Hazardous Duty pa-8 Read online

  3-UNDERSIGNED AND VDA BELIEVE CGC AMENABLE TO CALL TO EXTENDED HAZARDOUS DUTY IF HIS PHYSICAL CONDITION PERMITS.

  NAYLOR, LTC

  TOP SECRET

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me,” Colonel Freedman said, as Naylor waited for the machine to report the message had been received and decoded.

  “I suppose not,” Naylor said.

  The message wasn’t supposed to make a lot of sense to anyone except the President. Actually, it was intended to pacify the President, by deceiving him into thinking his orders to get Castillo on extended hazardous duty were being executed.

  “Who is CGC? A person, presumably.”

  “Sir, you’re not cleared for that information.”

  Freedman was annoyed but tried hard not to let it show.

  “I understand,” he said. “I’m not asking for classified information I shouldn’t have—”

  “It’s a question of Need to Know, sir.”

  “What I’m curious about, Colonel, and I don’t think it gets into a classified area, is why send the message at all? I mean, we had General McFadden on the phone. Presumably he knows what this is all about and—”

  “I could have just given him the essence of it, paraphrased a bit?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Two reasons, sir. Because this is going to the President, and when you’re dealing with POTUS you go by the book. And also because General McFadden does not know what this is all about, just that I am acting pursuant to a VOCICCENCOM.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “And now I have to get out of here, sir. I have something else to do that can’t wait.”

  “I understand. I’ll walk you out.”

  “I really appreciate your assistance, sir.”

  “Not at all. Glad that I could be of service.”

  When Naylor had passed through the door of the embassy, the Marine sergeant asked, “Sir, what the hell was that all about?”

  “You’re not cleared for information at that level, Sergeant,” Colonel Freedman replied. “And you should know better than to ask.”

  Major Kiril Koshkov was waiting with the Mercedes SUV when Lieutenant Colonel Naylor came through the gate in the embassy fence.

  Colonel Freedman watched until Naylor got in the Mercedes and it drove off. Then he looked at his watch and said, “Damn, I’m going to be late,” and hurried to his embassy car (actually a black GMC Yukon armored with ballistic steel) and told the driver to take him to the embassy of the Republic of Botswana.

  The Botswanese really knew how to throw a cocktail party.

  Aleksandr Pevsner’s Mercedes SUV took Naylor and Koshkov back to the airport, where they fired up Castillo’s Mustang and flew back to Bariloche.

  [FOUR]

  Office of the Director

  The Central Intelligence Agency

  Langley, Virginia

  1910 7 June 2007

  As A. Franklin Lammelle, the CIA director, removed a dart from the right ear of the photograph of Vladimir Putin he used as a target and was in the process of removing a second from Mr. Putin’s nose, his CaseyBerry buzzed.

  He shoved the dart back into Putin’s left nostril, took the CaseyBerry from his shirt pocket, looked to see who was calling, and then inquired, “And how may the CIA be of service to the Queen of Foggy Bottom?”

  Natalie Cohen, the United States secretary of State, got right to the point.

  “I have an URGENT from Buenos Aires,” she said.

  “Junior called to say he was at the embassy,” Lammelle replied.

  “What do I do with it?”

  “Unless memory fails, Madam Secretary, we were agreed that you would now dispatch a member of your security staff to make the other addressees familiar with it. ‘Eyes Only’ means you can’t send them a copy as it is one of those quote Duplication Forbidden end quote documents.”

  “You’re an ‘other addressee,’ Frank.”

  “Well, you can skip me. I know what it says. I wrote it.”

  “And Truman Ellsworth is in Budapest, looking for Castillo. What do I do about him?”

  “I’ve given that some thought, as a matter of fact. When you see the President, you can tell him where ol’ Truman is. One more proof that his faithful staff is carrying out his orders.”

  “Faithfully carrying out his orders is not what we’re doing, Frank, and you know it.”

  “Consider the alternative, Natalie.”

  She didn’t respond to that directly. “And what do I do with General Naylor?”

  “If the President convenes another meeting, you can show the message to General Naylor when he shows up.”

  “And what do I do if I call the White House and he is available?”

  “The last I heard was that Senator Foghorn and the other Good Ol’ Boys have already shown up at the White House for a little white lightning and two-bit-limit poker. I don’t think he will be available tonight.”

  “And what if he decides to take Senator Fog… Forman into his confidence about this?”

  “I think that’s unlikely; he knows what a loud mouth Forman has. But we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “I’m very nervous about this whole thing.”

  “Well, so am I. That’s why I’m paid the big bucks. You have to have nerves of steel to be the DCI.”

  “Oh, God!” she said, and broke the connection.

  He immediately called her back.

  “What?”

  “Our ‘keep me posted’ deal is still in place, right?”

  “That’s why I’m paid the big bucks, Frank. Your word has to be good when you’re sec State.”

  [FIVE]

  1920 7 June 2007

  “Mrs. Clendennen’s personal extension.”

