By Order of the President

Chapter XIII

[ONE]

Camp David

Catoctin Mountains, Maryland

1730 9 June 2005

There was a discreet knock at the door of the president's living room and then the door was slowly swung open. The president, who was sitting slumped back in a pillow-upholstered armchair across a low table from Secretary of Homeland Security Hall-who was talking on the telephone-waved Secretary of Defense Frederick K. Beiderman into the room and then onto a couch facing the table.

The president raised an index finger in a signal that could mean "Wait" or "Quiet while Hall's on the phone."

Beiderman sat down, more than a little tensely, on the edge of the couch.

The president gestured toward the steward and asked with a raised eyebrow if Beiderman wanted anything. Beiderman shook his head. The president signaled to the steward that he should refill his and Hall's glasses.

Beiderman looked between the president and Hall. The president touched his ear, which Beiderman understood to mean that he was supposed to listen to Hall's end of the conversation.

He didn't hear much.

"The secretary of defense just came in," Hall was saying. "I'll have to get back to you, Charley."

He looked at Beiderman as he replaced the handset in its cradle.

The president smiled at Beiderman.

"What an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Secretary," he said. "Actually, Matt and I were just talking about you."

Secretary Beiderman was visibly not amused.

"All your righteous indignation should be directed at me," the president said. "Everything that's been done-or should have been done and wasn't-was at my orders."

Beiderman didn't say anything.

"No comment?" the president asked.

"Mr. President, are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"Two things of importance," the president said. "The first, and this comes from a source which so far has been right on the money, is that a group of Somalian terrorists stole the 727 in Angola to crash it into the Liberty Bell. The plane made a stop in Abeche, Chad, to change its markings and install fuel bladders and now-right now-is apparently en route from there to someplace unknown on its way to Philadelphia."

"May I ask why I have not been informed, Mr. President?" Beiderman asked, coldly.

"The second thing," the president went on, ignoring the question, "is that the police commissioner of Philadelphia-who had to be told of the possibility-intends to inform the mayor of Philadelphia at four-fifteen tomorrow afternoon. The ramifications of that are obvious: It will be received by the public with a yawn as just another elevation of the terror threat color code-or with mass hysteria. Matt and I have been waiting for you so that we can set up a conference call between here and Natalie Cohen, so that we may chew the situation over between us and decide what we should do."

"How reliable is your source?" Beiderman said. " The Liberty Bell ? Jesus Christ, why the Liberty Bell?"

"That's everyone's reaction, frankly. We really don't know why it's a target. Matt was just on the telephone with Major Castillo, who is in Philadelphia, and who hopes to have an answer to that later tonight."

"Who the hell is Major Castillo?" Beiderman blurted.

"The man I charged with finding out who among the intelligence community knew what about the missing airplane and when they knew it," the president said. "He's Matt's executive assistant."

"I don't understand, Mr. President."

"I know, and it's my fault you don't," the president said. "I'm sure you may have a question or two:"

He chuckled.

"Am I missing something?" Beiderman snapped. "Is there something funny here that I'm missing?"

"It's not funny at all," the president said. "Levity, flippancy, is often the outward reaction of people who are terrified." He paused. "And I am, Fred."

Beiderman looked at him intently for a moment.

"How reliable is your source, Mr. President? That someone intends to crash that airplane into the Liberty Bell?"

"On one hand, he apparently is not the kind of source in which the CIA, the FBI, the DIA, etcetera, etcetera, would place much credence, as they have chosen either (a) not to tap him for information or (b) to ignore him. He's a Russian arms dealer. Perhaps the most infamous of that breed. A fellow named Aleksandr Pevsner:"

"I know that name," Beiderman interrupted.

"So far, as I've said, what he's given us has been right on the money."

"Given you how?"

"Through Major Castillo."

"I'm having a hard time understanding this, Mr. President," Beiderman said. "What's in it for Pevsner? Why should we trust a man like that?"

"I think we'd better take it from the top," the president said.

Beiderman nodded.

"Have a drink, Fred," Hall said. "You're probably going to need one, and, when you write your memoirs, I'd rather you didn't recall that we were drinking and you weren't."

Beiderman looked at Hall and then at the president, who was holding his Maker's Mark, then shrugged.

"Why not?"

The president pressed the button that would summon the steward and then looked at Beiderman.

"When I became annoyed that no one in the entire intelligence community- no one, mind you-seemed to be able to locate the airplane stolen in Angola," the president began, "I called in Natalie and Matt and:"

[TWO]

303 Concord Circle

Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania

1731 9 June 2005

The "Yes, sir" that Major C. G. Castillo said to his cellular telephone was more a reflex action than a reply to Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall. Castillo had heard the click of the breaking connection a split second after Hall had said, "I'll have to get back to you, Charley."

As he slipped the telephone into his shirt pocket, he saw that Major General H. Richard Miller, Sr., had come into the corridor where Charley had gone to take the call after leaving the living room.

"I was not trying to overhear your call, Major," the general said. "But I would like a word with you in private."

"Major"? What is he up to now?

"Yes, sir. Of course."

General Miller opened a door and motioned Charley ahead of him. Inside was a small, book-lined, very neat study. There were a dozen framed photographs on the bookcase shelves. One was of the general-then a major-and Colonel Colin Powell, obviously taken in Vietnam. There were three photographs of Dick Miller. One was of him in dress uniform standing with his father at West Point taken-Castillo knew; he had taken the picture-just before the final retreat parade. A second showed Miller getting his captain's bars from General Miller and the third showed General Miller, now retired and in civilian clothing, pinning on Dick's major's leaves.

"This will do," General Miller said, closing the door. "Please feel free to use my office for any further calls."

"Thank you, sir."

"You'll understand, Major, that I am not asking for information that may be classified."

"Yes, sir?"

"You are obviously in command here and I would like to offer to help with whatever it is you're doing."

"That's very kind of you, General, but I can't think of a thing."

"I understand," General Miller said. "Thank you for your time, Major Castillo."

He turned and started to open the door.

Fuck it! If you can't trust a West Point two-star whose grandfather was at San Juan Hill with the 10th Cavalry:

"General, now give me a minute, please," Castillo said.

