Black Ops

“The President’s private line,” an executive secretary to the President answered.

Private line?

The one in what he calls his working office?

“Colonel Castillo for the President, please.”

“Colonel, the President is in a do-not-disturb conference in the Oval Office. If you will kindly give me a second—”

“Can you tell me with whom?”

There was a long pause, then:

“The secretary of State, Ambassador Montvale, and the directors of the CIA and the FBI. However, the President’s given special instructions should someone call about you, sir.”

There was another long pause, then Castillo heard the President’s voice snap, “Yes, what is it?”

“Are you free to speak with Colonel Castillo, Mr. President?”

“Oh, am I ever. Are you on here, Castillo?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Hang on a minute. I’m going to the little office.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Castillo quickly formed a mental picture of what was happening. The President of the United States was rising from his desk in the Oval Office—or from an armchair or a couch—and marching into the smaller office just off the Oval Office, officially known as “the President’s working office,” leaving behind him Secretary of State Natalie Cohen, FBI Director Mark Schmidt, Director of Central Intelligence John Powell, and Director of National Intelligence Charles W. Montvale, all of whom had just come to the same conclusion: that the President didn’t want any one of them to hear what he was going to say to a lowly lieutenant colonel, and that they were going to be furious to varying degrees, none of them minor.

“Okay, Charley, I’m in here.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I think you’d agree that Mark Schmidt is not given to colorful speech,” the President said.

“Sir?”

“He just came up with something very colorful. He said, ‘As far as out-of-control loose-cannons rolling around are concerned, Castillo by comparison makes Oliver North look like the Rock of Gibraltar.’ ”

The President let that sink in.

“Of course, that may be because he is just a little humiliated that the FBI can’t find you or those two Russians you stole from the CIA.”

Castillo didn’t reply.

“Why did you steal those defectors from the CIA, Charley?”

“Sir, the CIA never had them.”

“Then there is another side to this horror story I have just heard?”

“Yes, sir, there is.”

“Did you tell the DCI that you refused to turn over the stolen Russians to him?”

“Sir, they were not stolen. I told him that the Russians did not wish to turn themselves over to the CIA.”

“And also that the CIA was nothing more than a very few very good people, or words to that effect, trying to stay afloat in a sea of left-wing bureaucrats?”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid I did.”

“What are you doing in Las Vegas?”

“Sir, I’m not in Las Vegas.”

“Charles Montvale says you are.”

“Ambassador Montvale has been wrong before, too, sir.”

“Right now, Charley, you are not in a position where you can afford sarcasm.”

“Yes, sir. No offense intended. I actually meant it as a statement of fact. Sorry, sir.”

The President sighed. “Charley, I have to ask this: Did you personally assassinate or did you set up the assassination of a Russian in Vienna in circumstances designed to make it appear the CIA station chief was the villain?”

“I learned of that, sir, only after it happened.”

“Frankly, I didn’t believe that one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, Charley, here it is. You’ve earned the right to tell me your side of the incredible things I have been hearing that you have been doing. The question is how to do that? Where are you?”

“In Texas, sir.”

“In about an hour, I’m going to Philadelphia. Two speeches, one tonight and one tomorrow at lunch. If you can give me a more precise location than ‘Texas,’ I’ll send a plane to pick you up. I can give you half an hour tomorrow morning. Say, at nine. The Four Seasons Hotel.”

“Sir, I’m in Midland, Texas. On my ranch.”

“Is that where you’ll go after you retire?”

“Possibly, sir. Sir, you don’t have to send a plane. I have one.”

“I have to ask this, too: You’re not thinking of getting on your plane and flying off to, say, Argentina, are you?”

“No, Mr. President, I’m not. I’ll see you in Philadelphia tomorrow morning.”

“And once more, probably proving that there is such a thing as too much loyalty downward, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

There was a click.

Castillo, in deep thought, stared wordlessly at the handset.

“Colonel?” Sexy Susan said. “Colonel . . . ?”

“Disaster time,” Castillo announced five minutes later. “I just promised the President I would report to him at nine tomorrow morning in Philadelphia. I also told him where I am.

“Priority one is keeping Sweaty and Dmitri out of the hands of the CIA.”

He looked at Casey. “I need a really big favor, Aloysius.”

“I’ll take care of them, Charley.”

“I’ll need you to fly them to Cozumel . . .”

“I’ll take care of them, Charley,” Casey repeated.

“ . . . as soon as possible.”

Casey turned to the AFC. “Casey. Ellwood Doudt.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” Doudt answered almost immediately.

“Pick me up an hour ago.”

“Roger that. On our way, sir.”

“Casey out.” He looked at Castillo. “Soon enough, Charley?”

“Thank you.”

“Why don’t I go with you, Carlos?” Dmitri Berezovsky asked.

“I am going with you,” Svetlana announced.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Castillo said. “For one thing, they wouldn’t let either of you get near the President. For another, even if I could get you in to see him, you’d be Russian embezzlers facing Montvale and the DCI, and they both are convinced you’re liars.

“Jack will go with you,” Castillo went on. “Les, I’d like you to go with me, if you’re willing. And you, too, Two-Gun. Les to work the radios, Two-Gun to explain the money trail in his report if I can get the President to listen.”

“Sure,” Yung said.

“Yes, sir,” Bradley said.

“Jack, as soon as you can,” Castillo went on, “get on the horn to the Pilar safe house. Have someone there get in touch with Aleksandr, give him a heads-up that Dmitri and Svetlana are headed back to his Cozumel resort.