By Order of the President

Chapter XVI

[ONE]

Aboard Lear 4SX NS075L

Over Cambridge, Maryland

0420 10 June 2005

"Richmond area control," Castillo said into his microphone, the glow from the instrument panel gently lighting him in the early morning light, "Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five at flight level twenty-nine, on a heading of two-zero-niner true, airspeed five hundred."

"Roger, Lear Seven-Five."

"Request permission to change destination from Fayetteville to Pope Air Force Base. We have approach and landing clearance."

"Richmond area approves change of destination for Lear Seven-Five. Maintain present heading and flight level. Richmond turns Lear Seven-Five over to Pope area control at this time."

"Roger, Richmond. Thank you. "Pope area control. Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five at flight level twenty-nine, on a heading of two-zero-niner true, airspeed five hundred. Estimate Pope in three-zero minutes. Pope special approach and landing permission, USAF six, this date. Request approach and landing."

"Lear Seven-Five, Pope. I don't have you on radar. Is your transponder operating?"

"Oh, fuck!" Castillo said and turned to Fernando. "Where do they hide the transponder indicator in this thing?"

Fernando pointed to the lower right of Castillo's control panel as he pressed his microphone button.

"Pope, Lear Seven-Five, our transponder is operating."

"Oh, there you are. Okay. Pope clears Lear Seven-Five to approach. Begin descent to flight level ten at this time. Report over Goldsboro."

"Lear Seven-Five understands begin descent to ten thousand at this time, commencing descent, will report over Goldsboro."

"That is correct, Seven-Five."

"Pope, please contact Captain Brewster at Eighteenth Airborne Corps, advise him of our ETA, and inform him we will require ground transportation."

"Sure thing, Seven-Five."

"Thank you, Pope."

"So tell me about you and the lady cop, Gringo," Fernando said. "Very nice!"

There was no response.

"Hey, Gringo, I thought you were going to tell me everything."

He looked over at Castillo. In the glow of the panel lights, he could see Castillo's head was slumped forward. Charley was sound asleep.

Fernando reached toward him to shake his shoulder, but changed his mind.

[TWO]

Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina

June 2005

Fernando Lopez reached over in the cockpit and pushed Charley's shoulder.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty! Wake up!"

Castillo almost snapped his head back, then looked out the windshield. They were moving down a taxiway, past a long line of Air Force C-130s.

"We're down," Castillo said, sounding surprised.

"With no help from you."

"Sorry, Fernando."

"Come on, Gringo, when was the last time you had any sleep?"

"I dunno," Castillo said after a moment. Then, "Where we going?"

"Ground control said take this until a follow me meets us," Fernando said.

Castillo looked out the window again.

There was no follow me vehicle in sight, but there was a ground handler waving his wands in the "keep coming" signal. As Castillo watched, the ground handler-now walking backward toward the opening doors of a hangar-made a "turn right" signal with his wands. When Fernando turned the Lear toward the hangar, he immediately got the "stop" and "shut down" signals.

"This is probably where Delta keeps its 727," Castillo said.

Confirmation of that came almost immediately. A tug backed out of the hangar. Two soldiers, wearing green berets and slinging their sidearms in shoulder holsters, hooked up the Lear to the tug, which then pulled it into the hangar. The doors immediately began to close.

Castillo saw Captain Harry Brewster and Vic D'Alessandro standing by the door of an interior office in the hangar.

"I'm impressed with your airplane, Charley," D'Alessandro said, greeting him with a handshake and a pat on the shoulder. "Where the hell did you get it?"

"Alamo Rent-A-Plane," Castillo responded. "Why are we in the hangar?"

"We got an en route call from General McNab, Charley-he's somewhere over the Atlantic, about three hours out-saying he wants to see you ASAP when he gets here. I figured it would be quicker here than to go to the stockade. The Globemaster will come here as soon as it lands to off-load the backup guys."

"He say why?"

D'Alessandro shook his head.

Fernando and Sergeant Sherman got out of the Lear and walked up to them.

"This is my cousin, Fernando Lopez," Castillo said.

"He's driving the airplane?" D'Alessandro asked.

"It's his airplane."

"How much did you have to tell him?"

"Just about everything."

"Pity," D'Alessandro said, straight-faced. "Now I'll have to kill him."

Then he smiled and put out his hand.

"Charley and I go back a long way," D'Alessandro said.

"I know," Fernando said. "He told me if you even looked as if you might give me trouble, I was to shoot you-twice-in the nuts."

D'Alessandro smiled, broadly.

"I like him, Charley," he said. "But I'll probably kill him anyway."

"You have anything else for me, Vic?" Castillo asked.

D'Alessandro shook his head. Captain Brewster said, "No, sir."

"I need some sack time," Castillo said. "I passed out in the airplane. And I have to change out of the uniform. Any problem taking Fernando to the VIP quarters?"

"No, sir," Brewster said.

"You live on the post, Sergeant Sherman?" Castillo asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I don't see any problem with you going home for a couple of hours. Give me your quarters number, and be prepared to be back here on thirty minutes' notice. Leave the radio on the airplane."

"Sir, if it's all right with you-you know how the wives are-I'd rather go out to the stockade with Mr. D'Alessandro."

"Your call, Sergeant," Castillo said.

"Okay," D'Alessandro said, "Brewster will take you to your quarters. I'll take Sherman to the stockade. And when I get a good-say, forty-five-minute-ETA on McNab, I'll call Brewster and he'll bring you out here. Okay with everybody?"

