By Order of the President

SPRING 2005

[TWO]

303 Concord Circle

Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania

1655 9 June 2005

Charley Castillo's cellular phone tinkled as Betty Schneider turned the car into the drive of a brick colonial house sitting behind half an acre of immaculately manicured lawn.

"Hello?"

There was no reply, but there was the faint hiss of a connection suggesting there was someone on the line.

"Hello?"

There was still no reply.

After a moment, the hiss stopped. Castillo pushed the call end key.

Castillo looked out the window and saw they were close to the three-car garage. There was an apartment over the garage; he had stayed in it when, in his last year at West Point, the Army-Navy game had been played in Philadelphia.

He also saw Major General H. Richard Miller, Sr., USA, Retired, who was walking purposefully across the lawn toward a flagpole. When he reached it, he stopped and looked at the Ford Crown Victoria.

Betty stopped the car and they all got out.

"I could use a little help here," General Miller called. It was clearly an order.

Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., trotted toward his father and the flagpole. Betty looked at Charley and saw that he was sort of standing at attention. When Major Miller reached the flagpole, he, too, came to attention. General Miller began to slowly lower the national colors. Major Miller put his hand over his heart. When Betty looked at Castillo, she saw he had his hand over his heart and put her hand on her breast.

Major Miller caught the end of the flag as it approached the lawn and he and his father then folded it in the prescribed manner, ending up with a tightly folded triangle, which he then tucked under his arm.

"Okay," Castillo said and started to walk toward the Millers.

"Yes, sir," Betty said and followed him.

"Good afternoon, sir," Castillo said.

"The colors have been lowered; it's evening," General Miller corrected him. He looked at Betty Schneider.

"General, this is Sergeant Betty Schneider of the Philadelphia Police Department," Castillo said.

"How do you do, Sergeant? Welcome to our home."

"Thank you, sir," Betty replied.

A trim, gray-haired, light brown-skinned woman ran across the lawn to them, cried "Charley!," grabbed both of Castillo's arms, rose on her toes, kissed him, and said, "Thank you, Charley! God bless you!," and then hugged him tightly.

"Helene," General Miller said, "this young woman is Sergeant Schneider of the Philadelphia Police Department."

"We finally got Dick released into our company, Mrs. M.," Charley said. "But I had to promise you'd keep him chained in the backyard."

Mrs. Miller shook her head, then put out her hand to Betty.

"I'm very pleased to meet you. Welcome!"

"Thank you," Betty said.

Castillo's cellular tinkled again.

"Hello?"

"Hiya, Charley! How are things in Bala Cynwyd, P.A.?"

Charley recognized the voice of Howard Kennedy, Aleksandr Pevsner's former FBI agent personal spook.

"How nice of you to call, Mr. Kennedy," Castillo said.

Major Miller's eyes lit up.

"Aren't you going to ask how I know where you are?"

"You have friends from the old days, right?"

Castillo noticed curiosity on Betty's face and disapproval on General Miller's.

"I don't know about 'friends,' " Kennedy said. "But you've heard, I'm sure, that money talks?"

If he knows I'm here in Bala Cynwyd – nobody knew we were coming here – he's got somebody in the cellular phone business. They can trace a call to the nearest cell antenna. That's what the first no-answer call was all about. He wanted to locate me before he talked to me.

"So I'm told."

"You want to tell me who's answering your phone in the Mayflower?"

What the hell! Don't lie unless you have to.

"One of Secretary Hall's Secret Service guys. His personal detail. My boss thought you might call and he didn't want me to miss it."

"Not somebody from the Fumbling Bureau of Investigation, Charley? Please don't lie to me, Charley."

"No. As a matter of fact, right now Secretary Hall's relationship with the FBI is rather strained."

"I would really hate to think that you were trying to set up some sort of a rendezvous between me and my former colleagues, Charley. That would distress me almost as much as it would distress Alex."

"Neither you nor he have to worry about that, Howard."

"Good. When Alex is distressed, he can get very unpleasant. For the moment, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."

"Thank you."

"I like you, Charley. Respect you. I checked you out. There's more to you than your West Point poster boy image suggests. I think we could become pals."

Does he mean that? Or is he schmoozing me?

"What did you want to tell me when you called the Mayflower?"

"Alex wanted me to tell you that that airplane's no longer where we told you it would be," Kennedy said.

"No longer, or never was?"

"No longer. Since last night."

"How do you know?"

"And something else. In addition to changing the registration numbers, they took all the seats out and put in fuel bladders."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, I know somebody who talked to somebody who talked to the truck drivers who took the bladders to Abeche."

"And how did somebody who talked to somebody know of your interest?"

"Just between us, Charley, a mutual friend of ours in the air cargo business flew them from Mogadishu-you know that's in Somalia, right?"

"I even passed Basic Geography 101 at West Point," Castillo said.

"Do they grade on the alphabetic or numerical scale at West Point? I always wondered."

"Numeric. You were saying these bladders were flown to where?"

"N'Djamena. That's in Chad, I suppose you know."