  “This is Natalie Cohen. Is the First Lady available?”

  “One moment, please.”

  “Hey, sweetie! How are you?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Clendennen—”

  “Natalie, honey, I keep telling you and telling you that you can call me Belinda-Sue.”

  “Belinda-Sue, that’s very kind of you.”

  “Don’t be silly. We girls have to stick together, particularly since there are so few of us around here. What can I do for you, honey?”

  “Well, I know the President would like to hear they’ve found Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, but when I called just now, they said he was in conference, and I wondered if you thought I should insist on talking to him, or whether telling him can wait until the morning.”

  “Just between us, honey, what he’s doing is playing pinochle in Lincoln’s bedroom with the boys from Buildings, Bridges, and Monuments.”

  “Excuse me? With whom?”

  “When Zeke was in the House, he was co-chairman — with Senator Forman — of the Joint Select Committee on Buildings, Bridges, and Monuments. You know, when one of them loses an election and has to go home, they name a building or a bridge after him. Or put up a statue, a monument they call it, if his hometown allows it. Zeke said it’s the only really bipartisan committee in Congress. No arguments, no gridlock. Everybody gets one of the three.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten,” the secretary said.

  “Just between us girls, honey, he’s likely to be a little hungover tomorrow, so keep that in mind when you come in the morning.”

  “You think it would be best if I came to the White House in the morning?”

  “I’ll call the chief of staff to put you on the list as Number One. That’s the eight-thirty slot.”

  “Thank you, Belinda-Sue.”

  “My pleasure, honey,” the First Lady said. And then went on, “Say, I just thought, the next time he gets together with those bums, I’ll give you a ring, and you can come over and we’ll hoist a few belts ourselves. What’s gander for the goose, as they say.”

  “That would be very nice, Belinda-Sue,” the secretary said.

  [SIX]

  The Oval Office

  The W
hite House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  0825 8 June 2007

  President Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen, followed by Supervisory Secret Service Agent Robert J. Mulligan, walked into the Oval Office. The President’s secretary and Presidental Spokesman Robin Hoboken, who stood waiting, watched as Mulligan pulled out the chair behind the presidential desk and the President sat down.

  Mulligan went to the wall beside the windows looking out into the Rose Garden and leaned on it.

  The President jabbed his finger in the direction of the coffee service on a side table, indicating he could use a cup, and said, “And put a little Hair of the Dog in it.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” his secretary said.

  “No,” the President said, pointing at Hoboken. “Let Whatsisname here do that. I need a confidential word with him. You go file something or something.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” his secretary said, and left the office.

  Robin Hoboken went to the side table and poured a cup of coffee three-quarters full. Then he went to a bookcase and took from behind a book a large white medicine bottle labeled “Take Two Ounces Orally at First Sign of Catarrh Attack.”

  He added two ounces of the palliative to the President’s coffee cup and then presented the cup and its saucer to the President.

  The President picked up the cup with both hands and took a healthy swallow.

  He did not say “Thank you.”

  “Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken said, “your eight-thirty is Senator Forman. Is there anything I should know?”

  “Wrong,” the President said. “For two reasons. One, Mulligan had to carry ol’ Foggy out of here last night and load him in his car, and the only place the senator’s going to be at eight-thirty is in bed. Two, the First Lady got me out of bed by telling me the secretary of State called her last night to tell her we’ve got a message saying they found Colonel Castillo, and Mrs. Clendennen told her to deliver it this morning.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “I want you here for that. Don’t say anything, just listen. Sometimes, when I’m suffering from a catarrh attack — and this one’s a doozy — my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  “I understand, Mr. President.”

  “I think I’ll have another little touch of that catarrh elixir, Robin,” the President said. “Why don’t you pour a little in a fresh coffee cup before you get ol’ Natalie in here? That way she wouldn’t see the bottle.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.”

  “Let her in, Mulligan,” the President ordered.

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” Secretary of State Cohen said as she walked into the Oval Office.

  “What’s so important that you told the First Lady you wanted to see me first thing this morning?”

  “Actually, Mr. President, I wanted to see you — or at least talk to you — last night. When I spoke with Mrs. Clendennen she set up this appointment for me.”

  “Well, what have you got?”

  Cohen handed him the message.

  He read it.

  “What’s it mean?” he asked.

  “Apparently Colonel Naylor has found Colonel Castillo.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t he a lieutenant colonel?”

  “You’re correct, Mr. President. Castillo is a lieutenant colonel, retired.”

  “And LTC means lieutenant colonel, too, right? I thought I told General Naylor to go down there and look for Lieutenant Colonel Castillo. So how come LTC Naylor went?”

  “That was my decision, sir. I felt that someone in the press would find out if General Naylor went down there—”

  “Somebody like Roscoe J. Danton?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. Somebody like Mr. Danton.”

  “Good thinking, Madam Secretary. The less anybody knows about this the better, and if Danton, that sonofabitch, got wind of it…”

  “That was my thinking, Mr. President.”