Everybody nodded. Captain Brewster and Sergeant Sherman said, "Yes, sir."

In Brewster's van, on the way to the VIP quarters, Fernando said, "That was sad, what the sergeant said."

"What?" Charley asked.

"He said he didn't want to go home because of his wife," Fernando said. "He's going off, God knows where, on something like this and he's having a scrap with his wife."

"That's not what he said, Fernando," Castillo explained. "What happened was that he went home earlier-when D'Alessandro picked him as one of the communicators. He told his wife he was going operational. She knew what that meant. He's going somewhere to do something he can't tell her about. He's Delta Force, so she knows that means he's going someplace probably unpleasant and he doesn't know when-or if-he'll be coming back. Special ops wives learn to deal with that. It's not easy, but they deal with it. He didn't want to go home, wake her up, get her all excited that he was back, and then have to put her-and himself-through the same thing again a couple of hours later."

"Jesus Christ!" Fernando said, softly.

"I don't remember the last time I had something to eat," Castillo said.

"Sir," Brewster replied, "there's probably ham and Swiss cheese in the 'frig in your quarters. And bread. But I don't know where else you'll be able to find something to eat tonight. Unless you want to go home with me."

"Thanks but no thanks. What I was thinking was breakfast. Can you get that sergeant to come by, say, at quarter to seven, with stuff to make breakfast? I'd go find a mess hall but I'll be in civvies, and we've got Fernando."

"Done. He'll be there."

When they went into the VIP quarters bedroom, Charley went to his luggage, took out clean linen, a tweed jacket, light brown trousers, a knit shirt, and loafers and laid everything carefully on the floor next to one of the beds.

"What the hell are you doing, Gringo?" Fernando asked.

"I would have liked to use the other bed for my nice clothes, but I took pity on a homeless wetback and told him he could use it. I don't want to waste any time when we get the call in the morning."

"It's already morning," Fernando said.

"With all possible tenderness and affection, Fernando, go fuck yourself. I can tell the big hand from the little hand."

Fernando chuckled, smiled, and went to his suitcase and started to lay out clean clothes on the floor next to his bed.

Charley took off his uniform and, trying to ignore the body odor that the miracle fabric now gave off, folded it and put it in his luggage. His feet and legs felt strangely light when he walked into the kitchen without his jump boots.

He made ham and Swiss cheese sandwiches. There was neither butter for the bread nor mustard for the ham and cheese. He carried one to Fernando in the bedroom. Fernando wolfed it down, commented, "That's a really lousy sandwich," and then asked if there was any more.

Charley made two more sandwiches and gave one to Fernando. As he ate the other, he stripped and put his T-shirt and shorts in one of the suitcases. He took his toilet kit into the bathroom, showered, shaved, and then crawled naked into bed.

He saw that Fernando was already in the other bed, lying on his side and probably asleep.

Charley turned off the lamp on the bedside table, rolled onto his side, and went to sleep remembering the touch of Betty's hand on his face and the soft warmth of her lips.

[THREE]

Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina

0735 10 June 2005

Major General H. V. Gonzalez was at the wheel of the Dodge Caravan outside the VIP guest quarters when Charley Castillo and Fernando Lopez walked out of the building. Captain Brewster had called ten minutes before-as Charley and Fernando were finishing their breakfast-to tell Castillo he had a firm 0745 ETA on General McNab's C-17 III Globemaster.

"Good morning, General," Charley said after he had loaded their luggage and gotten inside. "This is my cousin, Fernando Lopez."

Gonzalez out his hand over the back of the font seat and said " Bienvenida a Fort Bragg, Senor Lopez. "

"Thank you, sir," Fernando replied, in Spanish.

"I assume, Castillo," General Gonzalez said, switching to English, "that you have considered the question of giving Mr. Lopez access to classified material."

Well, fuck you, General!

"I have the authority, General," Castillo said, coldly, "to tell my cousin, or anyone else, what I think they have to know about this situation."

He spoke not only in Spanish but in the Tex-Mex patois peculiar to the San Antonio area.

Fernando picked up on his tone of voice, gave Charley a surprised look, and said to Gonzalez, in Spanish, "I don't know if this is pertinent or not, sir, but I'm a captain in the reserve and hold a top secret clearance."

Gonzalez grunted but did not reply.

When they got to the hangar at the airfield, Vic D'Alessandro was there, and so was another general officer, a major general, and his aide-de-camp, a captain. Both wore desert pattern BDUs and green berets.

"You're Castillo, I presume?" the two-star said, offering his hand to Fernando. "I'm General Chancey. I command the Special Warfare Center."

"No, sir," Fernando said and pointed at Charley. "He is."

"Sorry," General Chancey said, now offering his hand to Castillo.

"That's Fernando Lopez, General," Castillo said. "He's working with me on this."

General Chancey nodded and came up with a very faint smile.

Not another word was exchanged until D'Alessandro, after answering a wall-mounted telephone, announced, "The Globemaster's on the ground."

As Castillo watched from inside the hangar, the huge C-17 rolled slowly down the taxiway. The driver of the tug sitting just inside the hangar door started his engine.

The ground handler on the taxiway waved his wands for the aircraft to stop and cut its engines. The airplane stopped, but the two engines the pilot had not turned off continued to run. A door in the side of the fuselage opened and two men got out.