"Is it really? When did our friend do this?"

"About three weeks ago. And knowing our friend would be a little curious about why anyone would want fuel bladders in Chad, I asked the pilots to snoop around a little. They found out they were to be trucked to Abeche."

"I wonder why our friend's customer didn't want them flown directly to Abeche."

"Putting all the little dots together, are you? I wondered, too."

"And putting your little dots together, what did you conclude?"

"I'll bet I concluded the same thing you have," Kennedy said. "I hope you understand, Charley, that if our friend had any idea about Abeche he would have declined the charter. As I hope we've made clear, our friend really wants to avoid the spotlight of public attention."

"So that's how you know-actually, think-that the airplane was in Abeche?"

"No. I have what the FBI would call 'eye witnesses' to that."

"I don't suppose you know where the airplane is now? Or have the new registration numbers?"

"New registration numbers and a new airline paint job. No, I don't."

"Wonderful!"

"But I'll bet it isn't in Somalia:"

"Why fly the bladders from there if the airplane was going there, right?"

"Great minds travel similar paths."

"Got a guess where it might be?"

"Not a clue. But I'm working on that, and the new identification, even as we speak. If I find out something, you'll be the first to know."

"Thank you."

"I don't suppose you have anything you'd like to share with me?"

"Not now. Maybe tonight."

There was a pause before Kennedy went on.

"Charley, I really don't want to accidentally bump into anyone working for my former employer."

"I understand."

"I really hope you do. I'll be in touch, Charley."

The line went dead.

I wonder where he is? Probably New York, because it's easier to be less visible in a big city than a small one. But maybe Washington. Hell, he could be anywhere.

And even if the agency or the FBI somehow latched on to that call and traced it, it was almost certainly made over a cellular he bought at a newsstand and dumped in a trash can the moment he hung up on me.

I wonder what the hell he did that he's so afraid the FBI will find him?

Castillo became aware that General and Mrs. Miller, Dick, and Betty were all looking at him.

Mrs. Miller broke the silence first. "Come in the house, Charley," she said. "Everybody's here to say thank you."

"I've got to make a call," Charley said. "I really do. It's important."

"Then we'll give you a minute," General Miller said.

"Why don't you come with us, Betty," Mrs. Miller offered, "and meet the rest of the family? Perhaps you'd like to freshen up."

"Thank you."

Castillo waited until they disappeared into the house and then looked at Dick Miller.

"Kennedy," he said.

"I heard."

"The plane is not there. It was. They tossed the seats out and loaded fuel bladders:"

"Loaded? Or installed? Hooked up?"

"He didn't say. One of Pevsner's airlines hauled the bladders from Mogadishu to N'Djamena. Then they were trucked overland to Abeche."

"You believe him?"

Castillo nodded.

"He has no idea where the airplane is now and is really worried that I'm going to flip him to the FBI."

"Is there a warrant out for him?"

Castillo shrugged.

"Go in the house, Dick. This won't take me more than a minute."

Miller looked at the house. His older brother and his aunt Belle were in the door about to come on the lawn.

"Keep me in the loop, right?" Miller said and then moved to intercept Kenneth Miller and their aunt Belle.

Castillo punched the autodial button that would connect him with the White House switchboard.

[THREE]

Camp David

Catoctin Mountains, Maryland

1700 9 June 2005

The president of the United States, who had been resting his hand on the king with which, when the telephone light flashed, he had been about to checkmate the secretary of homeland security, finally took his hand away and leaned back in the pillow-upholstered armchair and tried to make sense of the one side of Hall's telephone conversation he could hear.

After a moment, he gave up on that, too, and pushed a small button under the table beside his chair. A moment later, a white-jacketed steward appeared.

"Yes, Mr. President?"

"Booze time," the President said. "A little Maker's Mark for me:"

He stopped, said, "Matt?," and, when Hall looked at him, mimed drinking a shot.

"Scotch, please," the secretary of homeland security said.

"And scotch. Cheap scotch. The secretary of homeland security is not looked favorably upon by his president at this time."

The steward, a dignified, gray-haired black man, smiled.

"One good bourbon and one cheap scotch. Yes, sir. Something to munch on, Mr. President?"

"In lieu of the hearty meal customarily offered to the condemned, why not?"

The steward smiled again and left.

"Okay, Charley," Matt Hall said to the telephone. "Keep at it. Let me know if anything comes of it."

He thoughtfully put the telephone back in its cradle, leaned back in his chair, and raised his eyes to the president.

"First things first," the president said, pointing to the chessboard on the low table between them. "Checkmate."

The secretary examined the board.

"Shit."

"I always beat you," the president said. "Why are you surprised?"

"I was hoping your mind might be on other things," Hall said. "That was Major Castillo."

"Our no-longer-so-secret secret agent," the president said. "I picked up on that much."

"He just had another call from Howard Kennedy, the ex-FBI man who now works for the Russian arms dealer."

"And?"

