W. E. B. Griffin - Presidential Agent 07 (14 page)

“Dmitri will stay here in the Grand Cozumel. My instructions to the staff are that he speaks with my voice. You and Svetlana will go to San Antonio to satisfy yourself about your grandmother’s security.”

Pevsner met Castillo’s eyes, and added: “Is that about it?”

“Two things, Alek. I don’t care what you told your staff about Tom. He and everybody else are to understand that I’m calling the shots in Mexico. Is that understood?”

“Dmitri,” Pevsner said, “is that satisfactory to you?”

“Perfectly,” Berezovsky replied. “But I wonder about you. You’re not used to asking anybody for permission to do anything.”

“I have given my word,” Pevsner said.

“That’s good enough for me,” Castillo said. “The agreement is that nobody takes any action—except in self-defense—until it is discussed and agreed to by Alek, Edgar, Dmitri, and me. And we’re all agreed, right, that that applies to snatching Pavel Koslov?”

“You know I don’t agree with that,” Sweaty said angrily. “We should grab him while we have the chance.”

“You made that point, my love, over and over. And you were voted down. They call that democracy.”

Her brother laughed.

“Who’s Pavel Koslov?” Danton asked.

“The Mexico City
rezident
,” Delchamps furnished. “I think we ought to whack him, tit for tat, if he hurts Colonel Ferris, but I agree with Charley that snatching him now is not a very good idea.”

Castillo nodded, then looked around and said, “Is that it?”

“What do I tell McNab, Charley?” D’Alessandro asked. “He said he wants to see me the minute I get back.”

“Tell him everything,” Castillo said. “I never lied to him before, I don’t want to start now, and I’m certainly not going to ask you to withhold anything from him.”

“He’s going to ask what you’re going to want from him,” D’Alessandro said. “What do I tell him?”

“I’d like whatever intel he feels he can give me. But aside from that, I’m not going to need anything from the Stockade. Except you, of course.”

“Got it.”

“Uncle Nicolai, you about ready to fly Vic to Mexico City?”

“No. I’ve been drinking. But one of my pilots is standing by.”

D’Alessandro walked around the table, shaking hands, and then disappeared past the sliding glass doors.

 

 

A substantial number of liaison officers was attached to the Special Operations Command. Some of them were military—for example, the liaison officers from the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations; the Office of the Chief of Staff, USAF; the commander in chief, Central Command; the Defense Intelligence Agency; and even the XVIII Airborne Corps, which commanded the physical assets of Fort Bragg as well as the 82nd and 101st Airborne divisions.

There were also civilian liaison officers: They included a State Department liaison officer; an FBI liaison officer; and a CIA liaison officer. They all had staffs, some of them as large as a dozen deputies and clerks.

The building in which they were housed was known jocularly as “Foggy Bottom, South.” Others called it “Siberia.” Most liaison officers felt that Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab regarded them as spies for their superiors, and that they were treated accordingly. They rarely saw him in person after their first brief chat with him on their assignment. They dealt with Major General Terrence O’Toole, the SPECOPSCOM deputy commander.

O’Toole had summoned Charles D. Stevens, the FBI liaison officer, to his office two days before.

“This is in connection with Colonel Ferris,” he said, getting right to the point. “You’re aware of the package the general received with Ferris’s photo?”

Stevens had nodded. He knew about the FedEx package. He had learned of it through FBI channels, not from anyone in SPECOPSCOM.

“Neither the CIA nor your laboratory at Quantico was able to learn much—in fact, anything—from it. The fingerprints found on it were useless because it had passed through so many hands.

“The general feels that the next communication from these people will come the same way, that is via either FedEx or UPS. He would like to get his hands on that package before it is handled by everybody and his idiot brother.”

“I understand, General.”

“What the general would like to see the FBI do is to locate that package as soon as it enters the FedEx/UPS process. The package would then be placed, taking care to touch it as little as possible, into another envelope and then sent on its way here. Do you think the FBI can handle that, Mr. Stevens?”

“The FBI will certainly try, General.”

“The general feels that it is highly likely that the address on the package will be different from the address on the original package, which itself was addressed to Lieutenant Colonel McNab, not Lieutenant General McNab, probably to avoid undue attention. So what you should be looking for is an Overnight envelope addressed accordingly, perhaps even addressed to someone in these headquarters, not the general, or to the home address of such people.”

“I understand the reasoning. I’ll get right on it.”

“Thank you. Keep me posted, please.”

FBI Liaison Officer Stevens thought:
The chances of finding that envelope among the X-many million overnight envelopes that UPS and FedEx handle every day are right up there with my chances of being taken bodily into Heaven.

This proved to be either unduly pessimistic or a gross underestimation of the enthusiasm with which employees of FedEx or UPS would respond to a request for assistance from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Fewer than twenty-four hours later, Stevens received a telephone call from the special agent in charge—the SAC—of the El Paso FBI office, William J. Johnson, who happened to be an old friend.

“I’m in the UPS Store in the Sunland Park Mall in El Paso, Chuck,” the SAC said. “Holding—very carefully, in my rubber gloves—a UPS overnighter addressed to Sergeant Terry O’Toole, Yadkin and Reilly Road, Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Is this what you’re looking for?”

“Yadkin Road and Reilly Street is known as ‘Generals’ Row,’” Stevens said. “
Major General
Terrence O’Toole lives there, next door to General McNab.”

“Say, ‘Thank you, Bill,’” the SAC said. “You want me to open it?”

“Thank you, Bill,” Stevens said. “But don’t open it. General McNab wants us to just put it into another envelope and send it on its way. Anyway, I think opening it would be illegal.”