One was Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, wearing a desert camouflage battle dress uniform-and a green beret, Castillo noticed. The second man was wearing an Air Force flight suit. He went to the ground handler with the wands and spoke briefly to him. The man with the wands tucked them under his arm and gestured to the driver of the tug, who revved his engine and drove out of the hangar.

When the tug reached the ground handler, the ground handler climbed onto the tug, sat down on the back of it-facing the Globemaster-took out his wands, and made the prescribed "come ahead" gesture with them. The tug started to move down the taxiway, with the enormous Globemaster following it.

The Air Force officer trotted after General McNab and caught up with him just as he reached the hangar.

Castillo saluted. McNab returned it.

"Forgive me for mentioning this," McNab said, "but you're not supposed to do that, you know. I've just finished telling Colonel Torine how honored we are to have such a high-ranking civilian, the personal representative of the president, here to guide us in the accomplishment of our assigned tasks."

Castillo felt like a fool for saluting-it had been a Pavlovian reaction-but, on the other hand, sensed there was something in McNab's tone of voice that gave meaning-other than sarcasm-to what he'd said.

"Welcome home, sir," Castillo said.

"Goddamn, two senior civilians here to meet us," McNab said, spotting Vic D'Alessandro. "I didn't know you got out of bed this early these days, Mister D'Alessandro."

"Good morning, General."

"You got a secure place for us, Vic?" McNab asked.

D'Alessandro pointed to the door of the hangar's interior office.

"Last swept half an hour ago, General."

"Okay, let's go swap war stories," McNab said. "D'Alessandro, Torine, the generals, and, of course, Mr. Castillo."

Fernando looked at Charley, wordlessly.

Fernando gets left out here with the aides? No fucking way!

"Unless there's some reason he shouldn't, I'd like Mr. Lopez with me," Charley said.

"Yes, sir, of course," McNab said, putting out his hand. "My name is McNab, Mr. Lopez."

"Yes, sir"? What the hell is that all about?

"How do you do, sir?" Fernando said.

I may nave to kill mm, General, D'Alessandro said as they walked across the hangar. "Charley's told him everything."

"Hold off on that until we don't need him anymore," McNab said.

The Air Force officer-the leather patch on his flight suit was silver-stamped with command pilot wings and the legend COL J.D. TORINE, USAF-smiled and shook his head.

When they were inside the office, McNab sat down at a desk as D'Alessandro closed the door.

"For the benefit of Mr. Castillo and Mr. Lopez," McNab began, "Colonel Torine commands the Seventeenth Airlift Squadron at Charleston Air Force Base, South Carolina. Before the Air Force-scraping the bottom of the barrel-promoted him, he was in charge of our C-22 here. When General Naylor laid this requirement on the 117th, Torine couldn't find enough sober Air Force types to drive the C-17 and had to do it himself."

Torine put out his hand to Castillo. "Were you really the worst aide-de-camp in the Army?" he said with a smile.

"If General McNab said so, it must be true, sir," Castillo said.

Torine and Fernando shook hands.

"I like your airplane, Mr. Lopez," he said.

"Thank you," Fernando said.

"If you would, Mr. Castillo," McNab said, "fill us in. General Naylor being General Naylor, we're all still pretty much in the dark."

What's with the "Mr. Castillo"? Everybody knows I'm a major.

"The airplane you were looking for in Abeche, sir, was-we're pretty sure-stolen by a Somalian terrorist group called the 'Holy Legion of Muhammad:"

"The name doesn't ring a bell," McNab interjected. He looked at the others, all of whom shook their heads.

": who plan on crashing it into the Liberty Bell."

"Where'd you get this, Mr. Castillo?" McNab asked.

"From a Russian, an arms dealer. One of the names he uses is Aleksandr Pevsner. Another is Vasily Respin."

"I know the gentleman by both names. He's a genuine rascal," McNab said. "This sounds like a CIA fantasy. You said you got it? Where?"

"From Pevsner. In Vienna."

"What's in it for him? Don't tell me altruism."

"He wants attention diverted from some of his business activities."

McNab grunted.

"Anyway," Castillo went on, "the last word we had was that the airplane-now repainted with the registration numbers of Air Suriname-was last seen in N'Djamena, Chad, after a flight from Khartoum. Khartoum has no record of Air Suriname 1101 in Khartoum in the last six months."

"That could happen," Colonel Torine said and made a gesture with his fingers suggesting a bribe.

Castillo didn't respond, instead going on: "The airplane took on fuel, and filed a flight plan to Murtala Muhammad International, in Lagos, Nigeria. And never got there."

"Where do you think it is?" Colonel Torine asked.

"Kennedy thinks it's in South America," Castillo said, "by way of Yundum International:"

"Kennedy, who's Kennedy?" General McNab interrupted. "And where is Yundum International?"

"In Gambia, a hundred miles south of Dakar," Colonel Torine answered. "Another place where the more generous you are, the fewer questions are asked about where you really came from, or are really going."

"Who's Kennedy?" McNab pursued.

"Pevsner's guy. American. He's ex-FBI," Castillo said.

"First name Howard?" McNab asked.

Castillo nodded.

"He's renegade FBI, if it's the same guy I think it is," McNab went on. "A guy from the FBI was here, asking that if we ran across him anywhere to please let them know right away."

"That's a whole other story, sir, but I've seen his dossier. He hasn't been charged with anything."