General Miller turned around.

"What I'm about to tell you, sir, may not be shared with anyone without my express permission," Castillo said. "Mine or Dick's."

"Then perhaps it would be best if you told me nothing," General Miller said. "Sentiment has no place in matters of security or intelligence."

A lecture. I should have known that was coming.

He still thinks of me as a cadet who almost got himself – and Dick – booted out of West Point and then not only became a Special Forces cowboy promoted before his time but who dragged Dick from the holy family cavalry tradition into the Green Beanies with him.

On the whole, were I Major General Miller I wouldn't like Major Castillo much, either.

"That was Secretary Hall just now, General:"

"Is that who you work for?"

"Yes, sir. But on indefinite TDY. I am still a serving officer. May I go on, sir?"

"Of course. Excuse me."

"Secretary Hall called to tell me that a Gray Fox team which made a Halo insertion to the airfield in Abeche, Chad, has confirmed that the 727 stolen from Luanda has been in Abeche, where it was given new registration numbers and loaded with several fuel bladders."

"May I ask why he thought you should be made privy to that information?"

Lowly majors – especially ones promoted before their time – should not even know what Gray Fox is, right? Much less be "privy" to operational details?

"Because I gave him the initial intel, sir, that the airplane was probably there."

General Miller looked at Castillo for a long moment, almost visibly deciding whether to believe him or not.

Not that he's wondering if I'm lying. He really believes that West Pointers do not lie, cheat, or steal nor tolerate those who do. It's just that, as a general, based on his own experience, he knows that I simply can't have the experience to really know what I'm talking about.

"What is the connection between that missing aircraft and Philadelphia?" General Miller asked, finally. "Can you tell me that?"

"My best intel is that a group of Somalians calling themselves the Holy Legion of Muhammad intends to crash it into the Liberty Bell complex here."

"May I ask where that came from? The Liberty Bell does not seem, symbolism aside, to be a worthwhile target."

"That I can't tell you, General, because we just don't know. But the Gray Fox team confirmed what my source gave me-first, that the airplane was in Chad, that the registration numbers had been changed and fuel bladders placed aboard, and, second, that it had left."

"To what end, Major? Where is the aircraft now?"

"We don't know, sir."

"With the fuel bladders would it have the range to fly here?"

"That's possible, sir. But I think the purpose of the bladders is to have a large amount of fuel-either JP-4 or gasoline-aboard as explosive material. They're trying to duplicate the effectiveness of the big birds the terrorists turned into bombs on 9/11 with the smaller 727 that, being old and common, is effectively off everyone's radar."

"And you believe this aircraft is headed for Philadelphia?"

Yes, sir.

"And that's why you're here?"

"Our source believes there is probably a connection between the Holy Legion of Muhammad and someone here in Philadelphia. Commissioner Kellogg's trying to help us find it, if there is one."

"Does Kellogg know about the airplane? Your belief that it will be used as a flying bomb?"

"Yes, sir. And after 1615 tomorrow, he's going to tell the mayor."

"The mayor doesn't know?" General Miller asked, surprised.

"Not yet, sir."

"He's the mayor!"

In other words, the commanding general, right?

"The decision not to tell the mayor was Commissioner Kellogg's, sir."

"The mayor should be informed," General Miller said.

Jesus Christ, is that an announcement that he's going to tell him?

"I really believe that's Commissioner Kellogg's decision to make, sir."

General Miller thought that over and finally nodded.

"Yes, it is," he said. "And Dick's role in all this? Can you tell me about that?"

"CentCom-General Naylor-put him on TDY to Secretary Hall, sir. We're working together on this."

"Why was he relieved for cause in Angola?"

"For doing his duty, sir. And that unjustified relief is being dealt with. There will be nothing on his record about Angola except that he received a letter of commendation from the president."

General Miller considered that for a moment and then asked, "Is there something I can do to be helpful?"

"Not that I can think of, sir," Castillo said. "Except: you may tell Commissioner Kellogg that I have told you what I have. I don't know the nature of your relationship with him:"

"We have been friends for a very long time."

"Perhaps you might be helpful to him."

"Yes," General Miller said, thoughtfully.

He was about to say something else when there was a knock on the door.

"Hello? Major Castillo?" Sergeant Betty Schneider called, softly.

General Miller opened the door.

"Ah, Sergeant Schneider," he said.

She ignored him.

"We've had a call. We're going to meet those people we talked about in forty-five minutes."

"Where?" General Miller asked.

Betty Schneider looked at Castillo for guidance.

"I've been bringing General Miller up to speed on what's happening," Castillo said.

"A couple of blocks from the North Philadelphia station," she said. "But we're going to have to change cars."

"Change cars? Why?" Castillo asked.

"Because on West Seltzer Street-where we'll do the meet-a new Ford is either a fool from the Main Line trying to score dope or an unmarked car," Betty said. "We're trying not to attract attention, Major."

"I thought you agreed to call me Charley," Castillo said.

"Now we're working, okay? And this is my turf."

"Oddly enough, Sergeant," General Miller said, "I really didn't think you were from the Visitors' Bureau."

The presence of Sergeant Betty Schneider of the Philadelphia Police Department had been explained with a rather convincing fabrication, loosely based on the facts but not touching in any way on the possibility that the Liberty Bell was about to be the target of a terrorist attack.

Castillo had told Mrs. Miller, and the rest of the family, that the Department of Homeland Security, to which he had been assigned for some time as a liaison officer between the department and Central Command, and to which Major Miller had just been assigned, wanted to establish a closer relationship with the Philadelphia Police Department, in particular the Counterterrorism Bureau and the Organized Crime and Intelligence Unit. Commissioner Kellogg, more as a courtesy to Secretary Hall than to Castillo or Miller, had arranged for the Visitors' Bureau-which dealt with visiting movie stars and the like-to provide them with a car and a driver, Sergeant Schneider, to escort them around and answer what questions she could.

Castillo smiled at Betty Schneider.

"You may tell him, Sergeant," he said.

"I'm with the Organized Crime and Intelligence Unit, General," she said.

