W. E. B. Griffin - Presidential Agent 07 (45 page)

“This is the President, Mr. D’Alessandro,” Clendennen said. “Let me make this clear from the beginning. If you fuck this up, you’re not going back to Fort Bragg. If I can’t figure out some way to fire you, you’re going to find yourself counting envelopes in the Nome, Alaska, post office. You clear on that, Mr. D’Alessandro?”

“Okay. We’ve heard from the goddamn Mexicans. You’re to meet a deputy attorney general . . . what’s his name, Madam Secretary?”

Secretary Cohen furnished the information.

“By the name of Manuel José Guzmán,” the President went on. “In the Diamond hotel in Acapulco at one this afternoon—

“Yes, the
Camino Real Acapulco Diamante
,” the President confirmed impatiently. “He’s going to have this cop, Pena, with him. Can you make it down there in time?

“Okay. By the time you get there, these people will have figured out that they didn’t make a fool of me at the Juárez airport this morning. So let them know I’m mad. Tell them we’re not going to produce this Mexican bandito Abrego until we have proof we’re about to get Ferris in exchange for him. Like that photograph they wanted of Abrego standing outside somewhere recognizable in El Paso. Tell them to take a picture of Ferris standing outside the Oaxaca State Prison holding a copy of that day’s newspaper—

“How the hell am I supposed to know what newspaper? Find out what it is, and tell them to use that. And tell them to give the photo to somebody from the embassy. Hold one.”

The President turned to Secretary Cohen.

“How do we do what I just said?” he asked.

“I suppose I could ask Ambassador McCann to send an embassy officer to Deputy Attorney General Guzmán’s office,” she said, after a moment’s thought.

“Ask him, hell,” the President said. “
Tell
him. D’Alessandro, the embassy’s going to send an officer to Guzmán just as soon as Secretary Cohen tells him to. Have Guzmán, or this cop, give him the picture. He’ll send it to me. When I see it, we’ll move Abrego down there. Got it?

“And as soon as you do this, you get back to El Paso and stand by. Got it?

“Don’t fuck this up, D’Alessandro,” the President said, and handed the handset to Agent Douglas.

“Give it to the secretary, Douglas,” the President ordered. “She’s going to call Ambassador McCann.”

 

 

Vic D’Alessandro walked out of the lobby with Juan Carlos Pena and two of Pena’s bodyguards following.

Immediately, two Policía Federal Suburbans pulled up under the portico to where they were standing.

“Why don’t you get in the back, Mr. D’Alessandro?” Pena suggested.

“You don’t have to do this, chief,” D’Alessandro said. “I can take a taxi.”

“You never heard of Mexican hospitality?” Pena asked. “Get in.”

One of the Policía Federal officers opened the right doors.

“Slide over to the middle, Mr. D’Alessandro,” Pena ordered, “so my men can get in on each side of you.”

D’Alessandro obeyed. He found himself sitting between two large Policía Federal officers.

The Suburbans moved out from under the portico.

D’Alessandro felt something hard and cold against the base of his neck, and had just decided whatever this was, they weren’t going to kill him, at least not here and now, when a voice inquired, “Hey, gringo, you wanna fook my see-ster?”

Juan Carlos Pena laughed out loud, surprising D’Alessandro, for Pena hadn’t so much as cracked a smile during the meeting with Guzmán.

“She gives a discount for undersized penile apparatus,” the voice said, now without a Mexican accent. “Like yours.”

“Charley, you sonofabitch!” D’Alessandro said.

“Welcome to Sunny Meh-hee-co,” Castillo said. “How did things go with Guzmán?”

“Slick,” D’Alessandro said. “He should be a used-car salesman. And, obviously, I misjudged Señor Pena.”

Pena turned from the front seat and offered D’Alessandro his hand.

“Call me Juan Carlos when no one’s looking, Vic,” Pena said.

“Carlos—Charley—and I go back a long way. He says nice things about you, which may or may not be a good thing.”

“You are going to tell me what’s going on here, right?” D’Alessandro asked.

“On our way to General Juan N. Álvarez International we’re going to plan how to snatch Ferris from the bad guys,” Castillo said. “That’s presuming Guzmán went along with having Ferris’s picture taken standing in front of the Oaxaca State Prison.”