"And I'm sure he gets a nice recommendation from Pevsner, right?" McNab said.

Castillo didn't reply.

"Where in South America?" McNab asked.

"I'm not sure it could make it across the drink to anywhere in South America from Yundum," Colonel Torine said. "Or from anywhere else on the West Coast of Africa. How is it configured?"

"It came out of passenger service with Continental Airlines," Castillo said. "All economy class, 189 seats."

"That probably means the short-haul configuration," Colonel Torine said as he took a pocket-sized computer from the pocket on the upper left sleeve of his flight suit. He started tapping keys with a stylus. "Typically, that would mean a max of about 8,000-there it is, 8,150 gallons. Giving it a nominal range of 2,170 nautical miles. That's without a reserve, of course."

He rapidly tapped more keys on the computer with the stylus.

"Suriname isn't in here," he announced. "But Georgetown, Guyana, is. That's right up the coast-no more than two hundred miles from Paramaribo, the only airport I know of in Suriname that'll take a 727. It's 2,455 nautical miles from Dakar to Georgetown. A standard configuration just couldn't make it."

"The fuel bladders," Castillo said.

"Okay, let's factor that in," Colonel Torine said, rapidly tapping the stylus. "A standard U.S. Army fuel bladder-that's another assumption we'll have to go with, that the bladders are Army bladders-holds five hundred gallons:"

"How did the 727 get to Africa in the first place if it doesn't have the range to cross the Atlantic?" McNab asked, and then, as the answer quickly came to him, added, "Sorry, dumb question."

Torine answered it anyway.

"More than likely via Gander, Newfoundland, to Shannon, Ireland. That's the longest leg-about seventeen hundred nautical miles, well within the range of a short-haul 727. Then down across France to North Africa, and so on."

Castillo had several unkind thoughts, one after the other. The first was that General McNab's question was, in fact, dumb. McNab rarely asked dumb questions.

Well, Jesus, he's just flown back and forth to North Africa and run a Gray Fox operation that went down perfectly. He's tired. I know how that is.

And while I'm still impressed with Torine's pocket computer, and with his dexterity in punching the keys with that cute little stylus, this is a little late in the game to start figuring how far the 727 can fly.

As if he had read Castillo's mind, Colonel Torine looked at him and said, "I guess I should have done this earlier, but, frankly, I've been working on the assumption that the 727 was headed for Mecca."

What did he say? Mecca? What the hell is that all about?

"Excuse me, sir?" Castillo said.

Torine's face showed I have just let my mouth run and he looked with some embarrassment at McNab.

"Tell him," McNab said, and then before Torine could open his mouth, went on: "General Naylor, probably because he thought I didn't have the need to know, did not elect to share with me why we were looking for the 727 in Chad, but:"

He gestured with his hand for Torine to pick up the story.

Torine looked at Castillo.

"You know who General McFadden is?"

"General Naylor's deputy commander at MacDill?" Castillo replied.

"Right," Torine said. "We go back a long way. When General McFadden called me to lay on the support of the C-17 for the McNab mission, he told me, out of school, that despite the current wisdom at CentCom that the 727 was going to fly to Philadelphia and crash into the Liberty Bell he thought that there was a good chance it was going to be flown to Mecca and be crashed into the ka'ba, thereby really enraging the Muslim world. It's an American airplane; they would probably find the body of the American pilot:"

"Jesus!" Castillo said.

"Which made a lot more sense to both of us than the Liberty Bell," McNab said. "And still does."

"General, I really think Philadelphia is the target," Castillo said.

"Far be it from me to question the judgment of the president's personal representative," McNab said. "Tell us about the fuel bladders, Torine."

God knows I am an expert on McNabian sarcasm, and, again, there's more to that crack than what it sounds like. What the hell is he hinting at?

"Okay, where was I?" Torine asked, consulting his computer again. "Okay. A bladder holds five hundred gallons. We don't know how many bladders were loaded aboard in Abeche':"

"I can find out, probably, when I get to Cozumel," Castillo said.

": but more than one. So let's go with what we know. Two bladders, 1,000 gallons," Torine went on, stabbing at his pocket computer with his stylus. "Figuring. 226 nautical miles per gallon, that's: an additional 226 miles of range-2,170 plus 226 is 2,396. They'd run out of fuel 59 miles out of Georgetown."

"Factor in another couple of bladders," McNab ordered. "Tell me how many bladders it would take to give them the fuel they need. For that matter, tell me how many bladders they can get on that airplane."

"Okay," Torine said. "Two more bladders would give them another 226 miles. That'd get them across the drink with 160-odd miles to spare. Six would get them there with almost 400 miles to spare."

"We better figure they had eight," McNab said. "What about the weight?"

"I don't think it would be a problem," Torine said. "Let me check."

There was a knock at the door. D'Alessandro went to it and opened it.

A Special Forces master sergeant was standing there.

"You're wanted on the secure line, Mr. D'Alessandro," he said.

D'Alessandro opened the drawer of a desk and took out a telephone. He spoke briefly into it and then extended it to Castillo.

"Castillo."

"Dick, Charley," Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., said. "We have confirmation that the two guys who were at Britton's mosque were also at Spartan. Where they were certified in the 727."

"Great. That pretty much settles it, wouldn't you say?"

"It looks that way," Miller said. "There's something else, Charley."

"Okay. Go ahead."

"Betty Schneider said to give you a message."

"Equally great. What is it?"

