W. E. B. Griffin - Presidential Agent 07 (5 page)

“You want to discuss this privately?” Castillo asked.

“That was the first thing that popped into my mind,” Delchamps said. “But I’ve sort of changed my mind about that, too. Let’s lay everything on the table.”

“Go ahead,” Castillo said.

“Giving the benefit of the doubt to the five of These People who were smart enough not to show up here today, I understand where they were coming from. They have been passing both money and information to people in the community for some time. The money was really needed and the information was more often than not useful, and the people who got it were grateful. Maybe pathetically grateful because it allowed them to do what they’re supposed to do. And then the Irishman got in the act and supplied These People with better communication than anybody else has. It wasn’t hard for the Evil Quintet to go from that to thinking they were really important, and thus knew what was best for the community . . . and from that to thinking they knew what was best for the country. And there’s a little of
‘he who pays the piper calls the tune’
in that.”

Castillo was surprised at Delchamps’s little speech. He often thought that the veteran CIA agent was as voluble as a clam.

And Delchamps wasn’t through.

“A good idea went wrong. That happens. What you do when that happens is make the necessary adjustments.”

“Such as?” Castillo asked.

“Remove temptation,” Delchamps said. “The information stream becomes one way. They tell us . . . only us . . . what they know, and we decide who, if anybody, also gets to know. And they don’t tell anybody what we’re doing unless we tell them they can. I don’t think the admiral here or the chopper pilot would have any problem with that.”

He paused and looked at first Radio and TV Stations and then at Annapolis, and then asked, “Would you?”

“No,” Radio and TV Stations said.

“None at all,” Annapolis said.

“You’re not going to ask me?” Investment Banker asked.

“What you two, and especially the Evil Quintet, would have to fully understand is that whoever breaks the rules has to go.”

“What do you mean, ‘has to go’?” Investment Banker asked.

Delchamps shrugged. “I think you take my meaning,” he said.

“My God!” Hotelier said. “Was that a threat?”

“I have never threatened anybody in my life,” Delchamps said. “I’m just outlining the conditions under which we could have a continuing relationship.”

Dmitri Berezovsky smiled.

They all know,
Castillo thought,
that the CIA establishment refers to Delchamps and perhaps a dozen other old clandestine service officers like him as “dinosaurs.”

They all also know that Delchamps is alleged to have recently applied this philosophy to the SVR
rezident
in Vienna and to a member of the CIA’s Clandestine Service who had sold out. The latter was found dead in his car in the CIA parking garage in Langley with an ice pick in his ear, and the former had been found strangled to death with a Hungarian garrote in a taxi outside the U.S. embassy in Vienna.

“Would you like a moment alone to discuss this?” Delchamps asked.

“So far as I’m concerned, that won’t be necessary,” Annapolis said. “I can accept those conditions.”

“And if anyone else doesn’t like it,” Radio and TV Stations said, “they’re out.”

He looked at Investment Banker and Hotelier.

“In or out?” he asked.

“I can’t remember ever having been in a negotiation before, even with the Mafia,” Hotelier said, “where the options were to go along or ‘go away.’ ”

“Is that a yes or a no?” Radio and TV Stations asked.

“I think what Mr. Delchamps has proposed is reasonable under the circumstances. I’m in.”

“I always look for the bottom line,” Investment Banker said. “And the bottom line here is that both parties need each other to do what we know has to be done, and that no one else can do. I accept the conditions.”

“I’ll deal with . . . what did you call them, Mr. Delchamps? ‘The Evil Quintet’?” Radio and TV Stations said.

“That’s what I call them when there are ladies present,” Delchamps said. “When you
‘deal with’
them, you might mention that.”

He looked at Castillo.

“Your call, Ace,” he said. “You’ve heard the proposal. Okay by you?”

Castillo stopped himself just in time from saying, “I’m going to have to consult with my consigliere.”

But he did just that, by looking first at Sweaty and then at her brother. Both nodded just perceptibly.

“Okay,” he finally said, simply.

Annapolis walked to him and offered his hand. Castillo shook it. Annapolis then offered his hand to Sweaty, as Radio and TV Stations walked to Castillo with his hand extended. Wordlessly, all of Those People solemnly shook the hands of all of the Merry Outlaws.

“I think another toast is in order,” Hotelier said when that was over. “More champagne, or something stronger?”

“I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me a taste of that twenty-five-year-old Macallan,” Delchamps said, pointing to a long row of whisky bottles on a bar.

“I’ll go along with Patrick Henry,” Agnes Forbison said.

The two waiters quickly took orders for drinks, and quickly and efficiently distributed them.

Castillo wondered how much he could trust Investment Banker’s waiters to forget what they had just heard.

“If I may,” Hotelier said, raising his glass. “To the successful conclusion of difficult negotiations and our success in future operations.”

Everybody sipped.

“And if I may,” Castillo then said. “To full understanding of the conditions of our new relationship, and to the
long, long
time it’s going to be between now and our having to put that understanding to the test.”

Everybody took another swallow.

“I hate to rain on our happy little parade,” Annapolis said, “but that time may be a good deal shorter than we all hoped.”

When no one replied, he went on: “Just before you came in, we were watching Wolf News. We recorded it. I think you should have a look at it.”

He waved at the long couch and at the armchairs around it.

There was a muted whirring and a screen dropped from under the upper-level foyer, and then another whirring as drapes slid over the windows looking down at the Miracle Strip.

When everybody had found a seat, the lights dimmed, and the stirring sounds of the fourth and final part of Gioacchino Antonio Rossini’s
William Tell Overture—
sometimes known as the
Lone Ranger
theme—filled the room.

A blond, crew-cut head filled the screen.

