The outlaws

BY C. HARRY WHELAN, JR.

SLUG: FORMER CIA STATION CHIEF IN VIENNA CONFIRMS "PRESIDENTIAL CIA" STOLE TWO VIP RUSSIAN DEFECTORS FROM HER; SAYS IT COST HER HER JOB WASHINGTON-(INSERT DATE) ELEANOR DILLWORTH, A TWENTY-NINE-YEAR VETERAN OF THE CIA'S CLANDESTINE SERVICE, HAS TOLD THIS REPORTER THAT THE OFFICE OF ORGANIZATIONAL ANALYSIS-THE SUPER-SECRET, POSSIBLY ILLEGAL INTELLIGENCE ORGANIZATION OPERATING OUT OF THE WHITE HOUSE AND ANSWERING ONLY TO THE PRESIDENT-DID IN FACT MAKE OFF WITH TWO VERY SENIOR RUSSIAN INTELLIGENCE OFFICERS AND TOOK THEM TO AN UNKNOWN DESTINATION "HOURS BEFORE" THEY WERE TO BOARD A CIA AIRCRAFT SENT TO VIENNA, AUSTRIA, TO FLY THEM TO THE UNITED STATES.

"Can't we shut this Dillworth broad up?" the President asked. "Why is she determined to embarrass my administration?"

"Sir, I believe she thinks she was unfairly treated after Castillo stole the Russians from under her nose. She was relieved of her duties in Vienna and brought back to Langley."

"Jesus Christ, didn't it occur to her that if she allowed Castillo to steal the Russians from her that that's proof she wasn't doing her fucking job?"

The President reached for the red telephone on his desk.

"Get me Jack Powell," he ordered, then slammed the handset back in the cradle.

The protocol dealing with telephone calls between the President and those on the priority list-of whom John Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, was one-required the person called to "be available"-in other words, be on the line-within sixty seconds.

Thirty-two seconds after the President had slammed the handset into its cradle, a blue light-emitting diode on the cradle began to flash.

The President grabbed the handset and began the conversation by asking, "Why the hell did you fire this Dillworth woman?"

Then he pushed the LOUDSPEAKER button on the cradle, so that Parker could hear the conversation.

"You're speaking of Eleanor Dillworth, Mr. President?" the DCI asked.

"The one with twenty-nine years in the Clandestine Service. Used to be our head spy in Vienna. That one."

"She wasn't fired, Mr. President."

"That's not what she told C. Harry Whelan, Jr. She also told him that our friend Castillo stole the Russians from under her nose. Unless I can somehow talk him out of it, Whelan's going to publish that in I don't know how goddamn many hundred newspapers and chat about it on Wolf News. That's going to make her and the CIA look pretty foolish, wouldn't you say?"

"Mr. President, Miss Dillworth has not been fired. What happened was that it was decided-after they found the dead Russian in a taxicab outside our embassy…"

"And when the CIA looks pretty foolish, this administration looks pretty foolish, wouldn't you say?"

"… the decision was made to get Miss Dillworth out of Vienna to avoid undue press attention there."

"The last I heard, Austrians can't vote in our elections. Who the hell cares about Viennese newspapers?"

"Perhaps that decision was ill-advised, Mr. President."

"Who made it? Ambassador Stupid? You've heard about that? Ambassador Stupid is in that town with the funny name at the bottom of Argentina looking for this guy Darby, who is in Alexandria."

"Yes, Mr. President, that has been brought to my attention."

"I asked you who made the decision to fire this female."

"I did, Mr. President. At the time-"

"At the time, it was a stupid decision. Well, how are we going to shut this woman up?"

"Mr. President, I just don't see how that's possible."

"So, what do we do?"

"Mr. President, there is some good news. Actually, I was just about to call you when you called me."

"Let's have the good news. God knows we need some."

"I just got off the phone with Frank Lammelle, sir. He said that General Naylor has sent General McNab to find Castillo."

"Where did he send him? Nome, Alaska? I don't think we've looked there yet. Or in Timbuktu."

"I believe General McNab went to South America, sir."

"Haven't we already looked there?"

"Sir, Colonel Castillo spent most of his career working for General McNab. They have a close personal relationship. It's possible that Castillo would turn over the Russians to McNab."

"That raises a presumption and a question: We're presuming that McNab can find Castillo. And if he does, what if Castillo tells him to go fuck himself? He already told Ambassador Stupid and the colonel Naylor sent down there with him to do that."

"As far as presuming that General McNab can find Castillo, sir, I think we can safely do that. People with knowledge of Castillo's location who would not tell anyone else would tell General McNab. Because of their close relationship."

"I wonder."

"And after General McNab locates Castillo, there is a Plan B in case Castillo remains intractable."

"Which is?"

"Lammelle and I feel, Mr. President, that once Castillo knows he has been found, he would agree to a face-to-face meeting with McNab and Lammelle. To see if some accommodation could be reached. He knows he can't remain on the run forever."

"What do you think he wants that we're prepared to give him?"

"That doesn't matter, sir. What we're trying to do is arrange the meeting. General Naylor, General McNab, meeting at a place of Castillo's choice, a place he will feel is safe."

"And what will that accomplish?"

"The place will not be as safe as Castillo thinks."

"How are you going to arrange that?"

"At this moment, there is an agency airplane-a Gulfstream V-sitting at Saint Petersburg-Clearwater International. On it are four officers of the Clandestine Service. When the meeting is set up and Lammelle and Naylor go to meet him, the airplane will follow them. Anywhere in the world."

"That sounds too simple," Clendennen said after a moment. "It presumes that Castillo won't suspect the CIA would try something like that. And from what I've seen of the sonofabitch, whenever he gets in a battle of wits with the CIA, you lose."

"What we think will happen is this, Mr. President. We believe Castillo will announce that he will be at a certain location. Probably in Argentina. He will not be there. His people will be. They will search General Naylor and Mr. Lammelle. In Mr. Lammelle's briefcase, skillfully concealed, they will find the very latest version of an AFC Corporation GPS transmitter. It permits the tracking of a target within six feet anywhere in the world. They will naturally confiscate it before Lammelle and the general are permitted to get back on the airplane to go to where Castillo will actually meet them."

"Leaving the four spooks on your airplane where?"

"Prepared to follow Lammelle and Naylor to wherever the chase leads them. There is a second GPS transmitter concealed in the heel of Lammelle's shoe. And when he actually sees Castillo and hopefully the Russians, he will stamp his foot three times in rapid succession, which will cause the transmitter to send a signal that will mean, 'We've found him. Come and get him.'"

"That sounds like something you saw in a bad spy movie," the President said. "And what happens then? Castillo says, 'Okay. You got us,' and he and the Russians get on the airplane? Bullshit."

"The Clandestine Service officers are armed with a weapon that fires a dart that causes the target, within fifteen seconds, to fall into a harmless sleep lasting between two and three hours."

"And then they are taken where?"

"To the nearest airport served by Aeroflot, Mr. President. All that has to be done is for us to tell Mr. Sergei Murov where they are. He will arrange for the repatriation of the Russians."

"And the 'expatriation' of Castillo," the President said. "Does that bother you, Jack?"

"I've given that some thought, Mr. President. Frankly, I don't like it. But if Colonel Castillo is the price the Russians want for their Congo-X, I don't see where you have much of a choice. I have even come to think that Castillo would understand why you were forced to that conclusion."

"Well, Jack, you know what Harry Truman said: 'The buck stops here.' I have to do what I think is best for the country."

"Yes, sir."

"I have serious doubts about this plan of yours, Jack. But right now I don't see we have much choice but to go forward with it. When does Lammelle say we'll hear something from General McNab?"

"He didn't, sir. I would guess within seventy-two hours, one way or the other."

"Ambassador Stupid will be back from Argentina a lot sooner than seventy-two hours. Maybe he'll have some ideas, as unlikely as that sounds."

"Yes, sir."

"Not to go any further, Jack, but as soon as I can figure out how to get rid of him quietly, Montvale's going to have to go. That job will be open. You get Castillo and the Russians on that Aeroflot airplane and it's yours."

"I'm sure that was another very difficult decision for you to make, Mr. President. And I would be honored to take over, if you decide that's what should be done."

"Let me know of any developments, Jack. Any."

And then the President hung up. [THREE] Level Four BioLab Two U.S. Army Medical Research Institute Fort Detrick, Maryland 1510 9 February 2007 The senior scientific officer of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute-Colonel J. Porter Hamilton (B.S., USMA, '84; M.D., Harvard Medical School, '89; Ph.D., Molecular Physics, MIT, '90; Ph.D., Biological Chemistry, Oxford, '91)-and his principal assistant-Master Sergeant Kevin Dennis, USA (Certificate of High School Equivalency for Veterans, Our Lady of Mount Carmel High School, Baltimore, Maryland, '98)-were both attired in the very latest Level Four chemical/ biological hazardous material protective gear.

It was constructed of a multilayer silver-colored fabric completely enclosing their bodies. The helmet of the garment had a large glass plate so they could see pretty well, and was equipped with a communications system that when activated provided automatic video and audio recording of whatever they said and whatever they were looking at. It also provided access to both the BioLab Two and Fort Detrick switchboards and-a modification personally installed by Colonel Hamilton, assisted by Master Sergeant Dennis-encrypted communication with an underground laboratory at the AFC Corporation in Las Vegas, Nevada. Finally, there was provision for Colonel Hamilton and Master Sergeant Dennis to communicate with each other privately; no one could hear what they were saying and it was not recorded.

Each suit was connected by two twelve-inch-diameter telescoping hoses on their backs to equipment which provided purified air under pressure to the suits, and also purified the "used" air when it flowed out of the suits.

Colonel Hamilton had more than once commented that when he looked at Kevin Dennis "suited up," he thought he looked as if they were in a science fiction movie and would not have been at all surprised if Bruce Willis joined them to help in the slaying of an extraterrestrial monster.

There was all sorts of equipment in the laboratory, including an electron microscope which displayed what it was examining on as many as five fifty-four-inch monitors. Colonel Hamilton placed the communication function of the helmet on INTER ONLY, and then asked, vis-a-vis what was on the left of the five monitors, "Opinion, Kevin?"

"Colonel, that shit's as dead as a doornail."

"Let us not leap, Kevin, to any conclusions that, if erroneous, might quite literally prove disastrous."

"Okay, but that shit's as dead as a doornail."

"What are we looking at?"

Master Sergeant Dennis consulted a clipboard that was attached, through the suit, to the six-inch stump that was all that remained of his right arm.

"Batch two one seven decimal five."

"And what have we done to this?" Colonel Hamilton inquired.

"The same thing we've done to two one seven decimals one through four."

"Which is?"

"Fifteen minutes of the helium at minus two-seventy Celsius."

Minus two hundred seventy degrees Celsius is minus four hundred fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit. To find a lower temperature, it is necessary to go into deep space.

"Present temperature of substance?"

"Plus twenty-one decimal one one one one Celsius, or plus seventy Fahrenheit."

"And it has been at this temperature for how long a period of time?"

"Twenty-four hours, sixteen minutes."

"What was the length of thawing time?"

"Exposed to plus twenty-one decimal one one one one Celsius, it was brought up from minus two hundred seventy Celsius in eight hours and twelve minutes."

"With what indications of chemical or biological activity during any part of the thawing process?"

"None, nada, zip."

"Sergeant Dennis, I am forced to concur. That shit is as dead as a doornail."

"And so's all of batch two one seven. You give Congo-X fifteen minutes of the helium at minus two hundred seventy Celsius, and it's dead."

"It would appear so."

"Who are you going to tell, Colonel?"

"I have been considering that question, as a matter of fact. Why are you asking?"

"I don't like what Aloysius told us they're trying to do to Colonel Castillo."

"Frankly, neither do I. But we are soldiers, Kevin. Sworn to obey the orders of officers appointed over us."

"But what I've been wondering, Colonel, is what happens if we tell the CIA and somehow it gets out. Either we tell the Russians, 'Fuck you, we learned how to kill this shit' or they find out on their own?"

"Frankly, Kevin, I don't understand the question."

"Two things we don't know. One, how much Congo-X the Russians have."

"True."

"And, two, we don't know if they know how to kill it. But let's say they do know that helium at near absolute zero kills it. You know how much we had to pay for the last helium we bought?"

"I entrust the details of logistics to my trusted principal assistant," Hamilton said.

"A little over fifteen bucks a liter. You know how many liters it took to kill batch two-seventeen?"

"I don't think, Kevin, that cost is of much consequence in the current situation."

"Eleven liters to freeze about a half a kilo. Call it a hundred and sixty bucks. And that was freezing decimal two kilos at a time. I haven't a clue how much helium it would take to freeze just one beer keg full of Congo-X. But a bunch."

"I am not following your line of thought, Kevin."

"I had to go to four different lab supply places to get the last shipment. Not one of them could ship us one hundred liters, which is what I was trying to buy. There's not much of a demand for it out there, so there's not a lot of it around. And we don't have the capability of making large amounts of it, or of transporting it once it's been liquefied.

"The Russians know this. If they hear we know how to kill Congo-X, they're liable to use it on us-whether or not the President gives them Castillo and the Russians-before we can make enough helium to protect ourselves."

"We don't know how much Congo-X they have," Hamilton said.

"We have to find out, Colonel, and I'd rather have Castillo try to find out than the CIA."

"But is that decision ours to make, Kevin?"

"Well, it's not mine, Colonel, and I'm glad I'm not in your shoes."

Colonel Hamilton tapped his silver-gloved fingertips together for perhaps thirty seconds.

"Kevin, there is a military axiom that the worst action to take is none at all. If you don't try to control a situation, your enemy certainly will."

"That's a little over my head, Colonel."

"Switch your commo to the Casey network," Colonel Hamilton ordered. [FOUR] "So what's new by you, Jack?" Aloysius Francis Casey (Ph.D., MIT) asked ten seconds later of Colonel J. Porter Hamilton (Ph.D., MIT), addressing him by his very rarely used intimate nickname.

The Massachusetts Institute of Technology had brought together Casey and Hamilton, although they had not known each other at the school, or even been there at the same time. They had met at a seminar for geopolitical interdependence conducted by that institution, for distinguished alumni, by invitation only.

Both had accepted the invitation because it had sounded interesting. And both had fled after the second hour, and met in a Harvard Square bar, by chance selecting adjacent bar stools.

Dr. Casey had begun the conversation-and their friendship-by asking two questions: "You were in there, right?" and then, after Dr. Hamilton (in mufti) nodded: "You think that moron actually believed that bullshit he was spouting?"

Dr. Hamilton had been wondering the same thing, and said so: "I have been wondering just that."

"Aloysius Casey," Casey had said, putting out his hand.

"My name is Hamilton," Dr. Hamilton replied, and then, having made the split-second decision that if Casey were one of the distinguished alumni, he would have said, "I'm Dr. Casey" and not wanting to hurt the feelings of the maintenance worker/ticket taker/security officer or whatever he was by referring to himself with that honorific, finished, "Jack Hamilton."

He hadn't used "Jack" in many years. He still had many painful memories of his plebe year at West Point during which he had been dubbed "Jack Hammer" by upperclassmen. If he was a bona fide Jack Hammer, the upperclassmen had told him, he would do fifty push-ups in half the time this fifty had taken him. This was usually followed by, "Try it again, Jack Hammer."

"Hey," Casey had said, grabbing the bartender's arm, "give my pal Jack another of what he's having and I'll have another boilermaker."

When the drinks were served, Casey touched glasses and offered a toast, "May the winds of fortune sail you. May you sail a gentle sea. May it always be the other guy who says, 'This drink's on me.'"

"In that case, I insist," Hamilton had said.

"You can get the next one, Jack," Casey had replied.

Three drinks later, Jack asked Aloysius what his role in the seminar for geopolitical interdependence had been.

"Well, I went there, of course. And every once in a while, I slip them a few bucks-you know, payback for what I got-and that gets me on the invitation list, and every once in a while I'm dumb enough to accept. What about you, Jack, what do you do?"

"I'm a soldier."

"No shit? Me, too. Or I was. I was a commo sergeant on a Special Forces A-team. What branch?"

"Originally infantry. Now medical corps."

"No shit? I'm impressed. What do you do?"

"I'm involved in biological research. What about you?"

"I try to move data around. I make stuff that does."

At that point, Colonel Hamilton experienced an epiphany.

"The AFC Corporation. You're that Aloysius Francis Casey."

"Guilty."

"My lab is full of your equipment."

"How's it doing?"

"I couldn't function without it," Colonel Hamilton said. "I can't tell you how pleased I am we've met."

A week later, Colonel Hamilton had visited the AFC Laboratories in Las Vegas. In the course of explaining how he used AFC data equipment in his Fort Detrick laboratory, and what kind of capabilities in that area he would like to have if that was possible, he of course had to get into some of the specifics of the work of his laboratory.

Three weeks after that, while in Las Vegas to view the prototypes of the equipment Casey was developing for him, Hamilton was introduced to some of Casey's Las Vegas friends. He quickly came to think of them as "those people in Las Vegas." And then, gradually, he came to understand that he had become one of them. "Aloysius, I don't want those people to hear this conversation."

"Ouch! You know the rules, Jack. What one knows, everybody knows. That's the way it works."

"Then I can't talk to you. Goodbye, Aloysius. And tell those people goodbye, too. Hamilton out."

Colonel Hamilton then signaled to Sergeant Dennis that they were leaving the sealed laboratory. The process took ten minutes, and included both chemical and purified water showers and then fresh clothing.

When they came through the final airtight door, four people were waiting for them-two women and two men, all cleared for Top Secret BioLab.

Hamilton knew that at least one of them, possibly two, were reporting to the CIA. And he strongly suspected that one of them was reporting to the Russians, either through an intermediary or directly to the Russian rezident. And he thought it entirely likely that one or more of them was on the payroll of those people in Las Vegas.

He was greatly frustrated that neither he nor Kevin Dennis-although they had set many traps-had been able to positively identify even one of them.

So they lived with the problem, following the adage that a devil one knows is better than a devil one does not.

"There have been some indications that we are making some progress," Colonel Hamilton announced to them. "And some disturbing signs that we are yet again on a path leading nowhere. We won't know more until tomorrow morning. Make sure everything is secure, and then you may leave. Please be on time in the morning; we have a busy schedule tomorrow." When they had gone, Kevin Dennis asked, "What is Aloysius going to do, Colonel?"

"I really don't know, Kevin, but I can't take the risk that what I want to say to him will go any further than him."

"You think he will call back?"

Hamilton shrugged.

"I don't know," Hamilton said. "I'm taking some small solace from the motto of those two brilliant young men who started Yahoo: 'You Always Have Other Options.' But between you and me, I have no idea what other options there might be."

Thirty seconds later, both Hamilton's and Dennis's CaseyBerrys vibrated.

It was Casey.

"I see that you're both on," his voice announced as it returned from a twenty-four-thousand-mile trip into space.

"Well, Aloysius," Hamilton said, "how nice to hear from you. Say hello to Aloysius, Kevin."

"Hello, Aloysius," Dennis said.

"Jack," Casey said, "do I have to say I wouldn't do this for anybody but you?"

"How about Castillo? Would you cut some of those people out of the loop if it would keep him from being thrown to the Russians?"

"I called back, didn't I?"

"And not only are those people not going to hear this conversation, but I have your word that you won't tell them anything about it?"

"You have my word, Jack, but I'm damned uncomfortable with this. I don't like lying to those people." He paused, then added, "And in my book not telling somebody something is the same thing as lying."

"What I'm afraid of is that one-or more-of them has either concluded, or will conclude, that if Castillo and the Russians are the price for the Russian stock of Congo-X, the President was right to agree to pay it."

"In other words, you don't trust them. Jesus Christ, Jack, you know who they are!"

"Their most endearing quality to me is their ruthlessness," Hamilton said. "I daresay they wouldn't be as rich as they are without that characteristic. But I have noticed a tendency on the part of wealthy ruthless people to regard people on their payroll as expendable."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I think Colonel Castillo made a mistake in taking that money from those people when he began this project. What was it, two hundred thousand dollars?"

"That's all he asked for. They'd have given him whatever he asked for. A couple of million, if that's what he wanted."

"If he took only two dollars, people like those people would still have felt, 'He took the money, he's ours. We can do with him what we decide is in the best interests of the country.'"

After a moment's hesitation, Casey said, "I'm one of those people, Jack. And so are you."

"You and I are functionaries, Aloysius. Useful, but not, so to speak, anointed, as they are, by the Almighty. Have those people asked you what you think of the President's willingness to sell Castillo and the Russian spooks-without whom that laboratory in the Congo would still be manufacturing this obscene substance-to the Russians?"

"They didn't have to ask me. They know how I would feel about that."

"They haven't asked me either, Aloysius, what I think about it. Nor have they solicited my suggestions vis-a-vis what should be done about it by 'we people.' Which is what triggered my line of thought in this area. Have you considered the possibility that those people simply don't care what we think, Aloysius?"