"She said to give this to you verbatim, Charley," Miller said, uncomfortably.

"Well, let's have it."

"She said, 'Don Juan: I should have known better. Signature, Sergeant B. Schneider.' "

"Oh, shit!"

"What the hell did you do to her, Don Juan?"

"Is that all, Dick?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be in touch," Castillo said and handed the telephone to D'Alessandro.

I guess that Highway sergeant finally got around to telling Frankie Break-My-Legs, 'Ha-ha, you know what the Secret Service calls Castillo, Lieutenant? 'Don Juan.

Goddammit to hell!

Castillo sensed McNab's eyes on him.

"That was Miller, sir," Castillo said. "We have confirmation that the two Somalis who were in Philadelphia were at Spartan-the Spartan School of Aeronautics-in Tulsa and are qualified in 727s."

"Well, then I guess the ka'ba's safe from these lunatics," McNab said. "Is that good or bad?"

"I crunched the numbers for ten 500-gallon bladders, 5,000 gallons," Colonel Torine said. "At 7 pounds a gallon, that would be 35,000 pounds. That would add 1,130 nautical miles of range-a total of 3,305-and still leave it 22,295 pounds under max gross takeoff weight."

"So they can fly just about any place they damn well please," McNab said. "What about direct to Philadelphia?"

"No," Torine said. "That's about 3,500 nautical miles. But let's be sure." He stabbed at the computer with the stylus. "3,361 nautical miles. Too far. Not even factoring in a reserve, that's 65 miles short. And even factoring in more bladders, why would they want to arrive in Philadelphia with nearly empty tanks?"

"Good point," McNab said. "Presuming they learned from 9/11, they want to arrive with as much fuel, as an explosive, as possible. Or possibly-always look on the dark side-with as much trinitrotoluene as they can carry."

Torine started stabbing with the stylus again.

"Hold off on that," McNab ordered, touching his arm. "Okay, let's go with the assumption the airplane is somewhere in the upper east quarter of the South American continent, maybe even in Suriname. I'm presuming the CIA has been told what your friend the ex-FBI agent told you, Mr. Castillo?"

"They haven't been told where it came from."

"Okay, they already have egg on their face about this, so I think we can assume there's been satellites all over that part of the globe, just as soon as they could be redirected. They were probably spinning their wheels during the night, but at daylight I think we can assume they're going to find it."

"Kennedy says he knows where it is and will tell me when I go down there."

"Go down where?" McNab asked.

"Cozumel, off the Yucatan Peninsula."

"I know where it is," McNab said. "Why won't he tell you on the telephone?"

"I don't know," Castillo replied. "But we have to play under his rules."

"When are you going down there?" McNab asked.

"As soon as we finish here," Castillo said, "and I report to Secretary Hall how you plan to neutralize the 727."

McNab looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, "Gentlemen, will you give Mr. Castillo and me a moment alone?"

Not looking very happy about it, everybody filed out of the room. McNab closed the door and turned to Castillo.

"The problem is not how to neutralize it, Charley," he said, "but how quickly we can do so."

We're back to "Charley"?

"I'm not sure I follow you, sir."

"What did you do, forget everything you learned in the stockade?" McNab asked, not very pleasantly.

"Okay," McNab went on and looked at his watch. "It's oh-seven-fifty-five. Let's assume that at this very moment analysts at Langley and Fort Meade are going over the first of the daytime imagery downloads. It would be nice if they came up with a nice clear photo of this airplane sitting on an airfield in Suriname, but I don't think we better count on that. Realistically, what they're going to come up with is half a dozen images which might be-even probably are-of our 727. But they're not going to pass that on to the DCI, much less the president, until they're sure. They'll direct the satellites for better pictures, and if they have assets on the ground-do you think there's much of a CIA operation in Suriname, for instance? I don't-they'll send him word to make a visual. How long is that going to take?"

"Hours," Charley said.

"How long is it going to take you to fly to Cozumel in that pretty little airplane of yours?"

"It's 930 nautical miles. A little under two hours. Maybe a little less; when Fernando checked the weather a half hour ago, there were some favorable winds aloft."

"So what we're saying, Charley, is that you will get a location on the 727 from his guy before the NSA and the CIA finish making sure they've found it. Presuming they do find it."

Castillo nodded.

"You trust your guy, Charley?"

Castillo nodded again and said, "Yes, sir."

"During those two hours, Gray Fox will be standing around with its thumb up its ass," McNab said.

"I'm not sure I know where you're going with this, General," Castillo said.

"I'm a little disappointed this hasn't occurred to you," McNab said. "But let's take it from the top. We can assume that when we get a firm fix on the 727, we'll be ordered to neutralize it."

"Yes, sir."

"How would you do that?"

Jesus Christ, why lay this on me? You're the guy who runs Gray Fox.

"What I thought you would do, sir, would be send a Gray Fox team-with Little Birds*^ (2) -to wherever it is and neutralize it. Knock out the gear, maybe, or blow it up."

"And when would I do that?"

"As soon as you got the word, sir."

"And what's the sequence of events? You should have thought about this, Charley. You're about to be Lieutenant Colonel Castillo. You're supposed to think ahead. Give me the sequence."

"I confirm the location, notify Secretary Hall-and you, to give you a heads-up-Hall tells the president and/or the secretary of defense, who tell CentCom to lay on the operation. And they give you the order."

