By Order of the President

Chapter XV

[ONE]

Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport

Arlington, Virginia

0125 10 June 2005

While the Lear was still slowing down on its landing roll at DCA, Castillo punched an autodial button on his cellular telephone.

The call was answered on the second ring.

"Three-zero-six," a man's voice said.

Those were the last three digits of the number Castillo's cellular phone had autodialed. It was the number of the supervisory Secret Service agent in charge of the secretary of homeland security's personal security detail.

If someone dialed the number by mistake-or even was "trolling" for interesting numbers-the three-zero-six answer didn't give much away.

"Mr. Isaacson, please," Castillo said.

"Welcome to our nation's capital, Don Juan," Isaacson himself replied.

"We just landed at Reagan, Joel. You sent someone to meet us, right?"

"Wrong."

"Why not?"

"I myself will greet you personally at Butler Aviation, to which ground control, I suspect, is directing you at this very moment."

The plug in Castillo's other ear was in fact at the moment carrying the order of Reagan ground control to take taxiway B left to Butler Aviation.

"To what do I owe the honor?" Castillo said.

"I was feeling generous," Isaacson said, then added: "Nice airplane, Don Juan."

If he can see the airplane, I should be able to see him.

Castillo looked out the window and saw Joel Isaacson leaning against the door of a black Yukon parked in front of the Butler Aviation fueling facility.

You're not supposed to have vehicles – except with flashing lights, etcetera – on the tarmac.

But I suppose if you are a very senior Secret Service guy, you can park just about anyplace you damned well please.

And all Joel heard was that I was bringing some special radio. He doesn't know how big or how heavy, and he wasn't about to help drag a big heavy radio from Butler to wherever he was supposed to park the Yukon.

"Joel, this is Master Sergeant Alex Dumbrowski," Castillo said as they all stood on the tarmac. "Sergeant, this is Mr. Isaacson of the Secret Service. He's in charge of Secretary Halls security."

The two men nodded and shook hands but said nothing.

"Where's the radio?" Isaacson asked.

Sergeant Dumbrowski pointed at the enormous hard-sided suitcase.

"That's all of it?" Isaacson asked, dubiously.

Sergeant Dumbrowski nodded.

Ground service people walked up, dragging a fuel hose. Fernando Lopez climbed down from the Lear.

"Fernando!" Castillo called and Fernando walked over.

Castillo introduced him to Isaacson as his cousin.

Isaacson motioned one of the fuel handlers over and handed him a credit card.

"Put that fuel and the landing fees on that," he ordered.

"Thank you," Castillo said.

"What the hell, it's in government service-you can send us a bill for the charter, Mr. Lopez-and this way no one gets to see the bills."

"You have just made our lawyers very happy," Fernando said. "Thank you."

Isaacson didn't reply, turning instead to Master Sergeant Dumbrowski.

"All set up, how big is this thing?" he asked. "The antenna, I mean?"

Sergeant Dumbrowski wordlessly demonstrated with his hands the size of the expanded antenna.

"Jesus, that small?" Isaacson asked, rhetorically. "Still, Charley, if we set it up on the roof of the OEOB all kinds of questions will be asked. What about Nebraska Avenue?"

As OEOB meant "Old Executive Office Building"-almost everything in Washington seemed to be boiled down to acronymns-Nebraska Avenue was verbal shorthand for the "Nebraska Avenue Complex," off Ward Circle in Northwest Washington. Originally a Navy installation dating to World War II, there are thirty-two buildings on thirty-eight acres. It was now the home of the Department of Homeland Security. Secretary Hall had his official office there, although, as a practical matter, he most often used his office in the OEOB, which was right next to the White House.

Before Charley could reply, Isaacson asked another question, this time of Master Sergeant Dumbrowski.

"How far can you set up the antenna away from the working part?"

"About fifty feet," Dumbrowski replied. It was the first time he had opened his mouth.

"The boss's office is on the top floor," Isaacson said to Charley. "It's a lot less than fifty feet from it to the roof. And it has secure phones. And, no one will ask questions about one more antenna out there. Make sense?"

"Makes a lot of sense, Joel," Castillo said. "Sergeant Dumbrowski's also going to have to teach a couple of your people how to operate it-it's not that hard-so that it's covered all the time. Most important messages come in when the operator is on the John."

