W. E. B. Griffin - Presidential Agent 07 (33 page)

Roscoe consulted his cell phone’s address book and dialed a number.

“Roscoe J. Danton of the
Times-Post
for the attorney general . . .

“Well, I’m sorry he’s not available at the moment. When he becomes available, will you be good enough to tell him I tried to call him before I went on Wolf News to tell J. Pastor Jones’s three million viewers the attorney general’s version of the story I’ve got that he personally just moved a guy doing life without parole in Florence ADMAX for killing three DEA agents to a country club in Texas . . .

“Yeah, I’ll hold for a minute.”

Roscoe met Porky’s eyes.

Porky grinned knowingly as Roscoe, then said: “And how are you this afternoon, Mr. Attorney General?

“What have I got? I’ll tell you.”

He did so.

“You know I can’t tell you where I got that, Mr. Attorney General. That would be what they call revealing a source. I don’t do that . . .

“Whether you find it hard to believe or not, Mr. Attorney General, I know it’s true. I even have the prisoner’s name. One Félix Abrego . . .

“Will I do you a favor? That depends on the favor . . .

“Yeah, as a favor, you’ve always been straight with me, I can sit on this for a couple of hours—say, until Andy McClarren’s
Straight Scoop
goes on Wolf News at nine—while you get to the bottom of this. Let me give you my cell phone number.”

He broke the connection and turned to Porky Parker. “Whatever it is, Porky, I just touched a nerve.”

“Do you have to call me ‘Porky’?”

“If I didn’t, I’d have to kill you,” Danton said.

“Oh, shit,” Parker replied.

 

“Warden Leon.”

“This is Stanley Crenshaw, Warden Leon. I’m glad I caught you.”

“You just barely did, Mr. Attorney General. I was about to call it a day.”

“Warden, have you been talking to Roscoe Danton?”

“To who, Mr. Attorney General?”

“Roscoe Danton. Roscoe J. Danton. The
Washington Times-Post
reporter. The one who’s always on Wolf News.”

“Oh, yeah. I know who he is.”

“You have been talking to him?”

“No, sir, Mr. Attorney General. I was trying to say I know who he is. Has he been trying to talk to me? I’ve been in the office all afternoon. Is something wrong?”

“What do you know about the transfer of Félix Abrego from Florence ADMAX to the La Tuna facility in Texas?”

“Oh. Now I understand. So there was a mix-up.”

“Excuse me?”

“When that transfer order came in, I thought there was something not quite kosher, transferring someone like Abrego from here to a country club like La Tuna, so I called Director Waters and asked him. He assured me that everything was hunky-dory, that you had personally authorized the transfer, so I told my assistant warden to turn the prisoner over to the U.S. Marshals you sent out here.”

“And when will this prisoner actually be transferred, Warden Leon?”

“He’s on his way to the La Tuna facility as we speak, Mr. Attorney General.”

“Warden Leon, if Mr. Danton or any other journalist calls you out there, don’t be available. Refer them to me. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t answer any questions. Don’t say anything at all.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Attorney General.”

 

The attorney general began his conversation with the director of Central Intelligence with no preliminaries whatsoever.

“Frank, Roscoe J. Danton just called me, and after I was very nice to him—damn near groveled at his feet—he gave me until five minutes to nine to explain why Félix Abrego is being transferred from Florence ADMAX to that country club prison in Texas. Otherwise, at nine tonight he goes on Wolf News—on Andy McClarren’s
Straight Scoop
—with what he’s got.”

“I wonder how he found out,” the DCI mused.

The attorney general of course had already given that question a good deal of thought. After talking with Warden Leon, he had decided it wasn’t Leon.

His suspicions finally settled on the U.S. Marshals he had sent to Florence ADMAX. For one thing, since they were transferring Abrego, they knew about it. For another—the U.S. Marshal Service was the oldest federal law enforcement agency; it had been founded in 1789 and its members had an unfortunate tendency to regard themselves as the Knights Templar of federal law enforcement—they often tattled to the attorney general on what they thought of as less than pure activities of other agencies. Since they couldn’t tattle on the man himself who had ordered Abrego’s very questionable transfer—the attorney general—they had gone to Roscoe J. Danton.

