“No, sir. We are not. Or any of the alphabet agencies, so called.”
“I will be damned,” McNab said.
Castillo was surprised McNab had not lost his temper.
“Sir, the way it works: I call a certain number in New York City and tell them I need to talk. They call back, often immediately, always within an hour or so, and direct me to a secure telephone. Would you like me to commence that process, sir?”
McNab gave the subject twenty seconds of thought.
“You are a serving officer, correct?”
“Yes, sir, I am. Actually, I’m Class of ’83 at the Academy, General.”
“Well, then as soon as we can find the time, you and me and Barefoot Boy there can get together and sing ‘Army Blue.’ But right now what you’re going to do, Colonel, is listen to what I have to say to these people.
“Understand, this is simply to bring you up to speed on what’s going on here. You are specifically forbidden to relay any of this to these mysterious people you seem to be associated with. I want you to have what you hear in your mind when you get them on the horn. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then please sit down, have a doughnut and a cup of coffee, and pay close attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Surprising me not at all, ladies and gentlemen,” McNab then announced, “as the increased flood of blood to my brain derived from my morning jog caused that organ to shift out of low gear, I realized that there were certain solutions to our problems that had not occurred to me last night.
“The problem of getting Colonel Castillo and the Barlows to the sandy beaches of Cozumel past the vigilant eyes of the FBI and the Border Patrol no longer exists, as there is no good reason, thanks to the blessed Aloysius Francis Casey’s generosity, for them to go there. Colonel Castillo, if I’m wrong thinking that you can control this operation from anywhere—say, your farm in Midland—please be good enough to explain why I err.”
“I could control it from there, sir. I’d prefer, though—”
“I didn’t ask what you would prefer,” McNab cut him off. “Now, since Major Porter has confirmed that your Gulfstream is in fact being surveilled by what we strongly suspect are minions of the FBI, the question then becomes: ‘How do we get Barefoot and his Friends to the farm in Texas without the FBI knowing?’ as they would if we used the Gulfstream or commercial aircraft.
“And again, as I jogged happily down the beach while others unnamed enjoyed a leisurely morning repast, the answer came to me. Then, the moment I came out of the shower, I communicated—using the AFC, of course —with Colonel Jacob Torine.”
McNab looked at Colonel Hamilton. “We consider Colonel Torine, although he is USAF, as one of us.”
Hamilton nodded.
McNab went on: “Colonel Torine, as he frequently does, agreed with both my analysis of a problem and the solution thereof. As we speak, Colonel Torine is either at, or will soon be at, Baltimore/Washington International Airport, where he will sign the dry lease for a month of a Learjet aircraft from Signature Flight Support, Inc., to the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund, of which he is a director.
“As soon as that is done, the Lear will be flown here to the Pensacola Regional Airport by Captain Richard M. Sparkman, USAF—and parked. While, technically, two pilots are required to fly the Lear, it can be flown by one good pilot.
“Captain Sparkman, if I had to say this, will be in civilian clothing and flying as a civilian pilot. He will go to the passenger lounge, where he will be met by Major Dick Miller, who will also be in civilian clothing, and Mr. and Mrs. Jack Britton. Sparkman will file a flight plan to the Northeast Airport in the City of Brotherly Love for the Gulfstream. The Gulfstream requires two pilots, hence Miller.
“It is possible that this may elude the attention of the FBI. But in the event it does not, their investigation will cleverly learn that shortly after a pilot appeared with an authorization from the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund to take possession of their G-III aircraft, three black people, one of them a pilot, having earlier arrived by taxicab from the Hilton Garden Inn—which is right down the beach from here—then got in the G-III and took off on a flight plan to Philadelphia.
“Having cleverly deduced that the object of their ‘locate but do not detain’ order was not among the trio who boarded the G-III—Colonel Castillo would’ve had to acquire one helluva dark tan during his short visit to the beach —they then will theorize that he either sneaked aboard the airplane while they weren’t looking, or that he left the area by other means, such as an automobile.
“They will probably cover all their bases by having co-workers waiting at the airport in Philly. What those people will see will be Mr. and Mrs. Britton getting off the airplane and being met by Philadelphia police officers. Mr. and Mrs. Britton then will be taken to the Four Seasons Hotel—their home is
“The Gulfstream will then fly to BWI, where it will be turned over to Signature Flight Support, Inc., for necessary maintenance.
“The more astute among you will have noticed that this series of events leaves Mr. Britton in Philadelphia, where he will see what he can learn from the African-American Lunatics about the chemical laboratory in the Congo. And it leaves Captain Sparkman and Major Miller in Washington, where Miller can take over for Colonel Torine, who will be traveling.”
McNab stopped and looked at Miller.
“Surely, Major, after you went and got yourself shot up in The Desert, you didn’t think you were going to be running around the Congo bush with Phineas and Uncle Remus, did you?”
He turned to Colonel Hamilton.
“The big one is Uncle Remus, Colonel, and the ugly one Phineas DeWitt.” He pointed. “Counting them, that’s two of us who know anything about that part of Africa or have ever been there. Now you make it three.”
“As a matter of fact, sir,” Hamilton said, “I remember seeing Mr. DeWitt. At the Hotel du Lac in Bujumbura, Mr. DeWitt?”
“Yes, sir,” DeWitt said. “I stayed there a lot. But I don’t remember you.”
“I was trying very hard to pass myself off as a Tutsi,” Hamilton said.
“That made two of us, sir. I didn’t speak Kinyarwanda, so I tried to keep my mouth shut.”
“General,” Hamilton said, “I’m sure that Mr. DeWitt knows as much about that area as I do, and I am therefore . . .”
“Wondering why I need you? Indulge me a little longer, please, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir. You said something about a chemical—”
“What I politely asked you to do, Colonel, was to indulge me a little longer.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, General.”
“So we have Britton in Philadelphia, Miller in Washington, and Colonel Castillo—and the Lear—here in Pensacola. By nightfall, I suspect the FBI will have more important things to do than hang around the Pensacola airport hoping for a glance at you. The Gulfstream, they will probably have learned, is in Baltimore. But, as I have been wont to say, people in our business can never have too much in the way of dark nights. So, Charley, wait until dark before you and go out to the airport with the Barlows, Corporal Bradley, and Jack Davidson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Two questions. Are you going to have enough security? And can you land at your farm in the dark?”
Castillo glanced at Davidson. “As you know, sir, I’ve always had to worry a little about Jack, but as long as I have Corporal Bradley, we’ll be all right.”
Castillo got chuckles from a few. Davidson gave him the finger.
“I’ll call somebody—my cousin Fernando, most likely—and have him have somebody light the strip. Worst scenario, I’d have to go into Midland. Lears in Midland go as unnoticed as Hatteras and Bertrams in Lauderdale. Not a problem.”
“That brings us to these two,” McNab said, nodding at Edgar Delchamps and Alex Darby. “Your call, Charley; who goes where?”