There was a thirty-second silence which seemed much longer.

"Jesus Christ, Jack," Casey said finally, "you're right. I'm ashamed to admit that I never questioned anything those people did, or asked me to do. Well, fuck them!"

"It's not black-and-white, Aloysius. Those people do more good than harm. But when the harm they're capable of might be directed at people like Castillo and the Russians, I can't go along."

"Didn't you hear me say 'Fuck them'?"

"Don't say that to those people. Let them think they are still on Mount Olympus graciously protecting people like you and me-and of course the United States-from our ignorance."

"Okay."

"Do those people know where Castillo is?"

"Yeah. Of course. They have his position indicator on their laptops. So do you. He's at his grandmother's place in Mexico." Casey paused, then added, "Shit! You think maybe somebody already told the CIA?!"

"I have to think that's possible. Can you devise a spurious position indicator for him?"

"Where do you want him to start moving to in twenty seconds, Jack?"

"Doesn't he have family in Germany? Do you know where?"

"Yeah. Outside Frankfurt. But what about Budapest?"

"What's in Budapest?"

"A guy on Charley's net. He's sort of like an uncle to him. Billy Kocian?"

"I don't know the name."

"Good guy. Trust me."

"Budapest sounds fine."

"I can call Billy and tell him what's happening. And… what I could do, Jack, is put Charley's position indicator on one of those boats that sails up and down the Danube between Vienna and Budapest. That would drive those people bonkers wondering what the hell he's up to."

"A splendid idea!"

"Anything else I can do for you?"

"Aloysius, do you-or your people-ever work with extremely low temperatures, using gases in the minus two-hundred-degrees Celsius area?"

"All the time. The colder you get something, the faster everything electrical moves. Twice a week, I say, 'Eureka! This will work!' and then everything that cold turns brittle and shatters when somebody in Los Angeles or Chicago burps, and we're back to Step Fucking One."

"Helium?"

"Of course. It's a little pricey, but you can go down to about minus two-seventy Celsius with helium."

"You've got a pretty good source of supply for helium?"

"Yeah. Several of them. Where are you going with this, Jack?"

"You could order, say, a thousand liters, two thousand, even more, of helium without attracting much attention?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because we may need at least that much to kill Congo-X."

"Helium kills Congo-X?"

"Fifteen minutes in a helium bath at minus two-seventy Celsius kills it."

"So it can be killed! I was really getting worried about that."

"You were not alone," Hamilton said. "We don't know how much the Russians have. I suspect that if the President doesn't give them Castillo and the Russians very soon, they will deliver more of it to encourage him to do so. My concern is that there will be an accident when they do so. I-"

"I get the picture," Casey interrupted. "I'll load what helium I have here… maybe three hundred liters, maybe a little more… on my Gulfstream. As soon as we know where the Russians have sent the new Congo-X, the helium will be there in no more than three hours. And I'll lay my hands on as much more as I can get as soon as I can."

"Aloysius, we can't let those people learn any of this."

"I'm not as dumb as I look and sometimes act, Jack. I already figured that out."

"Good man!"

"As soon as we hang up here, I'll get through to Charley, and tell him both what's going on and to get the hell off Grandma's place as soon as he can."

"Splendid!" [FIVE] Apartment 606 The Watergate Apartments 2639 I Street, N.W. Washington, D.C. 0755 10 February 2007 When Roscoe J. Danton finally found the ringing house telephone in the living room and picked it up, he was not in a very gracious mood.

Mr. Danton had returned to Washington four hours before after a fifteen-hour flight from Ushuaia, Patagonia, Argentina, whence he had traveled-on what, he had concluded, was a wild-goose chase that belonged in The Guinness Book of World Records-with Ambassador Charles M. Montvale and Montvale's executive assistant-The Honorable Truman Ellsworth-and four CIA spooks to locate Alexander Darby, who allegedly could point him to Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo.

The Gulfstream III twin-engine jet aircraft had been noisy and crowded. What food there had been was damned near inedible. The toilet had stopped up. And because there had been no functioning socket into which to plug his laptop, once its battery had gone dead, he couldn't do any work.

Mentally, he had composed a blistering piece that would subject Montvale and Ellsworth to the scorn of the world. But even as he'd done that, he knew he would never write it. He not only felt sorry for them, but had come to like them.

He also had spent a good deal of time trying to come up with a version of what had happened to tell Christopher J. Waldron, the managing editor of the Times-Post, something that would not result in Waldron concluding that Roscoe J. Danton had either been drunk or was a moron or both.

He had gotten to bed a few minutes before four.

And now the fucking house phone goes off!

In the five years I've lived in the Watergate, I haven't talked on the goddamn thing five times!

"What?" he snarled into the instrument.

"Mr. Danton, this is Gerry in the garage."

"And how may I be of assistance, Gerry?"

"There's something wrong with your car, Mr. Danton. The alarm keeps going off."

"That happens, Gerry"-As you should know, you fucking cretin. You work in the garage-"when someone bumps into it. It'll stop blowing the horn and flashing the headlights in three minutes."

"Yeah, I know, but yours keeps going off. This is the fifth time it's gone off. You're going to have to do something."

"What would you suggest?"

"Well, you could disconnect the battery. That'd shut the alarm system off."

"Gerry, if you could do that for me, I'd be happy to make it worth your while. How does ten dollars sound?"

"Sounds fine to me, Mr. Danton, but your car is locked and I have to get under the hood to disconnect the battery. You can't open the hood from outside."

In the background Danton could then hear the sound of a horn going bleep-bleep-bleep.

"There it goes again," Gerry said unnecessarily.

Roscoe Danton sighed audibly.

"I'll be right down," he said.

Which means I'll have to get dressed. I can't go down there in my underwear. There were three men watching the blinking headlights on Roscoe's car. One of them had sort of a uniform on, and was presumably Gerry. The other two were wearing suits.

Which means they probably live here, which means I will shortly get one of those fucking letters from the tenants' association demanding to know how I dare disturb the peace and tranquillity of the Watergate Apartments, blowing my horn in this outrageous way.

As he approached his car, the lights stopped blinking and the horn stopped bleating.

"Why hello, Roscoe," one of the men in suits said. "Nice to see you again. But we are going to have to stop meeting this way. People will talk."

I am actually losing my mind. I'm hallucinating.

How could Alexander Darby possibly be standing next to my car in the Watergate garage?

"My name is Yung, Mr. Danton," the other man in a suit said, putting out his hand. "I'm glad to meet you. Alex has told me a good deal about you."

Alex Darby said, "Gerry, we can take it from here. Thanks very much for your help."

"Anytime," Gerry said, and took the extended twenty-dollar bill and walked toward his booth near the entrance.

"Got your passport with you, Roscoe?" Darby asked.

In a Pavlovian reflex, Danton patted his suit jacket pocket, and immediately regretted it.

"Good," Yung said. "If you want to talk to Colonel Castillo, you're going to need it."

"Who are you?"

"My name is David W. Yung. I'm Colonel Castillo's attorney."

"Did you find Ushuaia interesting, Roscoe?" Darby asked.

"How do you know about that?"

"Well, as the saying goes, 'You can take the man out of the agency, but you can't take the agency out of the man.'"

Yung put in: "What we're going to do, Roscoe-you don't mind if I call you Roscoe, do you?"

"Yeah, I think I do."

"If you're going to be difficult, Roscoe, not a problem," Yung said. "We'll just leave and go find C. Harry Whelan, Jr. We know he also wants to meet Colonel Castillo. We'd rather have you, but only if you want to go along. We're not going to drug you, or anything like that, and take you against your will."

"Take me where?"

"I'll tell you what we have in mind if you let me call you Roscoe. If you do, in turn you may call me Two-Gun."

I'm smiling. I have every right to be royally pissed.

And maybe I should even be frightened-was there an implied threat in that "We're not going to drug you"?

But what I'm doing is smiling.

"Two-Gun"? They call him "Two-Gun"?

"You may call me Roscoe, Two-Gun."

"Thank you. Now, Roscoe, presuming you are willing, you are going to drive you and me to BWI. You have a first-class ticket on the Aero-Mexico ten-forty-five flight to Mexico City. Once I see your plane take off, I will drive your car back here and turn it over to Gerry's capable hands. You will be met at the airport in Mexico City and taken to meet Colonel Castillo."

"And the Russians?"

"Actually, one of the Russians has expressed an interest in meeting you, Roscoe."

"Where is Castillo, Two-Gun?"

"You will learn that later."

"And if I say no?"

"Then we shall regretfully have to stuff you in the trunk of your car. And by the time Gerry hears your piteous cries for help-and finally figures out where they're coming from-Alex and I will have folded our tent and disappeared."

Goddamn it! I'm smiling again.

"Okay. Give me ten minutes to throw some things in a bag and grab my laptop."

"No. If we're going, it has to be right now."

"Why?"

"There's about one chance in ten that Alex and I were not as successful as we believe we were in eluding the Secret Service guys surveilling our house, which raises the possibility that there may be some of them outside."

"What makes you think they won't see, follow, stop, whatever, us when you and I leave?"

"Because just before we leave, Alex is going to leave the garage as if Satan himself is in hot pursuit. If there are no Secret Service agents waiting for him outside, fine. If there are, Alex will lead them on a tour of the scenic spots of our nation's capital while you and I make our leisurely way to BaltimoreWashington International."

"And Harry Whelan won't be involved, right?"

"I was afraid you would ask that."

"Meaning he will be?"

"Meaning he will be offered the same opportunity."

"Can I cut his throat?"

"When you come back, you can do anything you want to."

"I haven't a clue why I'm going along with this," Roscoe J. Danton said as he put the key in the car door. [ONE] Office of the Director The Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia 0930 10 February 2007 J. Stanley Waters, the CIA's deputy director for operations, stood looking over the shoulder of DCI John Powell at the screen of a laptop computer. The screen showed an arrow positioned over a map of Budapest, Hungary. A box beside the arrow held the legend HOTEL GELLERT, SZENT GELLERT TER 1 and the local date and time.

"There is our friend Castillo right now," the DCI said.

"What's he doing in the Hotel Gellert in Budapest?" Waters asked.

"Does it matter? Just as long as the case officers know where to find him when they get there."

"It would have been easier, and maybe quicker, to send the plane from Tampa. We know the guys on the plane are good, know the score, and if we had sent it over there the moment we saw he was headed for Europe, they would be there, or almost there, now."

"So you've been saying, five or six times," the DCI said.

"I stand chastised."

"And well you should," the DCI said, only half-jokingly.

When enough time for that to have sunk in had passed, the DCI went on: "And what you can do with this software, Stan-that Casey is really a fucking genius-is program a time lapse into it. Like this."

He tapped a few keys. The map changed and now showed a map covering the world from near Acapulco to Budapest.

"This arrow is when Castillo started to move from Grandma's house," the DCI said. "That was at sixteen-thirty Acapulco time yesterday. I'll set this thing to show us where he was by the hour."

He tapped keys.

"There it is…"

A series of arrows appeared on a line from Acapulco to Budapest.

"Unfortunately, there was a cloud cover, so we couldn't get a very good picture of what's moving. But enough to categorize it as a small jet. One hour later…"

He used his finger as a pointer.

"… it was almost halfway to Cancun, and two hours later, it was almost in Cancun, telling us it was making about three hundred thirty knots, which suggests that he's flying the family Lear, which makes sense, as we know the Gulfstream III is in Panama City, Panama.

"An hour after that, having taken on fuel in Cancun, he was about two hundred miles on his way to Panama City… Watch the arrow jump, Stan. Another hour, another three hundred forty nautical miles, and then another, et cetera, until he reaches Panama City, Panama.

"And there Castillo sat for almost three hours until he boarded Varig Flight 2030 for Madrid."

"Jack, for Christ's sake, you're like a kid with your goddamn computer!"

"Indulge me," the DCI said. "And there he is in Madrid."

"Goddamn it, Jack!"

"And finally, courtesy of Lufthansa, there he is in Budapest."

"What do you think he did with his airplane in Panama City?"

"No telling. We should know by the morning when we get the satellite imagery. It could be sitting on the tarmac there, or that Air Force guy, Torine, could have flown it somewhere. I never understood how that worked. Torine was a pretty senior full colonel, and our boy a very junior lieutenant colonel. So how come Torine works for Castillo?"

"I have no idea. What are you going to do with Lammelle?"

"What do you mean, do with him?"

"You are going to tell him that Castillo is in Budapest?"

"I could tell Frank, but he would have to tell General Naylor, and General Naylor would naturally want to know how Lammelle, or the CIA, knows where Castillo is. The truthful answer to that would be that, courtesy of Aloysius Francis Casey, those people in Las Vegas are tracking Colonel Castillo through a GPS transmitter in his laptop. And we don't want to reveal that, do we?"

"So Frank just sits at MacDill?"

"Unless McNab thinks he has found Castillo, and they all rush off to the wrong place to put them in the bag. You wouldn't believe, Stan, how low our director of National Intelligence has sunk in the President's esteem as a result of his wild-goose chase in Argentina. It would be unfortunate if Lammelle came to be known as a Wild-Goose Chaser in the mold of Ambassador Montvale, but that's the way the ball just might bounce. If that should happen, of course, it would tend to eliminate Frank as a replacement for me when Clendennen gives Montvale the boot and I become the DNI. I would recommend you to replace me if it were not for your unfortunate tendency to mock my interest in Casey's electronic toys."

"I can reform, Jack."

"You had fucking well better, Stan." [TWO] Office of the Commanding General United States Army Central Command MacDill Air Force Base Tampa, Florida 1605 10 February 2007 "Vic needs a minute, General," Command Sergeant Major Wes Suggins said from McNab's door.

Naylor did not like the rapport that had developed almost immediately between his sergeant major and D'Allessando, but he both understood it-Sergeants major are in fact the backbone of the Army and that's especially true with men like these two, who function at the highest levels of the service-and he knew that he couldn't warn Suggins against D'Allessando, who was in fact at this moment not a trusted member of the team but the enemy.

He motioned for Suggins to admit D'Allessando, and called, "Come on in, Vic."

"Afternoon, General," D'Allessando said. "Call for you."

He handed Naylor what looked like a BlackBerry but was in fact a CaseyBerry.

Naylor took it.

"General Naylor."

"General McNab, General. And how are things on beautiful Tampa Bay this afternoon?"

The sonofabitch has this thing on LOUDSPEAKER.

And I will be damned if I will give him the satisfaction of knowing I don't know how to turn it off.

"I've been wondering when we were going to hear from you, General," Naylor said.

"I can understand that, General."

"I'm a little surprised you didn't call on a secure line."

"This is about as secure a line as you can get, actually."

"Have you found what you're looking for?"

"I'm always looking for peace, love, and affluence, but I suspect you're asking, 'Did you find Charley?'"

D'Allessando chuckled.

Don't let either of these bastards make you lose your temper!

"And did you?"

"I managed to have a chat with him."

"And? Where is he?"

"He didn't say. But he's agreeable to talk with you, if you like, as an old friend."

"Right now, General, we're not old friends, but a general officer and a lieutenant colonel."

"Oh, I guess I misspoke. Or at least should have made this clear. I spoke with a German national by the name of Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger. During the course of our conversation, he said he was surprised that I didn't know that Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, Retired, having been ordered by the President of the United States to disappear and never be heard from again, was in compliance with his orders."

"General, the President of the United States has ordered me to order Colonel Castillo-"

"General, how can you order someone to do anything who has disappeared and will never be heard from again?"

D'Allessando chuckled again and smiled at Naylor.

"Something amuses you, D'Allessando?" Naylor snapped.

"Looks like you have a problem, General," D'Allessando said.

"Get the hell out of my office!"

"Yes, sir," D'Allessando said, and put out his hand. "May I have my CaseyBerry, please?"

You sonofabitch, that's going to cost you!

"What Herr von und zu Gossinger said he is willing to do, General," McNab went on, "is meet you in Cancun tomorrow morning."

"Cancun, Mexico?" Naylor asked incredulously.

"That's the one. And he wants you to fly there commercially. There's an Aeromexico flight out of Lauderdale tonight at seventeen-thirty; it'll put you in there a little after oh-one-thirty. They call it the Drug Dealer's Red-Eye. He says it probably would attract less attention if you didn't wear your uniform…"

Sonofabitch!!!

"… and he hopes you and your party will be his guests at El Dorado Royale in Cancun. People from El Dorado Royale-it's a five-star hotel-will meet your flight. How many will there be in your party, General?"

"That would presume I'm going along with this, wouldn't it?"

"Excuse me, General?"

"Myself, Mr. Lammelle, Major Brewer, and, I presume, Mr. D'Allessando. And my son."

"Oh, Allan's coming? Good. I'm sure Herr von und zu Gossinger will be glad to see him. And it'll be educational for him, won't it?"

"Is that about it?"

"General, I think I should tell you that I don't think Char… Herr von und zu Gossinger is going to be in Cancun. I don't think he entirely trusts Frank Lammelle. But it's the first step. And we are playing by his rules, aren't we?"

"For the moment," Naylor said.

"Your tickets will be waiting for you at the airport. First class, of course. There's nothing cheap about our… Herr von und zu Gossinger, is there? Nice to talk to you, General."

There was a muted click and General Naylor realized that General McNab was no longer on the line. [THREE] Office of the Director The Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia 1625 10 February 2007 "What are you going to do, Frank? Send the Gulfstream down to Cancun ahead of you?" Jack Powell asked.

"No. I think what I'll do is move it to the Lauderdale airport now, and then have it follow the Aeromexico flight once they're sure we're actually on it. Castillo may be up to something clever, like actually being in Disney World, or someplace, and this whole Mexican thing may be a diversion."

"Well, wherever you go, the people in the Gulfstream will know. Keep me posted, Frank."

The director of the Central Intelligence Agency hung up.

"Have a nice wild-goose chase, Frank," he said aloud, although there was no one to hear him.

Then he said, slowly, savoring each syllable, "John J. Powell, the director of National Intelligence."

He thought it had a certain ring to it, a certain je ne sais quoi. [FOUR] Room B-120 El Dorado Royale Spa Resort Kilometer Forty-five, Carretera Cancun-Tulum Riviera Maya Quintana Roo, Mexico 0230 11 February 2007 Vic D'Allessando had almost wished, as he crawled across the floor of Frank Lammelle's room toward the bed, that the sonofabitch would wake up. He would have loved an excuse to pop the bastard with one of the darts in the Glock-like air pistol he held in his hand.

But luck-at least, that kind of luck-had not been with him.

Frank Lammelle hadn't stirred as D'Allessando first pried the heels off Lammelle's shoes, removed the GPS transmitter from the right heel, and then replaced both. Not even when D'Allessando had grunted with the effort.

Neither had he stirred when D'Allessando went into Lammelle's briefcase, found Lammelle's Glock-like dart gun, removed the gas cylinder from the stock, and replaced it with a gas cylinder he had exhausted earlier shooting darts at the pineapple atop the tray of fruit that the El Dorado management had sent to his room as a welcoming gift.

Once he was back in his room, one floor up and directly above B-120-it might have been necessary, had Lammelle fastened the mechanical door lock, to gain entrance to his room by climbing down from the balcony-Vic checked his watch. The entire operation had taken twelve minutes, thirty seconds.

"Here," D'Allessando said in Russian, handing the GPS transmitter to a tall blond man in a nautical uniform. "Tell me, Captain, on the Queen of the Caribbean, are there lifeboats on an upper deck exposed to the sky?"

"Lifeboats, no," the blond man said. "Life rafts, yes."

"Then please put it someplace on one of the life rafts where it will not be seen, not get wet, and is in the best position to send a clear signal."

"I know just the place."

"And what time do you sail?"

"At half past eight."

"Marvelous! Bon voyage!"

"And when we get to Malaga, what do I do with the GPS transmitter?"

"I expect the battery will go dead before you're halfway across the Atlantic. Just put that gadget in a life raft, check it a couple of times a day, and after a week, toss it over the side." [FIVE] En route to Cancun International Airport Cancun Quintana Roo, Mexico 0915 11 February 2007 They were traveling in the same kind of minibus sent the night before to bring them from Cancun International Airport to El Dorado Royale Resort. It was manufactured in Mexico on a Mercedes-Benz chassis, and could hold fourteen passengers and their luggage in air-conditioned comfort.

This morning it held General Naylor, Colonel Brewer, Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor, Mr. Lammelle, Mr. D'Allessando, and two rather massive white-jacketed members of the El Dorado Royale's staff, one driving the bus and the other sitting in a jump seat beside him to handle the luggage and an enormous insulated container that held their lunches.

"Where are we going?" Frank Lammelle suddenly demanded to know. He was sitting alone on the row of seats at the back of the bus.

"We're off to see the Wizard, Frank," Vic D'Allessando said. "I told you where we're going: Where Charley told me to take you."

"Not good enough, D'Allessando. I want to know where."

"Pull to the side of the road, please," Vic called in Russian.

The bus pulled off to the side and stopped.

"That was Russian!" Lammelle challenged.

"God! You could tell?"

"What the hell is going on here?" Lammelle demanded. "I want you to tell me where we're going!"

"Or what? You'll stamp your foot?"

Lammelle's face showed that he understood, but he said nothing.

"Wouldn't do you any good, anyway, Frank," D'Allessando said. "Charley's not anywhere close."

"I know that. Castillo's in Budapest."

"Your computer tell you that, Frank?"

"You know fucking well it did. So what's going on here?"

"Allan-Allan Junior-did you ever see Ol' Frank's computer? He thinks-he's wrong, but that's what he thinks-it shows where Charley is. Why don't you let Allan Junior see your computer, Frank?"

"Fuck you, D'Allessando," Lammelle said.

"That's not nice!"

"Get out of the aisle, you sonofabitch. I'm getting off the bus."

"Sorry. Not permitted. When you go off to see the Wizard, you've got to go all the way."

Lammelle came out with his Glock-like air pistol, aimed it at D'Allessando, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He squeezed the trigger again.

"Funny thing about air pistols, Frank," D'Allessando said. "They don't work without air."

And then he took his Glock-like air pistol from under his pillowing Mexican resort shirt, aimed at Lammelle, and squeezed the trigger. There was a psssst sound.

"Shit!" Lammelle said, looking down at the dart in his chest.

"Allan Junior," D'Allessando said, "why don't you help Ol' Frank sit down before he falls down? And on your way back, bring his computer."

"What the hell is that you shot him with?" Allan Junior asked, as he moved down the aisle.

"I guess I'm not the only one your father didn't tell about Lammelle's CIA wonder gun," D'Allessando said. "Which raises the question, What do I do with General Naylor and his faithful sidekick, Colonel Brewer?"

Everyone watched as Lammelle went limp and as Allan Junior lowered him onto the row of seats. Then Allan Junior came down the aisle carrying a laptop.

D'Allessando called out in Russian.

The minibus began to move.

"General," D'Allessando said, "Charley said I was to treat you with as much respect as possible under the circumstances. Are you going to try anything brave and noble? Or… are you willing to give me your parole, sir?"

"That's a seldom-used term, isn't it?" General Naylor said. "The last time I think an officer gave his parole was when Colonel Waters-General Patton's son-in-law-gave his to his German captors, who then took him to the Katyn Forest and showed him the graves of the thousands of Polish officers the Russians had murdered."

"With all respect, General, thanks for the history lesson, but that doesn't answer my question."

"It seemed germane here. One of the German officers to whom Colonel Waters gave his parole was Oberst Hermann von und zu Gossinger, Colonel Castillo's grandfather. Yes, Mr. D'Allessando. If you give me your word that we are en route to see Colonel Castillo, I will offer my parole. And if memory serves, the Code of Honor says that my parole includes that of my immediate subordinates, which would mean you also have the parole of Colonel Brewer and my son, Major Naylor."

"Isn't that Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor, General?" D'Allessando asked.

"Yes, it is."

"Thank you, sir," D'Allessando said. "Okay, we're headed for the business side of Cancun International. An airplane will be waiting for us. What I would like to suggest to anyone watching is that one of our number has been at the sauce and needs help to board the airplane. Now, will your parole permit you to help me do that?"

"I'll carry the sonofabitch aboard myself," Allan Junior said. [SIX] Laguna el Guaje Coahuila, Mexico 1105 11 February 2007 Looking with frank fascination out the window of the Cessna Mustang as it was towed under what looked like an enormous tarpaulin, General Allan Naylor saw a number of very interesting things.

There were four aircraft already in the cave/hangar/whatever it was: One of them he recognized as what he thought of as "Dona Alicia's Lear." There were two Gulfstreams, a III and a V. He presumed the III was Castillo's airplane, the one in which he and Dick Miller and the others had flown away from their retirement parade at Fort Rucker. He had no idea who the Gulfstream V belonged to.

And there was a Black Hawk helicopter, with its insignia and a legend painted on the fuselage identifying it as belonging to the Mexican Policia Federal Preventiva. Naylor knew the U.S. government had "sold" a dozen of them to Mexico to assist in the war against drugs. He had smarted at the time-and smarted again now-at the price the Mexicans had paid for them, which came to about a tenth of what the Army had paid for them. And he naturally wondered what a Policia Federal helicopter was doing here.

But what he found most fascinating was Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, who was standing with another man, a woman, and Castillo's dog, Max, watching the aircraft come into the cave. The humans were dressed identically in yellow polo shirts and khaki trousers.

Now that I think about it, just about everybody in the cave is wearing yellow polo shirts and khaki trousers. Is there something significant in that?

The woman-who was wearing an enormous gaudily decorated sombrero that looked like it belonged on the head of a trumpet player in a mariachi band-was leaning her shoulder against Castillo's and holding his hand.

And the other guy-he looks like her, and they're brother and sister-has to be Berezovsky.

What I am looking at is former Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky of the SVR, the Russian Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System; and former Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva, also of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki.

McNab was right-she is built like a brick… outdoor sanitary facility.

"Hey, Dick," Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor called to the Mustang pilot, Major H. Richard Miller, Jr. (U.S. Army, Retired), whom he had known since his plebe year at the U.S. Military Academy. "Is that Charley's Russian spy holding his hand?"

"That's her. We call her 'Sweaty.' She calls him 'my Carlos.'"

"Nice," Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor said. "Very nice. Maybe thirteen on a scale of one to ten."

"She's okay, Allan," Miller said. "But don't let her looks dazzle you. Sweaty's's one tough little cookie."

"Here comes General McNab," Colonel Brewer said.

General McNab, when he climbed aboard the Mustang, was also wearing a yellow polo shirt and khaki trousers.

"General Naylor, welcome to Drug Cartel International Airfield," McNab said, and then, raising his voice, asked, "Everything under control, Vic?"

"I had to-hold that. With great pleasure, I darted Lammelle. He's about to come out of it. Got a place to put him on ice?"

"Just the place. I'll put him in with Roscoe J. Danton. Then when Frank wakes up, he'll have someone to talk to."

Naylor thought: Roscoe J. Danton? Is he talking about the reporter from the Times-Post?

I will be damned if I'll give him the satisfaction of asking.

McNab backed down the stair doors and said something in Russian. A moment later two burly blond men came onto the airplane.

"Over there," D'Allessando said in Russian. "Be careful, he's dangerous."

Forty-five seconds later, the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency was off the airplane and, slung in a fireman's carry over the shoulder of one of the burly men, was being carried toward a stainless-steel elevator door set in the rock wall.

McNab appeared again at the stair door opening.

"General," D'Allessando said, "General Naylor has given me his parole, which also covers Colonel Brewer and Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor."

"Wonderful! If we had to chain him, it would have been hard to get him down the stairs. Anytime it's convenient, General, you may disembark."

Castillo and the Russians were at the foot of the stair door when Naylor came down it. He noticed that Charley and the woman were still-or again-holding hands.

Castillo waited until Colonel Brewer, Allan Junior, and Vic D'Allessando had come down the stairs.

"At the risk of being rude, and with great respect, General Naylor, if you have something to say to me, let's get it out of the way," Castillo said.

"Colonel, I have been ordered by the President of the United States to place you under arrest. Mr. Lammelle was ordered by the President to take possession of the two Russian defectors you are believed to hold. You will, therefore, consider yourself under arrest, and when Mr. Lammelle is capable of receiving them, you will turn them over to him."

"Sir, again with great respect, that's just not going to happen. Will you explain to me, please, what your understanding of the parole you have given Mr. D'Allessando is?"

"Colonel, as I understand the Code of Honor, I have waived my right to attempt to escape or take any hostile action against my captors until after I inform you that I am withdrawing my parole. My parole covers both Colonel Brewer, whom I don't believe you know, and Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor."

"Thank you, sir. Gentlemen, may I present Dmitri Berezovsky, formerly colonel of the SVR, and Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva, also formerly of the SVR. They are here of their own volition, not as my prisoners. Having said that, I am responsible for their being here, and consider them to be under my protection."

"I see the way you're hanging onto her, Charley," Allan Junior said. "I wondered what that was all about."

General McNab laughed. General Naylor glared at him.

"This is very difficult for my Carlos," Sweaty flared. "You will not mock him!"

"Colonel Sweaty, I wouldn't think of it!" Allan Junior said.

"Only my friends can call me Sweaty," she replied evenly.

"Right now, Colonel Sweaty, getting to be your friend is right at the top of my list of things to do. Let me begin by saying I love your sombrero and that adorable puppy."

Berezovsky, having wordlessly shaken hands with General Naylor and Colonel Brewer, now offered his hand to Allan Junior.

"Be careful, Colonel," Berezovsky said. "Her bite is twice as bad as her bark."

"I'm not a lieutenant colonel yet. Just picked to be one. I'm glad to meet you."

"If our official business is over for the moment, General Naylor?" Castillo said.

"I have nothing further to say to you officially, Colonel."

"In that case, Uncle Allan, I'm damned glad to see you, even in these circumstances."

"Me, too, Charley," Naylor said, and after an awkward fifteen seconds, they embraced.

"Lunch is being prepared," Sweaty said. "The beef, compared to Argentina, is unbelievably bad."

"Do we have to do anything for Lammelle, Vic?" Castillo asked.

"Castration with a dull knife might be a good idea, but if you're asking because of the dart, no." He looked at his watch. "He should be coming out of it in the next ten minutes or so. I'd love to be there when he wakes up and finds those two Russians sitting on him. He'll think he's been shipped off to Moscow. What are they, Charley? Spetsnaz?"

"Ex."

"Where'd you get them?"

"We borrowed them from Sweaty's and Dmitri's cousin. He flew a dozen up yesterday from Argentina after Sweaty had another good idea."

"Which was?"

"I'll tell you when we're upstairs," Castillo said, and gestured toward the elevator. Then he added, "Thank God you can't trust lawyers-maybe especially Mexican lawyers. Isn't there a politically incorrect joke about that?"

"Meaning what?"

"Cutting a long story short, this place was supposed to have been burned to the ground after they exploded all the butane. But the Mexican lawyer who was supposed to do that-was trusted to do that-didn't."

"Aleksandr will kill him," Sweaty said.

"Pay attention, Allan," Castillo said. "That was not a figure of speech."

General Naylor thought: And that comment was not Charley being cute. [SEVEN] Castillo led the group into a dining room and waved them into chairs around an enormous table. Naylor saw there was already one man sitting at the table-I wonder who that guy is?-and two burly, fair-skinned men armed with Uzi submachine guns, one sitting by each of the room's two doors.

And I don't think Charley's pulling our leg about the Spetsnaz, either.

They look like Russians and they look like special operators.

Proof of that came immediately when Sweaty said something to them in Russian, to which one of them responded as an enlisted man does to an officer.

Castillo added something-gave an order-in Russian and the other Russian popped to attention and said something that was obviously, "Yes, sir."

Both of them left the dining room.

"Sweaty ordered one of them to get us some coffee," Castillo explained, "and I told the other one to fetch Mr. Danton."

"May I ask questions?" General Naylor said.

"Yes, sir. Of course," Castillo replied.

"Danton is the reporter?"

"Yes, sir. That was Sweaty's idea. I'll get into that in a minute."

"And General McNab? Has he also given you his parole?"

"Charley never asked me for it, General," McNab answered for him.

Thirty seconds later, one of the Russians led Roscoe J. Danton into the room.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Danton," Castillo said. "I presume you know everybody?"

"I don't know who these gentlemen are," Danton said, indicating Colonel Brewer, Allan Junior, Vic D'Allessando, and Aloysius Francis Casey.

"My name is Casey," Aloysius said.

"Colonel Brewer is my senior aide-de-camp," General Naylor said. "And that's my son, Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Allan Naylor, Junior."

"I try very hard to keep my name out of the newspapers, Mr. Danton," D'Allessando said. "Think of me as a friend of Charley's. You can call me Vic."

"And was that Frank Lammelle they just carried into my cell?"

"Yes, it was," Castillo said. "And I'm crushed that you think of that lovely room with an en suite bath and such a lovely view as a cell."

"If there's a guy with a submachine gun at the door keeping you inside," Danton said, "that's a cell."

"Point taken," Castillo said. "I think I should begin this by telling you, Mr. Danton, that General Naylor, Colonel Brewer, and Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor are not here voluntarily. They have given me their parole."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that under the Code of Honor, they will-"

"What 'Code of Honor'?" Danton interrupted.

"I don't really know. I think of it as the Code of Honor," Castillo said, and looked at General Naylor. "Is there a more formal name, sir?"

"I don't really know," Naylor said. "What it means, Mr. Danton, is that I-personally and on behalf of my staff-have given Colonel Castillo our parole, which means that we will neither attempt escape nor undertake any hostile action without first notifying him that we have withdrawn our parole."

"You're serious, aren't you?" Danton asked, and when Naylor nodded, said, "You take that Code of Honor business seriously? Incredible!"

"I don't think that's the only thing you're going to hear, or see, in the next couple of days that you may find incredible," Castillo said.

Two Russians appeared with a huge thermos of coffee and a tray with cups, cream, and sugar.

Castillo waited until the fuss caused by that dissipated and then rapped his spoon against the thermos. Everybody looked at him.

"Here we go," he said. "While I am a graduate of the U.S. Army Command and General Staff School-where one learns how to write a staff study-I have to confess that when it was time for me to actually go to Fort Leavenworth, either they really couldn't find room for me, or an unnamed senior officer decided I could make a greater contribution to the Army by running his errands. So he pulled some strings, the result of which was that I took the course by correspondence-in addition to my other duties-rather than in the academic setting of Leavenworth."

General Naylor realized he was smiling, and when he looked, he saw General McNab-the unnamed senior officer-was, too.

"The result of that was I cannot come up with as good a staff study as most people can. But as General McNab has told me so many times over the years, you gotta go with what you got.

"Statement of the Problem: The Russians and the Iranians, probably with a lot of help from former East Germans and maybe the Czechs and even the Japanese, none of whom find anything wrong with using biological weapons on soldiers and civilians, came up with a substance we now call Congo-X, because it was manufactured in a laboratory in the Congo.

"Our own expert in this area, Colonel J. Porter Hamilton, cutting to the chase, describes Congo-X as 'an abomination before God.'

"Surprising me not a hell of a lot, Congo-X slipped through the cracks at Langley. It was the stated opinion of the CIA that what was going on in the Congo was a fish farm.

"We learned what was really going on there through dumb luck-"

"Colonel," Roscoe J. Danton interrupted, "if I take notes, will I be wasting my time?"

"I think taking notes is a good idea."

"I'll need my laptop."

Castillo said something in Russian, and then, "Your laptop's on the way. Now, where was I?"

"Something about dumb luck," Danton said.

"Oh, yeah. What I should have said was 'stupidity and incompetence.' I've got to go off at a tangent here. I'm sure that everybody here will be surprised when I tell you that there are some Russians who have moral qualms about biological warfare because of their deep religious convictions. And even more surprised that some of these good Russians get to rise high in the ranks of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, which in English is the Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System.

"And I'm sure that you will be shocked to hear that the SVR is just as bad as our beloved CIA when it comes to bureaucratic infighting and empire-building. The head villain here is Vladimir Putin, who-despite what title he's running under-actually runs the SVR, which among other things ran the 'Fish Farm' in the Congo.

"In an attempt to restore the SVR to the sort of glory their predecessor secret police organization had before the Soviet Union imploded, Putin decided that a number of people-Russians, Germans, Austrians, Argentines, and Americans, the latter including your lecturer here today-had to be whacked or eliminated.

"He succeeded in whacking the German, a journalist who was asking too many questions about German involvement in supplying the Fish Farm, and the Austrians, who had been deep-cover CIA assets successfully engaged over the years in getting Russians and other Eastern Bloc people to switch sides.

"The attempted assassination of the Argentine failed, but Putin still had high hopes of taking me out when I went to the German's funeral. The murdered German worked for the Tages Zeitung newspaper chain, which, as most of you know, I own-"

"You own the Tages Zeitung chain?" Danton asked incredulously.

Castillo nodded. "Incredible, right? Stick around. It gets better. Anyway, they knew I would go to the funeral. So Putin sent a team of assassins-former members of the Hungarian Allamvedelmi Hatosag-to Germany, with orders to report to Colonel Berezovsky, the SVR rezident in Berlin. Berezovsky would tell them when and where to whack me when I showed up at the funeral."

Danton pointed to Berezovsky and asked with his eyebrows: Him?

Castillo nodded.

"It was to be Colonel Berezovsky's final assignment. When he was finished whacking me and went-with his sister, Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva, the SVR rezident in Copenhagen-to an SVR meeting in Vienna, they were going to be charged with embezzlement and flown off to Moscow. Berezovsky was a threat to Putin's control of the SVR, and had to go. And so did his sister.

"The mistake Putin made-the stupidity he demonstrated-was to underestimate Colonel Berezovsky. Berezovsky knew all about Putin's plans for him and Sweaty-"

Danton pointed at Svetlana and asked, "'Sweaty'?"

"Only to her friends," Castillo said. "Anyway, Berezovsky had gotten in touch with the CIA station chief in Vienna, Miss Eleanor Dillworth, and told her he and his sister were willing to defect.

"Miss Dillworth lost no time in telling Jack Powell, and Jack Powell lost no time in telling our late President of the genius of his Vienna station chief, implying that Miss Dillworth had brilliantly entrapped Dmitri and Sweaty when, in fact, they had walked in her door.

"Colonel Berezovsky was not very impressed with Miss Dillworth. He was in fact very nervous about what was going to happen in Vienna. He thought she was entirely capable of throwing him and Sweaty under the bus if anything-any little thing-went wrong.

"And then Dmitri saw in the Frankfurter Rundschau a picture of me getting off my Gulfstream on the way to the funeral. He knew that Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger was also a lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Army with alleged intelligence and Special Operations connections. And who had his own airplane.

"Brilliant fellow that my future brother-in-law is, he reasoned-"

"Did you say 'future brother-in-law'?" Danton asked incredulously.

General Naylor thought: That's exactly what he said. My God!

"I thought everybody knew," Castillo said. "Love is where you find it, Mr. Danton."

"Jesus Christ!"

"My fiancee is offended when someone takes the Lord's name in vain, Mr. Danton."

"Sorry."

"As I was saying… Dmitri, clever fellow that he is, reasoned that if he called off the Allamvedelmi Hatosag and I was not whacked, maybe I would show my gratitude to him by flying him and Sweaty out of Europe. Which is what happened."

"Is it?" General Naylor asked. "Is that what actually happened, Charley?"

"Yes, sir."

"I never understood why you would steal the defectors from the CIA," Naylor admitted.

"I didn't know about Miss Dillworth until later, General. What Dmitri told me at the time was that the SVR was going to be waiting for him and Svetlana in the Sudbahnhof in Vienna."

"So you flew them to Argentina? Why Argentina?"

"They have family there, sir," Castillo said.

"Well, why didn't you turn them over to the CIA in Argentina?" Naylor asked.

"Well, just about as soon as we got to Vienna, sir, Dmitri, as an expression of his gratitude, told me about the Fish Farm in the Congo. When Ambassador Montvale came down there, I tried to tell him about the Fish Farm, but he gave me the CIA answer: It was nothing but a fish farm."

"You still should have turned these people over to the CIA."

"Two reasons I didn't, sir. The first being that I believed Dmitri about the Fish Farm, and knew that if I turned them over to the CIA, they would not believe him, and that would be the end of it. I knew I had to follow that path."

"And the second reason?"

Castillo exhaled audibly.

"Maybe I… no… certainly I should have given this as my first reason, sir: By the time Montvale showed up in Buenos Aires, certain things had happened between Svetlana and me. I knew there was no way I was ever going to turn her or her brother over to the CIA, the Argentine SIDE, the Rotary Club of East Orange, New Jersey, or anyone else."

Naylor shook his head, but said nothing.

"In the end," Castillo went on, "that turned out, for several reasons, to be the right decision. I decided that my duty required I take action on my own. And that turned out to be the right decision, too. And is why I decided to take action on my own in that situation."

"What action was that, Colonel?" Danton asked.

"The question obviously was: 'What's really going on in the Congo?' There was only one way to find out. I arranged to send people in there to find out."

"On your own authority," General Naylor said. "You had no right to do that, and you knew it."

"I saw it as my duty to do just that," Castillo said.

"What exactly did you do?" Danton asked.

"I sent Colonel J. Porter Hamilton, the man who runs our bio-warfare laboratory at Fort Detrick, to the Congo with a team of special operators. He found out it was even worse than we suspected, told-more importantly, convinced-our late President of this, and the President ordered it destroyed."

"And what happened to you for doing what you did without authorization?"

"Well, for a couple of minutes the President wanted to make me director of National Intelligence… I'm kidding. What the President did was tell me to take everybody in OOA to the end of the earth, fall off, and never be seen again. And I've tried-we've all tried-to do just that."

"And?" Danton pursued.

"The curtain went up on Act Two. Two barrels of Congo-X appeared, one FedExed from Miami to Colonel Hamilton at Fort Detrick, the second left for the Border Patrol to find on the Texas-Mexico border."

"Where did it come from?"

"Almost certainly from the Congo. We know that a Russian Special Operations airplane-a Tupolev Tu-934A-landed at El Obeid Airport, in North Kurdufan, Sudan-which is within driving range of the Fish Farm-and took off shortly afterward, leaving seventeen bodies behind.

"We suspect it flew first to Cuba for refueling, and then it flew here, where two barrels of Congo-X were given to the Mexico City rezident of the SVR, who then drove off with them, presumably to get them across the border into the United States."

"How do you know that?" General Naylor challenged.

"We have it all on surveillance tape, sir. I'll show the tapes to you, if you'd like. There's a very clear picture of General Yakov Sirinov, who is apparently in charge of the operation. The Tupolev Tu-934A then left here, and is presently on the ground at La Orchila airfield. That's on an island off the coast of Venezuela."

"How could you possibly know that?" General Naylor demanded.

"I'd show you the satellite imagery, sir, but if I did, you'd know where I got them."

"I don't think I'd have to look very far, would I, General McNab?" Naylor asked unpleasantly.

Castillo said, "You have my word that I did not get them from General McNab. And, sir, with respect, your parole does not give you the right to question me, or anyone else. Please keep that in mind."

He let that sink in, and then went on: "Now, for Facts Bearing on the Problem, Scene Two. The Russian rezident in Washington, Sergei Murov, had Frank Lammelle-speaking of whom, Vic: Should we have someone take a look at him?"

"He has two of your Spetsnaz watching him, Charley. I think they'll be able to tell if the SOB croaks."

Castillo nodded, then went on: "The Russians had Lammelle over to their dacha on Maryland's Eastern Shore, where Murov, the rezident, admitted they sent the Congo-X to Colonel Hamilton, and then offered to turn over all Congo-X in their control and give us their assurance that no more will ever turn up. All they want in return is Dmitri, Sweaty, and me.

"The President thinks the price is fair. He sent General Naylor to arrest me, and Frank Lammelle to arrest Sweaty and Dmitri…"

"Is that true, General Naylor?" Danton asked.

"Any conversations I may or may not have had with the President, Mr. Danton," Naylor said, "are both privileged and classified."

"It's true," General McNab said.

"How do you know?" Danton asked.

"Because that's what General Naylor told me," McNab said. "Under the Code of Honor, people-especially general officers-don't tell fibs to each other. They may try to make human sacrifices of fellow officers, but telling fibs is a no-no. Telling a fib will get you kicked right off that Long Gray Line."

"Colonel Brewer, please be prepared to report that exchange in detail," Naylor said.

"Jesus Christ, Allan!" McNab said. Then, "Sorry, Sweaty, that just slipped out."

"The question is moot," Castillo said. "Colonel Berezovsky and Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva are not going to be involuntarily repatriated. And I ain't goin' nowhere I don't want to go, neither."

"So what are you going to do, Charley?" Allan Junior asked.

"It took me a lot longer than it should have for me to figure this out, Allan, but what I'm going to do is something they told me on that fabled plain overlooking the Hudson when I was eighteen. When, if I made it through Hudson High and became an officer, my first duty would be to take care of my people.

"I forgot that over the years. The truth of the matter was that falling off the face of the earth didn't bother me much. There I was, with Sweaty, on the finest trout-fishing river in the world. The President of the United States had relieved me of my responsibilities.

"Then Dmitri and Sweaty's cousin, Colonel V. N. Solomatin, who runs the Second Directorate of the SVR with Putin looking over his shoulder, wrote a letter to Dmitri and Sweaty, telling them to come home, all is forgiven.

"Since he didn't know where they were, he had the rezident in Budapest give the letter to a friend of mine there who he thought knew how to get in touch with me. He was right. Several hours later, Sweaty and I were reading it in Patagonia.

"What was significant about the letter was not that Putin thought anybody would believe that all was forgiven, but that he wasn't going to stop until Sweaty and Dmitri paid for their sins. That letter was intended to give Clendennen an out: He wasn't forcing Sweaty and Dmitri to go back to Russia. 'Knowing that all was forgiven-here's the letter to prove that-they went back willingly.'

"Then the Congo-X appeared in Fort Detrick. Just about as soon as that happened, some people who knew the OOA-"

"The what?" Roscoe Danton interrupted.

"The Office of Organizational Analysis, the President's-"

"Okay. Now I'm with you," Danton said.

"Okay. Some people-"

"What people?" Danton interrupted again.

"I'm not going to tell you that now; I may never tell you. I haven't figured out what to do about them yet."

"Let me deal with the bastards, Charley," Aloysius said.

"I'd love to, Aloysius, but I want to be invisible when this is all over, and that would be hard to do if all those people suddenly committed suicide by jumping off the roller coaster on top of that tower in Las Vegas. People would wonder why they did that."

Casey chuckled.

"That's not exactly what I had in mind, but close," he said.

"You realize, Colonel," Danton said, "that all you're doing is whetting my appetite. Presuming that I come out of this alive, I'm going to find out who these people are. So, why don't you tell me now?"

Castillo considered that.

"Tell him, Carlos," Sweaty said.

"You think that's smart?"

"I think you have to tell Mr. Danton everything," she said. "Or eliminate him. He either trusts you-us-completely, or he's too dangerous to us to stay alive…"

"Was that a threat?" Danton challenged, and thought: No, it was a statement of fact. And the frightening thing about that is I think he's going to listen to her.

Sweaty ignored him. She went on: "… and now is when you have to make that decision."

Danton thought: I realize this is overdramatic, but the cold truth is that if these people think I'm a danger to them, they're entirely capable of taking me out in the desert, shooting me, and leaving me for the buzzards.

Why the fuck did I ever agree to come here?

"Dmitri?" Castillo asked.

"I think she's right again," Berezovsky said, after a moment's consideration of the question.

"My consiglieri having spoken, Mr. Danton…" Castillo said, and paused.

Roscoe Danton wondered: Consiglieri?

Where the hell did he get that? From The Godfather?

Castillo met Danton's eyes, then went on: "There is a group of men in Las Vegas who have both enormous wealth and influence, the latter reaching all over, and, in at least two cases I'm sure of, into the Oval Office. Not to the President, but to several members of his cabinet. They're all patriots, and they use their wealth and influence from time to time to fund intelligence activities for which funds are not available.

"When those people learned that OOA had been disbanded, they thought they could hire it as sort of a mercenary Special Operations organization."

"Those people have names?" Danton asked.

"Giving them to you would be a breach of trust," Castillo said. "We never agreed to this proposal when it was made, but neither, apparently, did we say 'Hell, no' with sufficient emphasis.

"It was from those people that we first learned of the Congo-X at Fort Detrick. They got in touch and wanted us to look into it. I was going to do that anyway, as it obviously was likely to have something to do with Dmitri and Sweaty as well as the threat it posed to the country.

"I made the mistake of taking two hundred thousand dollars in expense money, following my rule of whenever possible you should spend other people's money rather than your own, and this, I am afraid, allowed them to think the mercenaries were on their payroll."

"What was wrong with that?" Danton asked.

"Well, for one thing, we're not for hire. But what happened, I have come to believe, is that when they learned that President Clendennen had decided to swap Dmitri, Sweaty, and me in exchange for the Congo-X that the Russians have, they decided that made sense, and that since I was a mercenary, I was expendable."

"They told you this?" Danton asked.

"No. But I'm not taking any of their calls," Castillo said. "Or letting them know where I am."

"They think Charley's on a riverboat between Budapest and Vienna," Aloysius said. "And that I'm in Tokyo."

"I don't understand that," Danton said.

"You're not supposed to," Sweaty said. "Go on, Carlitos."

"What are you going to do?" Danton said.

"Well, there is some good news. We've learned how to kill Congo-X," Castillo said. "Right now, nobody knows that but us-"

"You know something that important and you're not going to tell the President?" General Naylor blurted.

"If we told him, sir, there are several probabilities I'm not willing to accept. One would be that he would want to know how we came to know this before he did; that would place Colonel Hamilton in an awkward position."

"Goddamn it, Charley!" Naylor exploded. "Hamilton is a serving officer. He is duty-bound."

"Sir, with respect. You are violating your parole. I have told you that you are not permitted to question me. But I'll answer that. Inasmuch as Colonel Hamilton marches beside us in the Long Gray Line, I'm sure he considered the Code of Honor before deciding that to keep this information to ourselves for the time being was necessary. He realized that if President Clendennen knew that we can now neutralize Congo-X, the Russians would learn that in short order. Right now, we don't want to give them that."

There was silence for a moment.

Then Danton asked, "So, what are you going to do, Colonel?"

"Depending on how much Congo-X the Russians have, that reduces the threat to the United States just about completely, or doesn't reduce it much at all," Castillo went on.

"The odds are that the Congo-X that General Sirinov flew out of Africa is all of it. Dmitri says that the Russians knew how awful this stuff is. Burned once, no pun intended, by Chernobyl, they didn't want to run the risk of having any of this stuff inside Russia.

"If he's wrong, and the Russians have warehouses full of Congo-X, or have the means inside Russia, or in Iran, or someplace else, to make more of it, then the United States is in deep trouble.

"So what we have to do is find out how much Congo-X they have. I don't think Putin would answer that truthfully. So we have to ask the only other man who might, General Yakov Sirinov."

"How the hell are you going to do that? And what makes you think he'll tell you the truth?" Danton asked.

"We're going to raid the Venezuelan airfield, La Orchila, grab the general, load him on his Tupolev Tu-934A, fly him here, and ask him."

"You're going to invade Venezuela?"

"We're going to launch a raid on a Venezuelan airfield, not invade. When you invade, you try to stay. With a little luck, we should be in and out in no more than fifteen minutes, twenty tops."

Danton repeated, "'Load him on his Tupolev'?"

Castillo nodded. "The CIA has a standing offer of one hundred twenty-five million dollars for a Tu-934A. We're going to get them one; we need the money."

"To answer your other question, Mr. Danton," Sweaty said, "once we get General Sirinov here, I'll be asking the questions. He will tell us the truth."

"And now you'll have to excuse me for a few minutes," Castillo said. "I have to go buy another Black Hawk. While I'm gone, we'll show you the surveillance tapes."

"'Buy another Black Hawk?'" Danton parroted.

"That's right," Castillo said. "You don't know how that works, do you?"

"Uh-uh."

"Well, the U.S. Army buys them from Sikorsky. They run right around six million dollars. Then the State Department sells them to the Mexican government-to be used in their unrelenting war against the drug cartels-for about one-tenth of that, say, six hundred thousand.

"The next thing that happens is that-in the aforementioned unrelenting war run by the Policia Federal Preventiva against the drug cartels-the helicopter is reported to have been shot down, or that it crashed in flames.

"Next, a Policia Federal Preventiva palm is crossed with a little money-say, a million or so-and the Black Hawk rises phoenix-like from the ashes. The drug cartels find them very useful to move drugs around. That tends to raise the price. The one downstairs cost us one point two million, and I have been warned that the bidding today will start at a million three."

"Incredible!" Danton said.

"Enjoy the movies, Mr. Danton," Castillo said. "I'll be back as soon as I can." [EIGHT] The Office of the Director of National Intelligence Eisenhower Executive Office Building 17th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1210 11 February 2007 "Mr. McGuire is here to see you, Mr. Ambassador," Montvale's secretary announced.

"Ask him to come in, please," Montvale said, and, as Truman Ellsworth watched from a leather armchair, then rose from behind his desk and walked toward the door, meeting McGuire as he entered the office.

"Hello, Tom," Montvale said. "What can I do for you?"

McGuire hesitated, and then said, "I suppose you've heard I don't work here no more."

Montvale nodded. "Mason Andrews lost very little time in telling me; he was here two minutes after Truman and I got here this morning."

"How are you, Tom?" Ellsworth said.

He got out of his armchair, went to McGuire, and gave him his hand.

McGuire hesitated again.

"I decided I couldn't just fold my tent, Mr. Ambassador, without facing you and telling you I was sorry…"

"You're not going to be prosecuted, Tom, if that's what's worrying you. To do that, Andrews would need me to testify and I made sure he understands that's just not going to happen."

McGuire finished, "… but when I walked in here just now, I realized I couldn't do that. When Mrs. Darby told me Alex Darby was down there in…"

"Ushuaia," Ellsworth furnished.

"… with some floozy, I knew that wasn't so. And when I told you, I told myself that you were too smart to swallow that whole. But what I came to tell you, Mr. Ambassador, is that I hoped you would."

"I appreciate your honesty, Tom. Are you going to tell me why?"

"I just had enough of the whole scenario, Mr. Ambassador. I think what the President's trying to do to Charley Castillo is rotten. I didn't want to be part of it. I hope they never find him."

"Prefacing this by saying that I'm about to join you in the army of the unemployed…"

"Excuse me?"

"You've been around the White House for a long time, Tom. What inferences would you draw if I told you that that red telephone no longer directly connects the director of National Intelligence to the President?"

He gave McGuire time to consider that, then went on: "And when the director of National Intelligence-to whom the President is now referring to as the 'director of National Stupidity'-attempts to telephone the President using the White House switchboard, the President's secretary answers and tells me the President is busy and will get back to me. Or words to that effect."

"He's going to throw you under the bus, too?" McGuire asked.

"That is the inference I have drawn. Does that sound reasonable to you?"

"Then I am sorry, Mr. Ambassador. I didn't think what I did would cost you your job."

"What you did, Tom, probably contributed to that, but I don't think it was the only thing that made President Clendennen decide he could do without my services. He really isn't quite as stupid as he appears. I think it is entirely likely that he has known for some time what I think of him. He would like nothing better than to have Roscoe J. Danton write a column detailing how his director of National Stupidity went on a wild-goose chase to Ushuaia, but he can't do that because Roscoe would be sure to ask him why he sent Truman and me to Argentina in the first place, and he can't be sure how far he can push my reluctance to embarrass the Office of the President-for that matter, Clendennen himself-before it is overwhelmed by my contempt.

"Inasmuch as he knows that I won't oblige him by resigning, what he's doing is looking for a way to fire me in conditions that won't reflect adversely on him."

"Is Danton going to write about… you going to Ushuaia?"

"I don't know. I'm having trouble getting in touch with him. Just before you came in, Truman and I decided that we will take our lunch at the Old Ebbitt Grill. Not only are we fairly sure that the Executive Dining Room will no longer welcome us, but we suspect we can find Mr. Danton at one of his favorite watering holes, the Old Ebbitt.

"We'll have to walk. Truman and I no longer have access to the White House fleet of Yukons."

"My God!"

"If you don't mind the walk, Truman and I would be delighted if you were to join us."

"You don't have to do that, Mr. Ambassador."

"I want to do it," Montvale said. "Please join us." [ONE] Laguna el Guaje Coahuila, Mexico 1335 11 February 2007 "Sorry to have taken so long," Castillo said when he walked into the dining room trailed by Max. "Unexpected problems at the used helicopter lot."

"But you got another Black Hawk?" Sweaty asked.

"I got another one. But the price went up to one point four million, and I suspect it's not going to be as nice as the one downstairs."

"Colonel, can I ask where you're getting all that money?" Roscoe Danton said.

"The LCBF Corporation actually purchased the Black Hawks, and is loaning them to us," Castillo answered.

"That's 'those people' in Las Vegas?" Danton asked.

"Oh, no," Castillo said. "The LCBF Corporation has absolutely nothing to do with those people in Las Vegas."

"Then what the hell is it?"

"I'd really like to tell you, Roscoe," Castillo said solemnly. "I really would. But if I did, I'd have to kill you."

That earned a chuckle from not only the Special Operations people around the table-there was one more of them now, CWO5 Colin Leverette (Retired) having come in while they were watching the surveillance camera tapes-but also from Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Allan Naylor, Jr.

General Naylor, however, who had heard the comment often, was not amused.

He thought: These Special Operations types, from Charley's teenaged ex-Marine "bodyguard" Lester Bradley up to Lieutenant General Bruce McNab, have an almost perverse sense of humor. They're different. They have no respect for anything or anyone but each other.

And then he thought: Why do I suspect that things did not go well when Charley was off buying another Black Hawk?

And I think he was telling the truth about that, too. We give the Mexicans multimillion-dollar helicopters, which then promptly wind up in the hands of the drug cartels.

Castillo said, "Well, now that you've seen the movie starring General Yakov Sirinov and his Dancing SVR Ninjas…"

There he goes again! Why does he feel compelled to make a joke even of that?

"… I think we should move to the war room, where I will attempt to explain our plan."

"Am I permitted to make a comment?" the elder Naylor asked.

"Yes, sir. Of course."

"That tape should be in the hands of the President. He could have the secretary of State demand an emergency session of the UN Security Council…"

"Not until we know how much Congo-X the Russians have," Castillo said very seriously, and then his voice became mocking: "And now, lady, Max, and gentlemen, if you'll be good enough to follow me to the war room?"

He bowed deeply, holding one arm across his middle and pointing the other toward the door.

Naylor thought: I'd like to throw something at him.

He glanced at McNab, who was smiling.

What's he smiling at? Charley playing the clown?

Or me? The war room had been a recreation/exercise room. There was a Ping-Pong table, a pocket billiards table, and half a dozen exercise machines of assorted functioning.

The exercise machines had been moved into a corner of the room. The billiards and Ping-Pong tables were covered with maps. Lester Bradley was at a table on which sat a Casey communicator and several printers. There were armchairs, most of them in a semicircle facing large maps taped to a wall. Another armchair was alone against the side of the wall. And again, there were two burly, fair-skinned, Uzi-armed men sitting by the doors to the room.

"Colonel Castillo, I think we should discuss my understanding of my parole."

"With respect, sir, will you hold that until I ask the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency if it's convenient for him to join us?" Castillo replied, and then issued an order in Russian.

Thirty seconds later, Frank Lammelle was ushered into the room by two burly Russians. He was wearing a shirt and trousers. He was barefoot. His wrists were encircled with plastic handcuffs. The handcuffs were held against his waist by another plastic handcuff attached to his belt.

"Good afternoon, Frank," Castillo said.

"You're going to jail for this, Castillo."

Castillo issued another order in Russian. One of the ex-Spetsnaz operators left the room and returned a moment later with a folding metal chair. Castillo showed him where he wanted it, and then, not gently, guided Lammelle into it.

"Lester, go sit in the armchair. Take Mr. Lammelle's air pistol with you."

Bradley complied.

"Frank," Castillo then said, "you pose a problem for me. General McNab, General Naylor, and General Naylor's staff are also here involuntarily. But they have given me their parole under the Code of Honor. I'm fairly sure you've heard of it. I'm also absolutely sure-you being the DDCI-that you wouldn't consider yourself bound by it. So I will not accept your parole.

"Which means you will sit there in handcuffs. If you even look like you're thinking of getting out of the chair without my express permission, Lester will dart you. I should tell you that he's not only a former Marine gunnery sergeant but also a crack shot. He was a designated marksman on the March to Baghdad. He will also dart you if you speak without my permission. You understand?"

"You heard what I said about you going to jail for this, you sonofabitch!"

"You are entitled to one emotional outburst before Lester darts you. You just used it. Lester, put a dart in the back of his neck the next time he says anything."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"And, Frank, the next time you use language that offends my fiancee, I will let Max bite you. Show the man your teeth, Max," Castillo said, then spoke a few words in Hungarian while pointing at Lammelle.

Max, growling deep in his throat, walked to Lammelle and showed him his teeth. Lammelle squirmed on the folding chair.

All the special operators in the room, plus Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor, chuckled.

General Naylor thought: There's that perverted sense of humor again!

And Allan thinks that threatening to sic that enormous dog on Lammelle is perfectly acceptable conduct!

"Oh, that's right," Castillo said. "You haven't met my fiancee, have you, Frank? Sweetheart, say hello to Frank Lammelle. He used to be a friend of mine. Frank, the lady is former Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva of the SVR. And sitting next to her is her brother, former Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky of the SVR. I know you've been anxious to meet them."

There was a moment's silence.

"Lester, if Frank doesn't say 'Pleased to meet you' or 'How do you do?' in the next three seconds, dart him."

Lammelle very hastily said, "Pleased to meet you."

The special operators and Allan Junior now laughed.

"Colonel, regarding the Code of Honor," General Naylor said.

Goddamn it, I'm smiling! What the hell is happening to me?

"Yes, sir?"