  “… it would be all over Wolf News and in every goddamned newspaper in the country,” the President finished.

  “Yes, sir,” the secretary of State said.

  “It says on here No Duplication, but it also says Make Available to Lammelle, Ellsworth, and Whatsisname, the secretary of Defense. God, the Military Mind! How are you going to do that?”

  “After I spoke with the First Lady, Mr. President, I showed the message to Secretary Beiderman and DCI Lammelle. And when I leave here, I will send a State Department security officer to Tampa to show it to General Naylor. And with your permission, sir, I will get in contact with Mr. Ellsworth, telling him to return. You will recall you sent him to Budapest. When he comes back, I’ll show the message to him.”

  “And what we do now is wait until we see how this face-to-face meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Castillo comes off, right?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. As I read the message, that may take place late this afternoon or early tomorrow morning. We should know the results within an hour or two after that.”

  “And you’ll bring me the results as quickly as you brought this message, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “Well, that’s it, then. Thank you, Madam Secretary. Mulligan, show the secretary to her car.”

  Ten seconds after the door closed on Mulligan and Cohen, the President asked, “Robin, how the hell did that stupid woman ever get to be secretary of State?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken confessed.

  “All she had to do was get on the goddamn telephone to General Naylor and read the goddamn message to him. What she’s going to do is send one of her security people down to Tampa with the message. She may even fly him down there in an Air Force jet, just so he can say, ‘Take a quick look at this, General Naylor.’ How much is that going to cost the poor taxpayer?”

  Robin Hoboken confessed, “I don’t know exactly, Mr. President. But you can bet a pretty penny.”

  “I am surrounded by idiots and cretins, Robin.”

  “‘Cretins,’ sir?”

  “A cretin is a high-level moron. You didn’t know that?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t. But I will from here on.”

  “On the other hand, there’s always a silver lining, as Belinda-Sue is always saying.”

  “Silver lining, sir?”

  “I’ve been thinking out of the box again, Robin.”

  “You have, sir?”

  “The more I think of this idea of mine of having Castillo look into the piracy and drug problems, the more I like it. Even if Castillo doesn’t come up with something useful — and he even might; strange things happen — if the word gets out that what I’ve done is tell a brilliant intelligence officer to look into the problem and make recommendations, I don’t think that would adversely affect my reelection campaign, do you?”

  “You’re going to go on TV, sir? Or hold a press conference and make an announcement?”

  “If I held a press conference, not only would it make me look immodest but some bastard would ask me questions I don’t want to answer. Christ, you should know that, you’re the presidential spokesman and nobody believes anything you say either.

  “What I’m doing is going to have to reach the American people via the press who are going to discover what I’m doing.”

  “How are you going to arrange that?”

  “Roscoe J. Danton,” the President said.

  “He hates you, sir.”

  “Yeah, I know. And everybody knows he hates me. That’s why people will believe him.”

  The President looked impatiently around the room.

  “Where the hell is Mulligan? He’s never around when I need him. How the hell long does it take to load one pint-sized female into her car?”

  “Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken replied thoughtfully, “I would estimate about four minutes — no longer than five, unless Special Agent Mulligan encountered an unexpected problem.”

  “Tell me,
my fine-feathered friend, when you spent all those years at the Missouri School of Journalism, or later when you were covering women’s lacrosse for Time magazine, did the subject of rhetorical questions ever come up?”

  Mr. Hoboken opened his mouth so that he could reply in the affirmative and define “rhetorical question” for the President’s edification. But before a sound slipped out Supervisory Special Agent Mulligan came into the Oval Office.

  “Saddle up, Mulligan, it’s Round-Up time,” the President said.

  PART V

  [ONE]

  The Watergate Apartments

  2639 I Street, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  0935 8 June 2007

  In the parking garage, Roscoe J. Danton stepped off the elevator and, his heart full of pleasant anticipation for what was shortly to follow, walked briskly toward his automobile.

  First, just as soon as he unlocked the door and got in, his nostrils would be assailed by the smell of the fine leather in his new 2007 Jaguar XJR, a present to himself the day after he deposited his million-dollar-after-taxes bonus from the LCBF Corporation. Next, he would have the pleasure of driving this automotive masterpiece on a beautiful spring day across town to the Old Ebbitt Grill, where he would partake of his regular breakfast of Chesapeake Bay eggs Benedict (succulent lumps of blue crab meat in place of the usual leathery Canadian bacon served by lesser establishments) washed down with one — or perhaps two — Bloody Marys.

  None of this was to happen.

  Just as he was putting the key in the door of his automobile, a familiar voice spoke to him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Danton. And how are you, sir, on this fine spring morning?”

  Roscoe turned and saw Supervisory Special Agent Robert J. Mulligan of the Secret Service, head of President Clendennen’s security detail.

  “What can I do for you, Mulligan?” Roscoe asked.

  “Actually, sir, this is a question of what Mr. Robin Hoboken can do for you.”

  “Like what, for instance?”