"You can start with me and my partner, Sergeant, okay?"

Dumbrowski nodded and then said, almost hesitantly, "Major?"

"Joel, the fewer people who know these radios exist, the fewer people are going to absolutely have to have them," Castillo said. "Okay?"

"For the moment, Charley, fine. But if this equipment is as good as you told the boss it is, I'll want to talk about getting some permanently."

"We can talk about that later," Charley said. "But this one goes back to Bragg with Dumbrowski when this is over. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Sergeant Dumbrowski is going to need a place to stay. Close to the radio."

"There's a bedroom off the boss's office. So far as I know, he's used it twice. I'll put the sergeant in there, and if the boss asks I'll tell him you said to do it. Okay?"

"You are devious," Castillo said.

"Talking about devious, two guys who work for an unnamed federal agency and who we haven't seen in years looked Tom McGuire and me up-purely for auld lang syne, of course-and then asked if we happened to know where they could find your friend Kennedy. Not together. They took four shots at us. First Tom, and then me, and then two hours later another guy did the same thing. I guess they had a real hard time believing us when we said we didn't know anything about Kennedy's whereabouts and didn't think you did, either."

"Thanks," Castillo said.

"You want me to take this radio and the sergeant to Philadelphia with us?"

"Who's going to Philadelphia?"

"The boss is, I guess to try to keep the mayor from going ballistic when the commissioner tells him about the plans for the Liberty Bell. You mean, you didn't know?"

Castillo shook his head. "When?"

"First thing in the morning." Isaacson looked at his watch. "In six hours. He wants to be there early."

"Leave the radio where it is. I'm taking one to Philadelphia to give to Miller. And you'll have secure communications anyway, right?"

Isaacson nodded.

"Well, if that's it, Don Juan, I'll take the sergeant over to Nebraska Avenue."

"I wish you'd knock off with the Don Juan."

"I know," Isaacson said, smiling.

Charley looked at the Lear. They were almost finished fueling it and Fernando was doing the walk-around.

Charley got in the airplane and went into the cockpit.

[TWO]

Philadelphia International Airport

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

0205 10 June 2005

Philadelphia ground control had directed them to the Lease-Aire hangar, so Castillo wasn't surprised to see, as they taxied up, two Ford Crown Victorias, with all the police regalia, and a third, unmarked Victoria.

Is that Betty's unmarked car?

As the Lear parked, Sergeant Schneider and Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., got out of the unmarked car. Miller was still wearing the ragged clothing from his father's garage that Betty had suggested he wear while meeting the undercover cops.

That triggered an uncomfortable thought: Jesus, I've been telling these people I'm Secret Service and/or Hall's executive assistant and here I am in my Class As.

Three cops got out of the police cars. All were wearing the leather jackets of the Highway Patrol. One of them was a burly man with a lieutenant's bars on his jacket epaulets.

Ah, the brother who's going to break both my legs. I told him – or at least let him think – I'm in the DEA.

Shit!

As Fernando was shutting down the Lear, Castillo took off his headset, put on his beret, and went into the cabin. He found the Delta team arranging their gear and said, "You guys made up your mind which of you will stay here and which will go wherever the ever-changing winds of fate are going to take me?"

Sergeant First Class Seymour Krantz, who wasn't much over the height and weight minimums for the Army, smiled at him.

"I was with Major Miller in Afghanistan, sir, so if it's all right with you:"

"You'll go anywhere he's not, right?"

Krantz chuckled.

"Major Miller and I get along pretty good, sir."

"Okay. What I'm going to do is try to get a cop to sit on the airplane and then take Sergeant Sherman with us to help you get the radio set up."

They nodded and said, "Yes, sir," almost in unison.

Castillo opened the door and stepped down from the Lear.

"Where the hell did you get the airplane?" Miller asked by way of greeting.

"It belongs to my cousin Fernando," Castillo said. "Good morning, Sergeant Schneider."

"Good morning," she said, avoiding looking at him, and formally-and more than a little awkwardly-shaking his hand. "This is my brother, Lieutenant Frank Schneider, of the Highway Patrol."