"I don't know what your intentions are here, but I think I should tell you that when I am no longer constrained by my parole, I will feel free to relate to the proper authorities anything I see or hear here."

"Yes, sir. That's understood. It's not a problem, sir, as you remain here-in other words, not in a position to tell anyone anything-until this operation concludes."

Castillo looked around the room.

"I think I should make it clear before I start that-as much as I know I could have used his wise counsel-I did not ask General McNab for any assistance in coming up with this plan. The Code of Honor would have precluded him giving me any assistance."

"You're wrong about that, Charley," McNab said.

Naylor glared at him.

"On the other hand," Castillo, ignoring the comment, went on, "I have been privileged over the years to watch General McNab plan and execute maybe two dozen operations such as this one. What I'm doing now is praying that enough of his expertise has rubbed off on me so that this one will work."

He looked at Svetlana.

"And I meant that, Sweaty, about praying. That wasn't a figure of speech."

"I know, my Carlitos," Svetlana said.

"Okay, here we go," Castillo said. "Statement of the Problem: We have to interrogate General Yakov Sirinov to determine how much Congo-X the Russians have. To do this, we have to bring the general, plus whatever Congo-X he has in his possession, here.

"We know from satellite imagery that General Sirinov went from here to the airfield on La Orchila, the island off the coast of Venezuela. The latest satellite imagery we have, as of oh-six-hundred today, no longer shows the Tu-934A aircraft, but does show half a dozen of the Spetsnaz operators near what appears to be one of those canvas-and-poles, throw-it-up-overnight hangars. It is therefore reasonable to presume the Tu-934A is in the hangar; it is unlikely that Sirinov would leave the Spetsnaz in Venezuela…"

"Colonel," Roscoe Danton said, "you never said where are you getting the satellite imagery…"

Castillo nodded. "That's another of those questions, Roscoe, that I'd like to answer, but…"

"I know," Danton said. "You'd have to kill me if you did."

"Right," Castillo said. "Now, as far as personnel go, we're going to use as few Americans as possible. Colonel Berezovsky said that we stand a good chance, if we have the element of surprise on our side and use our ex-Spetsnaz people, to confuse Sirinov's Spetsnaz to the point where their efficiency will be substantially reduced."

"Explain that to me, Charley," General McNab said softly.

"Dmitri and our Spetsnaz get off the plane, the chopper, whatever we wind up using. Dmitri points to the nearest of Sirinov's Spetsnaz and says, 'I am Colonel Berezovsky. Take me to General Sirinov.' Dmitri thinks, and Sweaty thinks, and I agree, there's a good chance we can get away with that. If we do, we stick a pistol up Sirinov's nose…"

"And if you don't?" McNab asked.

"Then we can probably disarm Sirinov's Spetsnaz. Or, if necessary, take them out."

"You don't want to start by taking them out?" McNab said.

"We're trying to avoid taking anybody out," Castillo said.

Berezovsky put in: "I think going in there with guns blazing would be counterproductive, General. And possibly disastrous. We don't know what would happen if one of those rubber barrels was subjected to machine-gun fire. We don't want little pieces of Congo-X scattered all over that airfield."

"Good point," McNab said. "What did you say, Charley, about 'whatever we wind up using'? That sounds like you're not planning to use the Black Hawks."

"We may not be able to use them," Castillo said. "The closest staging point we can use is Cozumel. And that island is thirteen hundred nautical miles, give or take, from La Orchila. The ferry range of a Black Hawk is in the book at twelve hundred. We might be able to stretch that to thirteen hundred-we probably could; Dick and I have a lot of time in Black Hawks watching the fuel exhaustion warning light blinking at us-but that would put us in La Orchila with dry tanks."

"Auxiliary fuel cells?" General Naylor asked.

"I don't know where I can get any, sir," Castillo said. "And even with fuel cells, we'd have to top off the Black Hawks, and the fuel cells, at La Orchila. That would take twenty minutes at least. I don't want to be on the ground more than fifteen minutes. And that's presuming we would be able to refuel at La Orchila."

"So what is your alternate plan?" McNab said.

"Overload the Gulfstream III-I can get a lot of people in there; maybe fifteen-to go in under the radar at first light and hope Dmitri's 'Take me to General Sirinov' order dazzles Sirinov's Spetsnaz. Then we load him and what Congo-X he has on his Tu-934A and come back here."

"What would happen to your Gulfstream?" Naylor asked.

"Sir, maybe there would be fuel there, and time to refuel. Unlikely, but possible. If not, Sparkman leaves with what fuel remains and heads for Barranquilla, Colombia. And we get on the Tu-934A and come here."

"Charley," McNab asked softly, "what would your wish list be for this operation?"

"General, we've given that very subject a lot of thought," Castillo said. "If I had my druthers, I'd commandeer four UH-60Ms from the One-Sixtieth Special Operations fleet. Two to use and two for redundancy. All with stub wings and external tanks. They would be armed with GAU-19 fifty-caliber Gatling guns and AGM-114 Hellfire laser-guided missiles to take out the commo building."

He paused, and then went on, "And since I have been a very good boy, I would like Santa to also bring me a Red Ryder BB gun and an anatomically correct Barbie doll."

McNab, D'Allessando, and Allan Junior laughed.

"Well, you asked me," Castillo said. "And, oh, I forgot: An aircraft carrier-preferably the USS Ronald Reagan-sitting somewhere out there on the blue Caribbean so that I and my stalwart band could have a last meal on the Navy before we sallied forth to battle the forces of evil."

This got the expected laughter.

"But since I don't believe in Santa Claus, I guess we'll have to go with my tired old Gulfstream III. Among other things, I suspect we're running out of time."

"How much time do you think you have?" General Naylor asked.

"Seventy-two hours tops, sir. If I had to bet, I'd wager that in forty-eight hours the Tu-934A will be on its way somewhere."

"Somewhere?"

"Sir, I have no idea where it will go. Maybe Cuba. I just don't know."

General Naylor then suddenly said, "Colonel Castillo, I herewith inform you I am withdrawing my parole."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Allan!" General McNab said disgustedly. "Now what?"

"Yes, sir, General Naylor," Castillo said evenly. "I regret to tell you, sir, that I am placing you under arrest."

"Colonel Castillo, are you still determined to proceed on an operation that not only is unauthorized but in my professional opinion is suicidal?"

"Sir, I see going ahead with this as my duty. I beg you, sir, please don't get in my way."

General Naylor nodded, then said, "Colonel Brewer, make note of the time."

"Yes, sir. It's fourteen twenty-eight, sir."

General Naylor went on: "Make note of this, please, Colonel Brewer. Write it down. Quote. Having at fourteen twenty-seven withdrawn my parole, at fourteen twenty-eight, in the realization that I was not going to be able to deter Lieutenant Colonel Castillo from proceeding on an unauthorized operation involving Congo-X in Venezuela, I came to the conclusion that my duty lay in increasing his chances of success, as the failure of his operation would cause more damage to the United States than its success."

"Sir, I don't understand," Castillo said.

"Get me on a secure line to my headquarters at MacDill and it will be made clear to you, Colonel."

The two looked into each other's eyes for a long minute.

"Do what he says, Carlos," Svetlana said softly.

Castillo turned to Lester Bradley, and ordered: "Give the air pistol to Uncle Remus, Lester, and get a secure line to MacDill."

"Aye, aye, sir. Where will the general be calling from?"

"Mexico City," Naylor said. "I wish to speak with my deputy, General Albert McFadden, USAF."

Lester looked at Castillo for permission, and when Castillo nodded, said, "Aye, aye, sir."

"And put it on the loudspeaker," Naylor said. "Office of the Deputy Commander, Central Command. Sergeant Major Ashley speaking, sir."

"This line is secure," Lester announced. "General Naylor calling for General McFadden."

"One moment, please."

"Hello, boss. Where the hell are you?"

"Mexico City, Albert. And you know why I'm here."

"Yes, sir. I do."

Naylor moved to the map on the wall.

"What's the Navy got, capable of refueling four UH-60Ms, in the area of eighteen degrees north latitude, eighty-five degrees west longitude? I need it there no later than tomorrow."

"What the hell is going on, Allan?"

"Don't ask questions, please. Answer mine, but don't ask any. And this conversation goes no further than your ears. Understand?"

"Yes, sir. Just a moment, General." "I can have the USS Bataan at that point by sixteen-hundred hours, sir."

"Tell me about the Bataan."

"It's a Wasp-class amphibious assault ship," General McFadden said.

"I know the class. That'll do fine. Make sure it's on station as of oh-eight-hundred tomorrow. Alert them, Top Secret, to be prepared to receive and fuel four UH-60Ms."

"Yes, sir. Sir, I'm guessing this is a black operation?"

"About as black as it can get. Hold one, Albert," General Naylor said, and turned to McNab.

"General McNab, I presume the four UH-60Ms will be coming from Fort Campbell?"

"Yes, sir," McNab said, and joined Naylor at the map.

"Where's the best jumping-off place for them to fly out to the Bataan, would you say?"

"Sir, can we use the Navy base at Key West?" McNab asked.

"General, I'm the commander in chief of Central Command. Of course we can use NAS Key West. Albert?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Tell Boca Chica airfield to be prepared to receive the Black Hawks, and order them to keep their mouths shut about it."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll get back to you, Albert. General McNab needs the phone."

"Sir, how do I get in touch with you?"

"You don't. I'll check in with you periodically. Naylor out."

"Lester," McNab then said. "Get me the One-Sixtieth Special Operations Aviation Regiment at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Make it look like I'm calling from Washington."

"Yes, sir."

General Naylor looked around the room. "Why do I feel I'm basking in the approval of a number of people who five minutes ago thought I was a chicken-shit sonofabitch?"

"Dad," Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Allan Naylor, Jr., said, "why don't we all try to forget what you were five minutes ago?" [TWO] The President's Study The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 0905 12 February 2007 "Good morning, Mr. President," John Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, said as he walked into the room.

"You're here to tell me that the Russians and Castillo are now en route to Moscow, right?"

"No, sir, I regret that I am not. But there have been some interesting developments, Mr. President, that suggest we're a good deal closer to that solution of the problem than we were at this time yesterday."

"Let's hear them. Before a National Park Service policeman finds another beer barrel of that stuff at Nine Hundred Ohio Drive, Southwest."

"Mr. President, Nine Hundred Ohio Drive?"

"The Lincoln Memorial, Jack. You don't know where it is?"

The President looked very pleased with himself.

"Jack," he went on, "we promised that Russian sonofabitch… what's his name, the rezident?"

"Murov, sir. Sergei Murov."

"We promised Murov his two traitors and Castillo several days ago. If I were this guy, I would be wondering why that hasn't happened, and if I were this guy, I think I would be tempted to leave another barrel of this stuff somewhere-say, at Nine Hundred Ohio Drive, Southwest-as a little reminder. You heard what that Fort Detrick scientist… what's his name, the black guy…?"

"Colonel Hamilton, sir. Colonel J. Porter Hamilton."

"… had to say about how dangerous this stuff is."

"Yes, sir, I did."

"I don't want any more barrels of Congo-X popping up anywhere. You understand?"

"Yes, sir. Of course."

"Now, with that in mind, tell me about the interesting developments."

"Sir, General Naylor has been heard from."

"Where is he?"

"Sir, according to Bruce Festerman-"

"Who the hell is he?"

"Festerman is the CIA liaison officer with Central Command at MacDill, Mr. President. We've been on the phone a half-dozen times since yesterday afternoon."

"And?"

"General Naylor called General McFadden, his deputy, from Mexico City and ordered that a ship, the USS Bataan, which is a Wasp-class amphibious assault ship, be moved to a location in the Caribbean and be prepared to receive and refuel four Black Hawk helicopters. He also ordered the Navy base at Key West to do the same thing; in other words, be prepared to receive and refuel four UH-60s. It seems clear, sir, that the helicopters will be flown from Key West to the Bataan."

"Why?"

"I don't know, sir. What I suspect is that General Naylor has learned where Castillo and/or the Russians are, somewhere in Mexico, and is going to go get them."

"And what does Lammelle think?"

"Sir, that's a development I don't quite understand."

"What development don't you understand?"

"Sir, the GPS transmitter in Lammelle's shoe places him aboard the Queen of the Caribbean, a cruise ship, which is now in the Caribbean bound for Malaga. There has been nothing from him."

"And the GPS transmitter in Castillo's laptop places him aboard a river steamer on the Danube between Budapest and Vienna, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"And now you're telling me General Naylor thinks he's found Castillo in Mexico?"

"I am making that inference, sir. I can't imagine why else General Naylor has-"

"Well," the President interrupted, "one possibility is that Lammelle has suddenly decided he needs a vacation, and taking a cruise is the way to do that. But, sitting around here, Jack, with nothing to occupy my mind, I have been thinking of all the bad spy movies I've seen over the years to see if anything in them might be useful."

"Sir?"

"For example, do you think it's possible that somebody shot Lammelle with that whiz-bang dart gun of his and then loaded him onto the cruise ship?"

"Why would anyone want to do that, sir? You're suggesting that Castillo-"

"I'm suggesting General Naylor might have done it. Or more likely, now that I think about it, General McNab."

"Why would they want to do that, sir?"

"To keep him from fucking up what they're doing to put Castillo and the traitors in the bag."

"I don't think that's likely, Mr. President."

"Tell me about Castillo on the river steamer. You sent people over there, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what have they found out?"

"The ship is called Stadt Wien," Powell said. "It plies the Danube back and forth between Budapest and Vienna."

"I already know that. The question is, is Castillo-and maybe the Russians-on it or not?"

"We've learned that Castillo never made a reservation on it."

"That wasn't the question."

"We don't know, Mr. President."

"Did it occur to your people to go aboard the damned ship and look for him?"

"They couldn't get a ticket, Mr. President. And without a ticket you can't get on the Stadt Wien. Apparently, sir, you have to make reservations at least two weeks in advance." Powell hesitated and then went on: "What the Stadt Wien is, Mr. President, is somewhere the Viennese and the Budapesters take their romantic interests for an overnight trip. Not always their wives, if you take my meaning. It's very popular."

"Jesus Christ, Jack! Castillo hasn't been over there two weeks. How the hell could he have made a reservation on this Hungarian Love Boat?"

"Mr. President, all I can tell you is that's where Casey's GPS locator shows he is."

"Presumably fucking the woman traitor as they cruise up and down the Danube? Jack, listen closely: I don't think Castillo is anywhere near Europe. I think Naylor and McNab have found him in Mexico. And presuming neither the CIA nor Ambassador Stupid get involved and fuck things up for them-the more I think about it, Naylor or McNab did shoot Lammelle with that dart gun and load him on that cruise ship to get rid of him-"

President Clendennen interrupted himself, took a deep breath, and then went on: "Jack, what I want you to do is get in touch with all your Clandestine Service officers who are running around chasing their tails looking for Castillo and the Russians and get them back to Langley. And then lock them in. Naylor is going to bag Castillo if you don't get in the way. You understand me?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"The next time you walk in that door, Jack, I want you to tell me that you've just learned from General Naylor that he's dealt with the problem. And I don't want to see you until you can do that." [THREE] Cozumel International Airport Isla Cozumel Quintana Roo, Mexico 1010 12 February 2007 Dick Miller and Dick Sparkman had flown the Policia Federal Preventiva UH-60 from Drug Cartel International to Cozumel. They had carried with them all but two of the ex-Spetsnaz special operators and all the weapons and other equipment that would be needed.

Both pilots had been more than a little pissed-and vocally so-with their assigned tasks in the operation. Miller had wanted to fly with Castillo in the UH-60 in the assault, and Sparkman had simply presumed until the last minute that he would be Jake Torine's co-pilot when the Tu-934A was flown out of La Orchila.

Uncle Remus Leverette had similarly taken for granted that he would be in on the assault and was more than displeased with his assigned role: He was now to "hold the fort" at Laguna el Guaje. It was more than a figure of speech. There was a small but real chance that some members of the drug cartel-either not having heard, or not caring that Drug Cartel International was closed-would drop in.

If this should happen, Uncle Remus would politely suggest to them that they come back another day-say, in a week-and if that didn't work, he would take the appropriate measures. The drug runners would, if possible, be disarmed, placed in plastic handcuffs, and confined.

If the disarmament option didn't work, they would be eliminated.

To assist him in this task, in addition to the two ex-Spetsnaz operators, Uncle Remus had Mr. Vic D'Allessando, former Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley, and Lieutenant "Peg-Leg" Lorimer (Retired). Former Special Forces Sergeant Aloysius F. Casey and Generals Naylor and McNab were to be the reserve force.

General McNab had voiced no objection to this, but everyone knew if there was shooting, McNab would be in the middle of it.

Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor-having been told that he would be useless on the actual assault due to the fact that he (a) was a tank driver, (b) had no Special Operations training, and (c) spoke no Russian-first pleaded to be taken along. Then, when his pleas fell on deaf ears, he said very unkind things to Colonel Castillo.

Colonel Castillo forgave the outburst, kissed him on the forehead, and charged him with sitting-literally, if that became necessary-on the deputy director of the CIA, Mr. Lammelle.

All of those remaining at Drug Cartel International had come to see-if very reluctantly-that there was no valid argument against Castillo's logic in making the assignments. The more the operation was polished, the more it became apparent how much success would depend upon Dmitri Berezovsky's ability to dazzle-or at least substantially confuse-General Sirinov's Spetsnaz until they had a pistol up the general's nose.

Castillo didn't plan to open his mouth, but if he had to, his Russian was so fluent that people thought he came from Saint Petersburg. None of those being left to hold the fort spoke the language so well. And although Uncle Remus's Russian was nearly as good as Castillo's, there were very few Russians as black as God had made Uncle Remus.

Colonel Jake Torine's Russian was very limited, but he could read the lettering they would find on the instrument panel of the Tu-934A. Navigation of the airplane would be by the Casey GPS system installed on their laptops.

Max, as he was wont to do, suspected his master intended to leave him behind. So, when Castillo, Sweaty, Dmitri, and Roscoe J. Danton got into the Cessna Mustang for the flight to Cozumel, they found Max already lying in the aisle looking at Castillo with melancholy eyes that melted his master's heart.

What the hell! When we leave Cozumel, I'll chain him to the seat. Sparkman will be flying this back. He and Sweaty can deal with him; he likes them.

That did not come to pass.

When the Policia Federal Preventiva UH-60 had been refueled at Cozumel, and after Castillo had spent an hour explaining the cockpit specifically and the aircraft generally to Colonel Torine, he had climbed out to see how the loading of the Spetsnaz was going.

He found that everybody had changed into their combat uniforms, which were in fact commercially available summer-weight camouflage-pattern hunting jackets and trousers. They and the khaki trousers/yellow polo shirts everyone wore at Laguna el Guaje had been purchased at three Walmarts in Mexico City, Distrito Federal, by Peg-Leg Lorimer, who had charged them to his LCBF Corporation American Express card.

Peg-Leg reported, on his return from his shopping trip, that his purchases had just about wiped out the stocks in all three Walmart stores.

"When that information is sent by the Walmart computers to Walmart headquarters in Bentonville, Arkansas," Peg-Leg said, "the company will rush to replace the deleted stocks. This in turn will result in a gross overstock of khaki trousers, yellow polo shirts, and summer-weight camouflage-pattern hunting clothes in Mexico City. Walmart executives will be baffled.

"But I strongly suspect that Ol' Jack Walton," Peg-Leg concluded, "will be smiling down at us from that Great Watering Hole in the Sky, pleased that we outfitted this operation from his daddy's store."

John Walton-son of the founder of Walmart, and at his death the eleventh-richest man in the world-had earlier in his life been awarded the nation's third highest award for valor, the Silver Star, while a Special Forces sergeant in Vietnam. Among those donning their Walmart combat uniforms was former Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva of the SVR, who was rolling up the sleeves of hers when Castillo came around the nose of the Black Hawk. Max was lying on the floor of the Black Hawk's cabin, watching with his head between his legs.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Castillo demanded.

"Carlos, I don't like it when you use that tone to me."

"You and Max are going back to the lake on the Mustang!"

She pointed at the runway. Castillo looked. The Mustang was beginning its takeoff roll.

"Well, Svet, you got that past me. But now you can wait here. You're not going."

"Of course I'm going. Wherever did you get this idea I wasn't?"

"Honey, for Christ's sake, we don't know what's going to happen at La Orchila. People are likely to get hurt."

"Did you ever think, Generalissimo Carlitos," she snapped, "you poor man's von Clausewitz, what would happen if one of Sirinov's Spetsnaz takes Dmitri out the moment we land? When you speak Russian, you sound like a Saint Petersburg poet." She wet her finger and ran it over her eyebrow, the gesture's meaning unmistakable. "You'd make the Spetsnaz giggle. I was a podpolkovnik of the SVR and I sound like one. I know how to deal with Spetsnaz and I'm going!"