"And we got lucky with the commanding officer of the Counterterrorism Bureau, General," Castillo explained. "He served with Special Forces. He 'asked' the commanding officer of Organized Crime and Intelligence if he could spare Sergeant Schneider to help us."

"There's one more thing, Major," Betty said. "Chief Inspector Kramer strongly suggests that Major Miller do the meet, not you. And that he dress appropriately."

"Because of where you're going?" General Miller asked.

She nodded and said, "White men, like new Ford sedans, on West Seltzer Street, after dark:"

"Dress appropriately?" General Miller asked.

"Work clothes, preferably dirty and torn," Betty said.

"I think we have what you need in the garage," General Miller said.

"You said change cars," Castillo said. "Where do we do that?"

"Internal Affairs has been told to give us whatever we want," she said. "They have a garage full of them, mostly drug bust forfeitures. Dungan Road. Downtown. Not far from where we're going."

"Is there a weapon Dick can have, General?" Castillo asked.

"Is he going to need one?" General Miller asked, looking at Betty Schneider.

"You never need a gun unless you really need one, General," she said.

General Miller opened the center drawer of his desk and took out what looked like a cut-down Model 1911A1. 45 ACP semiautomatic pistol. He ejected the clip, racked the action back to ensure the weapon was not loaded, and then handed it to Betty.

"They used to make these at the Frankford Arsenal," he said, "cutting down a standard Model 1911A1. Shorter slide, five- rather than seven-shot magazine, etcetera. They were issued to general officers; the American version, so to speak, of the general officer's baton-swagger stick-in other armies."

She examined it carefully.

"Very nice," she said, then raised her eyes to his. "I can put this in my purse and give it to him later," she said.

"Why don't you do that?" General Miller replied, handing her the clip he had ejected and a second one, also loaded with five rounds, he pulled from the drawer. "And when you do, please tell him that if at all possible I'd like it back in the same condition it is now."

"Yes, sir," she said, but she was obviously confused by the remark.

"That is, never fired in anger," General Miller said.

[THREE]

Camp David

Catoctin Mountains, Maryland

1755 9 June 2005

"May I speak freely, Mr. President?" Beiderman asked several minutes later.

The president held up both hands, palms upward, yielding the floor.

"Until about thirty seconds ago," the secretary began, "I wasn't buying your argument that you were justified, or fair, in not bringing me in on this from the git-go. I am the secretary of defense. I have the right to know what's going on."

"And what happened thirty seconds ago?" the president asked, softly.

"I realized that I was letting my delicate ego get in the way of reality," Beiderman said. "The two pertinent facts-maybe it's only one fact-here are that you're the president and the commander in chief of the Armed Forces of the United States. The Constitution lays the defense of the nation on your shoulders. You have all the authority you need to do any goddamned thing you want to do that.

"Once I got past that, what I had decided was the dumbest idea you've had in a long time, sending a goddamned major-a major, for Christ's sake-to check on how all the generals and the top-level civilians are doing their jobs, didn't seem so dumb after all.

"It made a hell of a lot more sense than setting up one more blue-ribbon panel-particularly after the 9/11 commission's report-which would have taken three months to determine that what wasn't working the way it should-what was wrong-was the other guy's fault.

"And, knowing you as well as I do, I knew that what you had against using a commission or panel or something of the ilk to find out what's wrong had nothing to do with the other-perhaps the most significant-thing that panels are good for, giving your political enemies ammunition to use against you."

"The truth, Fred," the president said, "is that forming a blue-ribbon panel never entered my mind. All I wanted to do was quietly find out who knew what and when they knew it. I thought this would put us ahead of the curve. Using Major Castillo to that end seemed to be the way to do that very quietly. No one was going to pay attention to a major. It just got out of hand, is all."

"Out of hand, Mr. President?" Beiderman said. "I don't follow that."

"I've stirred up a hornet's nest. If you've learned about this Gray Fox operation-and you were, you admit, furious when you did-wait until the DCI and the director of the FBI find out."

"Excuse me, Mr. President. And with all respect, so what? You found out-this Major Whatsisname found out:"

"Castillo," Secretary Hall interrupted. "Major Carlos G. Castillo."

": among other things," Beiderman went on, "that the DCI was prepared to hang another major out to dry for doing his job in Angola and was far more interested in covering his ass about his connections with this Russian arms dealer than getting the intelligence that was apparently there for the asking."

The president looked at him with a raised eyebrow but said nothing.

"And without Charley, Mr. President," Hall interjected, "we would never have found out about Kennedy. Schmidt damned sure wasn't going to volunteer that information."

"About Kennedy?" Beiderman asked. "Who's he?"

"A former FBI agent who now works for Pevsner," the president said. "We don't know how important he was in the FBI before he left but, to judge from Mark Schmidt's reluctance to come up with his dossier when Matt asked for it, I don't think he was a minor functionary."

"If I were paranoid," Hall said, "and, God knows, I'm starting to feel that way, I'd say there's a conspiracy on the part of Schmidt and the DCI to tell us-the president-only what they want him to hear."

"That's a pretty strong accusation, Matt," the president said.

"What other interpretation can we put on it, Mr. President?" Hall responded.

"Mr. President," Beiderman said, "wouldn't giving Matt anything and everything he asked for as soon as he asked for it come under that memo Natalie Cohen sent around?"

The president looked at him for a moment.

"Point taken, Fred," he said.

"More important," Beiderman went on, "Major Whatsis: Castillo has come closer to finding this airplane than anybody else. And isn't that the priority? Neutralizing the goddamned airplane before these lunatics fly it into the Liberty Bell or do something else insane with it?"

"Are you suggesting, Fred, that we don't rein Major Castillo in?" the president said.

"Exactly. I was about to suggest sending him to Fort Bragg to bring Delta and Gray Fox-which, I submit, we're really going to have to use to take this airplane out-up to speed on this, but:"

"But what?"

"Do you know General McNab?" Beiderman asked. "I mean, personally? Feisty little bastard. He's not going to listen to a major. Maybe I better go down there myself, or at least get on the horn to McNab."

