W. E. B. Griffin - Presidential Agent 07 (29 page)

“Yes, sir. Yesterday. The first time, yesterday. It will run for four days.”

“And when do you think there will be a reply. Today? Or when?”

“Mr. President, my SAC there—William Johnson—I told you about him, sir. He’s one of my best—”

“That’s nice to hear, but it doesn’t answer my question,” the President interrupted.

“I was about to say, sir, that SAC Johnson has determined that the average time for delivery of a letter deposited in a post office to be delivered to a post office box in the same building is a minimum of six hours, and may take as long as twenty-four.”

“You’re telling me it takes our postal service at least six hours to move a letter from the in slot to a box?”

“Yes, sir. And that’s presuming the letter would be placed in a mail drop slot in the post office building itself. If it were placed—as it very likely would be—in one of the drive-past post boxes outside the post office, that could add as much as two hours to that time. Mail is collected from the outside boxes every two hours from eight A.M. to midnight. It is collected only once from there from midnight until eight A.M.

“And of course if a letter were deposited in a mailbox not immediately outside the main post office, that time would be further increased, as the mail is picked up from there usually only twice a day. And if it were mailed in Ciudad Juárez—right across the border from El Paso—that would add at least another twenty-fours to the time. And if it were mailed in, say, in San Antonio, it—”

“I get the picture, Schmidt,” the President said, cutting him off. “There is a very unlikely possibility—on the order of a miracle—that if our Mexican friends went to the main post office in El Paso yesterday, their reply could be in our box right now. If that isn’t the case, we have no idea when we’ll hear from them.”

“If a letter had been deposited in Post Office Box 2333, Mr. President, we’d know about it. SAC Johnson has agents all over that post office,” FBI Director Schmidt announced, more than a little proudly.

“Not only are there surveillance cameras inside and outside the building,” Schmidt went on, “but agents, male and female, are constantly rotated through the lobby. Additionally, there are agents in the working area of the post office physically checking each piece of mail as it is dropped in a slot. Other agents go through mail coming into the post office from all sources.”

Then Schmidt suddenly got carried away with his recitation of SAC Johnson’s accomplishments: “Mr. President, the FBI has got that post office covered like flies on horseshit.”

President Clendennen did not seem very impressed.

He said: “So what happens if somebody drops a letter addressed to box . . . whatever . . .”

“Box 2333, Mr. President,” Schmidt furnished.

“. . . and an agent sees him do it? Or someone comes into the post office and goes looking in Box 2333? What then?”

“In the first case, Mr. President, two things will happen. The envelope will be opened, and the contents photocopied, sent to the FBI’s San Antonio office, and immediately forwarded to the J. Edgar Hoover Building, where agents are standing by to bring it here. Meanwhile, the letter dropper will be surveilled to see where he goes. Same surveillance will be placed on anyone going to Box 2333.”

“What if he heads for Mexico?” the President asked.

“He will be arrested if he tries that, Mr. President.”

“No,” President Clendennen said. “He will not be arrested.”

“Sir?”

“And you tell your SAC that if this happens, and the person being surveilled even looks like he suspects he is being surveilled, your SAC will be fired. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to get this Colonel Ferris back,” the President said. “And this is how I’m going to do it. First step: Get on the phone right now, Schmidt, and tell your SAC what I just said—that he is not to arrest anybody without my permission, and if anyone he is surveil-ling in this situation even suspects we’re watching him, you will transfer him to Alaska.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go do it,” the President ordered as he pointed to the door to the outer office.

“Mr. President, I can contact SAC Johnson on my cell phone; it has encryption capability.”

“Well, then take your cell phone with its encryption capability in there and call him.”

He waited until Schmidt had reached the door and then turned to Secretary of State Natalie Cohen.

“Has Ambassador McCann proved to be as capable as I thought he would be, Madam Secretary? More important, how close has he managed to get to President Martinez?”

“Ambassador McCann is both highly capable, Mr. President, and has already established a good relationship with President Martinez.”