"Kennedy told him the 727 was in Abeche but has left. With new-unknown-identification numbers, and painted in the color scheme of an airline. Which airline, no one knows. Nor did Mr. Kennedy have any idea where the airplane might be now."

"God!"

"Charley-Castillo-said something else. Kennedy knew where Castillo was-made a point of letting him know he knew. Charley said the only way he can think of that Kennedy could know that was he has a contact with the cellular telephone people, who can trace a call to the nearest antenna."

"In other words, this Kennedy character can do what the FBI can't do without getting a warrant from a federal judge?"

Hall nodded.

"Castillo also said Kennedy seemed very worried that we were going to tip off the FBI about him. Castillo said he has no idea where Kennedy is-was-and Kennedy knows that. So Kennedy's worries are a little unusual."

"Is there a warrant out for this fellow?"

"I don't know. I told you, the FBI: Mark Schmidt himself was: Schmidt gave me a hard time about getting Kennedy's dossier. I had to really lean on him to get him to promise to get it to me by nine o'clock this morning. " He paused. "And, I'm embarrassed to say, I haven't checked to see if he actually came up with it this morning."

"Okay. Try this on. Mark Schmidt, the FBI, knows this Kennedy is a really bad apple. He's an embarrassment to them. They don't want you or anybody to know how high this bad apple rose in the bureau or how much trouble he caused."

"Okay."

"Okay, so maybe that doesn't justify Schmidt's ignoring Natalie Cohen's memo that you were to get whatever you asked for. That's a separate issue and I'll deal with that."

"Yes, sir."

"But why should I be expected to believe anything this guy says? Your man:"

"Charley Castillo? He's now my man, is that the way it is?"

"No. Sorry. Bad choice of phrase, I set this up. Castillo is my responsibility. My Major Castillo tells us that the reason Kennedy is being so helpful is that he wants us to stop watching him closely. He sure sounds helpful when he tells us where the 727 is, but, before we can do anything about it, lo and behold he tells us the airplane isn't in Chad anymore. Why should we believe that it ever was there?"

"All I have, Mr. President, is what Castillo tells me. He believes him, and Charley is very good at separating the truth from the bullshit."

The president snorted.

"And what is our secret agent doing right now? Where is he?"

"He's at Miller's father's house outside Philadelphia. Miller's father is a retired two-star general. The counterterrorism people in the Philadelphia police department are going to set up a meeting between Castillo and Miller and some police working undercover with Muslim groups-two kinds, Arab-type Muslims, and converts to Islam, mostly African Americans-to see if they can come up with a Somalian connection."

The steward came into the room carrying a tray with two large glasses dark with whiskey, together with a bowl of ice and a pitcher of water.

"One very good bourbon for the president," he said. "And one really cheap scotch for the secretary."

"Thank you very much," Hall said, smiling.

"The reason we got it cheap, Mr. Secretary, is that nobody wanted to buy it. Can you believe that stuff sat in a barrel in Scotland for twenty-four years before they could sell it?"

"Now that we know where you stand, Jerry," the president said, "that means that I am not the only friend Matt Hall has in the whole world."

The steward left.

"What now, Mr. President?" Hall asked.

"Natalie said I should go back to Washington about now. Maybe with your resignation in my pocket. So what I'm going to do is wait until we hear from General Naylor that the 727 is not in Chad and never has been."

"Mr. President, I serve at your pleasure," Hall said. "Would you like me to prepare my resignation?"

"No. I may have to ask for it eventually, but I don't like throwing people to the wolves because of my mistakes, especially when they've done nothing but their very best to do what I told them to do."

[FOUR]

Abeche, Chad

2305 9 June 2005

Two men dressed in the loose cotton robes worn by inhabitants of the Chadian desert sat in a small, light tan-colored tent three hundred yards off the end of the runway of the Abeche airfield.

One was Sergeant First Class Frederick Douglass Lewis, a very tall, very thin twenty-six-year-old from Baltimore, in whose home was hung a framed photograph of himself in full uniform. He was shown with his arm around an African-a very tall, very thin Watusi-in a sort of a robe, standing on one leg, sort of supporting himself on a long spear. Both men were smiling broadly at the camera. On closer examination, one might notice both men had the same face. Lewis, who was pretty good at screwing around with digital photographs, had superimposed his face on that of the African tribesman.

He had also superimposed the face of his wife on a photograph of Janet Jackson in a very revealing costume. Mrs. Lewis, whose father was pastor of Baltimore's Second African Methodist Episcopal Church and still carried a lot of that around with her, had not been amused.

Sergeant Lewis was the Gray Fox team communicator. He sat down with a communications device between his legs, making minor adjustments trying, as he thought of it, to make all the lights go green.

It was taking a little longer than it usually did, but finally all the LEDs were green.

"We're up, Colonel," Sergeant Lewis said.

Lieutenant Colonel Thomas J. Davenport, who commanded Gray Fox and who was unusually in personal command of this team operation, gave Sergeant Lewis a thumbs-up signal but did not raise his eyes from the communications device on the ground between his legs. It looked, more than anything else, like a small laptop computer.

He read what he had typed: