W. Griffin - Covert Warriors

“That scenario occurred to me,” D’Alessandro said drily.

“So, what we are going to do is grab Ferris before that; as he’s being transported from Retainhuled to the prison.”

“Who’s we ? And how?”

Castillo told him.

“Pity you won’t be there, Vic. It will be like old times.”

“Tell me about the ‘few remaining loose ends,’” D’Alessandro said. “Offhand, I can think of, say, fifty, but I’d rather hear them from you.”

“Well, for example, I haven’t made up my mind about the million dollars. Whether I should let the CIA pay it or Those People.”

“That’s not what I meant, Charley.”

“And I haven’t made up my mind how we should handle the two SVR people looking over Clendennen’s shoulders.”

“You know who they are?”

Castillo nodded. “What I haven’t decided is who I should tell, if anybody, or what to do about them.”

“I’m not anybody, Charley,” D’Alessandro said evenly.

“No, you’re not. And I haven’t figured out how to get Ferris out of Mexico after we grab him.”

“That’s what they call changing the subject,” D’Alessandro said.

“Yeah,” Castillo agreed. “I guess it is.”

“Well?”

After a brief moment, Castillo said: “Clemens McCarthy and a Secret Service agent named Douglas. I never heard of him.”

“Clendennen calls him ‘Dumbo,’ ” D’Alessandro said. “You’re sure?”

“I got it from Murov. Who said this whole exercise is designed to prey on Clendennen’s instability. To create another impeachment crisis. Nixon and Clinton.”

D’Alessandro considered that a moment.

“Have you told Frank?”

Castillo shook his head.

“Sometimes, Charley, despite the old saw that any action is better than none, the best thing to do is nothing. At least, for a while.”

“We’re almost at the airport,” Juan Carlos said. “How do you want to handle this?”

“We’ll load Murov and Vic on their Black Hawk,” Castillo said.

“And wave bye-bye, and then Lester and I will get in the Mustang.”

“Lester’s here?” Vic said.

“Sitting on Sergei,” Castillo said, jerking his thumb toward the following Suburban.

“I thought you said Murov had seen the light?”

“I don’t want him committing suicide by Policia Federal. I’m sure he’s figured out that we can’t let him go free. So he knows if he runs, he gets shot.”

“How are you going to stop him?”

“Juan Carlos has told his guys not to shoot, and I gave Lester an old Winchester pump.22 of mine, with which he will shoot Sergei in the leg. Or legs. I figured if that proved necessary, he wouldn’t bleed to death before you got him to the States. He’s in pretty bad emotional condition.”

“Don’t tell me remorse.”

“Thinking of his wife and family in Lubyanka.”

“That’ll do it,” D’Alessandro said.

They pulled close to the U.S. Army UH-60F sitting in a remote corner of the airfield.

“Charley, I didn’t mention this before because it’s lunacy on its face. Clendennen’s got everybody running around getting a submarine ready to refuel the 60Fs he plans to send to the shoot-out at the prison.”

“If we snatch Ferris, there won’t be a need to send 60Fs to the prison,” Castillo said.

“I don’t think freeing Ferris will stop that mission. Clendennen is now in love with Gray Fox.”

“Find out where the sub will be, and when, and get me the radio call signs.”

“That may be a tall order, Charley. Naylor will want to know why I want to know. And he doesn’t know what you’re up to. Do you want him to?”

“No. Tell him nothing,” Castillo said. “But see what you can find out about the submarine, please.”

KM 125.5 National Road 200 Near Huixtla Chiapas State, Mexico 0915 22 April 2007

The small convoy that had crossed into Mexico at Tapachula a little after eight consisted of a somewhat battered Suburban, a Mercedes S550 that appeared nearly new, a Suburban in better shape, a Mercedes C230, and a Ford F-150 pickup truck.

The Policia Federal roadblock they encountered-no surprise on that stretch of road-consisted of a Suburban and a Ford F-150 pickup. It was near the crest of a small rise.

When it became visible to the passenger in the front seat of the large Mercedes, he leaned over and sounded the horn, and then motioned the driver to pass the Suburban in the lead.

The Federales would know who he was, he reasoned, and they could get through the roadblock quickly, especially if he handed to whoever was in charge a sheaf of United States hundred-dollar bills. He did not want the Federales to start asking for identification.

When he got close, he saw that the man in charge was a Policia Federal second sergeant who would, he thought, be more grateful for the little gift he was about to give him than a more senior policeman-say, a first sergeant or even a comandante -would be.

He was a little annoyed when the second sergeant didn’t immediately walk-or trot-to the Mercedes, as he expected him to do.

But finally, the second sergeant came from the barrier and walked to the Mercedes, trailed by a dozen other Federales. They walked to the vehicles behind the Mercedes and took up positions on either side of them.

“Good morning,” the passenger in the front seat of the Mercedes said.

“Would you step out of the car, please?” the second sergeant asked politely.

“What for?”

“This is a check for drugs,” the second sergeant said.

“Do I look like a drug dealer?” the man asked.

“No, sir, you don’t. This won’t take a minute, senor.”

The man got out of the front seat, forced himself to smile, and handed the second sergeant the sheaf of U.S. hundred-dollar bills.

“A little something for the wife and kids,” he said.

The second sergeant examined the money, smiled, and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

The man, convinced that the nonsense was now over, turned and started to get back in the Mercedes.

When he did, the second sergeant raised the muzzle of his Heckler amp; Koch MSG90A1 and fired two rounds into the back of the man’s head. Then he leaned forward, and as the driver took an Uzi from the floorboard, put two rounds in the driver’s head just above the ear. He then turned his attention to the rear seat, and shot, in their faces, the two men sitting there.

Much the same thing happened, more or less simultaneously, in the other vehicles in the convoy, except that in addition to killing just about everybody inside the nearly new Suburban, its rear door was opened and a visibly terrified man-the sole survivor-was pulled out over the rear seat and onto the road.

The second sergeant, now walking quickly, just shy of a trot, went to the man who had just been pulled out of the SUV. He gestured with the muzzle of his Heckler amp; Koch that the man was to walk toward the Suburban and the Ford pickup at the crest of the rise.

The sole survivor had almost reached the vehicles when he heard the familiar sound of Black Hawk rotor blades. He looked and saw that the noise was indeed coming from a UH-60, specifically from one painted in the color scheme of the Policia Federal.

The helo settled in for a landing. The pilot’s door opened, and a Policia Federal officer ran toward them.

“Close your mouth, Jim,” the man said. “You look like you’re catching flies.”

After a moment, the survivor said, “ Castillo? Charley Castillo?”

“In the flesh. Come on, buddy. Let’s go home.”

He started to propel him toward the open door of the Black Hawk.

Another man appeared. He was a fat man in civilian clothing.