 

 

Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, wearing rubber gloves, carefully opened the UPS Next Day envelope and examined the two sheets of paper it contained. Vic D’Alessandro looked over his shoulder.

One of the sheets was a photograph of an unshaven Lieutenant Colonel James D. Ferris. He was sitting on a chair, holding a copy of the previous day’s
El Diario de El Paso
. Two men wearing balaclava masks stood beside him, holding machetes.

“This time it’s machetes,” D’Alessandro said. “Is that an implied threat to behead him?”

“No more, I would guess, than the guy holding the Kalashnikov the last time was an implied threat to blow his brains out,” McNab said matter-of-factly.

The second sheet of paper was the message:

“Who’s Félix Abrego, I wonder?” McNab said.

“One of the drug guys we have in the slam, seems likely,” D’Alessandro replied.

“I’m sure the FBI will be able to tell us.”

“Charley asked that you provide him with intel,” D’Alessandro said. “Does this count as intel?”

“As you know, Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, Retired, no longer has a security clearance, Mr. D’Alessandro. However, I would suppose that one or more of his former associates in the Special Operations and intelligence communities would feel that the national security would not be seriously compromised if he somehow learned about this.”

D’Alessandro nodded his understanding.

McNab leaned forward and pulled the red telephone connected to the Central Command circuit toward himself. He pushed 6, and then the LOUDSPEAKER button.

There was the sound of three rings, and then a somewhat metallic voice said, “General Naylor.”

“Bruce McNab, General. I regret waking you at oh dark hundred, but . . .”

“What’s on your mind, General?”

“. . . the protocol requires that I immediately notify C-in-C CENTCOM if something of this nature comes up, and something has.”

“What have you got, General?”

“There has been a second communication from the people who are holding Colonel Ferris. This one was sent UPS Next Day from El Paso, addressed to ‘Sergeant’ Terry O’Toole. It contained a photo of Colonel Ferris holding a copy of yesterday’s
El Diario de El Paso
. And a note offering to make an exchange for him. Shall I read it to you?”

“Please.”

McNab did so.

“Who is Félix whatever?” Naylor asked.

“We don’t know. As soon as I can get the FBI liaison officer in here, I’m going to ask him to find out. I would guess he’s someone we have in prison.”

“Probably,” Naylor said. “This message reached you last night?”

“About fifteen minutes ago.”

“UPS delivers at . . . a little after oh-five-hundred?”

“What I did, General, was ask the FBI to see if they could intercept any new messages as soon as they entered the UPS or FedEx systems. And they were successful. Mr. Stevens, the FBI liaison officer, called last night to report that this message, this envelope, had been intercepted in El Paso. When it arrived in Fayetteville, Vic D’Alessandro was waiting for it.”

“And what are your plans now, General?” Naylor asked.

“What I’m planning to do, General, is first send you photocopies of the envelope and its contents. Then I intend to get the FBI liaison officer in here, and turn the envelope and its contents over to him, so that he can send it to the FBI experts in Quantico.

“I presume you will pass the photocopies of the envelope and its contents to the chief of staff, who will presumably send copies to the secretary of Defense, the secretary of State, the director of National Intelligence, et cetera—”

“And of course the office of the POTUS,” Naylor interrupted.

“Yes, of course. We mustn’t forget President Clendennen, must we?”

“Spare me your sarcasm, McNab,” Naylor snapped.

McNab didn’t reply directly. After a moment, he asked: “If I may continue, General?”

“Go on,” Naylor said icily.

“And that no further action by me is required at this time.”

“No further action is required of you. That is correct.”

“Thank you, sir. Is there anything else, sir?”

Naylor broke the connection without replying.

“Sometimes, Vic,” McNab said as he reached for his Brick and opened it, “as hard as this is to believe, I don’t think General Naylor likes me very much.”

He checked to see if the proper LEDs were glowing, then pushed several buttons.

“Christ, McNab,” the voice of DCI A. Franklin Lammelle bounced off a satellite. “Do you know what time it is?”

“I have a little gossip with which I thought you might want to begin your day,” McNab said. “We have a new ally in our war against the evildoers who have snatched Colonel Ferris.”

“And who might that be? Castillo?”

“Him, too, but I was speaking of Aleksandr Pevsner.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then Lammelle asked, “How reliable is that?”

“From the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

“What’s that all about?”

“Pevsner apparently believes Putin is behind the whole thing, and is after not only Charley and the Russians again, but is against him, too.”

There was another just perceptible pause.

“And you go along with that?”

“I don’t dismiss it out of hand,” McNab said. “Vic D’Alessandro just came back from Acapulco. He says the drug cartel there . . . what’s it called, Vic?”

“The Sinaloa cartel,” D’Alessandro furnished. He raised his voice. “Got you out of bed, did we, Frank?”

“Vic says the
Sinaloa cartel
had no reason to kidnap Ferris or kill the others. Ferris’s people have been obeying their orders to cooperate with the Federales, which means the cartel knew what we knew.”

“That’s pretty good information, Vic?” Lammelle said.

“I believe it,” D’Alessandro said.

“Tell him what else you learned,” McNab said.

“Mr. Pevsner believes that the best defense is a good offense,” D’Alessandro said.

“Oh, shit!”

“Do you think we should tell Natalie?” McNab asked.

This time there was no hesitation on Lammelle’s part.

“No. Absolutely not!”

“You going to tell me why?”

“I had dinner with her, after that fiasco in Auditorium Three,” Lammelle said. “She pointed out to me something I kicked myself for not realizing.”

“What?”

“We no longer have the threat of impeachment we had hanging over Clendennen’s head. Once we rearranged the Cabinet to our satisfaction, we lost it.”