“How the hell did you hear about that?”

“I have a lady friend in Foggy Bottom,” Castillo said. “Well, did he?”

“Yeah. You know where Ferris is?”

“Yeah. All Juan Carlos had to do was dangle Señor Monteverde from the twenty-third-floor Tahitian Suite of the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort on a bedsheet and he quickly volunteered to tell us Ferris is being held by drug guys working for Venezuelans under the direction of the SVR—”

“You’re talking about Murov? He’s disappeared, too.”

“Didn’t your mommy tell you it’s not polite to interrupt people?” Castillo asked, then went on: “. . . in Retainhuled, Guatemala, which is a small town about fifty miles from the border. Now, their plan, Murov, Juan Carlos, and I think—”

“Murov?” D’Alessandro interrupted. “You know where he is?”

“He’s in the Suburban behind us.”

Involuntarily, D’Alessandro turned to look. All he could see was the darkened windows of the following Suburban.

“He’s in
that
Suburban?” D’Alessandro asked, incredulously.

“All right, we’ll go down that road. Ol’ Sergei has had a religious experience. He has seen the light, and is now prepared to fight the good fight against the forces of evil. When you get back to Biggs Army Airfield, Frank Lammelle will be there to meet him with open arms and a briefcase with one million dollars in it, which I’m sure Sergei will count carefully on his way to wherever Frank intends to stash him.”

“You turned Murov for a million dollars? That’s peanuts! Jesus Christ, Charley! He’s Putin’s number two!”

“
Was
Putin’s number two,” Castillo said. “But then he had the religious experience I mentioned, which caused him to examine the downside of committing suicide.”

Castillo let that set in for a moment, and then went on: “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted—we’ll get to the few remaining loose ends when I finish—Sergei, Juan Carlos, and I are agreed that their most likely plan is to take Ferris to the prison and then—when you and Abrego arrive—whack everybody.”

“That scenario occurred to me,” D’Alessandro said drily.

“So, what we are going to do is grab Ferris before that; as he’s being transported from Retainhuled to the prison.”

“Who’s
we
? And how?”

Castillo told him.

“Pity you won’t be there, Vic. It will be like old times.”

“Tell me about the ‘few remaining loose ends,’” D’Alessandro said. “Offhand, I can think of, say, fifty, but I’d rather hear them from you.”

“Well, for example, I haven’t made up my mind about the million dollars. Whether I should let the CIA pay it or Those People.”

“That’s not what I meant, Charley.”

“And I haven’t made up my mind how we should handle the two SVR people looking over Clendennen’s shoulders.”

“You know who they are?”

Castillo nodded. “What I haven’t decided is who I should tell, if anybody, or what to do about them.”

“I’m not anybody, Charley,” D’Alessandro said evenly.

“No, you’re not. And I haven’t figured out how to get Ferris out of Mexico after we grab him.”

“That’s what they call changing the subject,” D’Alessandro said.

“Yeah,” Castillo agreed. “I guess it is.”

“Well?”

After a brief moment, Castillo said: “Clemens McCarthy and a Secret Service agent named Douglas. I never heard of him.”

“Clendennen calls him ‘Dumbo,’ ” D’Alessandro said. “You’re sure?”

“I got it from Murov. Who said this whole exercise is designed to prey on Clendennen’s instability. To create another impeachment crisis. Nixon and Clinton.”

D’Alessandro considered that a moment.

“Have you told Frank?”

Castillo shook his head.

“Sometimes, Charley, despite the old saw that any action is better than none, the best thing to do is nothing. At least, for a while.”

“We’re almost at the airport,” Juan Carlos said. “How do you want to handle this?”

“We’ll load Murov and Vic on their Black Hawk,” Castillo said.

“And wave bye-bye, and then Lester and I will get in the Mustang.”

“Lester’s here?” Vic said.

“Sitting on Sergei,” Castillo said, jerking his thumb toward the following Suburban.

“I thought you said Murov had seen the light?”