"Charley Castillo flew McNab's helicopter around Iraq in the first desert war," Hall said. "And after 9/11, Charley commanded one of McNab's Delta Force operations in Afghanistan. McNab will listen to him."

"Especially," the president said, "after we tell General McNab that I personally ordered him to Fort Bragg."

[FOUR]

The Oval Office

The White House

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW

Washington, D.C.

1910 9 June 2005

Fifteen minutes after Natalie Cohen, the national security advisor, had telephoned John Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, to tell him "the president would like you to come to the White House as soon as you can," the director's Yukon XL was passed onto the White House grounds by the Secret Service.

As he got out of the vehicle at the side door of the White House, he heard the familiar sound of Marine One, the President's Sikorsky VH-3D "Sea King" helicopter, on its final approach to the South Lawn.

He reached the outer office of the Oval Office before the president did. Natalie Cohen was there.

"Natalie," Powell said, nodding at her, and then he asked, "Where's he been?"

"At Camp David," she said.

"What's going on?"

"I think we're both about to find out, John," she said.

The president came into the outer office just over a minute later.

"John," he said. "Good. You're here."

"Good evening, Mr. President."

Beiderman, Hall, and Powell nodded at each other but didn't speak.

"I'd like a moment with the DCI before we start this," the president said. "And I just remembered: Natalie, did you call Fort Bragg?"

"No, sir. I thought you were going to."

"How about doing that right now?" the president ordered.

The president waved Powell ahead of him into the Oval Office, closed the door, and waved him into one of the chairs before his desk. The president remained standing, looking out the window onto the meticulously manicured lawn, as he composed his thoughts.

"Yes, Mr. President?" DCI Powell asked.

After a moment, the president turned and spoke. "I was hoping you'd be prepared to tell me whether the missing 727 is in Chad or not. Or, if it's not, where it might be."

"There will be satellites over Abeche at first light, Mr. President. Actually, there are-have been-satellites over that site for some time, but the heat-seeking, metallic-mass-seeking sensors haven't come up with anything we can rely on. With daylight:"

"In other words, you don't know?" the president interrupted.

"I'm afraid I don't, Mr. President."

"I don't know where it is," the president said, "but I know it's not in Abeche, Chad."

"Then Matt Hall's information was not reliable, Mr. President?"

"Matt Hall's information was right on the money," he replied, meeting Powell's eyes. "We have confirmation that the airplane was there, that the seats have been removed, fuel bladders loaded aboard, and that after new registration numbers were painted on it, that it took off for an unknown destination."

Powell shifted uncomfortably in his chair and after a moment said, "I have to ask, Mr. President, why you think that information is credible?"

"Because I authorized a Gray Fox insertion and that's what they reported." The president let that sink in and then went on: "Our problem now is to find where the airplane is now, something more precise than on its way to Philadelphia."

Powell raised his eyebrows but didn't respond.

"I wasn't sure whether I should get into this with you now, John, but I think I will. If nothing else, it will clear the air between us before the others come in here."

"Yes, Mr. President?"

"You took action based on faulty intelligence someone gave you, action that I had to correct."

"I don't think I follow you, Mr. President. What action did I take?"

"You relieved for cause your station chief in Luanda, the causes including a serious breach of security, exceeding his authority, and: Jesus Christ: conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. What the hell was that? Making sure the spikes held him to the cross?"

"Obviously, sir, you're making reference to Major Miller."

"Yes, I am."

"My information came from his immediate supervisor, sir."

"Well, giving any kind of classified information to my personal representative doesn't constitute a breach of security of any kind," the president said.

"No, sir. Of course not. I was apparently misled."

"Yeah, you were. Miller didn't make a pass at that woman; she made a pass at my man."

"If those are the facts, sir, I will:"

"Those are the facts," the president interrupted.

": take immediate steps to rectify the situation."

"So far as Major Miller is concerned, that won't be necessary," the president said. "I've done that myself. And as far as rectifying the rest of it, I've always found it useful to be able to trust the people who work for me."

The president locked eyes with Powell for a moment.

"Would you ask the others to come in now, please?" he said.

[FIVE]

West Seltzer and West Somerset Streets

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

1925 9 June 2005

Castillo could see much better out of the deeply tinted windows of the five-year-old, battered and rusty BMW sedan Betty Schneider had selected from the cars lined up in the Internal Affairs Division garage than he thought he would be able to.

"Nice neighborhood," he said, looking at litter-strewn streets and sidewalks and the run-down brick row houses, many of them with concrete blocks filling their windows.

Betty had told him she had used the car before but didn't think anyone had made it.

"It was a forfeiture," Betty said. "But from a customer, not a dealer. It looks like something a less than successful dealer would drive, but no dealer is going to make it. Or, so far, none has."

"What's the drill?" Dick Miller asked.

He was in the backseat, now dressed in a torn and soiled light blue jumpsuit, a light zipper jacket, and a well-worn pair of white Adidas shoes. He had the general officer's model pistol in the side pocket of the jacket; he would have to keep his hand in the pocket to conceal the outline of the pistol, but there was no other place to put it. His cellular telephone was in the chest pocket of the coveralls.

"We'll loop through here again," Betty said. "This time, when we're at the corner I'll stop and you get out. Quickly, and don't slam the door. The turn-the-interior-lights-on thingamajib in the door has been disabled. When you're out, walk quickly away in the opposite direction. Go to the corner, stop, look around, then walk slowly back toward the corner and either lean against one of the buildings or sit on one of the stoops. Our guy is supposed to be in one of the buildings. He'll wait to see if you attract any attention."

"Has he got a name?"

"He knows your name is Miller and he has a description. Let him make the approach. You don't talk to anybody. Okay?"

"Got it. Then what happens?"

"You go where he takes you; more than likely, into one of the bricked-up buildings. You tell him what you want and he may or may not be able to help you. When you're finished, you call. He'll show you how to get back on West Seltzer and then go on his way. You go back to the stoop, or leaning on the wall, and when I come by you get in. Got it?"

"Got it."