Lieutenant Schneider was standing with his arms folded, looking the opposite of friendly. The other two Highway Patrolmen, both of them large and mean looking, stood behind him. One of them was the sergeant who'd driven him to the airport earlier.

And I wonder how long it took for you to tell Ol' Break My Legs that the Secret Service calls me Don Juan?

"Good morning," Castillo said. "Or, good middle of the night."

Lieutenant Schneider neither smiled nor offered his hand.

"You told me you was DEA," he accused.

"And you told me you were going to break both my legs," Castillo said. "One good lie deserves another, right?"

"What did he say to you?" Betty asked, aghast. "Frank, damn you!"

Castillo saw Sergeant Krantz, all five-feet-four and 130 pounds of him, struggling to get his huge hard-sided suitcase down from the Lear.

"Not to worry, Sergeant," Castillo said, pointing at Krantz, "I brought a highly skilled Special Forces assassin along to protect me."

The Highway sergeant chuckled.

At Ol' Break My Legs, not at me.

Miller recognized Sergeant Krantz.

"Let me give you a hand with that, Seymour," he said and went quickly to help him.

Castillo turned to meet Lieutenant Schneider's eyes.

She said, "Commissioner Kellogg told Highway that, until further notice, supporting Counterterrorism with whatever they want is the job. Chief Inspector Kramer ordered me to meet you and ask what you want."

"How much else did anyone else tell you?" Castillo asked.

"I know about the Liberty Bell, if that's what you mean."

"And who else was told?"

"The Highway commander and these officers," Schneider said.

"Keep it that way, Lieutenant, please," Castillo said.

Schneider nodded.

"So what do you need?"

"We've got a special radio. We'll need some place to set it up. And I need someone to sit on the airplane while we're here. And I'd like to talk to the undercover guy:"

"He's at the Homicide Bureau in the Roundhouse," Betty Schneider said. "But tell me about the radio, what does it need?"

"Someplace preferably out of the rain," Sergeant Krantz answered for him. "And someplace-a flat roof would be nice-not far from the controls, where the antenna will have a clear shot at the sky, the satellite."

"How big's the antenna?" Betty asked.

Krantz demonstrated with his hands and arms.

"There's a sort of porch on Building 110," she said, looking at Castillo. "You saw it. Would that do?"

He called Building 110 to his memory.

"Yeah, I think so."

Fernando and Sergeant Sherman walked up.

"This is Fernando Lopez," Castillo said. "And Sergeant Sherman, who's going to help Sergeant Krantz set up the radio. Fernando and I are cousins. This is Sergeant Betty Schneider, her brother Frankie:"

" Frank," Schneider quickly and firmly corrected him.

But I got another smile from the sergeant.

": Lieutenant Schneider of the Highway Patrol."

Schneider shook hands with Fernando. Betty smiled at him, looked a little confused, and said, "And that's Dick Miller."

"Dick and I go back a ways," Fernando said.

"You want to top the tanks off and get the weather and file a flight plan back to Bragg?"

"I'd rather go with you," Fernando said. "You have a problem with that?"

Castillo thought it over a moment before answering, "No. Why not?"

"Good," Fernando said.

"Okay, so what we have to do now is get the sergeants and the radio to the arsenal," Castillo said. "And me, Fernando, and Dick to the Roundhouse. You said the Homicide Bureau? What's the undercover officer doing there?"

"I'll take you and Major Miller and Mr. Lopez:" Lieutenant Schneider said.

"No," Betty said, flatly, cutting him off. "The sergeants and the radio go to the arsenal in Highway cars. I'll take Major Castillo, Major Miller, and Mr. Lopez to the Roundhouse."

"Thanks just the same, Sergeant Schneider, but I'm not really afraid of him," Castillo said.

"You better be, you sonofabitch!" Lieutenant Schneider said.

Betty was not amused. She was, instead, all business.

"What Lieutenant Schneider is going to do is stay here until we have a couple of uniforms sitting on your airplane," she said. "He can do that better than anybody else. And then he's going to catch up with us at Homicide. The other Highway car will take the sergeants and the radio to the arsenal. I'll call ahead and set it up for them. And that car will stay there to provide whatever transport we need. If you have any problems with that, Frank, call Chief Kramer. He's at Homicide."