“I’m J. Pastor Jones,” the head announced. “It’s five P.M. in Los Angeles, and eight in Montpelier and time for the news!”

It wasn’t quite time. There followed a ninety-second commercial for undetectable undergarments for those suffering from bladder-leakage problems, and then came another ninety-second commercial for those who suffered heartburn from eating spicy pizza and “other problem-causing goodies.”

This gave Castillo plenty of time to consider that he disliked TV anchors in general and J. Pastor Jones in particular. Jones reminded Castillo of the teacher’s pets of his early childhood and the male cheerleaders of his high school years. J. Pastor Jones was not only from Vermont—which Castillo thought of as the People’s Democratic Republic of Vermont—but had appointed himself as a booster thereof, hence the reference to Montpelier, which few people could find on a map, rather than to Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Washington, D.C., or Miami, which were also in the Eastern time zone.

J. Pastor Jones reappeared on the screen, this time sharing it with C. Harry Whelan, Jr., who was a prominent and powerful Washington-based columnist and a Wolf News contributor.

“There is bad news in the war against drugs,” J. Pastor Jones announced. “Very bad news, indeed. Wolf News contributor, the distinguished journalist C. Harry Whelan, has the details. What happened, Harry?”

C. Harry Whelan, Jr., now had the entire screen to himself. It showed him sitting in what looked like a living room whose walls were lined with books.

“We don’t know much,” Whelan announced pontifically, “but what we do know is this: Wolf News has learned exclusively that tomorrow’s
Washington Times-Post
will carry a story by the distinguished journalist Roscoe J. Danton that three American officers in Mexico to fight the drug cartels were shot to death near Acapulco at noon today. They were, according to Danton, Antonio Martinez and Eduardo Torres, both of whom were special agents of the Drug Enforcement Administration, and Chief Warrant Officer Daniel Salazar, who was attached to the U.S. embassy in Mexico City.”

“Shit,” Castillo said.

“According to Danton, the three murdered men were known to be traveling to Acapulco with Lieutenant Colonel James D. Ferris, an assistant military attaché of the U.S. embassy, for a conference with Mexican officials. Colonel Ferris and the embassy vehicle, a Suburban bearing diplomatic license plates, are missing, according to Danton.”

“Oh, Jesus H. Christ!” Castillo said.

“Danton has declined to reveal his sources, even to me, and Roscoe and I have been friends and fellow journalists for years. He has put his distinguished reputation on the line with this story, and I believe him. Calls to the State Department, the Pentagon, and the U.S. embassy by Wolf News reporters have elicited only this response, which I quote: ‘The alleged incident is under investigation.’

“Wolf News will stay on top of this story, and when we know more, you will. This is C. Harry Whelan.”

The screen now filled with the head of J. Pastor Jones.

Just as Castillo was about to order that Mr. Jones be cut off, someone pushed the PAUSE button.

Castillo punched a button on his CaseyBerry, and then the LOUDSPEAKER button.

“I thought you might be calling, Charley,” Roscoe J. Danton said.

“That’s odd,” Annapolis said. “When I tried that, I got a message, ‘Not authorized.’ ”

He looked at Aloysius Casey.

“That was before you and Charley kissed and made up,” Casey said.

“Where’d you get the Mexican story, Roscoe?” Castillo asked.

“From a lady friend in Foggy Bottom,” Danton replied.

Castillo had a quick thought.

“You have anything more than we got from your buddy Whelan on Wolf News?” he asked.

“I talked to your old boss; he said Vic is on his way down there,” Danton replied, “and about twenty minutes ago, there was an e-mail from Porky saying Clendennen will have an announcement to make tomorrow at eleven.”

“Keep me in the loop, Roscoe,” Castillo said.

“What about Those People?”

“Annapolis and Radio Stations are good to go,” Castillo said. “I’m still making up my mind about the banker and the hotelier.”

He thought:
And I’m glad Investment Banker and Hotelier heard me say that. Let that sink in a while, and then I will let them back in the tent.

“You met with them?”

“Yeah. Just now.”

“Casey told me that was going to happen. I thought maybe there’d be an AP flash: ‘Mass Murder in Sin City.’ ”

“I
was
thinking of feeding them to the sharks in the aquarium in the Mandalay Bay. But my merciful nature took over. Thanks, Roscoe.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Danton said.

Castillo put his CaseyBerry away.

“Well, if McNab has sent Vic D’Alessandro down there,” he said, “then until we hear from him, I can’t think of anything else that can be done to get Ferris back from the goddamn drug cartels.”

“Carlos,” Berezovsky said, “what makes you think the drug people have your friend?”

“Jesus, I never even thought about that,” Castillo asked.

“Am I permitted to ask, ‘Thought about what?’ ” Investment Banker said. “Or are you still making up your mind if my word is any good?”

“Why don’t you and Hotelier think of yourselves as being in a halfway house?” Castillo said. “Where one slip from the straight and narrow will turn you into shark food?”

“What Ace didn’t think about is that Dmitri’s pal Vladimir doesn’t like being humiliated,” Delchamps said.

“And that Vladimir Vladimirovich might think a good way to get his hands on Carlos,” Berezovsky picked up, “would be to grab him when he gets on his white horse and gallops into Mexico to rescue his friend from the drug people.”

“Who’s Vladimir?” Hotelier asked.

“His last name is Putin,” Annapolis furnished.

“Carlito would have thought about Vladimir,” Sweaty said loyally.

Sure I would,
Castillo thought,
probably by a week from next Thursday. Jesus!

“And now that this has come up,” Sweaty went on, “we have time to think about it. Carlito is right; until we hear from Vic D’Alessandro, there’s nothing we can do.”