“I don’t want him committing suicide by Policía Federal. I’m sure he’s figured out that we can’t let him go free. So he knows if he runs, he gets shot.”

“How are you going to stop him?”

“Juan Carlos has told his guys not to shoot, and I gave Lester an old Winchester pump .22 of mine, with which he will shoot Sergei in the leg. Or legs. I figured if that proved necessary, he wouldn’t bleed to death before you got him to the States. He’s in pretty bad emotional condition.”

“Don’t tell me remorse.”

“Thinking of his wife and family in Lubyanka.”

“That’ll do it,” D’Alessandro said.

They pulled close to the U.S. Army UH-60F sitting in a remote corner of the airfield.

“Charley, I didn’t mention this before because it’s lunacy on its face. Clendennen’s got everybody running around getting a submarine ready to refuel the 60Fs he plans to send to the shoot-out at the prison.”

“If we snatch Ferris, there won’t be a need to send 60Fs to the prison,” Castillo said.

“I don’t think freeing Ferris will stop that mission. Clendennen is now in love with Gray Fox.”

“Find out where the sub will be, and when, and get me the radio call signs.”

“That may be a tall order, Charley. Naylor will want to know why I want to know. And he doesn’t know what you’re up to. Do you want him to?”

“No. Tell him nothing,” Castillo said. “But see what you can find out about the submarine, please.”

 

 

The small convoy that had crossed into Mexico at Tapachula a little after eight consisted of a somewhat battered Suburban, a Mercedes S550 that appeared nearly new, a Suburban in better shape, a Mercedes C230, and a Ford F-150 pickup truck.

The Policía Federal roadblock they encountered—no surprise on that stretch of road—consisted of a Suburban and a Ford F-150 pickup. It was near the crest of a small rise.

When it became visible to the passenger in the front seat of the large Mercedes, he leaned over and sounded the horn, and then motioned the driver to pass the Suburban in the lead.

The Federales would know who he was, he reasoned, and they could get through the roadblock quickly, especially if he handed to whoever was in charge a sheaf of United States hundred-dollar bills. He did not want the Federales to start asking for identification.

When he got close, he saw that the man in charge was a Policía Federal second sergeant who would, he thought, be more grateful for the little gift he was about to give him than a more senior policeman—say, a first sergeant or even a
comandante
—would be.

He was a little annoyed when the second sergeant didn’t immediately walk—or trot—to the Mercedes, as he expected him to do.

But finally, the second sergeant came from the barrier and walked to the Mercedes, trailed by a dozen other Federales. They walked to the vehicles behind the Mercedes and took up positions on either side of them.

“Good morning,” the passenger in the front seat of the Mercedes said.

“Would you step out of the car, please?” the second sergeant asked politely.

“What for?”

“This is a check for drugs,” the second sergeant said.

“Do I look like a drug dealer?” the man asked.

“No, sir, you don’t. This won’t take a minute, señor.”

The man got out of the front seat, forced himself to smile, and handed the second sergeant the sheaf of U.S. hundred-dollar bills.

“A little something for the wife and kids,” he said.

The second sergeant examined the money, smiled, and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

The man, convinced that the nonsense was now over, turned and started to get back in the Mercedes.

When he did, the second sergeant raised the muzzle of his Heckler & Koch MSG90A1 and fired two rounds into the back of the man’s head. Then he leaned forward, and as the driver took an Uzi from the floorboard, put two rounds in the driver’s head just above the ear. He then turned his attention to the rear seat, and shot, in their faces, the two men sitting there.

Much the same thing happened, more or less simultaneously, in the other vehicles in the convoy, except that in addition to killing just about everybody inside the nearly new Suburban, its rear door was opened and a visibly terrified man—the sole survivor—was pulled out over the rear seat and onto the road.

The second sergeant, now walking quickly, just shy of a trot, went to the man who had just been pulled out of the SUV. He gestured with the muzzle of his Heckler & Koch that the man was to walk toward the Suburban and the Ford pickup at the crest of the rise.

The sole survivor had almost reached the vehicles when he heard the familiar sound of Black Hawk rotor blades. He looked and saw that the noise was indeed coming from a UH-60, specifically from one painted in the color scheme of the Policía Federal.