"If something goes wrong, there's an unmarked Counterterrorism car somewhere around here and a Highway supervisor-actually, my brother-in the area, probably parked near the North Philadelphia Station. Either or both can be here in a minute or so. But the real name of the exercise is not blowing the cover of our guy. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Then when we finish here, there's another meet set up, we hope, for half past nine at North Twenty-fifth and Huntington streets, about twenty blocks from the station. And maybe one more after that."

"Watch your back, Dick," Castillo said as Betty slowed the BMW and approached the intersection of West Seltzer and West Somerset streets again.

"You behave, Casanova," Miller said.

Betty stopped the car. Miller got out, pushed-rather than slammed-the door closed, and walked away. Betty made a left turn on West Seltzer, then a right turn on North Broad Street.

"There's my brother," she said as they passed the station. "And another Highway car."

"They won't attract attention?"

"Highway is all over the city, all the time. Not that it would bother him. He takes very good care of his baby sister."

"I saw that in the bar at the Warwick. I really thought he was your boyfriend."

"And he asked me if you had hit on me," she said.

"You will recall I had not."

"I also recall that you told me you were the catering manager for some oil company. And I believed you. You're a very good liar. You could have been a con man."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Take that as a statement of fact," Betty said. "I also suspect that your not hitting on me in the hotel was the exception to your normal behavior."

"Why would you think that?"

"Dick keeps warning me about you, and telling you to behave."

"Trust me, Sergeant," Charley said. "Your virtue is not about to be attacked."

"I'll bet you say that to all the girls," Betty said.

"Would you feel better if I got in the backseat?"

"Unnecessary. I can take care of myself."

"Changing the subject, where are we going now?"

"I'm going to turn off Broad in a couple of blocks and make our way back to the general area where we dropped Dick off."

She had just made the turn when Castillo's cellular rang.

"Hello "Yes, sir "We just dropped Dick off to meet with one of the undercover cops "Sergeant Betty Schneider of the Intelligence Unit."

"Organized Crime and Intelligence Unit," Betty corrected him.

" Organized Crime and Intelligence Unit, I have just been corrected "When he calls, we'll go pick him up. There's at least one more meet tonight "Probably late into the night, sir. This is difficult to do "No. Chief Inspector Kramer made it pretty clear that Dick would do much better at this than me. Dick's black.

"No, sir. I'm not really needed for this "Fort Bragg? What for? "Yes, sir. I don't know how long it will take me to get there. Probably Philly-Atlanta-Fayetteville. I'll call you "What time will it get to Philly, sir? "It'll take me that long to pack and get out to the airport, sir "Yes, sir. Mr. Secretary, could I stay here until Dick finishes doing what he's doing? Maybe he'll come up with something "Yes, there is the telephone, sir. But it's not secure. And I really hate to just leave Dick "Yes, sir. I understand. Secretary Beiderman's now in the loop, is he? "Yes, sir. I'll call you when I get there. If Dick comes up with something while I'm in the air "Yes, sir. I understand."

As Castillo put his cellular into his pocket, he realized that Betty Schneider had pulled the Crown Victoria to the curb and stopped.

She was looking at him.

"The secretary of defense now knows what's going on," Castillo said, "and thinks I should go to Fort Bragg to meet with General McNab. So I'm going to Fort Bragg. Right now. My boss has sent his plane here to pick me up."

"Dick will be all right, Charley," Betty said. "We have him pretty well covered. The risk is really to the undercover cops."

"Yeah," he said.

"You really are worried about him, aren't you? I would have thought:"

"What?"

"Oh, I don't know. Macho stuff. Green Berets can do anything. But you really care."

"Dick and I go back a long way. And he doesn't have any experience with anything like this."

"And you've always taken care of him, right?"

"Meaning what?"

"His mother told me what you did in Afghanistan. No wonder she hugged you the way she did."

Castillo met her eyes for a moment.

"Can you take me someplace where I can catch a cab?"

"I can do better than that," she said and took out her cellular and punched an autodial key.

"Tom, I need to transport our guest first to the Warwick and then to the airport. And right now."

She looked at Castillo.

"My big brother," she said.

"I figured."

"Okay," Betty said to the telephone. "On the south side, in five minutes. Thanks, Tom."

She broke the connection, dropped the cellular into her purse, and pulled away from the curb.

"Tom's sending a Highway car to North Philadelphia Station. They'll take you to the Warwick and out to the airport."

"Thank you."

There was nothing that looked like a Highway Patrol car near the North Philadelphia Station when they got there.

Betty drove the BMW to an unlit area, stopped, and turned the headlights off.

A moment later, two cars pulled into the area beside the station.

"There's your Highway car," Betty said. "And, more than likely, Tom."

Betty flashed the headlights once.

"Do I go there or will they come here?"

"You start walking, and when they see you:"

"You've been great, Betty. Thank you very much."

"And I'll take care of Dick," she said. "Don't worry."

And then their faces were close.

And then she moved her face even closer and he felt her lips-warm and soft-on his.

Not chaste, Castillo thought. And certainly not passionate. Something in between. Tender.

"Jesus!" he said.

"Yeah, Jesus," Betty said, softly. "I really didn't mean for that to happen."

Castillo touched her cheek with the pads of his fingers but made no attempt to kiss her again.

"Go, Charley," Betty said.

He moved his head quickly and kissed her again. She responded for a moment, then averted her head.

"Go, Charley," she said. "Please."

He got out of the car and walked toward the railroad station.

One of the Highway cars started toward him. He stopped walking and waited. The car drove right past him. The second car moved toward him and stopped next to him.

Castillo got in and pulled the door shut.

There was a barrier between the front and rear seats. The upholstery in the back was of heavy plastic material.

A very large, very black police officer wearing a brimmed cap that seemed several sizes too small for him turned in the seat as the car started to move.

"The Warwick and then the airport, right?" he asked.

"Yes, please."

"Sit back and enjoy the ride," the Highway Patrol officer said as the car started down North Broad Street.

[SIX]

The very large Highway Patrol officer-Castillo saw for the first time he was a sergeant-was leaning against the car when Charley came out of the Warwick with his luggage.

He took the suitcase from Charley, opened the rear door, tossed the suitcase in the trunk, waited for Charley to get in, then closed the door.

