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Authors: Covert Warriors

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BOOK: W. E. B. Griffin - Presidential Agent 07
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“Only by reputation,” she said.
“You know he’s one of us,” Yung said.
“I heard.”
“And now that you know that, Mr. Parker,” Yung said, “we’ll have to kill you.”
Oh, Jesus, here we go again!
Porky will go bananas.
“May I ask what’s going on here?” Parker asked. “What is this place?”
“Of course you can ask, but as Two-Gun just said, what you know can get you killed,” Delchamps said. He smiled, then added: “Well, let’s go get some lunch.”
In the house, Parker looked around. Plate-glass windows across the back wall offered a view of an enormous grassy area. There was a croquet field and a cabana with a grill beside an enormous in-ground swimming pool. Two of the Bouviers, their red tongues hanging and their stub tails wagging, were looking in through one of the plate-glass windows; the rest of the herd was chasing birds on the grass.
And Parker noted the residents: First he saw four elderly men, two in wheelchairs, three of whom looking roughly as old as Edgar Delchamps. There also was a very large—six-foot-two, 220-pound— and very black man wearing aviator sunglasses who appeared to be in his late thirties, and a woman who looked about sixty. She had a chrome walker next to her chair at a large dining table that was covered with food.
In the center of the table was a centerpiece: Two dinosaurs, each about two feet long, faced each other. There was a pink bow around the neck of one of them.
“I think everybody knows who Mr. Parker is,” Delchamps announced to the residents.
Everybody nodded.
“He wants to know what’s going on here,” Delchamps said, “what this place is. Can I tell him?”
“Is he a friend?” one of the men in a wheelchair asked.
“Roscoe vouches for him,” Delchamps said, “and Roscoe—in case you didn’t know—is one of us.”
“In that case, tell him.”
“Sure. Tell him.”
“Why not?”
The elderly lady added: “As long as he understands that if he runs at the mouth . . .”
Oh, no!
Danton thought.
Not the old woman, too!
“. . . we’ll have to kill him.”
Another of the men, about Delchamps’s age, pointed at the centerpiece of dinosaurs, and said: “That should make it quite obvious, Mr. Parker. This is where us old dinosaurs come to die.”
There were grunts, and then came what appeared to Parker and Danton to be a regular war of words among the residents.
“Oh, shit, there he goes again with that crap!”
“Jesus Christ, Mac, will you knock off with that come-to-die nonsense?”
“Speak for yourself, John Alden! You’ve always—”
“Let me have a shot at this!” Dianne Sanders interrupted. “Mr. Parker, everybody in this room—except those two and me—is retired from the Company.”
She pointed to the enormous black man and to a man who looked to be in his late forties.
“That’s Dick Miller and Tom, my husband. They used to run around the block with Charley Castillo and General McNab until the Army decided they were no longer able to play Rambo, and medically retired them. I was a cryptographer, and took my retirement, too. Then came the glory days of the Office of Organizational Analysis . . . you both know what that was?”
Parker and Danton nodded.
“Charley needed a safe house here, and OOA bought this. Then Uncle Remus—you know who he is?”
Roscoe Danton knew that Uncle Remus was the politically incorrect—and some suggested racist—name that only his close friends could call Chief Warrant Officer (5) Colin Leverette, U.S. Army, Retired.
Danton nodded.
Porky shook his head.
“He’s the guy who took Colonel Hamilton to the Fish Farm in the Congo,” Delchamps clarified.
“One of the better snake eaters,” Tom Sanders further clarified. “Dianne and I were in our happy, exciting retirement in Fayetteville, watching the mildew grow in the bathtub when Uncle Remus showed up and asked if we’d be interested in running this place. We were on the next plane up here.”
“Then we thought we’d be out of a job when OOA was broken up,” Dianne picked up. “But when Edgar said he needed a place to live now that he was retired, he moved in ‘as a temporary measure.’ ”
“And then the other dinosaurs started moving in, one by one,” the elderly lady offered. “We were scattered all around D.C. I was in the Silver Oaks Methodist Episcopal Ladies Retirement Community in Silver Spring. You can imagine how much I had in common with the ladies there.”
“So you’re also retired from the CIA?” Danton asked.
“Thirty-four years in the Clandestine Service,” she said with quiet pride.