After a moment's reflection, Castillo asked, "And Max? You want to take him too, I suppose, Podpolkovnik Alekseeva?"

"Absolutely! You get Max to show his teeth to Yakov Sirinov the way you did to Lammelle and he'll wet his pants. I may not even have to hurt him."

Castillo considered that a moment, and then asked, "Have you got a weapon?"

"Of course I've got a weapon," she snapped, still angry. "I've always got a weapon. You should know that. You've been looking up my dress from the day we met."

Castillo had an immediate, very clear mental image of that day.

Svetlana's skirt had risen high as she nimbly jumped from the tracks of Vienna's Sudbahnhof onto the platform, revealing that she was wearing red lace underpants with a small pistol-he later learned it was a Colt 1908 Pocket Model.32 ACP-holstered on her inner thigh just under them.

Roscoe J. Danton walked up.

"Not to worry, Charley," he said. "I understand Colonel Alekseeva was speaking off the record."

"Roscoe, sometimes he makes me very, very angry," Sweaty said.

Jake Torine walked up.

"I didn't hear that either," Torine said, and then went on: "It's about time for us to get going, Charley." [FOUR] The USS Bataan (LHD 5) North Latitude 14.89, West Longitude 77.86 The Caribbean Sea 1255 12 February 2007 Almost as soon as he spotted the Bataan, Castillo saw that four black 160th SOAR UH-60M helicopters were already sitting on her deck, their rotors folded.

"I think I should tell you, First Officer, that the Bataan has a very impressive array of weaponry-including four forty-millimeter Gatling guns-with which to discourage strange and possibly hostile aircraft from approaching."

Torine gave him the finger and activated his microphone.

"Bataan, this is Keystone Kop."

"Keystone Kop, Bataan, be advised we have you in sight. Go ahead."

Castillo said, "What he meant to say, First Officer, was 'gun-sights.'"

"Well, Bataan," Torine spoke into the microphone, "if you have us in sight, then I guess I don't have to tell you I estimate we are at one thousand feet about two klicks off your stern. Request permission to land."

"Keystone Kop, are you carrier-qualified?"

Torine looked at Castillo.

"Lie, Jake. We don't have enough fuel to go back to Cozumel."

"Affirmative, we are carrier-qualified."

"Keystone Kop, be advised that Bataan is headed into the wind. The wind down the deck is at twenty knots. Acknowledge."

"Bataan, Keystone Kop understands wind down the deck is at twenty, and Bataan is headed into the wind."

"Keystone Kop, you are cleared to land. Be advised a rescue helicopter is to port."

"I think he knows we were lying," Torine said. "You really have never done this before?"

"Only as a passenger," Castillo said. "And what I think the pilot told me that day was that if the wind across the deck is at, say, twenty knots, and you're indicating twenty knots, that means you're in a hover over the deck, which, relatively speaking, has an air speed of zero."

As Castillo very carefully lowered the Black Hawk onto the deck-I am really in a ground effect hover, even if I'm indicating that I'm making twenty knots. How can that be?-he found it easier to look at the "ground," which was to say the deck, of the USS Bataan out the left window of the cockpit rather than the deck forward of the helo. That way he could tell, relatively speaking, if the Bataan 's island was moving-in which case he was in trouble-or not.

And when he did, he saw that he knew several of the 160th's Night Stalker pilots. They were standing, arms folded, waiting for him to crash, on the deck next to the superstructure that was the island.

One of them-a tall, graying, hawk-featured man wearing, like the others, the black flight suits favored by the 160th-he knew well. And he knew that hanging from the zipper of Arthur Kingsolving's black flight suit was the "subdued" insignia of his rank. Castillo couldn't see it, but knew it was the black eagle of a full colonel.

The Black Hawk touched down.

"You can exhale now, Jake," Castillo said as he reached for the rotor brake control. "We're on the ground. More or less."

"Art Kingsolving's here."

"I noticed. I hope you are going to tell me you outrank him."

"No, I don't. But your question is moot. Active duty officers always outrank retired old farts."

"I don't know about you, but I think of myself as a prematurely retired young fart," Castillo said.

"And there is a welcoming delegation," Torine said.

"Why don't you go deal with them while I finish shutting this thing down?" The Navy delegation consisted of the officer of the deck, a chief petty officer, and two petty officers, one of them the master-at-arms and the other a medic.

They quite naturally had decided that the senior person aboard the helicopter with Mexican police markings would be riding with his staff in the passenger compartment, and lined up accordingly.

The first person-more accurately, the first living thing-to exit the helicopter was an enormous black dog, closely followed by a redheaded woman in battle dress who was screaming angrily at the dog in what sounded like Russian. Close on her heels came a man holding a camera who began to snap pictures of the Navy delegation, the helicopters on the deck, and the dog, who was now wetting down the front right wheel of the helicopter.

The co-pilot's door opened and, for a moment, decorum returned as Colonel Jake Torine, USAF (Retired), came out, popped to rigid attention, faced aft, and crisply saluted the national ensign.

Then he did a crisp left-face movement, raised his hand to his temple, and holding the salute, politely announced, "I request permission to come aboard, sir, in compliance with orders."

"Very well," the officer of the deck said, returning the salute. Then he said, "Sir, the captain's compliments. The captain requests the senior officer and such members of his staff as he may wish attend him…"

At that point, protocol broke down.

The Army pilots who had been standing next to the island came trotting across the deck, including the one that the officer of the deck knew to be a full colonel.

"I'll be a sonofabitch if Charley didn't steal another one," one of the Night Stalkers shouted.

"This time from the Mexican cops," another of them clarified.

"Zip your lips," Colonel Kingsolving snapped. He then turned to the officer of the deck. "Mister, I need a word with Colonel Castillo before he attends the captain on the bridge."

"Colonel, when the captain requests-"

"This time he's just going to have to wait," Kingsolving said, and then turned to Castillo, who, having exited the helicopter, was now exchanging hugs, pats on the back, and vulgar comments with the pilots.

"Colonel Castillo," Colonel Kingsolving called sternly. "I need a word with you right now."

Castillo freed himself, marched up to Kingsolving, came to attention, and saluted.

"Follow me, Colonel," Kingsolving ordered, and marched down the deck until they were alone.

"Face away from the island," Kingsolving ordered.

Castillo turned his back to the ship's superstructure.

"All McNab told me," Kingsolving said, "was to send the Black Hawks out here via Key West. 'The op commander will meet your senior pilot on the Bataan.' Your name wasn't mentioned."

"You didn't hear I was retired?"

"Yeah, and when we have time, I want to ask you about that."

"'Senior pilot'?" Castillo asked.

"I'm not supposed to be here, Charley. The first time I talked to him, McNab told me I was not to go. And then he called me back and said if I was thinking of having a case of selective deafness, the brigadier's selection board is sitting right now, and if this op gets out-even if it goes as planned-I can forget a star."

"You're here," Castillo said. "You don't want to be a general?"

"Two reasons, Charley. I'm one of those old-time soldiers who doesn't send his people anywhere he won't go himself."

"McNab was right. Even if I can carry this off, I think there's going to be serious political implications."

"Because you stole that helicopter from the Mexicans?"

"Because, for example, the last time I saw Frank Lammelle earlier today, he was wearing plastic handcuffs and Vic D'Allessando was sitting on him."

"Ouch! Charley, how long is this operation of yours going to take?"

"With a little bit of luck, we should be back on the Bataan by oh-eight-thirty tomorrow."

"Back from where? Where you're going to do what? Just the highlights."

Castillo told him.

"Now I'm really glad I came," Kingsolving said. "I told you there were two reasons I suffered temporary deafness. The captain of the Bataan, Tom Lowe, is a really good guy. I've done a couple of operations with him. Obviously, the more he knows about this one, the better all around. The problem with that is I don't want him standing at attention before a white-suit board of inquiry trying to explain why he knowingly participated in an obviously illegal operation."

"How do you want me to handle that?"

"There is a way, but I suspect that as a fellow marcher in that Long Gray Line, it will really bother you. The Code of Honor, don't you know?"

"Try me. I lie, cheat, and steal all the time, and spend a lot of time hanging out with others that do."

"Would you be willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that the only thing you told Lowe was where you wanted him to have the Bataan and when, and aside from assuring him that it was a duly authorized, wholly legal operation, didn't tell him anything else?"

"Absolutely."

"Thank you, Charley."

"For what? You're the guy who just watched his star disappear down the toilet."

"One more question. Who the hell is the redhead?"

"Would you believe, my fiancee?"

"No."

"How about she's an SVR lieutenant colonel?"

"I thought female SVR lieutenant colonels weighed two hundred pounds and had stainless-steel front teeth. Come on, we've got to see the captain."

"Can I bring my dog?" "Request permission to come onto the bridge with a party of officers," Kingsolving said from the door to the bridge.

"You and your party of officers have the freedom of the bridge, Colonel Kingsolving," Captain Thomas J. Lowe, USN, said. He was a man in his late thirties, tall and deeply tanned.

Castillo marched up to him, stood tall, and announced, his voice raised, "Captain, I am Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo. I regret that the nature of the mission I have been ordered to carry out by the United States Central Command is such that I can tell you very little except where we wish you to place your vessel and when."

"Welcome aboard the Bataan, Colonel."

"Captain, may I introduce my officers?"

"Certainly. But may I suggest that we deal with first things first? Where do you want the Bataan, and when?"

"If you have a chart, sir?"

"Right this way, Colonel," Captain Lowe said, and led Castillo into the chart room.

"Colonel, this is my navigator, Mr. Dinston."

Mr. Dinston was a lieutenant junior grade who looked like he was nineteen.

The two shook hands.

"Show Mr. Dinston where you want us to go, Colonel," Captain Lowe said.

Castillo bent over the chart table, found La Orchila island, and then put his finger on the map.

"Fifty miles east of that island," he said. "I want to be there at oh-three-thirty tomorrow."

"What's on that island?" Mr. Dinston asked.

"I'm sorry, but you don't have the need to know," Castillo said.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Don't feel bad, Jerry," Captain Lowe said. "Neither do I."

He met Castillo's eyes as he spoke.

"Plot the course, Jerry," Captain Lowe ordered, "and bring it to the wardroom."

"Aye, aye, sir." "Before we get started," Castillo said, when everyone was in the wardroom and the door had been closed, "Captain Lowe was never in this room nor anywhere else when any aspect of this operation except where we're asking him to place his ship was discussed. Everybody got that?"

There came a murmur of "Yes, sir."

"Would you like to say anything, Captain, before we get started?"

"Housekeeping," Captain Lowe said. "Could I get my chief in here and get the cabin assignments out of the way?"

"Captain, you don't have to ask me permission to do anything," Castillo said. "This is your ship."

"I know," Captain Lowe said. "I'm being nice. Colonel Kingsolving told me he thinks that most of you will shortly be in jail." The chief looked as if he had been in the Navy for longer than anybody in the room was old. And he got right to the point: "How many oh-sixes we got? Raise your hands, please."

Kingsolving and Torine raised their hands.

"Dmitri," Castillo said, "raise your hand." Then he explained: "Colonel Berezovsky is a Russian, chief. They don't do ranks by numbers."

"Not a problem," the chief said. "There are three staterooms for visiting oh-sixes. You'll find the keys in the doors. We also got three staterooms, two officers per, for oh-fives and oh-fours. How many oh-fives?"

Castillo raised his hand. "Two, chief," he said and pointed at Svetlana.

"You're an oh-five?" the chief, dubious, asked her.

Svetlana looked at Castillo for guidance. He nodded, and Captain Lowe, seeing this, said, "Colonel, anything you can tell me, you can tell the chief."

"I am a former podpolkovnik of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, Chief Petty Officer," Sweaty said just a little arrogantly.

"Yes, ma'am," the chief said. "Okay, so we put you, ma'am, in one of the oh-five staterooms, and Colonel Castillo in the other, leaving one. How many oh-fours we got?"

"Excuse me, Chief Petty Officer," former Podpolkovnik Alekseeva of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki said. "Put Lieutenant Colonel Castillo in one of those oh-five staterooms with me."

"Excuse me?"

"You seem surprised," Sweaty said. "Don't officers of the U.S. Navy sleep with women?"

"Sometimes, Colonel, some of us do," Captain Lowe said grinning broadly. "You heard the colonel, chief. Get on with it."

The chief recovered quickly, and the remaining accommodations were parceled out among the other officers. There was one captain; the rest of the 160th's pilots were warrant officers.

The chief left, closing the wardroom door behind him.

Castillo laid his laptop computer on the table and opened it.

"Overview," he said. "The target is on the airfield on the Venezuelan island of La Orchila. The target-targets, plural-are a Russian general named Yakov Sirinov, whom we are going to snatch; the Tu-934A aircraft, which he flew onto La Orchila; and the cargo that that bird carried."

He looked down at the computer, saw that it was on, and tapped several keys.

"These are the latest satellite images of the target," he went on, then leaned over for a closer look, and added, "as of forty-five minutes ago."

"You have imagery like that on your laptop?" Captain Lowe asked.

"Yes, sir."

Lowe bent over the laptop.

"How could a poor sailor get a laptop like that?" Lowe asked.

"Well, I could give you this one," Castillo said, affecting a serious tone, "but then I would have to kill you."

With one exception, the others in the room laughed. It was an old joke, but it was theirs.

The exception was former Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki.

"Captain," she flared, "you will have to excuse Colonel Castillo. He never grew emotionally after he entered puberty. Whenever there is serious business at hand, he makes sophomoric jokes."

"What is this, dissension in the ranks?" Castillo asked. "Or the beginning of a lover's quarrel?"

Sweaty let loose a thirty-second torrent of angry words in Russian.

Dmitri Berezovsky laughed, then said, "Captain, gentlemen, permit me to offer an explanation. In our family, my mother used to say that what my sister needed more than anything was a strong man who would take her down a peg or two on a regular basis. She has finally found such a man, and doesn't like it."

This produced from Sweaty another torrent of vulgar and obscene Russian language.

"If our mother ever heard her speak like that," Berezovsky went on, "which on occasion she did, our mother would wash her mouth out with laundry soap."

This was too much for the men in the room who had been studiously ignoring the exchange. Most of them chuckled, and several laughed.

Sweaty, red-faced, opened her mouth to deliver another comment.

"Colonel," Castillo said very softly. "Zip your lip. One more word and you're out of here and off the operation."

Carlito and Sweaty locked eyes for a very long moment.

And then wordlessly she sat down.

Castillo turned to the laptop.

"If you'll gather around here, please," he said, "you'll see that while the Tu-934A is not visible, there are Spetsnaz guarding this canvas temporary hangar, which makes it fairly certain that the Tu-934A is inside.

"Now, this is what we're going to do. Please hold comments until I've finished.

"I want to arrive at first light…" Some five minutes later, when Castillo had finished, he said, "Okay, comments, please. But I'm not going to start with the juniors, the way a good commander is supposed to. We're starting at the top. Captain Lowe, your thoughts, please."

Lowe took a full thirty seconds to consider his response.

"There's a maybe ten-minute period, during which we will be recovering the UH-60s, that worries me. We'll be headed, slowly, into the wind. If Venezuelan Air Force or Navy aircraft find us with our hand still in the cookie jar, so to speak… But there's nothing we can do about that. And insofar as being attacked after we recover the choppers, that would be an unprovoked attack on a U.S. Navy vessel in international waters, which is an act of war. I don't think they would do that. And of course we're able to defend ourselves pretty well."

"Thank you, sir. Colonel Kingsolving?"

"Charley, the only question in my mind concerns the UH-60 you stole from the Mexican cops. What are you going to do about that? Torch it?"

"Well, sir, first, I didn't steal it. I bought it."

"You bought it? You going to tell me about that?"

Castillo told him.

"Unbelievable!" Kingsolving said. "But back to my question: What are you going to do with it, torch it?"

"I'll tell you what I'd like to do with it," Castillo said. "I'd like to fly it back out to the Bataan. And then the first time the Bataan goes to its homeport… Where is that, Captain Lowe?"

"Norfolk. And as soon as we finish this operation-this is day fifty-six of a sixty-day deployment-we'll be headed there 'at fastest speed consistent with available fuel.'"

"Then the first thing Captain Lowe does when he docks the Bataan at Norfolk will be to lower the Mexican UH-60 onto the wharf while the Mexican ambassador and the State Department idiots who sold it for a tenth of its value to the Mexicans watch. They then-did I mention that our own Roscoe J. Danton will be there, as will the ever-vigilant cameras of Wolf News?-they will attempt to explain how that particular UH-60, after having died a hero's death in Mexico's unrelenting war against the drug cartels, was resurrected."

"That'd work, Charley," Danton said. "And I'm so personally pissed as a taxpayer about that bullshit that I will even arrange for C. Harry Whelan, that sonofabitch, to be there with me."

"Then why not do it?" Kingsolving asked.

"One small problem, sir. Who would fly it out to the Bataan? Jake and I'll be flying the Tu-934A back to the land of the free and home of the brave with only a fuel stop at Drug Cartel International."

"I'll fly it," Kingsolving said.

"Sir, I have painful memories of standing tall before you while you lectured at length on the inadvisability of flying UH-60 aircraft without a co-pilot. I seem to remember you telling me with some emphasis that anyone who did so was an idiot."

"Charley, if I went in with you on the Mexican UH-60, and then flew it back out here, that means we would have to land only one of the 160th choppers in there to take your Spetsnaz back to the Bataan. That would reduce the danger that one of my guys would dump one of ours at La Orchila, causing God only knows what consequential collateral political damage."

"You don't see any risk like when your guys take out the commo building?"

"As I understand your plan, Colonel, the idea is for my guys to hit the commo building in the dark, so they will never learn what happened to them, or who did it."

Castillo was silent for a moment.

Next came dissension in the ranks of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment pilots.

Four of the Night Stalkers, just about simultaneously, spoke without permission. They all said about the same thing: "Colonel, let me fly that fucking Mexican chopper."

To which Colonel Kingsolving replied, "Zip your lips, or nobody gets to go."

There was another period of silence.

"Vis-a-vis my counseling you on the inadvisability of flying UH-60 aircraft without a co-pilot, Colonel," Kingsolving said, "I meant every word of it. But there is an old military axiom that I'm really surprised you did not learn at our beloved alma mater. To wit: When you are the senior officer, you are, in certain circumstances, permitted to say, 'Do as I say, not as I do.'

"I'm going to fly that Mexican UH-60 back and forth to the island of La Orchila, Charley. Period."

"There goes your star, you realize."

"That thought did run through my mind, frankly. But what the hell. If they made me a general, they'd say I was too valuable to fly myself anywhere, with or without a co-pilot. And I don't want to fly a desk in the Pentagon."

Then he looked at Captain Lowe.

"I think we're through here, Captain. Is the Navy planning on feeding us lunch?" [FIVE] The USS Bataan (LHD 5) The Caribbean Sea 2055 12 February 2007 Former Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva was not in sight when Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo entered the stateroom.

He was not really surprised. She had not spoken a word to him at lunch, then had spent the entire afternoon with the Spetsnaz somewhere below deck, presumably checking their equipment and seeing to it they understood their roles in the operation.

They had had a conversation of sorts at dinner.

"May I please have the butter?" she had asked him.

"Of course," he had said. "My pleasure."

"Thank you," she had said, ending their conversation.

Now, alone in the stateroom, Castillo decided that she had run down the old chief and told him she had changed her mind about sharing his quarters. Earlier, Captain Lowe had shown him the Bataan's sick bay-actually a small, fully equipped hospital-and while doing so, Castillo had noticed there were sleeping quarters for nurses.

She's probably in one of those.

He took off his Walmart battle dress, and lay down on the lower of the two bunks the room offered.

I'll take a shower at 0230, he decided, not now.

Taking one then will wake me up.

He closed his eyes.

"If you think we're going to make love without you taking a shower, think again," former Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva announced not sixty seconds later.

He opened his eyes. She was standing beside the bunk bed wearing a thin cotton bathrobe. "Am I permitted to say I'm a little surprised?" Charley asked, after having regained his breath perhaps ten minutes later.

"In eight hours, the Venezuelans may have the both of us stretched out on a wooden table, the way your Green Berets stretched out Che Guevara," Svetlana said. "I did not want to spend all eternity knowing that I had had the chance to spend my last hours making love with you, and threw it away."

"Good thinking," he said.

"Right now, I don't like you very much-how dare you talk to me the way you did?-but I love you."

He had a wildly tangential thought. "Where's Max?"

She pointed.

Max was lying with his head between his paws on the stateroom's small desk, nearly covering it, and looking at them.

"How long's he been there?" Charley asked.

