W. Griffin - By Order of the President

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"For the sake of argument, if you weren't having dinner with Major Miller when you said you were that would be dishonest, wouldn't you say? A lie?"

"You're going to take the word of an incompetent Army officer who never should have been given an assignment like that in the first place over mine? Well, let's see what the appeals board has to say about that!"

She got out of the armchair and started for the door.

"Before you start the appeals process, Mrs. Wilson, I think you'd better take a look at something I have."

Patricia Wilson stopped and turned.

"What is it?"

Mrs. Leonard walked behind the DCI's desk, opened a drawer, and came out with a manila folder. She took an eight-by-ten-inch photograph from the folder and held it out to Patricia Wilson.

"You ever see this man before?" Mary Leonard asked.

"Yes, I have," she said.

"And who is he?"

"He's a German journalist. His name is Grossinger, Gossinger, something like that. He works for a small newspaper in Germany. Or so he said. I ordered Major Miller to check him out."

"Was that before or after you went to bed with him? With this man?"

"What did you say?"

"I said, did you tell Major Miller to check him out before or after you went to bed with this man?"

"I don't believe this," Patricia Wilson said. "I just don't believe it. This man actually said I went to bed with him? And you believe him?"

Mary Leonard nodded. "Yes, he did. And I believe him. So does the

"Why-not admitting it for a minute, of course-would he say something like that?"

"Well, he probably decided that taking foreign journalists to bed after the most brief of associations was dangerous behavior for a regional director of the CIA-a married woman-and that the agency ought to know about it."

Patricia Wilson glowered at Mary Leonard.

"Your friend is not a German journalist, Mrs. Wilson," Mary Leonard said.

"He's an American, an intelligence officer working directly under the president to find flaws in the Intel community. And he found one.

She locked eyes with her and let that sink in.

"I think this conversation is over, Mrs. Wilson, don't you?" Mary Leonard asked.

Patricia Wilson stalked angrily out of the DCI's office.

[ONE]

Aboard Learjet 45X N5075L

23.01 degrees North Latitude

88.01 degrees West Longitude

Over the Gulf of Mexico

0930 10 June 2005

"I think from here on in, I better stop calling you colonel," Fernando said to Colonel J. D. Torine, USAF, "and you start playing the role of pilot-for-hire. Okay with you?"

"Yeah, sure. Call me 'Jake.' "

"And when we're dealing with Mexican customs and immigration, I think it would best if you called me 'Mr. Lopez' and Charley 'Mr. Castillo.' "

"Sure," Torine said and smiled. "You seem to have a feeling for this line of work, Mr. Lopez."

"The way it is, Jake, is that Five-Oh-Seven-Five has unlimited, frequent, unscheduled permission to enter Mexican airspace. Usually, our destination is Mexico City, Oaxaca, or Bahias de Huatulco, but I don't think alarm bells are going to go off when somebody reads our flight plan to Cozumel."

He saw the look of curiosity on Torine's face and responded to it. "The family has a ranch near Bahias de Huatulco. Used to be cattle, but now it's mostly grapefruit."

"I didn't think Americans could own property in Mexico," Torine said, and then quickly added, "I don't mean to pry."

"You goddamned yankees can't own land down here," Fernando explained. "Which is why my mother happened to be in Mexico when I was born. That made me a Mexican by birth."

"Dual citizenship?"

Fernando nodded and said, "So was our grandmother south of the border when Charley's father came along. Charley screwed up the system when he got himself born in Germany, but two of my kids are also bona fide Mexicanos. We won't tell them that until we have to."

Torine shook his head, smiling in wonder. "Why not?"

"It causes identity problems," Fernando said, chuckling. "And, sometimes, official ones. The Counterintelligence Corps shit a brick when they found out that Lieutenant F. Lopez of the 1st Armored Division held Mexican citizenship. For a couple of days, it looked like they were going to send me home from Desert One in handcuffs."

"What happened?"

"Our senator told the secretary of the Army whose side the Lopezes were on at the Alamo," Fernando said, chuckling. "And that Cousin Charley was a West Pointer, and his father-my uncle Jorge-had won the Medal of Honor in Vietnam, and that he didn't see any problems about wondering where our loyalties lay."

"General McNab told me about Charley's father," Torine said.

"He bought the farm before Charley and I were born," Fernando said, "but he was always a big presence around the family. Our grandfather hung his picture-and the medal, in a shadow box-in his office. It's still there. We knew all about him. He was right up there with Manuel Lopez and Guillermo de Castillo."

"Who were?"

"They bought the farm at the Alamo," Fernando said, and then went on, "Jake, why don't you go back in the cabin and get out of the flight suit? And wake up Sleeping Beauty? I want to get our little act for Mexican customs and immigration straight with him."

Torine unfastened his harness and started to get out of the copilot's seat.

"Merida area control," Fernando said into his microphone, "this is Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five. I'm at flight level three-zero, indicating five hundred knots on a heading of two-zero-niner. International, direct Cozumel. Estimating Cozumel in ten minutes. Request approach and landing to Cozumel. We will require customs and immigration service on landing."

"The only problem we have is if customs wants a look at Sergeant Sherman's suitcase," Charley said. "How do we explain the radio?"

"They might not want to," Fernando said. "They have the flight plan; they'll know we came from the States. People usually don't try to smuggle things into Mexico. And if they seem to be getting curious, you have that envelope I gave you?"

"Envelope?" Torine asked.

"The cash-stuffed envelope, Jake. It usually makes Mexican customs officers very trusting," Fernando said.

[TWO]

Office of the Commanding General

United States Central Command

MacDill Air Force Base

Tampa, Florida

0935 10 June 2005

When Sergeant Major Wes Suggins had gone into the office of the CentCom commander, General Allan Naylor, USA, to tell him that Frederick K. Beiderman, the secretary of defense, was on the secure line, Naylor, as he walked quickly to the phone booth, had signaled for Suggins to stay, which Suggins correctly interpreted to mean he was supposed to listen to as much of the conversation as he could overhear.

Suggins complied by leaning on the doorjamb of the phone booth while Naylor was on the horn, and Naylor held the handset as far from his ear as he could and still hear the secretary.

"Yes, Mr. Secretary, I'm sure we can handle this, and I will get back to you with how it's going," Naylor said, ending the conversation and thoughtfully replacing the handset in its cradle.

He looked at Suggins.

"I'm surprised that it took them this long to find it," Sergeant Major Suggins said, "not that it took this long after they did decide to tell us to neutralize it."

Naylor grunted.

"Is everybody here, Wes?"

"Yes, sir. I even mentioned to General McFadden, after we got the 'We found it' message, that you would probably want to see him shortly. He was on his way to the golf course."

"A sound mind in a healthy body, Sergeant Major," Naylor said. "Round 'em up."

"Yes, sir."