The Warwick's doorman was obviously wondering what was going on.

They were five or six blocks down South Broad Street, stopped at a light, when the officer's cellular telephone rang.

"Hold on, Lieutenant," the sergeant said and turned on the seat. "It's for you, but the phone won't go through the barrier."

The car pulled to the curb, the sergeant got out, opened the rear door, and handed the phone to Castillo.

"Hello?"

"This is Tom Schneider."

"I think we've met before," Charley said. "I really appreciate the:"

"Yeah. So what are you, DEA or something?"

"Or something."

"Well, listen good, Mr. DEA hotshot. I saw what you was doing with my sister in her car."

"I don't really know how to respond to that," Charley said. "It was:"

"Don't respond. Just listen. You fuck around with my sister again, I'll break both of your legs. You understand me?"

"I hear you loud and clear, Lieutenant."

"See if you can not come back to Philadelphia," Lieutenant Schneider said and broke the connection.

Charley handed the cellular back to the sergeant, who had apparently been able to hear the conversation because he said, "He means it. You better pay attention."

Then he closed the door, got back in the front seat, and the car moved into the traffic flowing down South Broad Street.

"Which airline?" the Highway Patrol sergeant said as they approached Philadelphia International Airport.

That subject had not previously been considered by Major C. G. Castillo, whose mind had, all the way down South Broad Street, been occupied with the memory of Betty Schneider's eyes-and then her lips-on his, and the multiple ramifications thereunto pertaining.

"Not an airline," he said. "They sent a plane for me."

"Who 'they'?"

"The Department of Homeland Security," Charley said. "It's a Secret Service airplane."

"No shit?"

"Is there a general aviation terminal?" Charley asked. "Or something like that?"

"Beats the shit out of me," the Highway sergeant confessed. "Let me see if I can find one of the airport guys. They got sort of a district out here."

Halfway down the line of departing passenger gates of the various airlines, the Highway officer driving the car spotted a policeman wearing a white-brimmed cap, and blew his horn to attract his attention. When that didn't work, he made the siren growl for a moment, which produced the desired effect. The airport detail officer trotted over to the car, to the fascination of thirty or more departing passengers.

"Your name Castingo?" the officer inquired after having been asked where a Secret Service airplane would be parked.

"Castillo," Charley said.

"Whatever. Close enough. The arm is out for a guy who would probably ask about a Secret Service airplane," the officer said. Then he looked at the sergeant. "They want him over at the unit."

The unit turned out to be a small building at the end of one of the parking lots. The sergeant opened the rear door of the patrol car for Charley, and, after Charley grabbed his gear from the trunk, led him into the building.

It was, Charley saw, a small police station. There was a "desk"-an elevated platform-manned by a sergeant and a corporal, and, on one side of the room, there were two holding cells. The "bars" were made of chain-link fence, but since the cells were in sight of the desk sergeant it was unlikely that a prisoner could get through them unnoticed.

Joel Isaacson, the supervisory Secret Service agent in charge of Secretary Hall's security detail, was leaning against the makeshift desk.

Charley walked toward him with the Highway sergeant on his heels. When Isaacson saw Charley, he smiled, then bent his head slightly toward the voice-activated microphone under his lapel.

"Tom," he said. "Don Juan just walked in here."

Castillo wondered how unlikely it was that the Highway sergeant, when reporting the successful delivery of the passenger to the airport, would fail to mention that he had been met by some kind of a federal agent, probably Secret Service, who referred to him as "Don Juan."

"Hey, Charley," Isaacson said. "Good timing. I don't think I've been here five minutes. Your flying chariot awaits."

"I didn't expect to see you, Joel," Castillo said as they shook hands.

"The FBI came through with that dossier the boss asked for," Isaacson said. "On your new friend?"

Castillo nodded.

"The boss wants you to read it on our way to where we're going. I'm to bring it back."

"Okay."

"And you're in luck. The suitcase you left on the airplane the last time you were on it?"

Charley searched his memory.

Christ! I left my go-right-now bag on the secretary's airplane the day I met the president and he gave me this job. The day Fernando picked me up in his new Lear and flew me to Texas to see Abuela.

Jesus, I'd forgotten all about it. How long ago was that? It seems like last year, but it was really only a couple of weeks ago. Less than two weeks: thirteen days.

"It's still on the plane," Joel said. "I tagged it inspected."

"Thanks."

"It could have been a bomb, Charley," Isaacson said. "You're lucky somebody didn't take it to the end of the runway at Andrews and blow it up."

"I forgot to tell anyone I left it on board," Charley said.

"I'm not sore at you, Don Juan:"

Thanks a lot, Joel. The sergeant here might have missed "Don Juan" the first time.

": egg is on my face. Don't tell the boss."

"Of course not."

"You about ready to go?"

"Anytime," Charley said. He turned to the Highway Patrol sergeant. "Thanks for the ride. I appreciate it."

"No problem," the sergeant said and then looked at Isaacson. "Why do you call him that? 'Don Juan'? Can I ask?"

Isaacson smiled, then made an exaggerated search of the room with his eyes.

"I don't see any members of the gentle sex who might take offense, so why not? Take a look at him, Sergeant. Nice-looking guy. Young. Not married. Lives very well. Meets a lot of interesting women. Would you suspect that he gets laid a lot?"

The Highway Patrol sergeant chuckled.

"I thought it was probably something like that," he said.

[SEVEN]

On board Cessna Citation X NC 601

Flight level 31,000 feet

Near Raleigh, North Carolina

2135 9 June 2005

"Did you read this?" Charley Castillo asked, raising his eyes from the personnel file of Kennedy, Howard C, each page of which was stamped SECRET in red.

Joel Isaacson and Tom McGuire were in the rear of the cabin, both lying nearly horizontally in fully reclined seats and both holding a bottle of beer. And both nodded.

"I decided I had the need to know," McGuire said, mock serious.

Isaacson smiled.

"Something's missing," Castillo said. "Or I'm missing something."

Isaacson raised his right eyebrow but again said nothing.

"The FBI's been leaning on me-or the boss-to tell them where he is. And he's really worried that I will."