"He was sleeping under the bunk. But you were making so much noise, I guess you woke him up." [ONE] The USS Bataan (LHD 5) North Latitude 12.73, West Longitude 66.18 The Caribbean Sea 0355 13 February 2007 "I have a confession to make, sir," Castillo said as a man wearing a soft leather helmet and goggles and holding illuminated wands crossed on his chest approached the UH-60 with Policia Federal Preventiva markings. The Black Hawk helicopter was sitting, with rotors turning, at the extreme aft portion of the Bataan's flight deck.

"This is not the place, my son. But make sure you see me before you take communion," Colonel Kingsolving said, playing along.

"I think you better follow me through, sir," Castillo went on, his tone serious.

"Something wrong, Charley?" Kingsolving asked, now with concern in his voice.

"I think you better follow me through, sir," Castillo repeated. "Or take it."

"Too late to take it," Kingsolving said. "There's the 'go' signal. If you don't want to abort, I'll follow you through."

"Here we go," Castillo said.

He lifted off, hovered for a moment, and then reduced forward speed from twenty knots to ten. The deck moved out from under the aircraft at a speed of ten knots, and a moment later, he was looking at the stern of the Bataan.

The UH-60 dipped its nose toward the sea, picked up speed, and then began a steep climbing turn to the right into the dark sky.

"You all right? You want me to take it, Charley?"

"I've got it. I'm all right now," Castillo said.

Out his window he could see one of the 160th's Black Hawks being quickly pushed to the aft of the flight deck.

"Interesting departure," Kingsolving said. "Where'd you learn how to do that, at Pensacola?"

"What I was going to confess, sir, was that I don't have very much experience in night-launching a UH-60 from a carrier."

"Oh, shit!" Kingsolving said, after considering that for a moment. "Please don't tell me that was your first."

"Yes, sir. I won't tell you that."

"I had a look at your flight records, Charley, while they were trying to make up their minds whether to give you The Medal or court-martial you the last time you manifested suicidal behavior involving a UH-60. You remember that? When you went after Dick Miller?"

"If I thought that going after Dick was suicidal, I wouldn't have done it."

"You were the only aviator in Afghanistan who didn't. I was astonished to see that as long as you've been flying, you've never dinged a bird-getting shot down not counting. Never. Not any kind of a bird. Do you have an explanation for that?"

"Clean living and a pure heart?"

"You don't think what you did just now was suicidal?"

"Straight answer?"

"Please."

"No, I didn't. You following me through on the controls took care of the safety factor, and now I know how to launch at night in a UH-60 from a carrier. You never know when that might come in handy."

Kingsolving didn't reply.

"Kidnapper One and Two, Keystone Kop," Castillo said to his microphone. "I'm going to circle the ship at two thousand feet. Join up on me five hundred feet behind." [TWO] La Orchila Island Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela 0502 13 February 2007 It was just getting light as the three UH-60s approached the island.

Castillo estimated he would be on the ground in three minutes, give or take.

One of the 160th's Black Hawks following him would laser-target the commo building and report when it had done so, but would not fire until Castillo gave the order.

The other would hover over the airfield to the left of the hangar. It would be prepared to clear the tarmac in front of the hangar with its GAU-19.50 caliber Gatling guns if the Spetsnaz guarding them offered significant resistance.

Castillo had spent a good thirty minutes trying to impress on its pilots that a disaster beyond comprehension would occur if the fire from their weapons struck-which would virtually atomize-the blue barrels they had come to seize. He thought he had succeeded-the chief warrant officers flying the gunship were both veteran special operators, not excitable young men, and both wore the wings of Master Army Aviators.

"I wonder what General Buckner-or his father-would think of this?" Colonel Kingsolving said.

"Of what?" Castillo asked.

"Our assault on the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela. 'Bolivarian' makes reference of course to General Simon Bolivar, the great Liberator."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"General Simon Bolivar Buckner, Senior, West Point Class of '44-Class of 1844-was a Confederate general. He was forced to surrender Fort Donelson, Kentucky, to his classmate, General Ulysses Grant. Buckner gave Grant his parole, and was later exchanged. I thought about that when you told me about General Naylor giving you his parole."

"Thanks for sharing that with me, Colonel."

"His son," Kingsolving went on, "General Simon Bolivar Buckner, Junior, Hudson High Class of '08, was the most senior officer killed in combat in the Pacific during World War Two. He was commanding the Tenth Army on Okinawa when struck by Japanese artillery."

Over their headsets suddenly came: "Keystone Kop, Kidnapper One. I have my laser on the target, acknowledge."

"Kidnapper One, Keystone Kop acknowledges you have target acquisition," Castillo answered.

"They are both, I believe, buried at West Point," Kingsolving went on.

"Well, maybe they'll bury us there."

"Keystone Kop, Kidnapper Two has a visual on armed and moving possible belligerents."

"Kidnapper Two, Keystone Kop acknowledges you have visual on possible belligerents. Hold fire until I clear. Acknowledge."

"Kidnapper Two acknowledges hold fire."

Kingsolving said, "I'd rather thought you'd prefer interment beside your father in the National Cemetery in San Antonio."

"If those Spetsnaz waving those Kalashnikovs at us start shooting them, we're both probably going to be buried right here," Castillo said, and then, remembering what Sweaty had said the night before, added: "After we're displayed on a table, like Hugo Chavez's hero, Che Guevara."

He waited another two seconds, then said, "Kidnapper One, engage, engage."

He then switched to the intercom to alert Berezovsky and his four ex-Spetsnaz waiting in the back of the UH-60 with Mexican federal police markings.

"Dmitri, we'll be on the ground in three seconds. Ve con Dios."

He heard what he had said, and thought: I'll be goddamned-I meant that!

Go with God, Dmitri!

Jesus H. Christ! Are Sweaty and her brother turning me into a believer?

He saw the exhaust flare from the first Hellfire missile race through the air, and then from another, and then from a third.

There's not going to be much left of that communications building.

Castillo then touched down, and immediately unfastened his seat/shoulder harness.

"Try not to get shot moving over here to the pilot seat," he said, and then he was out the Black Hawk's door.

He reached back in and grabbed his Uzi, then went quickly around the nose of the helicopter, passing Kingsolving as he did.

Castillo found that there was a sort of a standoff on the tarmac.

Dmitri Berezovsky-with his four ex-Spetsnaz standing behind him, more or less holding their weapons at port arms-was facing a half-dozen men wearing the striped shirts of the Spetsnaz armed with a variety of weapons.

"I asked, who's in charge?" Berezovsky said more than a little arrogantly.

And then there was a female voice.

"Lower that (expletive deleted) muzzle, you (expletive deleted) moron!" former SVR Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva shouted. "What the (expletive deleted) is wrong with you, raising a weapon to Polkovnik Berezovsky? Are you as (expletive deleted) stupid as you look?"

The muzzle was lowered.

One of the Spetsnaz stepped forward, saluted, and said, "Major Koussevitzky, sir."

"Stefan," Berezovsky said. "I didn't recognize you."

"Good to see you again, Polkovnik. May I ask what…"

"We are here to arrest General Sirinov," Berezovsky said. "Where is he?"

"In the hangar, sir."

"I regret that the circumstances require that I take your arms," Berezovsky said. "Lower them to the ground."

"You are here to arrest the general, Polkovnik?" Koussevitzky asked softly.

"I regret that is necessary, but I'm sure you know why."

Koussevitzky considered that a full twenty seconds before he unstrapped his pistol belt and let it fall to the ground, then put his Kalashnikov automatic rifle on the tarmac.

"You heard Polkovnik Berezovsky," he said to his men. "Lower your weapons to the ground."

Berezovsky waited until the order had been complied with, and then spoke to one of the ex-Spetsnaz standing behind him.

"Have those weapons put aboard the helicopter," he ordered, and then turned to Koussevitzky.

"Take me to the general, Stefan," Berezovsky ordered. Then he pointed to Sweaty, to one of his ex-Spetsnaz, and to Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, USA (Retired), and said, "You, come with me."

Castillo said, "Yes, sir" in Russian, hoping he didn't sound like a Saint Petersburg poet of indeterminate sexual orientation.

The Tu-934A was inside the canvas-walled and -roofed temporary hangar. So were four very small travel trailers being used as makeshift barracks. As they walked toward the trailers, General Sirinov came out of one of them. He was dressed but he needed a shave.

I guess we woke the sonofabitch up.

"General, consider yourself under arrest," Berezovsky announced.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, Berezovsky," Sirinov said.

He seemed to be unfazed by what was happening.

"Please turn around and put your hands behind you," Berezovsky said as he took a plastic handcuff from a pocket.

"I will not."

Sweaty, holding Max on his leash beside her, walked up to him. While doing so, she took her Colt.32 ACP model 1908 from her pocket.

"And the beautiful Svetlana," Sirinov said. "Wherever did you get that absurd uniform? And that dog?"

"Turn around, Yakov, and put your hands behind you," Sweaty ordered.

"Or what? You'll shoot me with your toy pistol?"

Sweaty aimed her toy pistol quickly, and shot General Sirinov in the right foot.

He looked at his bleeding foot, then screamed with the pain and fell to the ground, looking up at her in enraged disbelief.

"Roll onto your stomach, Yakov, or I'll put the next round into your other foot," Sweaty said.

Max growled.

General Sirinov rolled onto his stomach.

Berezovsky knelt beside him and applied the plastic handcuffs.

Sirinov was moaning in pain.

"If you don't give me any more trouble, when we're on the plane I'll give you some morphine," Sweaty said.

"Where are the pilots of the airplane?" Berezovsky asked Koussevitzky.

Koussevitzky pointed to one of the trailers.

"Get them out here," Berezovsky ordered. Then he pointed at Castillo, and ordered, "Get our pilot in here."

Castillo said, "Yes, sir" in Russian, and hoped his conscious attempt to sound like a basso profundo had been at least partially successful.

He went onto the tarmac, saw Jake Torine, and waved him over. He saw that Sirinov's Spetsnaz were now all sitting on the tarmac. They had plastic handcuffs around both their wrists and their ankles.

They don't look worried.

They look terrified.

And so did the Tu-934A pilots when they walked up to Berezovsky.

Castillo went to them, and ordered, "Show the colonel and me around the airplane. If you do anything suspicious, Podpolkovnik Alekseeva will shoot you in the foot."

"You're going to fly the Tu-934A?" one of them blurted.

"That's the idea," Castillo said. "Start by opening the ramp door."

When the ramp came down, Castillo could see there were three blue barrels firmly strapped to the floor, plus a tracked forklift inside.

"Up the ramp," he ordered.

When they were in the cockpit, Castillo asked, "Where are the rest of the blue rubber barrels?"

He believed the pilots when they assured him, with almighty God as their witness, that there were no more blue rubber barrels anywhere.

It was a very brief cockpit tour, just long enough for the Tu-934A pilots to show Torine and Castillo the engine start procedures and to tell them the best rotation speed during takeoff.

General Sirinov, still moaning with pain, was carried aboard and attached with plastic handcuffs to the strapping holding the blue plastic barrels in place.

Torine stayed in the cockpit while Castillo led the pilots and Sweaty off the airplane. He saw that Berezovsky and Koussevitzky were in a far corner of the hangar. He and Sweaty walked to them.

"I have offered to take Stefan with us," Berezovsky said. "Understandably, he is concerned with what Putin would do to the family of a traitor. There are six unmarried Spetsnaz who should come with us. Stefan suggests we make it appear they are coming involuntarily."

"Major," Castillo asked, "what makes you think Putin won't-"

"It would help if Podpolkovnik Alekseeva found it necessary to shoot me," Koussevitzky said.

"Well, I suppose…" Castillo said.

There was the pop of her toy pistol and Koussevitzky fell to the ground, bleeding from a wound to his right upper leg.

"We'll try to get you and your family out, Stefan," Sweaty said. "Really try."

"May God protect you and yours, Svetlana," Koussevitzky said.

"And yours," Sweaty said.

Berezovsky knelt beside him and put him in plastic handcuffs.

"How do we get the hangar doors open?" Castillo asked.

"You have to push," Koussevitzky furnished. "They're like curtains."

"What happens if we start engines in here?"

"You'd burn the hangar down."

"Good idea. Get everybody out of here," Berezovsky ordered. "And then get the Spetsnaz we're taking with us firmly tied up and ready to get on the UH-60."

"Get aboard, Sweaty," Castillo ordered.

"I'll get aboard when you do," she replied.

There was no time to argue with her.

Castillo went outside the hangar, and made hand signals toward the sky to order the Night Stalker Black Hawk code-named Kidnapper Two to land.

"Push the hangar doors open," Podpolkovnik Alekseeva ordered in a Russian command voice that would have passed muster at Fort Bragg. "And then help Polkovnik Berezovsky clear the hangar."

As soon as the doors had been pushed aside, Castillo heard the whine of a Tu-934A engine being started. And he saw Kidnapper Two, cargo doors slid open, coming down the runway almost on the ground. It touched down.

Two of Berezovsky's ex-Spetsnaz carried Major Koussevitzky out of the hangar and lowered him to the ground twenty meters from it. Then they ran back into the hangar as he heard the whine of the second Tu-934A engine being started.

The ex-Spetsnaz came back out of the hangar, leading the Tu-934A's pilots, their hands in plastic handcuffs. They deposited them next to Major Koussevitzky. One of them then ran back into the hangar. The other ran across the tarmac to where a half-dozen Spetsnaz in handcuffs were sitting.

Roscoe J. Danton appeared, furiously capturing everything for posterity-after of course it was published in The Washington Times-Post-on his camera.

Two of the ex-Spetsnaz pulled one of the handcuffed Spetsnaz to his feet and loaded him-not very gently: "threw him aboard" would be a more accurate description-onto the Policia Federal Preventiva UH-60, and then threw two more of the Spetsnaz aboard.

Roscoe J. Danton captured this, too, with his camera.

One of the ex-Spetsnaz looked at Castillo and Svetlana.

"He wants to know if he should load the others aboard," Sweaty said.

Castillo pointed across the tarmac and ordered: "Put those three on the helo coming in, and then get on yourself."

Castillo then ran twenty yards-with Max bounding happily after him-so that Colonel Kingsolving could see him clearly from the cockpit of the Policia Federal Preventiva UH-60. Then he made hand signals telling Kingsolving to take off.

The helicopter immediately broke ground, lowered its nose, and moved away, gaining speed.

Kidnapper Two stopped, still not touching the ground, where an ex-Spetsnaz stood waiting with the remaining Spetsnaz men bound with plastic handcuffs. Roscoe J. Danton's camera was at the ready to capture what happened next: As soon as the first of the handcuffed Spetsnaz had been assisted aboard, a black-suited special operator jumped out of the Black Hawk and helped the Spetsnaz throw the other two aboard.

The ex-Spetsnaz looked again at Castillo for guidance.

"Get aboard," Castillo shouted, and then signaled to the pilot to take off.

As it did, Roscoe J. Danton made a photographic record.

There was a change in the pitch of the Tu-934A engines and Castillo turned to see that it was moving slowly out of the hangar. Castillo took one last look around, ran to Roscoe J. Danton, and tried to lead him to the ramp of the Tu-934A.

Mr. Danton was not sure he wished to go at this time. He resisted. Castillo grabbed the strap of Roscoe's camera, jerked hard on it, breaking it, and then, when Roscoe started to protest, grabbed the camera itself, ran to the open ramp of the Tu-934A, and threw the camera aboard. Roscoe then jumped onto the airplane to retrieve his camera.

While he was so engaged, Castillo grabbed Sweaty's arm and led her to the ramp of the Tu-934A. She leapt nimbly onto it.

So did Max, after considering for ten seconds the wisdom of doing so. In that time, the airplane moved away, rolling faster.

For a very terrifying moment, Castillo was afraid he wouldn't be so nimble as the love of his life and his dog. He ran after the plane and made a running dive onto the ramp, landing on his stomach.

Max got to him first and licked his face as he was trying to get up. Mr. Danton recorded for posterity Max licking his master's face as he lay on the ramp. Then Sweaty pulled Castillo to his feet, and he moved as fast as he could toward the cockpit. Max chased after him.

When Castillo got to the cockpit, he saw that Torine had lined up the airplane on the runway. He dropped into the right seat and quickly clamped on a headset.

"Closing the ramp," Torine's voice came matter-of-factly over the earphones. "Throttles to takeoff power."

The Tu-934A began to move.

"Call out airspeed for me, First Officer, if you'd be so kind," Torine said.

Castillo found the airspeed indicator in the split second when the needle jumped off the peg and pointed to forty. The landing gear began rumbling.

That's kilometers. The pilots told us rotation speed was one-fifty.

That's not quite a hundred knots.

You can rotate this great big sonofabitch at a hundred knots?

Is that what you call misinformation?

Was that Russian pilot lying to us?

"Seventy," Castillo called out. "That's klicks, Jake.

"Ninety…

"One-ten…

"One-thirty…

"One-fifty."

"Rotating," Torine said calmly.

A moment later, the rumble of the landing gear died.

"One-ninety…

"Two-ten."

"Get the gear up, First Officer. It's that lever with the wheel on top."

Castillo found the lever and moved it.

"Gear coming up…

"Gear up.

"Jesus! Two-eighty."

"Now let's see how it climbs," Torine said, as if to himself.

Castillo felt himself being pressed hard against the cushions of his seat.

Torine said, "No wonder the agency is willing to pay all that money-what was it, one hundred twenty-five million?-for one of these. This is one hell of an airplane, First Officer."

Castillo had a very clear mental image of Sweaty-and maybe everybody else in the fuselage-all in a pile of broken bones against the closed ramp.

The pressure on his back against his seat suddenly stopped. Jake had leveled off.

"Put your goddamn harness on," Torine ordered.

As soon as he saw that Castillo had done so, Jake dove for the surface of the water.

Castillo now had a very clear image of everybody sliding forward in the fuselage to end in a pile of broken bones against the cockpit door.

Torine read his mind.

"Now take the harness off, First Officer," he ordered, "and go back and see how our passengers are enjoying the flight."

Castillo found all the passengers except two were in their seats. Dmitri Berezovsky was standing beside one of the blue plastic beer barrels, examining it thoughtfully. Sweaty was on her knees beside General Yakov Sirinov, in the process of administering to him what Castillo presumed was the morphine she had promised.

Castillo went back to the cockpit and strapped himself in.

The airspeed and altimeter dials indicated that they were flying at eight hundred and forty kilometers per hour-or about five hundred knots-at a hundred meters-or five hundred feet-above the Caribbean Sea.

Fuel consumption at that speed and altitude would be horrendous, and there was of course the danger that they would go into the drink.

But, on the other hand, they didn't have that far to go, and at five hundred feet they wouldn't be a blip on anybody's radar screen.

"You want to take it, Charley, while I get my laptop?"

"I'll get your laptop. You drive," Castillo replied. [THREE] Laguna el Guaje Coahuila, Mexico 0940 13 February 2007 Jake Torine carefully nosed the Tu-934A into the cave, and turned to Charley Castillo.

"I would tell you to shut it down, First Officer, but I'm afraid you'd break something."

"After that hard landing, I expect a lot of it would break easily," Castillo replied.

"That was a greaser and you know it. And did you notice the thrust reversers?"

Castillo had had another vision of everybody in the fuselage slamming into the cockpit wall when he'd activated the thrust reverser controls. The Tu-934A had slowed as if it had caught the cable on the deck of an aircraft carrier.

"I noticed," he said.

"The agency will be getting a hell of a bargain when the LCBF Corporation sells this to them for a hundred and twenty-five million," Torine said. "Have you considered asking for more?"

"Don't be greedy, Jake," Castillo said. "Where's the ramp lever?" General Allan Naylor, Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Allan Naylor, Jr., Uncle Remus Leverette, Vic D'Allessando, Lester Bradley, Frank Lammelle (now wearing shoes and socks, and no plastic handcuffs), Aloysius F. Casey, and a burly man in a business suit were all standing at the foot of the ramp.

Max raced down the ramp, barked hello, and headed for the landing gear.

Salutes were exchanged, as a Pavlovian reaction. Even the burly man in the business suit saluted. With his left hand.

What the hell is that? Who's that guy? Castillo wondered.

He asked, "So, what's happened?"

There had been radio silence during the flight from the island. That had been Castillo's decision. Once everybody was airborne, they were on their own. They could neither help-nor be helped by-anyone else. That being the case, there was nothing to talk about.

"What else has happened? About what?" General McNab asked innocently, and then took pity on him. "All aircraft having been recovered-including one Mexican UH-60 flown by an officer whose ass I will have just as soon as I can get my hands on him-the USS Bataan is proceeding at best speed consistent with available fuel to Norfolk."

Castillo smiled. "Then it looks like we got away with it."

"God answered our prayers," Sweaty said.

"You have the Congo-X?" General Naylor asked.

"Yes, sir. And General Sirinov."

"You got away with Phase One, Colonel," General Naylor said. "The military part. Phase Two, the political part, now begins. I suspect that will be more difficult, and our chances of success less in Phase Two."

Castillo looked at Lammelle.

