W. Griffin - Covert Warriors

“I’d say you have a dangerously loose mouth and have been smoking an illegal substance. What the hell is this all about?”

“I thought you liked Natalie and trusted her.”

“I like her very much. Do I think she wants to help? No. If she knows what I’m doing and wants to talk to me, it’s to talk me out of what I’m doing. And goddamn you, Frank, if you did tell her.”

There was a buzzing sound.

Cohen and Lammelle looked at each other until they realized the buzzing was coming from the secretary of State’s Brick.

“Hold one, Charley,” Lammelle said.

Cohen opened the leather attache case and took out the handset. She saw which number was illuminated, and mouthed, “Crenshaw.”

“See what he wants,” Lammelle said.

“See what who wants?” Castillo demanded impatiently. “Who are you talking to, Frank?”

Lammelle cut the connection.

“Natalie Cohen,” she said.

“If there was ever any question in your mind that the President is acting irrationally, forget it,” the attorney general said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Schmidt and I just left the Oval Office,” Crenshaw said. “The President just decided to send three Black Hawks loaded with Gray Fox operators to the Oaxaca State Prison to exchange Abrego for Ferris. And from his attitude, I don’t think he cares if there’s a firefight with the Policia Federal. In fact, I think he’s hoping for one.”

“Why would he want. . oh.”

“The word is ‘irrational,’ Natalie, and that’s a euphemism.”

“Let me get this straight, he’s going to send Gray Fox to deal with this Policia Federal officer?”

“Juan Carlos Pena,” Crenshaw said.

“That’s going to take him at least twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight, before they can leave, right?”

“McNab is in Afghanistan, so Clendennen sent for McNab’s deputy, General O’Toole. And for Beiderman and Naylor. That’ll take some time, of course.”

“Let me get back to you, Stanley,” she said. She met Lammelle’s eyes and added, “I realize this is a desperate situation, requiring desperate measures. Let me see what I can do.”

She broke the connection.

“You say this no longer works to talk to Castillo?”

“You still can talk to him on it. You just won’t know what’s being said on what we’re calling Net Two.”

She punched a number on her handset.

“Hello, Madam Secretary,” Castillo’s voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Charley, what do you know about a Policia Federal officer named Pena? Juan Carlos Pena.”

“Rude question, but necessary,” he replied. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because the President is about to send three Black Hawks loaded with Gray Fox special operations to exchange Abrego for Ferris at the prison this man operates in Oaxaca State.”

“He doesn’t operate the prison. He’s the head of the Policia Federal for Oaxaca State.”

“So you do know him?”

“Yeah, I know him,” Castillo said. “Why don’t you go back to the beginning with this, so I know what you’re talking about.”

“All right,” she said. “This is the problem.”

Andrews Air Force Base Prince George’s County, Maryland 1125 20 April 2007

General Allan B. Naylor was walking from the VIP waiting room in the Base Operations building towards his C-37A-the military designation for the Gulfstream V-when Colonel J. D. Brewer, his senior aide-de-camp, who was walking beside him, took his Signal Corps Brick from his tunic pocket.

He glanced at it to see who was calling, and then handed it to Naylor.

“Secretary Beiderman, General,” he announced.

Naylor stopped walking and put the device to his ear.

“General Naylor, Mr. Secretary.”

“Where are you, Allan?”

“At Andrews, about to get on my plane.”

“Brussels and NATO are going to have to wait,” Beiderman said. “Mulligan called me just now, and said the President wants to see you and me right away.”

“Okay,” Naylor said.

“He also wanted to know when McNab will be back from Afghanistan. I told him I’d have to ask you.”

“As I recall, we told McNab to get out of Dodge and stay there until the President got his temper under control. Does this mean that hasn’t happened?”

“I don’t know,” Beiderman confessed.

“Well, if the President has ordered him back. . Do you want me to handle that?”

“I already have. He’ll be leaving over there as soon as he can get on a plane.”

“You realize, I hope, that he was dead serious when he said if he is relieved over that nonsense at Arlington, he’ll demand a court-martial?”

“Can he do that? Demand a court-martial? He’s not going to be punished, reduced in rank, or anything like that; just relieved.”

“I don’t know. It would depend on the circumstances. What he could do-what he probably will do-is go to Roscoe Danton and argue his case in the court of public opinion. In other words, on the front page of The Washington Times-Post and the television sets tuned to Wolf News. And the President will lose that battle; Danton loathes the President and thinks McNab walks on water.”

The secretary of Defense grunted, and then said, “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could say, ‘Screw him. Let him make an ass of himself like that!’”

“But we can’t, can we? We’re in the uncomfortable position of having to defend the presidency against the luna-”

Naylor heard what he was about to say and stopped midword.

“You can say it, Allan,” Beiderman said. “We have to defend the presidency against the lunacy of the President.”

“Have you got any good ideas on how we can do that?”

“No. But I’ll try to think of some on my way over there.”

“There? Where’s there? The White House?”

“Andrews. I’ll pick you up in ten, fifteen minutes.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“What I don’t want to do is walk into the Oval Office all by myself.”

“Are you going to have room for my people? Colonel Brewer and-”

“Mulligan said the President wants to see you and me only,” Beiderman said.

“I’ve got a car. Why don’t I just meet you at the White House?”

Beiderman considered that, then said, “Okay. But if I get there before you, I’ll wait. Come now.”

“Done,” Naylor said, and broke the connection.

The President’s Study The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1225 20 April 2007

When Secret Service Agent Mark Douglas showed Beiderman and Naylor into the room, Supervisory Special Agent Robert J. Mulligan, Press Secretary Clemens McCarthy, and the President were standing before a map board. It held a map of Mexico.

“What the hell is McNab doing in Afghanistan?” the President greeted them less than warmly. “I need him here now.”

“As you know, Mr. President,” Naylor responded, “a substantial portion of General McNab’s command is in Afghanistan. He spends a good deal of his time there.”

“What about this other Special Forces guy, McCool? Is he any good?”

“If you are referring to General McNab’s deputy, General O’Toole, Mr. President-”

“Okay. O’Toole. Is this O’Toole any good?”

“General O’Toole is a fine officer, Mr. President,” Naylor said.

The President looked between Beiderman and Naylor, and said, “I’d rather have McNab, but you go with what you’ve got, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Naylor and Beiderman said almost simultaneously.

“I had Clemens call O’Toole and tell him to drop everything and get up here,” Clendennen said. “When’s he due, Clemens?”