sir, my advice-your wife's in Chicago, right?"

The president nodded.

"Sir, what I think you should do is call the Marines and chopper out to Camp David, taking Matt with you. No explanation to anybody."

"What do I do with Powell?"

"I will go to the situation room and tell him-and Schmidt-that just before you left for Camp David you told me to tell him you really want to know whether or not the missing airplane is-or was-at this place in Chad:"

"Abeche," Hall furnished.

"Thank you," she said. "And that he is to let me know immediately what he finds out."

"Why should I go-Matt and I go-to Camp David?" the president asked.

"Because if you were going to ask for Matt's resignation, that's where you'd take him to ask for it," Dr. Cohen said.

"They should know whether that airplane is where Matt thinks it is by morning," the president thought aloud.

"May I suggest, Mr. President, that you come back here about this time tomorrow?" Dr. Cohen said.

"Okay," the president said after a moment's thought. "Let's do it."

Dr. Cohen picked up the handset of a multibuttoned telephone on the coffee table and pushed one of the buttons.

"This is Dr. Cohen," she said. "The president will require Marine One for a flight to Camp David immediately. No prior or post-takeoff announcement. Refer all inquiries you can't handle to me."

She put the handset back in the cradle.

"Thank you, Natalie," the president said. And then he looked at Matt Hall. "Jesus H. Christ, Matt! They really want to crash that airplane into the Liberty Bell?"

[FOUR]

Aboard Marine One

The White House

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW

Washington, D.C.

1810 8 June 2005

The pilot of the helicopter said, "Marine One lifting off," and the Sikorsky VH-3D "Sea King" of HMX-1, the Marine Corps' Presidential Helicopter Squadron, did just that, rising quickly and smoothly from the White House lawn and then making a smooth, climbing turn which would put it on course for Camp David.

The president of the United States said, "I feel like Nixon fleeing from the angry crowds at the White House with a very insincere smile on my face."

"Mr. President," Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall began and then stopped.

"What, Matt?"

"I was about to say I'm sorry-and I am because of the trouble that's developed-but what I really want to say is thank you for trusting me on this."

The president waved his right hand, meaning "unnecessary," and said, "I know you believe what you told me. And it seems pretty obvious that I can't take a chance and ignore-however incredible it may sound-the possibility that these lunatics actually intend crashing this airplane into downtown Philadelphia and may have the means to carry it off."

Hall didn't reply.

"And we're about to see how efficient all the technology really is, aren't we? Just about now, Natalie is telling Powell that I want to know what's on, or what has been on, the field in Chad, and very soon satellite sensors will be having a look."

"Mr. President, fully aware that I'm taking another walk on DCI Powell's lawn, there's something else that might be done."

"What?"

"Sir, I've not brought any of this up to General Naylor."

"Naylor? Why should you have?"

"He may have some means to find out what's going on at Abeche, and possibly before the CIA-and whoever else the DCI enlists to help him-can."

"You don't think Powell will do that anyway? Jesus, you really don't like him, do you?"

"That's two questions, sir. No, I don't really like him. And, no, I don't think he'll seek assistance from General Naylor until his back is against the wall and he has to. Right now what he wants to do is make the agency look good."

"That's a pretty serious accusation, Matt."

"Yes, sir, I realize that. But my responsibility is homeland security and I'm willing to admit I need all the help I can get."

"Two more questions. One, what do you think Naylor could do to help? And, two, what's really caused this trouble between you and Powell? Until yesterday, I thought the two of you got along pretty well."

"He lied to me," Hall said. "He gave me his word that he would take no punitive action against Major Miller and then did just that."

"What did he do?"

"He relieved him for cause-I won't even get into that business of accusing him of making a pass at Mrs. Wilson-fully aware that when an officer is relieved for cause his career is down the toilet."

"He chose to believe Mrs. Wilson. I think they call that 'loyalty downward,' " the president said. "And from where I sit, you are showing the same thing to Major Castillo: and to Major Miller, who doesn't even belong to you."