"Hey, Frank, I see they turned you loose. More or less. How the hell are you? And what do you think of this airplane the agency is about to buy?"

"Leave him alone, Charley," McNab said.

"Congratulations, Charley," Lammelle said. "That was-"

"What did you do, Frank, change sides?" Castillo said. "The last I heard, you were going to shoot me with your air pistol and load me on an Aeroflot flight to Moscow."

"I told you to leave him alone, Charley!" McNab said firmly.

"Yes, sir."

"Dennis!" General Naylor said.

The man in the business suit took a step forward, came to attention, and barked, "Sir!"

"Colonel, this is Master Sergeant Dennis. He is Colonel Hamilton's principal assistant. He will tell you what he wants done with the Congo-X."

Castillo took a closer look at Master Sergeant Dennis.

No wonder he salutes with his left hand-he doesn't have a right arm.

"What do you need, Sergeant?" Castillo asked.

"Sir, Colonel Hamilton sends his best regards."

"Thank you."

"Sir, where is the Congo-X?"

Castillo gestured up the ramp. "In there. Behind that front-loader, or forklift, whatever it is. There are three barrels of it."

"Is there any more of it, Colonel?" General Naylor asked. "Were you able to determine that?"

"According to General Sirinov, sir, that's all of it. I believe him."

"He's telling the truth," Sweaty said.

General Naylor looked at her. "How do you know that?"

"Because he knows that if I find out he's lying," Sweaty said, "he will die a very slow and painful death. This time with no morphine."

"This time?" General Naylor asked.

"Colonel Alekseeva shot General Sirinov in the foot," Castillo said. "And later took pity on him and gave him a shot of morphine."

"She was aiming for his foot, right?" McNab asked. "I mean, that wasn't a near miss or anything like that?"

"No, sir. She was aiming for his foot."

"I knew she was my kind of girl," McNab said.

Naylor glared at him.

"Where is General Sirinov?" Naylor asked.

"Plastic-cuffed to the first barrel behind the cockpit," Castillo said.

"Allan, get in there, free the general, and see what attention he needs," Naylor said.

"You can go get him," Sweaty said. "But do not take off his cuffs. And take someone… No. I will go with you. He is a very dangerous man."

"You want me to go get him, Charley?" Uncle Remus asked.

"No," Castillo said. "Go see if you can operate that forklift, or whatever it is. Sweaty, take Lester with you. Tell General Sirinov that Lester's the fellow who took out Lieutenant Colonel Yevgeny Komogorov, and he would like nothing more than putting a bullet in his eye." Two minutes later, General Sirinov, obviously in pain, limped down the ramp, supported by Allan Junior and trailed by Lester Bradley, who held a 1911A1 Colt.45 pistol at his side, and by Sweaty.

"Okay, Frank," General McNab said.

Lammelle walked to Sirinov.

"General," he said in Russian, "my name is Lammelle. Does that mean anything to you?"

"I know who you are, Mr. Lammelle," Sirinov said in English.

"Are you going to answer my questions, General? Or should I-for the time being-simply have you confined?"

Castillo wondered: How did Lammelle get in the act?

What the hell's going on with him?

"Under the circumstances, Mr. Lammelle, answering whatever questions you have for me seems to be the obvious best option of those pointed out to me by our mutual friend Svetlana."

"Can you make it to the elevator?" Lammelle asked, pointing to it.

Sirinov nodded.

"Do you want to go with them, Colonel?" Castillo asked Sweaty.

"Of course," she said.

"Stick with them, Lester," Castillo ordered.

"Yes, sir."

There came the sound of a diesel engine starting, and a moment later Uncle Remus drove the forklift down the ramp.

"With your permission, Colonel?" Master Sergeant Dennis said, and when Castillo nodded, walked up the ramp into the Tu-934A. [FOUR] With great skill-and very carefully-Uncle Remus lowered one of the blue beer barrels onto a layer of insulated blankets in the bottom of a pit dug in the floor of the cave.

When Master Sergeant Dennis unfastened the web straps around the barrel and gave Uncle Remus the "up" signal, Uncle Remus raised the arms of the forklift, and then backed away from the pit.

Then he stood up and took a bow.

"What would we do without you?" Castillo asked.

"I shudder at the thought," Uncle Remus said, and then turned to Master Sergeant Dennis. "What do you want me to do, Sergeant? Get another barrel, or help you load the helium on top of this one?"

Dennis thought it over before replying.

"It would be better if we got all the barrels in the ground first," he said. "And then put the helium packages, the bags, on top. If one of the bags got ripped, and the helium contacted the arms of the forklift, they would shatter. Helium makes a witch's teat look like the sun."

"You got it, Sarge," Uncle Remus said, and steered the forklift back to the ramp of the Tu-934A. [FIVE] "What we did in the lab, Colonel," Master Sergeant Dennis explained in the dining room of the house, after taking a swallow from a bottle of Dos Equis beer, "that killed that shit, was to expose it to the helium-at minus two-seventy Celsius for fifteen minutes."

"And that killed it?" Castillo asked.

"Dead as a fucking doornail, Colonel," Dennis confirmed, then drained his bottle. "Do you suppose I could have another one of these?"

"Give the nice man another beer, Uncle Remus," Castillo ordered.

"And then we let it thaw," Dennis went on. "It took eight hours and twelve minutes at seventy degrees Fahrenheit."

"And it was then really dead?" Castillo said.

"Dead fucking dead," Dennis confirmed. "But what we don't know, Colonel, is how cold the helium we used just now was. It was way the fuck down there, but it may not have been all the way down to minus two-seventy Celsius. So what Colonel Hamilton told me to do was give it a thirty-minute bath. We did that. And more. The helium is still on the barrels."

"Makes sense. What are you going to do about thawing it?"

"We also don't know about the thawing. If we took the helium off now, it's seventy-four Fahrenheit in the cave-probably seventy-six or -seven by now-so it would thaw faster. But it might not be all the way dead, if you take my meaning, when it's thawed faster."

Castillo had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"So, then what do we do?"

"It's ninety-two Fahrenheit in the sun outside," Dennis said. "Or was, just before you landed. It's probably a little hotter now."

"What are you suggesting-that we thaw it in the sun?" Castillo asked, confused. "Wouldn't that increase the risk that it wouldn't be 'all the way dead'?"

"It may be dead now, and we're just wasting time thawing it."

"What are you suggesting, Sergeant Dennis?" Castillo demanded.

Dennis looked very uncomfortable.

Castillo had an epiphany, and softly asked, "What does Colonel Hamilton think will happen if Congo-X is thawed rapidly?"

Dennis didn't immediately reply.

"Goddamn it, Sergeant! What did Colonel Hamilton say?"

"He said that when magicians freeze goldfish with dry ice and then bring them back to life, they can do that because they were never completely dead. He said that he thinks when you get something down to minus two-seventy Celsius, it's completely dead, and you couldn't bring it back even by thawing it in a microwave."

"Did he tell you not to tell me this?"

Dennis nodded.

"Did he say why?"

"He said if you heard he said it, you would treat it like he was talking in a cathedral-I don't know what the hell he meant by that-and base your decisions on that."

"Speaking 'ex cathedra,' Sergeant?"

"Right."

"If we put one of those kegs in the sun for as long as it takes to thaw it, could you determine if the Congo-X was dead here?"

"I've got stuff with me that'll let me test it so I'll know with ninety-percent certainty whether or not that shit is still alive or not. To be absolutely sure, we'd have to test it in the lab at Fort Detrick."

"How did you get here, Sergeant?"

"Mr. Casey picked me up in his airplane at Baltimore/Washington. Nice airplane!"

"And Colonel Hamilton didn't come. Why?"

"We don't trust the people in the lab. They would tell somebody-probably those fuckers in Las Vegas-that he was gone. So I went to the PX, called the lab, and asked for the day off. Then I got on the bus and went out to Baltimore/ Washington."

"If we put one of those beer kegs in the sun, how long would it take to thaw?" Castillo asked. "Let me put that another way: How long would we have to leave one of those kegs in the sun before loading it on Mr. Casey's G-Five to fly it to Fort Detrick, so that it would be thawed, or damned near thawed, when it got there?"

"I been thinking about that, Colonel. It's about seventy Fahrenheit in the airplane. I suppose you could up that some, if you wanted to?"

"Probably to eighty, maybe a little higher," Castillo said.

"We'd have to leave the keg in the sun for two hours fifteen. Better yet two hours thirty. I think it would be pretty well thawed by the time we got it into the lab."

Castillo looked at Leverette, and said, "Uncle Remus, will you please help Sergeant Dennis move one of those beer barrels into the sun-somewhere no one will see it? And then you two sit on it." He heard what he had said, and added, "Correction. You don't have to actually sit on it, but I want eyes on it all the time."

"You know what you're doing, Charley?"

"Hoping that I'm right, that Colonel Hamilton is right, and that Master Sergeant Dennis is right. Is that enough for you?"

"I always like you better when you admit you don't really know what the fuck you're doing," Uncle Remus said. "Let's go, Dennis." [SIX] "The freezing process, I gather, is over, or nearly so?" General Naylor asked when Castillo walked into the war room.

"Sir, with respect, I have no intention of discussing anything about this operation in the presence of Mr. Lammelle."

General McNab's bushy eyebrows went up. "You never learned in Sunday school what Saint Luke said, Charley? 'There is more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents…' Et cetera?"

"I don't believe this!" Castillo said. "The sonofabitch wanted to load Sweaty, Dmitri, and me on an Aeroflot-"

Dmitri Berezovsky laughed.

Castillo looked at him in disbelief.

"Actually, General," Roscoe J. Danton-whose smile showed he was enjoying the situation-said, "I believe what Saint Luke actually said was, 'There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.'"

"I think I like that better," McNab said. "I never thought of it before, but I could get used to thinking of myself as an 'angel of God.'"

Berezovsky laughed again.

"How dare any of you think of yourselves as angels of God!" Sweaty flared.

"But, I'll concede, it's a stretch," McNab said.

"I used to wonder where Carlitos learned his blasphemous irreverence and childish sense of humor. Now it's perfectly clear. I hope God will forgive you, General McNab. I won't."

"Right now," Castillo said, "if Sweaty tries to turn the both of you heathens into sopranos, I'd be inclined to help her. Now, who turned Frank loose, and why, and what the hell is he doing in here?"

"Frank is now on our side," McNab said. "Get used to it."

"Let me try to explain this in heathen terms," Allan Naylor, Jr., said. "One heathen to another. Like another acquaintance of ours, whose name Satan himself could not tear from my lips, Brother Frank saw the error of his ways, 'fessed up, and is now allied with the forces of goodness and purity."

"And you believe him?" Castillo asked incredulously. "All of you believe it? And you expect me to believe it?"

"It's true, Charley," Lammelle said.

"Charley, Frank obeyed an order without thinking it through," General Naylor said. "That's easy to do. You're supposed to follow orders. What's hard is admitting that you know the order is wrong, and then doing something to make it right. In Frank's case, that was doubly difficult for him. Not only did it constitute disobeying the President, but he knew he could have just kept his mouth shut and done nothing. He knew us all well enough to know we weren't going to harm him…"

"Harming him did run through my mind. Vic D'Allessando said we should castrate him with a dull knife."

He looked at D'Allessando.

"I'm with McNab, Charley," D'Allessando said. "Sorry."

Castillo said nothing.

"… but instead, he is putting his career on the line," General Naylor finished.

Castillo thought: That shoe fits your foot, too, doesn't it?

"Is that what happened to you, Uncle Allan?" he asked softly.

Naylor met his eyes, but said nothing.

Colonel Jack Brewer broke the silence.

"The general's question, Colonel Castillo," he said, "was whether the freezing process has been satisfactorily completed."

Castillo hesitated.

"Well, has it?" Sweaty demanded.

Castillo looked at her for a long moment, then at Lammelle, and then back at Sweaty.

What choice do I have?

"The answer to that is we don't really know," he said. "What Master Sergeant Dennis told me…" "So, what do you want to do?" General Naylor asked, when Castillo had related what had happened just before he'd come to the war room.

"In two hours, I want to put Sergeant Dennis and the beer keg that's thawing in the sun in Aloysius's G-Five and fly it to Fort Detrick. We have to know if the helium has really killed it and the only way to do that is in Colonel Hamilton's lab."

"Fly it to Baltimore/Washington, right?" Lammelle asked.

Eyes jumped to Castillo to see how he was going to react to Lammelle having asked a question.

Castillo nodded.

"In for a penny, in for a pound, Charley," Lammelle said. "If I went with it, I could have an agency vehicle… It'll fit in a Yukon, right?"

Castillo nodded again, but didn't speak.

"… meet the airplane and personally make sure it gets to Fort Detrick. The only one who could interfere with that, or ask me questions I don't want to answer, would be Jack Powell, and I don't think Jack would actually go out to the airport even if he heard I was coming. Worst scenario there, I think, would be Powell sending Stan Waters-"

"Who?"

"J. Stanley Waters, deputy director for operations. Who wants my job, and therefore does everything Jack tells him to. I trust him a little less than you trust me."

"Okay. We get the stuff to the lab at Detrick. Sergeant Dennis tells me Hamilton can find out in half an hour whether the Congo-X is really dead. And what would you do after you dropped off the Congo-X? Wait for Hamilton to run his tests?"

"That would be information I'd like to have."

"And with which you could head straight for the White House, right?"

"Yeah, Charley, if I were so inclined, I could head straight for the White House. But what I plan to do is head straight for Langley to see what I can learn there."

"And if Jack Powell does go out to the airport? Or sends your buddy Waters?"

"Can I have my dart gun back?"

After a perceptible pause, during which he wondered again, What choice do I have? Castillo said, "You know what they say, Frank: 'In for a penny, in for a pound.' Lester, give Mr. Lammelle his dart gun."

"There will be room for me on that plane, right?" Roscoe J. Danton said. And then he quickly added: "Colonel, I've got pictures of that stuff on the Tu-934A on the island. And what you and Uncle Remus and the Sergeant did to it here. I'd like to follow it all the way to the lab at Fort Detrick."

Castillo didn't immediately reply.

"And before I go, I'd like to get pictures of you and Jake getting on that airplane," Roscoe went on.

"Which raises the question, Charley," McNab said, "of flying that airplane across the border and to Washington without getting it shot down."

"What General McNab and I talked about, Colonel," Naylor said, "and what we recommend, is that he and I go on the Russian aircraft to Washington. I can call MacDill, inform them that we're coming, and get us an Air Force escort."

"Which means the White House will know," Castillo thought aloud.

"But not the circumstances," McNab said.

"And I'll have time to get from Baltimore/Washington so that I can get pictures of the Tu-934A landing at Andrews," Roscoe J. Danton said.

"And that raises the question of Roscoe J. Danton," Castillo said. "What captions will he put under all those pictures he's been taking?"

"Frankly, Colonel, I don't know," Danton replied. "But I'm sort of like Frank. I've learned to tell the difference between the good guys and the bad guys."

"I see we're back to a choice between trusting Roscoe and killing him," Castillo said.

"You may think that's funny," Sweaty snapped, "but I don't."

"And that unsolicited and unwelcome opinion raises yet another question," Castillo said. "What do I do with Big Mouth here and her big brother?"

Sweaty said unkind things to him in Russian.

Castillo went on: "I think the best thing to do is have Miller and Sparkman take them-and the Spetsnaz that Cousin Aleksandr was so kind to loan us, plus whichever of Sirinov's Spetsnaz want to go to Argentina-to Cozumel to meet the Peruaire freighter."

"You're out of your mind!" Sweaty said in English.

"I think not, Charley," Dmitri Berezovsky said.

"You mean you don't think I'm out of my mind, or you don't want to go to Argentina?"

"I can't wait to get back to Argentina. You remember that my wife and daughter are there? But before this is over, we will certainly be talking with the Washington rezident, Sergei Murov, and perhaps even dealing with Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin himself. Svetlana and I know them both well. I think you need our counsel."

"What kind of passports do you have?" Lammelle asked.

"You mean besides our Russian Federation diplomatic passports?"

"Right."

"Argentine and Uruguayan."

"Are they in your names?"

Berezovsky shook his head.

"How much inspection will they stand?"

"My cousin assures me they were issued by the respective foreign ministries," Berezovsky said.

"And would your cousin know?"

"I think he would."

"Who is your cousin?"

"If he tells you, Frank, I'd have to kill you," Castillo said.

"His name is Aleksandr Pevsner," Sweaty said. "And if your knowing that in any way ever endangers him or his family, I will kill you."

"On a threat credibility scale of one to ten, I think I'd rate that as a ten," Lammelle said. And then added, "Well, knowing that name explains a lot of things I didn't really understand. Pevsner is really your cousin?"

"Our mothers are sisters," Berezovsky said.

"Charley, if they're determined to go…" Lammelle began.

"We are," Berezovsky said.

"… and I agree they could be very useful," Lammelle went on. "Hide them in plain sight."

"Where?" Castillo asked.

"The Monica Lewinsky Motel," Lammelle said.

"The what?" Sweaty asked.

"If a President of the United States can hide his girlfriend there, it should be good enough for mine," Castillo said. "How do you plan to get them there?"

"I wouldn't want Senator Johns to hear about this, but I have a limo, armored, with radios, et cetera, and driven by agency officers," Lammelle said.

"You want to fly them to Baltimore/Washington on Casey's airplane?" Castillo asked.

Lammelle nodded.

"And General Sirinov?"

"On the Tu-934A. If Roscoe can get Wolf News out there to cover its arrival-"

"He would be on TV and Murov would see that," Castillo interrupted, "but what do we do with him afterward?"

"I think General Sirinov would be comfortable in the Monica Lewinsky Motel," Lammelle said. "And he'd be available if we need him, and we probably will."

"Have you got enough people-people you can trust-to handle all this?"

"Yes, I do," Lammelle said. "Your call, Charley."

"What other options do I have?"

"Not many-none-that I can think of," Lammelle said.

Castillo counted something on his fingers, then announced, "There's room for Lester on the Tu-934A. So he goes, too, to sit on General Sirinov. Miller and Sparkman take the Spetsnaz to Cozumel as soon as they can-in the next thirty minutes-in our G-Three, then come back here and pick up Uncle Remus and Peg-Leg-and anybody I've forgotten. By then Uncle Remus and Peg-Leg will have Drug Cartel International all cleaned up. And then they go to Baltimore/Washington."

He paused for a good thirty seconds, and then asked, "Any comments?"

"I want to know about this motel," Sweaty said.

"You'll like it, sweetheart," Castillo said. "Inside plumbing and all the other conveniences one would expect in a Motel-8. Any other comments?"

There were none.

"Okay, then that's it. That's what we'll do." [SEVEN] Office of the Director The Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia 1305 12 February 2007 "Keep me advised, Bruce," DCI John Powell said. "We absolutely can't afford to have this get away from us."

He took the telephone handset from his ear, very slowly replaced it in the base, then met the eyes of J. Stanley Waters, the DDCI for operations.

"Festerman says that Naylor called Central Command and ordered that a flight of F-16s meet him over the Gulf of Mexico prepared to escort his plane into U.S. airspace and then to Andrews."

"Where in the Gulf of Mexico? When?"

"Right in the goddamn middle of it. And right now."

"Where did he call from?"

"Mexico City," Powell said. "But I'm not sure I believe that. What I'm beginning to suspect is that Casey's communications is not quite as miraculous as advertised. Or that Casey is fucking with us."

"Why would he do that?"

"Maybe because he likes McNab more than he likes me."

"Do we know what kind of an airplane Naylor has?"

"No. And that bothers me, too. All Naylor told MacDill is the call sign. He told MacDill 'Big Boy' will be at thirty thousand feet moving at five hundred knots."

"That doesn't sound as if that's Naylor's Gulfstream."

"No, it doesn't. Which may be because Naylor's Gulfstream is on the tarmac at MacDill."

"I forgot that," Waters said.

"Yeah," Powell said.

"You think he has Castillo? Or the Russians? Or both?"

"Well, he could be smuggling drugs. But I'd say it's likely that he has either or both, wouldn't you?"

"Looks that way. What are you going to do?"

Powell picked up his telephone.

"This is DCI Powell. Get onto whoever would know and get me a track on all aircraft operating over the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, or headed toward the middle, at thirty thousand feet and five hundred knots. The one I'm looking for will probably not-repeat, not-have a transponder. Got it?"

He hung up.

"Are you going to tell the President, John?"

"No. I thought this would be our little secret."

He picked up a red telephone and punched one of the buttons on it.

"Jack Powell, Mr. President. I have just learned that General Naylor has ordered that a flight of F-16s…

"Mr. President, I assure you that I'm doing all that's humanly possible to add to what I know, what I just told you…

"Yes, sir, Mr. President, I'll leave here immediately…

"Yes, sir, Mr. President, I fully understand that I am to take no action of any kind in this matter without your prior permission."