"Uh-huh," Isaacson agreed.

"There's nothing in here that explains that," Charley said. "And there's nothing in here about a warrant or an indictment, anything like that. What's going on? Why's it classified secret? It's just a personnel record. Confidential, maybe, but secret?"

"There's a story going around that the FBI internal phone book is classified secret," Tom McGuire said. "They're big on keeping things to themselves."

"What does it say he did for the FBI?" Isaacson asked.

Castillo dropped his eyes to the file again.

"He was 'assistant special agent in charge of the professional standards unit,'" Castillo read. "What the hell is that?"

"It's what the cops call 'internal affairs,' " McGuire said. "Think about it, Charley."

"You mean he was involved with dirty FBI agents?"

"There is no such thing as a dirty FBI agent," Isaacson said. "I'm surprised you, a supervisory special agent of the Secret Service, don't know that."

McGuire laughed. Castillo didn't think they resented his having Secret Service identification, but sometimes they needled him. Castillo gave Isaacson the finger.

"What about their counterintelligence guy who was on the Russian's payroll?"

"They couldn't deny that one," McGuire said. "The CIA bagged him. Think of him as the exception that proves the rule."

"I never said, with Tom as my witness, what I'm about to say," Isaacson said. "Okay?"

"Okay," Castillo said.

"I, of course, don't know what I'm talking about. But let me throw this scenario at you," Isaacson said. "It probably goes all the way back to J. Edgar Hoover, but the basic philosophy of the FBI is protect the FBI, closely followed by make the FBI look good and never do or admit anything that could in any way make the FBI look bad. ?Esta claro, mi amigo?"

Castillo nodded, smiling.

"With that in mind, they don't call their internal affairs unit 'Internal Affairs.' To have an internal affairs unit would be an admission that there was a possibility, however remote, that there might be, from time to time, one or two-maybe even three-FBI agents who are not absolutely one hundred percent squeaky clean and perfect in every way. On the other hand, it has to be faced that there are, from time to time, some agents whose behavior might not meet in every detail the professional standards expected of everyone in the FBI. Hence, the 'Professional Standards Unit,' to root these miscreants out, and do so very quietly."

"You don't like the FBI much, do you, Joel?"

"Like every other right-thinking, patriotic American, I hold the FBI in the highest possible regard. I am simply unable to accept any suggestion that any FBI agent would ever do anything wrong."

Tom McGuire chuckled.

"Okay, so what are you thinking, Joel?"

"Read the file, Charley. The FBI put your pal Kennedy on the fast track from the time he left Quantico. He was always assigned some place important-he was never in someplace like the Cornhole, Kansas, field office; he was in New York, LA, Dallas, with frequent tours in Washington. He was good. I could tell that on the phone."

"Excuse me?"

"In your apartment, when he called. I answered the telephone, 'Hello?' he asked, 'Charley?' I said, 'Who's calling, please?,' and he hung up. He smelled a cop-maybe an FBI agent-answering your phone. He called back five minutes later-time enough to leave wherever he was calling from and to get on a cellular that would be hard to trace."

"Okay," Charley said.

"So, again, I don't know what I'm talking about, but here's a possibility. Your pal Kennedy was assigned-as a very bright, absolutely trustworthy member of the FBI Palace Guard-to Professional Standards, where he got to know where all the bodies are buried. Not all of the miscreants Professional Standards catches with their hands in the petty cash drawer-or in the drawers of somebody else's wife-get prosecuted, or even canned."

"Why not?"

"The higher they are on the FBI pyramid, the more embarrassing it is for the FBI to haul them before the bar of justice. May I go on?"

"Certainly. I'm not sure how much of this I believe, but it's interesting."

"Well, then, fuck you, Charley. My lips are now sealed."

"You can't leave me hanging like this, Joel."

Isaacson made him wait long enough for Charley to think, I'll be damned, he is going to stop, before he went on.

"With whatever they did hanging over their heads, the powers that be can trust them to behave. That works fine as long as the guy-guys-who know what they did are in the FBI. But your pal is no longer with the bureau, is he? He now works for a Russian bad guy. But he can still use the same lever to: how do I put this?: gain the cooperation of a lot of people in the bureau for his ends, which are not necessarily in the best interests of the FBI."

"Okay, so what?" Charley asked. "Why is Kennedy so worried that they'll be able to locate him?"

McGuire made a pistol with his hand and said, "Bang!"

"Oh, come on, Tom!" Charley said.

"Accidents happen," Isaacson said. "People get run over by hit-and-run drivers, fall off balconies, etcetera."

Jesus Christ, they mean it!

"Watch your ears back there," the pilot's voice came over the cabin speaker. "I finally got cleared to make an approach to Pope. It's going to be steep."

The nose of the airplane immediately dipped.

In his mind, Charley saw the altimeter unwinding and the digital airspeed indicator on the glass panel beginning to flash red as they approached maximum safe speed.

[EIGHT]

Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina

2155 9 June 2005

The copilot of the Citation came out of the cockpit as soon as the aircraft was safely on the ground and stood by the door prepared to open it the moment the aircraft stopped. The pilot obviously wanted to get airborne again as quickly as possible. So long as the Citation was transporting Charley, it wasn't available to Secretary Hall.

When the Citation stopped on the tarmac in front of base operations, the copilot immediately opened the door.

Charley went down the steps carrying his laptop computer briefcase and the suitcase he'd brought from Philadelphia, and Joel Isaacson followed him off the airplane with the go-right-now bag, handed it to Charley, affectionately punched him on the shoulder, and got back on the airplane.

Charley hung the laptop's strap around his neck, picked up the two suitcases, and with the laptop bumping him uncomfortably with each step walked toward the double glass doors of base operations. Before he got there, the Citation was just visible as it approached the threshold of the active runway, and, as Charley pushed through the doors with his back, he saw the Citation turn onto the runway without stopping and begin its takeoff roll.

Charley wondered again why it was so important that he come to Fort Bragg right now that Hall had sent the plane for him. The only thing he could think of was that otherwise it would have taken him forever to get here on an airline.

There was an Air Force sergeant on duty behind the base operations counter.