"He does now, sir. General Naylor put him on temporary duty with me. And, sir, I don't know what General Naylor can do. But he may have something-even if only an idea-and I think we should ask for whatever he has."

"Let me think," the president said.

As the president stood in the doorway to exit Marine One and get in one of the golf carts lined up to carry people to the cabins of Camp David, he turned and met Hall's eyes.

"It looks to me as if Major Miller is an innocent bystander caught in the line of fire. I don't like that. What can I do to help him?"

The question took Hall by surprise. He had never even considered the possibility that the president would offer to help Miller.

"Sir, I think if you wrote Miller a letter of commendation for his service-unspecified, but under very difficult conditions for someone of his rank and experience-and sent it to him via the Defense Intelligence Agency-they're the ones who want to crucify him:"

"You write it and I'll sign it," the president interrupted him. "But call General Naylor first, and, without getting into your problems with the DCI, tell him if he has any means of finding out whether or not the airplane is, or was, in Chad, to use them."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. President."

[FIVE]

The Warwick Hotel

1701 Locust Street

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

2030 8 June 2005

"I really wish you'd come out to the house with me, Charley," Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., said as the taxi stopped in front of the hotel.

"I'm sure you can eventually make your father understand what happened, but in the time between when you tell him that you were relieved because of something I asked you to do and the time he understands-thirty seconds or thirty minutes-I'd just as soon rather not be around General Miller, thank you just the same."

"Coward," Miller said, chuckling, and left it there. "I'll pick you up in the morning at half past seven," he said. "Be standing on the sidewalk shaved and sober and full of energy because you gave your pecker the night off."

Castillo gave him the finger and got out of the taxi.

His initial impression of the Warwick Hotel was that it was a nice one. Nice lobby, with a really impressive floral display-real flowers; as he walked by, he checked-on a beautiful table. To the right was the entrance to the restaurant-he could see enough of that to make the judgment it, too, looked first-rate-and a bar.

There was a young woman sitting alone at the bar. She didn't look like a hooker, but sometimes it was hard to tell. He decided to give the brunette and the hotel the benefit of the doubt. The Warwick didn't look like the kind of a place where ladies of the evening were either encouraged or permitted to practice their profession. And the brunette really didn't look like a hooker.

He was pleased, too, with the room. It was large, high-ceilinged, with a king-sized bed, and the bathroom shelf was loaded with small bottles of high-quality shampoo and mouthwash and crisp packages of expensive soap of the type he liked to put in his toilet kit at checkout time against the inevitability that the next hotel would not much care if their guests bathed or washed out their mouths.

Not that I need either a bath or a mouth rinse.

What I need is a drink, maybe two – no more than two – and then something to eat, and then some sleep. Dick said to be on the sidewalk outside at half past seven.

Jesus, the last time I went to bed was in Vienna. That – and Cobenzl and the Drei Hussaren and Pevsner and Inge – was last night?

One drink and then something to eat and then to bed.

But not in the restaurant. I don't want a full meal, and I hate to eat alone at a restaurant table.

Maybe I can get a sandwich at the bar.

That is based solely upon my desire to have something simple to eat, not on the brunette.

It really is, and, anyway, by the time I get back down there she'll more than likely be gone. Nice girls – and we have decided that's what she is – do not sit around hotels where young men with out-of-control gonads might think they're available.

Major Carlos G. Castillo had been in his room no more than ten minutes before he left it, got back on the elevator, and rode it down to the lobby.

The brunette was still sitting alone at the bar.

At that point, Major Castillo told himself, he would have headed right for the restaurant had he not also seen there were four men sitting at a table in the bar eating some kind of good-looking sandwiches on crusty bread.

He entered the bar, taking care not to look at the brunette but taking a stool separated from hers by only one stool.

His cellular went off as the bartender approached him.

"Is there a local beer on draft?" Castillo asked. The waiter gave him a name he'd never heard before.

"One of those, please," Castillo said. "And a menu."

As the phone rang a third time, he pushed its answer button. "Hello? "Yes, sir? "I just checked into a hotel, sir. The Warwick. I'm about to have dinner "Well, that was certainly nice of the: him, sir. And thank you for telling me. I'll past the word to Dick, sir "He's going to pick me up here at oh-seven-thirty, sir "Thank you again, sir. Good night, sir."