“I have no idea,” Stanley Crenshaw said. “All I know is that he knows, and is about to go on Wolf News and tell the world. What do I do?”

“I just had a thought,” Frank Lammelle said. “I’m not supposed to know that Abrego is going to be swapped for Ferris. The President told you and Natalie Cohen, and maybe Schmidt, but I guess he doesn’t think I have the need to know. That raises the question ‘Did he tell Montvale or Truman Ellsworth?’ Keep that it mind when you’re talking to him.”

“Okay, so I’m telling you now. And now that you know, what should I do?”

“Are you sure you want to tell me, Stanley? Clendennen’s liable to consider that a breach of trust.”

The attorney general considered that for a moment.

“Okay, I didn’t tell you. Who did tell you?”

“If I answered that, that would be a breach of trust.”

“Shit,” the attorney general said, and broke the connection.

 

“The President’s line, Agent Mulligan.”

“This is Stanley Crenshaw, Mulligan. Is the President available?”

“Does the President expect your call, Mr. Crenshaw?”

“Please tell the President I have to speak to him.”

“I’ll see if he’s free.”

A moment later, there was another voice on the line.

“This is Clemens McCarthy, Mr. Crenshaw. The President is not available at the moment. He asked me to take a message, and he’ll try to get back to you.”

“Actually, McCarthy, we might not have to bother President Clendennen with this. This is really in your area of responsibility.”

“What would that be, Mr. Crenshaw?”

“Roscoe J. Danton called me just now and gave me until five minutes of nine to tell him why Félix Abrego is being transferred from Florence ADMAX to the La Tuna facility near El Paso. Otherwise he says he’s going on
The Straight Scoop
with Andy McClarren at nine with what he’s got.”

“And what does he think he has?”

“That the convicted murderer of three DEA agents is being transferred to a minimum-security institution.”

“How does he know that?”

“I have no idea. I’m just telling you what I know, and asking what I should do about Mr. Danton.”

“Just a moment, please.”

Twenty seconds later, the President of the United States barked: “What the hell is going on, Crenshaw?”

The attorney general told him.

“I want to know who told that sonofabitch Danton about the transfer!”

“I have no idea, Mr. President.”

“Well, some disloyal sonofabitch obviously did, and I want to know who.”

“Mr. President, I have no idea.”

“Goddamn it, you should! You’re the attorney general; you’re in charge of the FBI. I don’t care what you or Mark Schmidt have to do, just find out what disloyal sonofabitch did this to me.”

“Yes, sir. And what would you like me to say to Mr. Danton, Mr. President?”

The President considered the question for a long moment. “I’m going to let McCarthy handle that,” he said finally. “But you and Schmidt get your asses over here right now. McCarthy might need you.”

The President hung up.

 

“Good afternoon, Madam Secretary,” the DCI said. “And how were things in sunny Meh-hee-co?”

“Why does your ebullience worry me, Frank?” Natalie Cohen replied.

“The problem of swapping Colonel Ferris for Félix Abrego may be solved. I just got off the phone with Stanley Crenshaw. He is probably at this moment telling the President what he told me.”

“Which was?”

“Roscoe J. Danton gave him until five minutes to nine tonight to explain why ol’ Félix has been transferred to the La Tuna Country Club, otherwise he goes on
The Straight Scoop
with Andy McClarren and tells the world.”

Cohen didn’t reply.

“I take back all the unkind things I ever said about devious diplomats,” Lammelle said. “That was pure genius.”

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“Well, Clendennen can’t send Abrego to Mexico now, can he?”

“How did Danton find out?” she asked.

“What is that, ‘credible deniability’? Your secret is safe with me, Natalie.”

“I didn’t tell Danton, if that’s what you’ve been thinking.”

“Then who the hell did? That’s a very interesting question, Natalie. Who knew besides Stanley and me? And possibly Mark Schmidt?”