Lieutenant Schneider looked for a moment as if he was going to say something, but, in the end, he turned wordlessly and walked toward his car.

Which almost certainly means that Chief Inspector Kramer has told him that Betty's running this operation and that he takes his orders from her.

Betty gestured for the others to get in the unmarked Crown Victoria.

Castillo got in beside her.

Their eyes met-momentarily-for the first time as she backed away from the hangar.

"Why the uniform?" Betty asked.

"It made sense at Fort Bragg," he said, and then, "You don't seem surprised."

"I picked up on that-that you're an Army officer, as well as a Secret Service agent, and the executive assistant to the secretary of homeland security-at Dick's house."

"Yeah."

"How do you know who you are at any given moment?"

"Sometimes it's difficult."

"And, I forgot, the head of catering for: what was it you said?: Rig Service?"

"Rig Service," he confirmed. "Sometimes I say I fly helicopters for them."

"And is there such a company?"

"Yeah, there is," Fernando said from the backseat. "And among other things I do for the Gringo whenever somebody calls up to check on him is say that he really is what he told somebody he is."

"'The Gringo'?" she repeated.

"Just a nickname," Fernando explained, and even though the car interior was darkened Betty knew he said it with a smile. "You're welcome to use it, too," he added.

"Thanks. But how do you know what he's told them?"

"Sometimes that's very difficult," Fernando said, chuckling.

He started to say something else but saw that she had her cellular telephone out and had punched an autodial button.

"Sergeant Schneider, sir," she said a moment later. "I just picked up Mr. Castillo at the airport and we're headed for the Roundhouse. I sent one of the Highway cars out to the arsenal. Mr. Castillo brought some kind of special radio-and a guy to set it up and work it-with him. The antenna has to go someplace where it can be aimed at a satellite. The porch roof of Building 110 will work. Is that okay with you?"

"Whatever he wants, Schneider," Chief Inspector Dutch Kramer could be heard, faintly but clearly. "You want me to call out there and set it up?"

"That would probably be a good idea, sir."

"Okay, done. I'll see you in a couple of minutes."

A security guard waved them through the airport gate.

Betty reached to the dashboard and turned on the flashing lights under the grille and the siren, stepped heavily on the accelerator, then turned her head.

"You were saying, Mr. Lopez?"

"Call me Fernando, please," he replied. "I was wondering why your brother wants to break the Gringo's legs."

"Jesus Christ!" Castillo exclaimed.

There was another momentary meeting of Betty's and Charley's eyes and she shook her head.

Charley said to Dick: "What I'm wondering is what you found out from the undercover cop. Can we get to that, please, Dick?"

"Charley, not only because I also wonder what you've done to annoy Betty's brother, I think you'd better wait and get it straight from the undercover cop. It's pretty weird."

"Give me what you think I can understand," Charley ordered.

"Okay. None of this is confirmed. But I think there's a good chance the guys who stole the airplane have been here in Philadelphia, as mullahs, visiting from Somalia."

"You mean the guys who actually stole the airplane or the guys behind the idea?"

"Maybe both. According to Britton:"

"Britton is the undercover cop?" Castillo interrupted.

"Right. When these characters showed up at Britton's mosque, he reported it. Chief Inspector Kramer took it to the FBI. The names these two guys gave at the mosque didn't mean anything to the FBI, so Kramer got photos of them at the mosque. The FBI got a match and said they were legitimate, they were pilots for Air Yemen and in this country for flight training: some place in Oklahoma."

"Probably my alma mater," Castillo said.

"What?"

"On my graduation leave-remember, Fernando?-for reasons that now seem pretty foolish, I went to Spartan-the Spartan School of Aeronautics; it's been around forever-and got my Airline Transport rating. They train pilots from all over the world; from small airlines that don't have their own facilities. It's in Tulsa."

"Okay," Miller said. "That fits. And according to Britton, it's all over the AAL community that the Liberty Bell's going to be taken out."

"AAL, Dick?" Fernando asked.

"Cop shorthand for African American Lunatics,' " Miller said. "And defined as African American-and some white guys, believe it or not-quote, Muslims, end quote, who are not part of the bona fide Islamic community and who happen to be black."

"I don't think I understand," Fernando confessed.

