W. Griffin - Covert Warriors

Secretary Cohen said: “I understand that Mr. D’Alessandro is with General Naylor in the El Paso Marriott.”

“You heard that, Douglas,” the President ordered. “Get this man or General Naylor on the phone.”

“D’Alessandro may be registered as Jose Gomez, Mr. Douglas,” the secretary of State said.

“What the hell is that all about?” the President demanded.

“I don’t know, sir,” she said.

“Well, goddammit, don’t you think you should?”

“General Naylor told me that, sir,” she said. “I have no idea why Mr. D’Alessandro might be registered under another name. I was just trying to be helpful to Mr. Douglas.”

“I have General Naylor for you, Mr. President,” Douglas said, extending the handset of the red presidential circuit telephone to him.

“We finally heard from the goddamn Mexicans, General,” the President began the conversation. “Are you in contact with this man D’Alessandro?”

The telephone was not set on loudspeaker; only the Washington end of the conversation could be heard by others in the presidential study.

“Put him on, please.”

“This is the President, Mr. D’Alessandro,” Clendennen said. “Let me make this clear from the beginning. If you fuck this up, you’re not going back to Fort Bragg. If I can’t figure out some way to fire you, you’re going to find yourself counting envelopes in the Nome, Alaska, post office. You clear on that, Mr. D’Alessandro?”

“Okay. We’ve heard from the goddamn Mexicans. You’re to meet a deputy attorney general. . what’s his name, Madam Secretary?”

Secretary Cohen furnished the information.

“By the name of Manuel Jose Guzman,” the President went on. “In the Diamond hotel in Acapulco at one this afternoon-

“Yes, the Camino Real Acapulco Diamante ,” the President confirmed impatiently. “He’s going to have this cop, Pena, with him. Can you make it down there in time?

“Okay. By the time you get there, these people will have figured out that they didn’t make a fool of me at the Juarez airport this morning. So let them know I’m mad. Tell them we’re not going to produce this Mexican bandito Abrego until we have proof we’re about to get Ferris in exchange for him. Like that photograph they wanted of Abrego standing outside somewhere recognizable in El Paso. Tell them to take a picture of Ferris standing outside the Oaxaca State Prison holding a copy of that day’s newspaper-

“How the hell am I supposed to know what newspaper? Find out what it is, and tell them to use that. And tell them to give the photo to somebody from the embassy. Hold one.”

The President turned to Secretary Cohen.

“How do we do what I just said?” he asked.

“I suppose I could ask Ambassador McCann to send an embassy officer to Deputy Attorney General Guzman’s office,” she said, after a moment’s thought.

“Ask him, hell,” the President said. “ Tell him. D’Alessandro, the embassy’s going to send an officer to Guzman just as soon as Secretary Cohen tells him to. Have Guzman, or this cop, give him the picture. He’ll send it to me. When I see it, we’ll move Abrego down there. Got it?

“And as soon as you do this, you get back to El Paso and stand by. Got it?

“Don’t fuck this up, D’Alessandro,” the President said, and handed the handset to Agent Douglas.

“Give it to the secretary, Douglas,” the President ordered. “She’s going to call Ambassador McCann.”

Camino Real Acapulco Diamante Carretera Escenica Km 14 Acapulco, Mexico 1315 21 April 2007

Vic D’Alessandro walked out of the lobby with Juan Carlos Pena and two of Pena’s bodyguards following.

Immediately, two Policia Federal Suburbans pulled up under the portico to where they were standing.

“Why don’t you get in the back, Mr. D’Alessandro?” Pena suggested.

“You don’t have to do this, chief,” D’Alessandro said. “I can take a taxi.”

“You never heard of Mexican hospitality?” Pena asked. “Get in.”

One of the Policia Federal officers opened the right doors.

“Slide over to the middle, Mr. D’Alessandro,” Pena ordered, “so my men can get in on each side of you.”

D’Alessandro obeyed. He found himself sitting between two large Policia Federal officers.

The Suburbans moved out from under the portico.

D’Alessandro felt something hard and cold against the base of his neck, and had just decided whatever this was, they weren’t going to kill him, at least not here and now, when a voice inquired, “Hey, gringo, you wanna fook my see-ster?”

Juan Carlos Pena laughed out loud, surprising D’Alessandro, for Pena hadn’t so much as cracked a smile during the meeting with Guzman.

“She gives a discount for undersized penile apparatus,” the voice said, now without a Mexican accent. “Like yours.”

“Charley, you sonofabitch!” D’Alessandro said.

“Welcome to Sunny Meh-hee-co,” Castillo said. “How did things go with Guzman?”

“Slick,” D’Alessandro said. “He should be a used-car salesman. And, obviously, I misjudged Senor Pena.”

Pena turned from the front seat and offered D’Alessandro his hand.

“Call me Juan Carlos when no one’s looking, Vic,” Pena said.

“Carlos-Charley-and I go back a long way. He says nice things about you, which may or may not be a good thing.”

“You are going to tell me what’s going on here, right?” D’Alessandro asked.

“On our way to General Juan N. Alvarez International we’re going to plan how to snatch Ferris from the bad guys,” Castillo said. “That’s presuming Guzman went along with having Ferris’s picture taken standing in front of the Oaxaca State Prison.”

“How the hell did you hear about that?”

“I have a lady friend in Foggy Bottom,” Castillo said. “Well, did he?”

“Yeah. You know where Ferris is?”

“Yeah. All Juan Carlos had to do was dangle Senor Monteverde from the twenty-third-floor Tahitian Suite of the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort on a bedsheet and he quickly volunteered to tell us Ferris is being held by drug guys working for Venezuelans under the direction of the SVR-”

“You’re talking about Murov? He’s disappeared, too.”

“Didn’t your mommy tell you it’s not polite to interrupt people?” Castillo asked, then went on: “. . in Retainhuled, Guatemala, which is a small town about fifty miles from the border. Now, their plan, Murov, Juan Carlos, and I think-”

“Murov?” D’Alessandro interrupted. “You know where he is?”

“He’s in the Suburban behind us.”

Involuntarily, D’Alessandro turned to look. All he could see was the darkened windows of the following Suburban.

“He’s in that Suburban?” D’Alessandro asked, incredulously.

“All right, we’ll go down that road. Ol’ Sergei has had a religious experience. He has seen the light, and is now prepared to fight the good fight against the forces of evil. When you get back to Biggs Army Airfield, Frank Lammelle will be there to meet him with open arms and a briefcase with one million dollars in it, which I’m sure Sergei will count carefully on his way to wherever Frank intends to stash him.”

“You turned Murov for a million dollars? That’s peanuts! Jesus Christ, Charley! He’s Putin’s number two!”

“ Was Putin’s number two,” Castillo said. “But then he had the religious experience I mentioned, which caused him to examine the downside of committing suicide.”

Castillo let that set in for a moment, and then went on: “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted-we’ll get to the few remaining loose ends when I finish-Sergei, Juan Carlos, and I are agreed that their most likely plan is to take Ferris to the prison and then-when you and Abrego arrive-whack everybody.”