“I was not taken into the President’s confidence in this matter. I heard it from Schmidt. Do you think Schmidt told Roscoe?”

“No. That would be committing career suicide,” he said. “And he likes being director. That leaves Stanley, and that doesn’t make sense. Did Montvale know? Or Truman Ellsworth?”

“I’ve learned from painful experience that Charles Montvale often knows more than one presumes he does,” the secretary of State said. “And that’s equally true of Mr. Ellsworth. Who would actually move Abrego? The FBI? The Bureau of Prisons?”

“The U.S. Marshals,” Lammelle said. “And when Montvale was director of National Intelligence, he was over the Marshal Service.”

“But why would Montvale tell Roscoe Danton? To embarrass the President?”

She was silent a moment, then offered: “Montvale would tell Danton—but
after
. If something went wrong, then, to embarrass the President, he’d leak it to him after.”

“So, we’re back to: Then who?”

“I don’t know, Frank. But I think it behooves us to make a serious effort to find out. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a connection with the coup d’état business.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

 

“Mental telepathy, Frank,” Charley Castillo said. “I was just this moment thinking of calling you.”

“To tell me, a little late, that you told Roscoe that Clendennen’s moving Abrego to the La Tuna facility outside El Paso?”

“No shit? I didn’t know that. Who the hell told Roscoe?”

When Lammelle didn’t answer, Castillo said: “Well, what I was going to ask is what I should tell the cops if I’m arrested stealing my Black Hawk back?”

“What?”

“Before, I thought it might be nice to have in case I needed it; now I know I have to have it, preferably late tomorrow afternoon, when I get back to the States.”

“Why do you have to have it?” Lammelle said, and immediately regretted it.

“Frank, I don’t think you really want to know. Do you?”

“Yes, I do, Charley.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind? Who told Roscoe what?”

“Roscoe called the attorney general about an hour ago and gave him until five minutes before Andy McClarren goes on Wolf News tonight to explain why Félix Abrego is being transferred from Florence ADMAX to a minimum-security prison near El Paso.”

“Okay, I’ll ask again: How the hell did Roscoe hear about that?”

“Until just now, I thought maybe you told him.”

“Not me. Natalie Cohen?”

“No. The suspect right now is Montvale, but why would he do that?”

“If that story gets out, Clendennen can’t send Abrego to Mexico,” Castillo said thoughtfully.

“Because it would be irrational, right? Think that through, Charley.”

“Jesus!” Castillo said, and a moment later asked, “Frank, that letter Clendennen wants President Whatsisname of Mexico . . .”

“Martinez,” Lammelle furnished. “Notice what? Natalie and I aren’t quite sure what to think about it.”

“Didn’t either of you think there was something strange in Clendennen wanting
Martinez
to tell him
he
wanted Abrego sent to the Oaxaca State Prison?”

“That went right over my head,” Lammelle said after a moment. “And Natalie’s, too, or else she would have said something. What’s that all about? What’s so special about the Oaxaca State Prison? For that matter, where is it?”

“In the middle of nowhere in Oaxaca State. Not anywhere near the U.S.-Mexican border. But not far from the Guatemalan border.”

“Where there is a new cultural affairs officer of the Russian Federation . . .”

“Valentin Komarovski, aka Sergei Murov,” Castillo furnished.

“Which means what?”

“Somebody’s planning for something to happen at that prison.”

“Who? What?”

“There are three—at least three—things going on here, Frank. One is that the drug people want their guy Abrego back, and kidnapped Ferris so they can swap him. We don’t know if they’re doing that by themselves or whether it’s being orchestrated by the Russians. It’s possible that there is some sort of coup d’état going on. Natalie said that McCarthy, the President’s new press secretary, wrote that letter, and we don’t know if the President was responsible for the ‘send Abrego to Oaxaca’ clause, or whether that was put in by McCarthy. Clendennen either didn’t see it or did see it and didn’t smell the Limburger. But who told McCarthy to put that in, and why? It could’ve been Sergei Murov, but that’s a stretch. Or maybe Montvale, which also is a stretch.