"I'm going to need a ride over to the Special Warfare Center," Charley announced.

"You just get off that Citation?"

"Yes, I did."

"You military?"

Good question. Who am I? The special assistant to the secretary of homeland security? A supervisory special agent of the Secret Service? Major C. G. Castillo of the U.S. Army? Or maybe a Drug Enforcement Agency agent? Which is what I told Betty's brother just before he offered to break both my legs.

"Yes, I am," Charley told the sergeant.

"I'll need to see some identification, sir," the sergeant said. "And your orders."

Where the hell is my Army identification?

In the lid of the laptop briefcase, where I put it when I went to Germany. And I am not going to take it out now and give the sergeant something interesting to tell the boys.

"Not possible, Sergeant, sorry," Charley said. "Would you call the duty officer at SWC and tell him that Major Castillo needs a ride over there? They expect me."

"I really have to see some identification, sir."

"That wasn't a suggestion, Sergeant. Call the SWC."

"Sir, this is Sergeant Lefler at Pope base ops. I have a gentleman here who doesn't have any identification but says he's a Major Castillo and that you expect him."

Fifteen seconds later, after repeating Castillo's name, the sergeant almost triumphantly turned to Castillo and said, "They never heard of you, sir."

"Let me talk to him, please," Charley said.

The sergeant didn't reply, instead dialing a number from memory.

"Sir, I hate to bother you," he said a moment later, "but I think you better come down here. We may have an attempted breach of security."

A moment later, he added, "No, sir. Not to worry," and then hung up.

"Sir, would you please have a seat over there?" he said to Charley, pointing to a row of chrome-and-plastic chairs.

"What's going on, Sergeant?"

"Sir, the Airdrome Officer of the Day is on his way here. He will answer any questions you might have. Please take a seat, sir."

The sergeant rested his hand on the holster hanging from his pistol belt.

What the hell is going on here?

They don't expect me?

Charley walked to the row of chairs and sat down.

Fuck it, I'll give him something to talk about.

"Sergeant, could I walk over there and get into my briefcase, please?"

"You just sit right there, please, sir," the sergeant replied. "You can talk about your briefcase to the major when he gets here, sir."

The telephone on the desk rang. Without taking his eyes from Castillo, the sergeant answered it.

"Pope base operations, Sergeant Lefler speaking, sir "Sir, the AOD is not here at the moment "He should be here in a couple of minutes, sir. Would you like to call back? "Sir, there already has been a civilian Citation in here. It just left "Yes, sir. A man did get off. He doesn't have any identification, sir, but he says he's a major "I don't think I'd better do that, sir, until the AOD gets here. He may let you talk to him "No, sir, I don't know who I'm talking to. You didn't give me your name."

The sergeant looked stricken at the response he was given.

An Air Force major, a pilot, wearing the brassard of an Airdrome Officer of the Day, came into the area.

Charley suspected the Airdrome Officer of the Day had been catching a few winks on a cot somewhere near.

"What's going on, Sergeant?" he asked.

"Sir, I think you better take this," the sergeant said, extending the telephone to him. "It's the deputy commander of Eighteenth Airborne Corps."

The major took the telephone.

"This is Major Treward, sir. The AOD. How may I help you, sir?"

The major looked at Castillo.

"Excuse me, sir, are you the special assistant to the secretary of homeland security?"

Castillo nodded.

"Yes, sir, he's right here," the major said and extended the telephone to Castillo.

"Sir," Sergeant Lefler said, "he told me he was an Army major."

"This is Major Castillo, sir," Charley said into the telephone.

"See, he just did it again, sir," Sergeant Lefler told the AOD.

"That's me, too, sir," Charley said into the phone. "I'm assigned to Homeland Security "Yes, sir. I just arrived here on the secretary's plane. My orders are to report to General McNab."

"He wouldn't show me any orders, either, Major," Sergeant Lefler said. "I asked."

"Yes, sir. I'll be here," Charley said into the telephone. "Thank you, sir."

He handed the telephone to the Air Force major. "The general is coming to pick me up."

"Sir, the Security SOP says nobody leaves the building without proper identification," Sergeant Lefler announced.

The major looked at him but didn't respond.

"What I'd like to know is how a civilian aircraft landed here without special permission and why I wasn't told it had," he said to the desk sergeant.

"The pilot filed his flight plan as Secret Service One," Charley offered. "That gets him clearance to land just about any place he wants to."

"Are you in the Secret Service?" the major asked.

Actually, I'm a supervisory agent of the Secret Service. Wanna see my badge?

Charley chuckled. It was almost a giggle.

"I say something funny?"

"No. All I am, Major, is another major."

Major General H. V. Gonzalez, who was about five-foot-five, olive-skinned, weighed no more than 130 pounds, and looked meaner than hell, marched purposefully into base operations ten minutes later, trailed by his aide and a full colonel, both of whom were well over six feet tall. They were all wearing desert camouflage battle dress uniforms (BDUs).

The deputy commander of XVIII Airborne Corps glanced around the room and then marched to where Castillo was sitting. Charley got up quickly as he approached.

"You're Castillo?"

"Yes, sir."

General Gonzalez switched to Spanish.

"The name Elaine Naylor mean anything to you?"

"Si, senor."

"And what's her husband's first name?"

"Allan, senor."

"But we are not privileged to call him by his first name, are we?"

"I'm not, sir."

"General Naylor tells me you're a Tex-Mex from San Antone who speaks pretty good Spanish and works for the secretary of homeland security and that he doesn't have a clue why Dr. Natalie Cohen called me up to tell me the president was sending you here. That about sum things up?"

"Si, senor."

"Harry," the general said, switching to English to speak to his aide. "Help Major Castillo with his bags."

There was a powder blue Plymouth Caravan parked outside the base operations building.

"You ride up front with me," General Gonzalez ordered, in Spanish, as he got behind the wheel.

" Si, senor," Charley replied.

"What was that Chinese fire drill back there all about?" Gonzalez asked.

"My fault, sir. I asked the sergeant to call SWC to get me a ride. They'd never heard of me. And then I couldn't come up with my Army