"And then," McNab picked it up, "conferring with his staff to make sure everybody agrees on what should be done, General Naylor orders the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment at Fort Campbell to prepare half a dozen Little Birds, say, four MH-6Hs and two AH-6Js-we're not going to have to fight our way onto the airfield, but it never hurts to have some airborne weaponry available. And then CentCom orders the Seventeenth Airlift Squadron to send a Globemaster to Fort Campbell to pick up the Little Birds and bring them here so we can load the Gray Fox people:"

Now I know where you're going. And you're right, I should have thought about this.

"All of which is going to take time," Castillo offered.

"Yes, it will, Charley. You and I have been down that road together too many times before."

McNab let that sink in.

"Apropos of nothing whatever, Mr. Castillo, simply to place the facts before you, there are AH-6Js and MH-6Hs at the Special Warfare Center, for training purposes. There are thirty-odd special operators-most of them Gray Fox-eating their breakfast off trays inside the Globemaster that just brought them home from Morocco. By now, the C-17 III should be refueled:"

"You think I should ask General Naylor," Castillo said.

"Charley, I know you love him and I do, too, but Allan Naylor is not a special operator. He likes to-I guess has to-do things by the book."

"What are you thinking? Mount them up and send them to Hurlburt?"

Hurlburt Field, in the Florida panhandle near the Gulf Coast beach resort of Destin, is the home of the USAF Special Operations Command.

McNab nodded.

"You can get to anywhere in South or Central America from Hurlburt a lot faster than you can from here. Or Fort Campbell."

"Without asking General Naylor?"

"Without asking anybody," McNab said. "If the special assistant to the secretary of homeland security-sent here, according to National Security Advisor Dr. Cohen, at trie personal order or the president-were to suggest to me that prepositioning a Gray Fox team at Hurlburt-from which it could easily be stood down-was a good idea, I think I'd have to go along."

Castillo didn't say anything for a long moment.

"That's a hell of a decision for a major to make," he said, finally. "When he finds out-and he will-Naylor is going to be furious."

"Yeah, he will," McNab agreed. "With both of us." He paused and then went on: "What separates really good officers from all the others, Charley, is their willingness to order done what they know should be done and fuck the consequences. Your call, Charley."

After a moment's pause, Castillo said, "Do it."

McNab nodded.

"Anything else you need here?"

"I'd like a C-22 pilot to come with me. I need an expert."

McNab nodded again, went to the door, opened it, and called, "Colonel Torine, will you come in here, please?"

Torine came into the office and closed the door.

"I think it would be a good idea if you went to sunny Cozumel with Charley. He needs a C-22 expert."

"From the look on his face, I don't think he thinks that's such a good idea," Torine said.

"Sir, with all respect, you're a colonel:"

"Who's an old Air Commando, which will be handy when you're dealing with the friendly folks at Hurlburt," McNab said.

": and I'm a major," Castillo finished.

"An old special operator," McNab said, evenly, "knows the guy in charge is the guy in charge."

"I don't see rank as a problem," Colonel Torine agreed. "You're the guy in charge."

"You've got civvies in your bag, right?" McNab asked. Torine nodded. "You better send somebody for it. The sooner you get on your way to Cozumel, the better."

"I already sent for it; from what you told me about the worst aide-decamp in the Army, I didn't think I'd be going back to Charleston anytime soon."

"Okay, that's it," McNab said. "You two remember to duck." He walked to the office door. "Will you come in now, please, gentlemen?"

As they walked up to the Lear, Fernando asked, "Would you like to ride in the right seat, Colonel?"

"I was hoping you'd ask," Colonel Torine said.

Four minutes later:

"Pope clears Lear Five-Oh-Seven-Five direct Cozumel. Climb to flight level three-zero on course two-zero-niner. Report over Columbia. You are number one to go after the One-Thirty departing."

"Understand number one after the One-Thirty," Colonel Torine replied. "Understand flight level thirty, course two-niner-zero, report over Columbia."

Fernando turned around in the pilot's seat and looked into the cabin to make sure nobody was wandering around.

Sergeant Sherman was strapped into his seat, holding a can of Coke, looking out the window.

Charley was also securely strapped into one of the seats. He had reclined it to nearly horizontal and was sound asleep.

"Takeoff power," Fernando ordered. Colonel Torine carefully moved the throttles fully forward.

"Pope, Oh-Seven-Five rolling," Torine said into his microphone.

[FOUR]

Office of the Director

The Central Intelligence Agency

Langley, Virginia

0810 10 June 2005

Mrs. Mary Leonard, the statuesque, gray-haired executive assistant to the director of Central Intelligence, went into the DCI's office and closed the door.

John Powell looked up from his desk.

"Mr. Jartmann is here, boss," Mrs. Leonard said.

"Bring him in, Mary, please," he said to the female who probably knew more of the nation's most closely guarded secrets than any other female except Dr. Natalie Cohen.

"And," Mrs. Leonard added, raising her eyebrows, "Mrs. Wilson walked in on his heels. I think she went to the beauty parlor just for you; I must say she looks stunning this morning."

"I told her quarter to eight," the DCI said. "Have her wait, please, and curb your legendary charming hospitality. No coffee. Not even a goddamned glass of water."

"Yes, sir," Mrs. Leonard said.

"I'll deal with Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson just as soon as I've seen what Harry Jartmann has for me."

"You're about to make a mistake there," Mrs. Leonard said. "A great big mistake."