“Dinosaurs?” Porky Parker asked.
“That’s what they call us at Langley,” the elderly lady said. “We still believe that the only good Communist is a dead Communist, so we’re dinosaurs to them.”
“And, so,” one of the men in a wheelchair said, “with the not inconsiderable help of Two-Gun, we formed Lorimer Manor, Inc., and bought this place from the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Trust. When one of Castillo’s Merry Outlaws needs to use a safe house—Edgar, Two-Gun, and Gimpy stayed here last night, for example—we send a bill to the LCBF Corporation.”
Gimpy,
Danton thought,
must be the big black guy in the aviator sunglasses.
“What’s the LCBF Corporation?” he asked.
“That’s who’s going to pay you your combat pay, Roscoe,” Delchamps said.
Porky Parker’s eyebrows rose at that.
“Think of it as our basic corporate structure,” Two-Gun amplified. “Providing complete financial services to our little community.”
“All right, David,” the elderly lady said, a little impatiently. “Now it’s your turn. What the hell happened at Langley this morning?”
 
 
“. . . And so the President told me he was accepting my resignation and to get off his goddamn helicopter, and then I ran into Roscoe, and he brought me here,” Porky Parker concluded.
“I said, and you all heard me,” one of the middle-aged men said, “that there was something phony about that failed microphone.”
“What is that sonofabitch up to?” the elderly lady asked softly.
“I have no idea,” Parker said. “My question is, what do I do now?”
“You stay out of sight,” Delchamps said. “I already told you that. Maybe go to Mexico with us. You’ve got your passport?”
“My official passport is in my briefcase with my laptop,” Parker said. “The last time I saw it was when I asked one of the Secret Service guys to watch it for me backstage in Auditorium Three.”
“I hoped you kissed it—
them . . .
the passport
and
laptop—good-bye,” Delchamps said.
“My regular passport is in my apartment,” Parker said.
“Outside of which members of the media can be counted on, sitting,” Roscoe said, “burning with desire to hear your version of your surprising and sudden departure from distinguished government service.”
Which will also screw up my exclusive interview with Porky.
There was a buzzing sound.
“Our master’s voice,” Dick Miller said as he took a CaseyBerry from his pocket and put it to his ear.
“How nice of you to call,” he went on. “I just put you on conference, Charley.”
Roscoe saw Delchamps and Yung quickly put their CaseyBerrys to their ears. He took out his own, found the CONF button, and pushed it.
“I didn’t call to chat, Gimpy,” Castillo’s voice announced. “I called hoping to hear that Edgar has Roscoe in the bag and that you’re about to go wheels-up. Better yet, that you’re already in the air.”
Danton made a face.
“Roscoe in the bag”?
What the hell does that mean?
“Ace, Roscoe is in the bag,” Delchamps said.
What the hell are they talking about?
“And he brought Mr. John David Parker with him,” Delchamps continued.
“What the hell is that all about?” Castillo said.
“Roscoe, would you be so kind as to tell our leader what the hell that’s all about?”
“The press is looking for him,” Danton said.
“Why?”
“Right about now, the President is going to announce he’s accepted his resignation,” Danton replied.
“Because of that fucked-up press conference?”
“Yes, but Porky didn’t fuck it up,” Danton said.
After a moment, Castillo replied, “Got it. And you are—what is it you say?—‘chasing the story.’ ”
“That’s right.”
“So what are you planning to do with Mr. Parker?”
“We’re trying to figure that out, Charley.”
“Is Mr. Parker also trying to evade the press, Roscoe, or do you have him in handcuffs?”
“He doesn’t want to see them, either.”
“Okay, so bring him down here,” Castillo said.
“What?”
“Bring him down here; we’ll work it out later,” Castillo said. “Got it, Edgar?”
“Jawohl, mein Führer!”
Delchamps barked.
“Spare me the sarcasm,” Castillo said. “Just call me when you’re wheels-up. I need Roscoe and the Mustang down here yesterday.”
He needs me? What the hell for?
And where’s “down here”?
“Jawohl, mein Führer,”
Delchamps repeated.
A moment later, Roscoe, seeing that everyone had taken their CaseyBerrys from their ears, turned his off.
“Where is ‘down here’?” Danton asked.
