W. Griffin - Covert Warriors

“What’s Hacienda Whatever-you-said?”

“A grapefruit farm that’s about thirty-five minutes Black Hawk flight time from the Oaxaca State Prison. It belongs to my family.”

“And what makes you think you can-or Miller and your Russian buddy can-fly a Black Hawk across the border and then all the way to your grapefruit farm-Jesus Christ, a grapefruit farm? — without being seen by either the Border Patrol and five thousand Mexicans, many of them wearing police uniforms?”

“Because the flight will be at night and nap-of-the-earth. That means just off the ground, Mr. Director.”

“Miller can do that?”

“Before he dumped his Black Hawk in Afghanistan-actually he didn’t dump it; they took an RPG hit-he was very good at it. And Kiril, with whom I just flew through the Andes at night, is just as good-maybe better.”

“This sounds insane, Charley, even coming from you. You realize that?”

“The other option is Dick and me sneaking onto Martindale at night and just stealing it. The odds against getting caught are better if you have some spook you can loan me. Or, maybe, make up a set of CIA credentials for Miller and me and FedEx them to me-”

“One question, Charley,” Lammelle said, cutting him off. “Have you been talking to Vic D’Alessandro lately?”

“No. Why?”

“Is that the truth?”

“Boy Scout’s honor. Why?”

“Because Vic is in El Paso watching the post office with the help of a Clandestine Service guy named Tomas L. Diaz. General McNab does not know that Vic is there, and I don’t know that Tommy Diaz is there. Getting the picture?”

“I think so.”

“He’ll be expecting to hear from you.”

“You will get your reward in heaven, Frank.”

“Will that be before or after we both go to Leavenworth? Leavenworth, hell, Florence ADMAX.” He chuckled. “This is not the sort of excitement I thought I’d get when I joined the CIA.”

Then he hung up.

The President’s Study The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1730 18 April 2007

“You sure took your own sweet time to get here,” President Clendennen said to Attorney General Crenshaw and FBI Director Schmidt when Secret Service Agent Douglas had passed them into the President’s study.

“I didn’t think it would be wise to come here with sirens screaming, Mr. President,” Crenshaw said. “I thought it would make people wonder what’s going on.”

The President glared at him but didn’t reply directly.

“Let’s start with you, Director Schmidt. What’s going on in El Paso?”

“SAC Johnson is standing by at the La Tuna prison, Mr. President, waiting for the Marshals to deliver Abrego. Once he arrives and is taken into the prison-in other words, comes under the authority of the Bureau of Prisons again-he will be outfitted in civilian clothing and taken to the Magoffin Home-”

“What the hell is that?” the President interrupted.

“It’s the former home of the Magoffin family, Mr. President. Now a museum. It’s a large adobe structure-”

“A well-known El Paso landmark, in other words?” President Clendennen interrupted again.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why didn’t you just say that? I don’t need the Chamber of Commerce bullshit.”

“Yes, sir. Photographs of Abrego shaking hands with SAC Johnson will be taken-”

“What the hell is that all about?”

“SAC Johnson will be identified-under another name-as an officer of the Magoffin Home Foundation, and Abrego-also under another name-as a contributor to the Magoffin Home Foundation. SAC Johnson has arranged for the photo to be published in tomorrow morning’s El Diario de El Paso . This, SAC Johnson-and I-feel will satisfy the cartel’s requirement, quote, to publish a photograph of him taken in an easily recognizable location near El Paso, close quote. The next move will be up to them.”

“Okay,” the President said, “so who told that sonofabitch Roscoe J. Danton that we’re moving Abrego to Texas?”

“Mr. President, I have no idea.”

“Neither does the attorney general,” President Clendennen said, looking at Crenshaw. “So I have the director of the FBI and the attorney general telling me that they have absolutely no idea of the identity of the treasonous sonofabitch whose meddling is interfering with the foreign policy of the President of the United States. Would either of you find it hard to understand why I find that unacceptable?”

Crenshaw cleared his throat, then said, “Mr. President, I have begun an investigation-”

“Somehow that doesn’t reassure me,” the President snapped. “So tell me what you have on this sonofabitch Danton.”

“Excuse me?”

Apartment 606 The Watergate Apartments 2639 I Street, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1735 18 April 2007

“How the hell did you get in here?” Roscoe J. Danton demanded of Edgar Delchamps and David W. Yung when they walked into his kitchen. Danton and John David Parker were sitting at the kitchen table sharing a pizza.

“The door was open,” Delchamps said. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I locked that door very carefully,” Danton said.

“How they hanging, Porky?” Delchamps said, ignoring the challenge.

“What the hell do you want?” Danton demanded.

“Charley wants to talk to you,” Two-Gun Yung said.

“Then why doesn’t he call?”

“He said it would be better if Edgar and I were here when you had your little chat,” Yung said. “So we could clear up any misunderstandings that might come up.”

“Can I have a slice of that?” Delchamps asked as he reached for the pizza.

Yung took his CaseyBerry from his pocket, punched a number, and then handed the instrument to Danton.

“Leave it on speakerphone,” he ordered.

Danton held up the cell phone.

“Danton,” he said.

“My favorite journalist,” came Castillo’s voice from the speakerphone. “How are things in our nation’s capital?”

“What’s going on, Charley?”

“In the very near future-in the next couple of minutes, probably-you will get a telephone call from the White House. Unless they’ve already called?”

“The White House has not called. I expect them to.”

“Well, when they do, they’re going to ask you not to go on The Straight Poop with Andy McClarren. .”

“That’s Straight Scoop ,” Roscoe corrected him in a Pavlovian response.

“Forgive me. As I was saying, they are going to ask you not to go on Mr. McClarren’s widely viewed program tonight with the story of the attorney general ordering the movement of Felix Abrego from Florence ADMAX to the La Tuna facility. Or they are going to threaten you with all the terrible things they will do to you if you do.”

“How the hell do you know about that?”

“The question, Roscoe, is, who told you about it?”

“A confidential source,” Danton said, again responding in a Pavlovian reflex.

“First, Roscoe, we’ll deal with what you say when the White House calls. Handle it any way you want-enjoy yourself and make them grovel, whatever-but in the end you will agree that you will not go on The Straight Scoop tonight. Got that?”

“The hell I won’t. Nobody tells me what to write or what to say on the tube.”

“Wrong. I can, and in this case I have to. Edgar, is Porky there?”

“Sitting right across from Roscoe,” Delchamps replied.

“Roscoe, if I told you that your going on The Straight Scoop tonight would probably get Colonel Ferris killed, would this change your mind?”

“I can’t believe you’re serious,” Danton replied.