"I am? How do you know that?"

"When you said her name just now, spittle flew. It's burning holes in the carpet."

He looked at her, shook his head, and smiled but said nothing.

"Let me handle her, between us girls," Mrs. Leonard said.

"You really think that's the way to go, Mary?"

"It's the only way to go. You want to get rid of the problem or exacerbate it?"

"You being a lady, I can't tell you how I'd like to get rid of the problem," Powell said. He waited for her to smile and then went on, "So what do I do?"

"Depending on what Jartmann's got for you-and I think he's got something-when you're finished go out the back door with him. Go to Photo Analysis. I'll transfer important calls to you there, and I'll let you know when I'm through with her."

"Jesus!" Powell said and then, "Okay, Mary. I again defer to your wise judgment. Bring Harry on."

Mrs. Leonard went to the office door, opened it, and announced, "The DCI will see you now, Mr. Jartmann."

When Harry Jartmann, a tall, tweedy, thin man with unruly hair, came into the office, she closed the door from the inside and leaned against it, watching and listening.

"Good morning, Mr. Director," Jartmann said.

"Good morning, Harry. What have you got for me?"

Jartmann held up a manila folder and wordlessly asked if he could lay it on the director's desk. Powell gestured for him to do so. Jartmann unwound the cord holding the folder closed, took out a sheaf of photographs, and spread them on the desk.

"What am I looking at?" Powell asked.

"These are fresh from Fort Meade. That's satellite imagery of the airfield at Zandery, Suriname," Jartmann said, "at oh-seven-oh-five this morning. That's probably the 727 we're looking for."

"Probably won't cut it, Harry," Powell said.

"There was early morning fog," Jartmann said. "These have been enhanced, but, obviously, they're not what we'd like to have."

"Have to have, Harry," Powell clarified. "What makes you think this is the airplane?"

"Well, it's a 727, for one thing. We're sure of that. And while we can't read the registration numbers, we made out enough of the paint scheme to compare it with the known paint scheme of Air Suriname."

He paused as Mrs. Leonard walked across the room to the director's desk, picked up a telephone, and punched one of its buttons.

"Mary Leonard," she said, softly. "The DCI would like to see you right now. Come in the back door."

"And?" Powell said to Jartmann.

"Eighty percent probability that it's the same."

"If we don't have the registration numbers, all that proves is that an Air Suriname 727 is on an airfield in Suriname," Powell said, very softly.

He looked at Mary Leonard.

"He's on his way," she said.

Ten seconds later, the private door to the DCI's office opened and a man who could have been Jartmann's younger brother came in. He was J. Stanley Waters, the CIA's deputy director for operations.

"What's up?" Waters asked.

"Tell me about our assets in Suriname," Powell said.

"Off the top of my head, not very much," Waters said. "If memory serves, we have a guy just out of the Farm there, under cover as a vice-consul. Sort of first assignment, on-the-job training. What do we need?"

"There's a 727 sitting on the airfield at: where, Harry?"

"Zandery," Jartmann furnished. "Zandery, Suriname."

" That 727?" Waters asked.

"That's what we're trying to determine," Jartmann replied. "There was a ground fog this morning:"

"Through which we can't see the registration numbers," Waters said.

"Right."

"How long before we can get another satellite over Zandery, Suriname?" Waters asked, pronouncing each syllable.

"Reprogramming has begun," Jartmann said. "Probably an hour, hour and a half. Figure another thirty minutes to get the downloads here."

"Can we get our man out there and get the numbers sooner than that?"

Powell asked.

"How much will be compromised if I get on the telephone?"

"Just tell him to get out to the airport and get us the registration numbers of any 727 on the field. We don't have to tell him why."

Waters picked up one of the telephones on Powell's desk.

"Get me the American embassy in: Jesus, what the hell's the capital of Suriname?"

"Paramaribo," Powell furnished in a quiet voice, suggesting to Mrs. Leonard that he was about to lose his temper.

"Paramaribo," Waters told the operator. "Put the call in to the ambassador "All right, the consul general. But I'll talk to anybody. I'll hold."

He looked at Powell.

"No embassy. Consulate general."

Powell nodded but said nothing.

Thirty seconds later, Waters ended the call with a stab of his finger to the switch hook and quoted, furiously, " 'Good morning, this is the consulate general of the United States. Our office hours are:' Goddammit!"

He slammed the handset into its cradle and picked up another and punched several keys.

"This is Waters," he said. "We have a man in Paramaribo, Suriname. I don't know his name. I need his home phone number. And while you're at it, get me the home phone of the consul general-I don't know his name, either. I'll hold. But I'm in the DCI's office if we get cut off."

Mrs. Leonard looked at DCI Powell. He was looking at the satellite imagery.

"Ground fog!" he said, very softly. "Fucking ground fog!"

"Mr. Peterson," Waters said, two minutes and thirty seconds later. "My name is J. Stanley Waters. You know who I am? "If I told you I was calling from Langley, Virginia, would that give you a clue? "Yeah, that J. Stanley Waters. Now listen carefully. Just as soon as you hang up the phone, I want you to get out to Zandery airfield and get me the numbers, the registration numbers, of any Boeing 727 you see sitting out there "It's an airliner, three engines, one of them in the vertical stabilizer-the big fin in the back. I'm sure you've seen one of them. Now, don't take pictures, just get the numbers, write them down, go back to the consulate general-do you have satburst capability? "Then get on the telephone and call Langley. Ask for me or Mrs. Mary Leonard. The switchboard will be expecting your call. Got it? "Good. Now, how long do you think that's going to take you? "Why the hell should it take two hours? "Then break the goddamned speed limit! You've got diplomatic immunity! Jesus H. Christ! Get your ass out to the airport and get those goddamned numbers and get them now!"