I know I don't," Miller said. That's why I want Charley to hear all this from Britton. I don't want to say something, imply something, that may not be the case."

"But we have the names-and photographs, you said-of these people?" Castillo asked.

"Photos, probably," Betty Schneider said. "We tend to hang on to photos. I didn't think to ask. But we don't have names."

"Why not?"

"The FBI didn't give them to Chief Kramer, and-when this came up just now-he said if he called down there he was probably going to get the duty officer, who would stall him until the SAC came to work in the morning, so we decided to wait for you."

"Jesus Christ!" Castillo exclaimed. "You said the undercover cop, Britton, is in Homicide. What's that all about, Betty?"

"Why don't we go back to 'Sergeant Schneider'?" she said.

"You mean until this is over?"

"No, that's not what I mean," she said. "The reason Detective Britton is in Homicide is because we picked him-Ali Abd Ar-Raziq-up for questioning in a homicide."

"You're talking about the undercover cop?" Fernando asked.

"Yeah. The AALs like to know where every other AAL is all the time and what they're doing. So when we really have to talk to them-more often when they really have to talk to us-we pick them up, with other unsavory characters."

"Jesus Christ! I wouldn't mind taking on the FBI duty officer as a Secret Service agent, but I can't walk into an FBI office in my uniform! They'd lock me up until-"

He banged his fist on the dashboard.

"We need those damned names!" Castillo said, clearly frustrated.

No one said anything.

"And I don't have any dates or anything," he said after a moment. "Betty, when was this?"

"I'll have to look it up, Mr. Castillo," she said. "And I can't do that until we get to Homicide or out to the arsenal."

"'Mr. Castillo'?" he parroted.

"Yeah. You're 'Mr. Castillo,' and I'm 'Sergeant Schneider.' Okay?"

"Whatever you say, Sergeant Schneider."

"We'll be at the Roundhouse in just a couple of minutes, Mr. Castillo," she said. "We'll deal with it then."

[THREE]

Homicide Bureau

Police Administration Building

8th and Race Streets

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

0225 10 June 2005

Chief Inspector Dutch Kramer was almost visibly of two minds when he saw Major C. G. Castillo in his Class A uniform.

"What's with the uniform?" he asked.

"I never really got out of the stockade, Chief," Castillo said. "They sort of paroled me to the Secret Service."

"So why are you wearing it now?"

"I just came from the stockade," Castillo said. "Most of the guys in there think the Secret Service is a bunch of candy asses."

"And they're right. They're not as bad as the fing FBI, but they also think their sh-"

Kramer remembered gentlemen don't say things like "their shit don't stink" in the presence of ladies, and Betty Schneider was both one hell of a cop and a lady.

"Schneider tell you about what Britton came up with?" he asked, changing the subject.

"I think this is good stuff, Chief," Castillo said. "We'll have to check it out, but if these two at Britton's mosque went to flight school in Oklahoma they probably went to Spartan, in Tulsa. And I know they teach the 727 at Spartan."

"How do you know that?"

"I went there," Castillo said. "But we can't check it out until I get the names. What about their photos? Do you still have them?"

"I had one of my guys go through the files. He brought them over here."

"But no names?"

For an answer, Kramer shook his head and slid a manila folder across his desk-actually, that of the captain commanding the Homicide Bureau-to Castillo. It was labeled, using what looked like a broad-tipped Magic Marker, UNKNOWN MULLAHS 1 amp; 2.

There were perhaps twenty eight-by-ten-inch color photographs in the folder. Some showed the men, wearing robes and loose black hats-the sort of floppy berets favored by mullahs-but with creased trousers and wingtip shoes peeking out the bottoms of the robes, entering and coming out of a building Castillo presumed was the mosque where Britton was working undercover.

They had intelligent faces, and in several photographs-some of those in the folder were blowups of their faces-they were smiling.

Are these the guys?

How the hell can anybody calmly plan to fly an airplane into the ground?

He looked at Chief Inspector Kramer.

"We need their names," he said.

"Well, the FBI must have them. I call down there, the duty officer'll stall me, and we can't tell him why we want them. Or can we?"

"Can I have the number?" Castillo said. "I'll give it a shot. If that doesn't work, I'll think of something else."