“Cozumel,” Yung replied.
Danton looked at him, and thought:
If he says “And now that you know that I’ll have to kill you,” I’ll throw this goddamn phone at him.
“And he wants me to go down there?” Danton asked incredulously.
Yung looked at Delchamps, and said: “Small problem. Mr. Parker doesn’t have his passport.”
“I don’t have my passport, either,” Danton said.
“Catch, Roscoe,” Delchamps said, and when Danton looked at him, Delchamps tossed him a passport.
“We’ve been through the ‘I don’t have my passport’ routine with you before,” Delchamps said.
“This was locked in my desk!”
“Yes, it was,” Delchamps said.
“What do I need my passport for?” Parker said. “I don’t want to go to Cozumel. I don’t even know where that is.”
“Not far from Cancún on the Yucatán Peninsula,” Yung furnished.
“What’s going on there?” Parker asked.
“Your call, Mr. Parker,” Delchamps said. “We’ll drop you anywhere you want on our way to the airport.”
“John,” Danton suggested, reasonably, “going to Cozumel would get you out of sight for a couple of days.”
Parker considered that for a moment and then shrugged.
“Why not?” he said finally. “I don’t have any other clever ideas at the moment.”
Danton nodded, and thought,
Great! For a couple of days, I’ll have you all to myself.
“Back to Mr. Parker’s passport problem,” Yung said.
“Where do you live, Mr. Parker?” the elderly lady asked.
“The Verizon, it’s at 777 Seventh, Northwest—”
“I know where it is,” she said. “No problem, Two-Gun. You take your friends to BWI. By the time Gimpy has the rubber bands on the Citation wound up, we’ll meet you with Mr. Parker’s passport and a quick change of linen.”
“How are you going to get into my apartment? Past the press?”
“Getting into your apartment would be easier, Mr. Parker, if you gave me the keys,” she said. “As far as the press is concerned, it’s been my experience that they pay very little attention to little old ladies who use a walker, especially little old ladies being helped into a building by a kindly member of the clergy—and accompanied by a snarling hundred-twenty-pound dog.”
“Where are you going to get the kindly clergyman?” Roscoe asked.
Tom Sanders stood.
He motioned with his right hand to form a cross, then said, “Bless you, my children. Go and sin no more. And just as soon as I get my clerical collar on and load one of the dogs into a Yukon, we can get this show on the road.”
[THREE]
The Tahitian Suite
Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort
Cozumel, Mexico
1710 12 April 2007
 
 
Vic D���Alessandro, whose barrel chest and upper arms strained his short-sleeved floral-print Hawaiian shirt, walked onto the balcony of the penthouse suite and announced, “Jesus, it must be nice to be rich!”
“It’s way ahead of whatever’s in second place, Vic,” Fernando Lopez said agreeably. “Write that down.”
Lopez, a very large man with a dark complexion, was sprawled on a chaise longue with a bottle of Dos Equis on his chest. He raised his right arm over his head without turning, and offered his hand. D’Alessandro walked to him and shook it.
Castillo got off his chaise longue and walked to D’Alessandro. They wordlessly embraced. Max sat on his haunches and thrust his paw repeatedly at D’Alessandro until D’Alessandro shook it. Lester Bradley stood behind Castillo.
“Hey, Dead Eye,” D’Alessandro said.
“It’s good to see you, sir,” Bradley said.
Aleksandr Pevsner, Tom Barlow, and Stefan Koussevitzky, sitting on chaise longues in the shade of a striped awning, stood. D’Alessandro nodded to them, then went over and offered his hand.
“Good to see you, Mr. Pevsner,” D’Alessandro said.
“And you, Mr. D’Alessandro,” Pevsner replied. “This is our friend Stefan Koussevitzky.”
“You can be nice to Stefan, Vic,” Castillo called. “You guys went to different snake-eating schools.”
“I know you by reputation, Mr. D’Alessandro,” Koussevitzky said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“You’re the guy who Sweaty shot on that island, right? And call me Vic.”
Koussevitzky smiled and nodded.
“I was one of them. She also shot General Sirinov in the foot. Fortunately, mine was a minor flesh wound in the leg with a thirty-two.”
BOOK: W. E. B. Griffin - Presidential Agent 07
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