He slammed the handset in its cradle.

"The airport is thirty-five miles from Paramaribo," Waters said. "And there's a strictly enforced thirty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit."

"Mr. Director," Mrs. Mary Leonard said. "Why don't you go with Mr. Jartmann and see if they can't do something to further enhance the photos we have? Or maybe there will be some others they can work on."

The DCI looked at her and said, very softly, "I think that's probably a very good idea, Mrs. Leonard."

He stood up and walked deliberately to the private door of his office and went through it. Jartmann followed him.

"I'll deal with the switchboard," Mrs. Leonard said to Mr. Waters.

"What that dumb sonofabitch is likely to do is take his camera with him-just to be sure-and get himself arrested for photographing a Suriname military installation. I'm sure they're concerned with terrorists in Suriname."

"He'll get you the registration numbers, Stan," Mrs. Leonard said with a conviction she didn't at all feel.

Waters walked to the outer office door. Mrs. Leonard walked behind him. He continued to the corridor, which he took back to his office.

Mrs. Leonard smiled at Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson and said, "I'll be with you in just a minute, Mrs. Wilson."

Then she closed the door and called the chief switchboard operator and told her there would be a call, probably within the next two hours, from a Mr. Peterson in Suriname. It was to be routed to Mr. Waters's private line first and then to hers, but under no circumstances to the DCI. "He's got too much on his plate this morning to be bothered with this," she explained.

Then she went and opened the door to the outer office.

"Would you come in, please, Mrs. Wilson?"

Mrs. Wilson put on a dazzling smile and walked into the office. When she saw that Director Powell was nowhere in sight, she looked at Mrs. Leonard, curiously.

"Why don't you have a seat, please, Mrs. Wilson?" Mrs. Leonard said, waving at one of the armchairs. She walked to the DCI's desk and leaned against it.

"The DCI has been called away," Mrs. Leonard said. "Sorry. He asked me to deal with this for him. Perhaps if you had been able to get here at seven forty-five:"

"The traffic was unbelievable!" Mrs. Wilson said. "Perhaps it would be better if I came back when the DCI has time for me."

"That won't be necessary," Mary Leonard said. "This won't take any time at all and I know the DCI wants to get it behind him."

"What is it?"

"You've been reassigned," Mrs. Leonard said. "You're going back to Analysis. I don't know where they'll put you to work, but somewhere, I'm sure, where you'll be able to make a genuine contribution to the agency."

"But I like what I'm doing! I don't want to go back to Analysis."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Mary Leonard said. "But the decision has been made."

"I want to hear this from the DCI himself."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question."

"I'm being relieved of my duties, which, to the best of my knowledge, I have carried out to everyone's complete satisfaction."

"That's not exactly the case, I'm afraid. But I don't think we want to get into that, do we?"

"I demand an explanation!"

"Can I say you've demonstrated a lack of ability to deal with the problems you've encountered in the field and let it go at that? I really don't think you want to open that Pandora's box, Mrs. Wilson."

"Well, you think wrong," Mrs. Wilson said, flatly. "I have the right to appeal any adverse personnel action and I certainly will appeal this one."

Mary Leonard didn't say anything.

"This has something to do with what happened in Angola, doesn't it?" Mrs. Wilson asked.

"Yes, it does."

"Well, I may have made an error of judgment, but certainly not of a magnitude to justify:"

"Your major error in judgment: May I speak frankly?"

"Please do."

"Was in thinking you could lie to the DCI and get away with it."

"I never lied to the DCI. How dare you!"

"Didn't you tell the DCI that when you were in Luanda the assistant military attache, a Major Miller-who was also the station chief-made inappropriate advances to you?"

"And he did. Of course he would deny it."

"At the time you said you were having dinner with him, during which you said he made inappropriate advances, you were actually otherwise occupied, weren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"For the sake of argument, if you weren't having dinner with Major Miller when you said you were that would be dishonest, wouldn't you say? A lie?"

"You're going to take the word of an incompetent Army officer who never should have been given an assignment like that in the first place over mine? Well, let's see what the appeals board has to say about that!"

She got out of the armchair and started for the door.

"Before you start the appeals process, Mrs. Wilson, I think you'd better take a look at something I have."

Patricia Wilson stopped and turned.

"What is it?"

Mrs. Leonard walked behind the DCI's desk, opened a drawer, and came out with a manila folder. She took an eight-by-ten-inch photograph from the folder and held it out to Patricia Wilson.

"You ever see this man before?" Mary Leonard asked.

"Yes, I have," she said.

"And who is he?"

"He's a German journalist. His name is Grossinger, Gossinger, something like that. He works for a small newspaper in Germany. Or so he said. I ordered Major Miller to check him out."

"Was that before or after you went to bed with him? With this man?"

"What did you say?"

"I said, did you tell Major Miller to check him out before or after you went to bed with this man?"

"I don't believe this," Patricia Wilson said. "I just don't believe it. This man actually said I went to bed with him? And you believe him?"

Mary Leonard nodded. "Yes, he did. And I believe him. So does the