“I want you to get on the horn to McCann, Madam Secretary, and tell him to see Martinez right now, and get him to send me a letter.”

“Sir?”

“Give it to her, Clemens,” the President said.

McCarthy handed Cohen a sheet of paper.

“Or words to this effect,” the President said. “Read it aloud, Madam Secretary, so everybody will be on the same page.”

Cohen took the sheet of paper, glanced at it, and began, “This is apparently a draft,” and then read the letter aloud:

“Well?” the President asked when she had finished.

“Mr. President, what is it you wish me to do with this?” Secretary Cohen asked.

“I told you. Get it to McCann and have him take it to President Martinez.”

“Mr. President,” Attorney General Crenshaw said, “the long-standing policy of the United States has been never to negotiate with terrorists.”

“Who’s negotiating with terrorists?” Clemens McCarthy replied for the President. “What President Clendennen is going to do is send a convicted criminal for interrogation in Mexico, which has the added benefit of permitting a terminally ill woman to see her son for the last time. If that also results in the release of Colonel Ferris, what’s wrong with that?”

“It’s bullshit, McCarthy, that’s what’s wrong with it,” Crenshaw said.

“There’s a lady present, Mr. Attorney General,” the President said. “Watch your mouth!”

“I beg your pardon, Madam Secretary,” Crenshaw said.

“Obviously, Mr. Attorney General,” the President said, “you have some objections to my plan to secure the release of Colonel Ferris.”

“Yes, sir, I have a number of—”

“I’m not interested in what they might be, Mr. Attorney General. This is the plan of action your Commander in Chief has decided upon. My question is whether your objections will keep you from carrying out my orders to see that what I want done is done.”

“That would depend, Mr. President, on what orders you give me.”

“Fair enough,” the President said. “If I ordered you to have this fellow Abrego moved from his present place of confinement to the La Tuna Federal Correctional Institution, would your conscience permit you to carry out that order?”

“Mr. President, are you aware that Abrego has been adjudicated to be a very dangerous and violent prisoner requiring his incarceration in the Florence maximum-security facility?”

“So Clemens has told me.”

“And that La Tuna is a minimum-security facility? What they call a country club for the incarceration of nonviolent white-collar offenders?”

“Are you going to be able to obey my orders or not?”

The attorney general looked at the secretary of State and saw on her face and in her eyes that she was afraid he was going to say no.

“Mr. President, if you order me to move Abrego from Florence ADMAX to the La Tuna minimum-security facility, I’ll have him moved.”

“Good. I like what the military calls ‘cheerful and willing obedience’ to my orders to my loyal subordinates.”

President Clendennen turned to Secretary of State Cohen.

“I presume that you are also going to cheerfully and willingly obey my orders to you, Madam Secretary, vis-à-vis having Ambassador McCann deliver Clemens’s brilliant letter to President Martinez?”

“I will take the letter to Ambassador McCann, Mr. President, but I’m not sure he will be willing to take it to President Martinez, and I have no idea how President Martinez would react to it if he does.”

“McCann will do it because he works for you, Madam Secretary—although actually, since I appointed him, he’s
my
ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary and knows who butters his bread—and Martinez will go along with it. What my good friend Ramón wants to do is not antagonize the drug cartels any more than he has to. And to keep the tourists and retirees—and all those lovely U.S. dollars— going to Acapulco and those other places in sunny Mexico. My plan will allow him to do both.”

He turned to Defense Secretary Beiderman and General Naylor.

“Now, as far as you two are concerned, I presume that you two, as loyal subordinates of your Commander in Chief, will both cheerfully and willingly obey this direct order: I don’t want any involvement by the military in this. Period. None. Either of you have any problems with that?”

“No, sir,” Beiderman said.

“No, Mr. President,” Naylor said.

“Okay,” the President said. “That’s it. Thank you for coming in. Douglas, show them out.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Special Agent Douglas said.

 

 

Attorney General Crenshaw caught up with Secretary of State Cohen as she was about to get into her limousine in the driveway.