He put the cellular back in his pocket as the bartender approached with a glass of beer and a menu.

"What are those gentlemen eating?" Castillo asked, nodding his head slightly toward the four men sitting at the corner table.

"Two cheesesteaks, one meatball and one sausage-and-peppers," the bartender said.

"Italian sausage and peppers?" Castillo asked. The bartender nodded. "Get me one, will you please?"

"Are you some kind of a serviceman?" the brunette asked and moved to the stool next to him.

Wrong again, Charley, you master of analysis you.

"What gave you an idea like that?"

"Yes, sir: No, sir: Thank you, sir: Oh-seven-thirty, sir," the brunette said.

"I'm a Texan; we talk that way."

"You sounded as if whoever you were speaking to was a general or something."

"Actually, he's a member of the president's cabinet and he was calling to tell me the president just did something very nice for a friend of mine who was in a little trouble."

She chuckled, almost laughed.

Nice smile.

"What do you do, actually?"

I'll be damned. She really doesn't look like a hooker.

"Actually, I work for a company called Rig Service, Incorporated, of Corpus Christi, and what we do is service rigs."

"What's a 'rig'?"

"An enormous oil well drilling platform, sitting in the Gulf of Mexico."

"And how do you service them?"

"My end of it is the catering," Castillo said. "You know, the food. And also the laundry. 'Personal needs,' they call it."

"May I ask you something?"

Am I looking for a little action? Am I married? Am I a fag?

"Why not?"

"Could you keep talking to me for a little while?"

"Sure. I'd be happy to."

"I have a little problem," the brunette said.

My sainted, crippled mother desperately needs brain surgery. I don't have the money and I'm willing to do anything – anything – to come up with it.

"My boyfriend was supposed to meet me here a half hour, no, forty-five minutes ago," the brunette said.

"And he's stood you up, you think?"

"No," she said, firmly. "He'll be here. And I'm not trying to get you to buy me a drink or anything like that. But I've been sitting here alone and-you see those men at the table?"

Castillo nodded.

"They keep looking at me. Like I'm a: hooker."

"Well, you certainly don't look like a hooker to me."

"Thank you. Well, will you?"

"Will I what?"

"What Frankie does, all the time, is forget to charge his cell phone," the brunette said. "So the battery goes dead and he can't call me. He's somewhere on I-95 right now, I know-he's driving up from Washington, D.C., and it's hard to find a pay phone anywhere anymore, much less on the interstate:"

"I would be happy to talk with you until Frankie either gets his batteries charged or shows up, whichever comes first, and would be even happier if you would permit me to buy you a beverage of your choice."

"I couldn't let you do that," the brunette ordered. "But let me treat you!"

She waved at the bartender.

"Give this gentleman another beer," she said. "My treat."

"Sir?" the bartender said.

Jesus, he thinks she's a hooker, too.

Goddammit, I don't think she is.

"We'll have another round, but put it on my tab."

"No, I insist," the brunette said, firmly.

Charley looked at the bartender, who shrugged.

"Okay. Thank you."

Fifteen minutes later, as Castillo was finishing his Italian sausage-and-peppers sandwich, a large young man wearing a zippered jacket and a look of gross annoyance marched into the bar and up to them.

Once Betty explained to Frankie what had happened and how nice Mr. Castle here had been to her while she was waiting for him without a telephone call, much-but by no means all-of the look of annoyance left his face.

Betty and Frankie left. Betty said maybe they'd bump into each other sometime, which did not seem to please Frankie very much.

But when Charley asked for the bill, the barman said, "The broad's boyfriend took care of it."

Charley tipped the bartender anyway and went to his room, and, after leaving a call for quarter to seven, got in bed and went to sleep wondering what it would be like to really work in the catering end of Rig Service, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Castillo Petroleum, Inc., and maybe meet a nice girl-and Betty was a nice girl-by accident in a bar somewhere and seeing what would develop.