"We're going to launch a raid on a Venezuelan airfield, not invade. When you invade, you try to stay. With a little luck, we should be in and out in no more than fifteen minutes, twenty tops."

Danton repeated, "'Load him on his Tupolev'?"

Castillo nodded. "The CIA has a standing offer of one hundred twenty-five million dollars for a Tu-934A. We're going to get them one; we need the money."

"To answer your other question, Mr. Danton," Sweaty said, "once we get General Sirinov here, I'll be asking the questions. He will tell us the truth."

"And now you'll have to excuse me for a few minutes," Castillo said. "I have to go buy another Black Hawk. While I'm gone, we'll show you the surveillance tapes."

"'Buy another Black Hawk?'" Danton parroted.

"That's right," Castillo said. "You don't know how that works, do you?"

"Uh-uh."

"Well, the U.S. Army buys them from Sikorsky. They run right around six million dollars. Then the State Department sells them to the Mexican government-to be used in their unrelenting war against the drug cartels-for about one-tenth of that, say, six hundred thousand.

"The next thing that happens is that-in the aforementioned unrelenting war run by the Policia Federal Preventiva against the drug cartels-the helicopter is reported to have been shot down, or that it crashed in flames.

"Next, a Policia Federal Preventiva palm is crossed with a little money-say, a million or so-and the Black Hawk rises phoenix-like from the ashes. The drug cartels find them very useful to move drugs around. That tends to raise the price. The one downstairs cost us one point two million, and I have been warned that the bidding today will start at a million three."

"Incredible!" Danton said.

"Enjoy the movies, Mr. Danton," Castillo said. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

[EIGHT].

The Office of the Director of National Intelligence Eisenhower Executive Office Building 17th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

Washington, D.C.

1210 11 February 2007

"Mr. McGuire is here to see you, Mr. Amba.s.sador," Montvale's secretary announced.

"Ask him to come in, please," Montvale said, and, as Truman Ellsworth watched from a leather armchair, then rose from behind his desk and walked toward the door, meeting McGuire as he entered the office.

"h.e.l.lo, Tom," Montvale said. "What can I do for you?"

McGuire hesitated, and then said, "I suppose you've heard I don't work here no more."

Montvale nodded. "Mason Andrews lost very little time in telling me; he was here two minutes after Truman and I got here this morning."

"How are you, Tom?" Ellsworth said.

He got out of his armchair, went to McGuire, and gave him his hand.

McGuire hesitated again.

"I decided I couldn't just fold my tent, Mr. Amba.s.sador, without facing you and telling you I was sorry . . ."

"You're not going to be prosecuted, Tom, if that's what's worrying you. To do that, Andrews would need me to testify and I made sure he understands that's just not going to happen."

McGuire finished, ". . . but when I walked in here just now, I realized I couldn't do that. When Mrs. Darby told me Alex Darby was down there in . . ."

"Ushuaia," Ellsworth furnished.

". . . with some floozy, I knew that wasn't so. And when I told you, I told myself that you were too smart to swallow that whole. But what I came to tell you, Mr. Amba.s.sador, is that I hoped you would."

"I appreciate your honesty, Tom. Are you going to tell me why?"

"I just had enough of the whole scenario, Mr. Amba.s.sador. I think what the President's trying to do to Charley Castillo is rotten. I didn't want to be part of it. I hope they never find him."

"Prefacing this by saying that I'm about to join you in the army of the unemployed . . ."

"Excuse me?"

"You've been around the White House for a long time, Tom. What inferences would you draw if I told you that that red telephone no longer directly connects the director of National Intelligence to the President?"

He gave McGuire time to consider that, then went on: "And when the director of National Intelligence-to whom the President is now referring to as the 'director of National Stupidity'-attempts to telephone the President using the White House switchboard, the President's secretary answers and tells me the President is busy and will get back to me. Or words to that effect."

"He's going to throw you under the bus, too?" McGuire asked.

"That is the inference I have drawn. Does that sound reasonable to you?"

"Then I am sorry, Mr. Amba.s.sador. I didn't think what I did would cost you your job."

"What you did, Tom, probably contributed to that, but I don't think it was the only thing that made President Clendennen decide he could do without my services. He really isn't quite as stupid as he appears. I think it is entirely likely that he has known for some time what I think of him. He would like nothing better than to have Roscoe J. Danton write a column detailing how his director of National Stupidity went on a wild-goose chase to Ushuaia, but he can't do that because Roscoe would be sure to ask him why he sent Truman and me to Argentina in the first place, and he can't be sure how far he can push my reluctance to embarra.s.s the Office of the President-for that matter, Clendennen himself-before it is overwhelmed by my contempt.

"Inasmuch as he knows that I won't oblige him by resigning, what he's doing is looking for a way to fire me in conditions that won't reflect adversely on him."

"Is Danton going to write about ... you going to Ushuaia?"

"I don't know. I'm having trouble getting in touch with him. Just before you came in, Truman and I decided that we will take our lunch at the Old Ebbitt Grill. Not only are we fairly sure that the Executive Dining Room will no longer welcome us, but we suspect we can find Mr. Danton at one of his favorite watering holes, the Old Ebbitt.

"We'll have to walk. Truman and I no longer have access to the White House fleet of Yukons."

"My G.o.d!"

"If you don't mind the walk, Truman and I would be delighted if you were to join us."

"You don't have to do that, Mr. Amba.s.sador."

"I want to do it," Montvale said. "Please join us."

[ONE].

Laguna el Guaje Coahuila, Mexico 1335 11 February 2007

"Sorry to have taken so long," Castillo said when he walked into the dining room trailed by Max. "Unexpected problems at the used helicopter lot."

"But you got another Black Hawk?" Sweaty asked.

"I got another one. But the price went up to one point four million, and I suspect it's not going to be as nice as the one downstairs."

"Colonel, can I ask where you're getting all that money?" Roscoe Danton said.

"The LCBF Corporation actually purchased the Black Hawks, and is loaning them to us," Castillo answered.

"That's 'those people' in Las Vegas?" Danton asked.

"Oh, no," Castillo said. "The LCBF Corporation has absolutely nothing to do with those people in Las Vegas."

"Then what the h.e.l.l is it?"

"I'd really like to tell you, Roscoe," Castillo said solemnly. "I really would. But if I did, I'd have to kill you."

That earned a chuckle from not only the Special Operations people around the table-there was one more of them now, CWO5 Colin Leverette (Retired) having come in while they were watching the surveillance camera tapes-but also from Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Allan Naylor, Jr.

General Naylor, however, who had heard the comment often, was not amused.

He thought: These Special Operations types, from Charley's teenaged ex-Marine "bodyguard" Lester Bradley up to Lieutenant General Bruce McNab, have an almost perverse sense of humor. They're different. They have no respect for anything or anyone but each other. These Special Operations types, from Charley's teenaged ex-Marine "bodyguard" Lester Bradley up to Lieutenant General Bruce McNab, have an almost perverse sense of humor. They're different. They have no respect for anything or anyone but each other.

And then he thought: Why do I suspect that things did not go well when Charley was off buying another Black Hawk? Why do I suspect that things did not go well when Charley was off buying another Black Hawk?

And I think he was telling the truth about that, too. We give the Mexicans multimillion-dollar helicopters, which then promptly wind up in the hands of the drug cartels.

Castillo said, "Well, now that you've seen the movie starring General Yakov Sirinov and his Dancing SVR Ninjas ..."

There he goes again! Why does he feel compelled to make a joke even of that?

". . . I think we should move to the war room, where I will attempt to explain our plan."

"Am I permitted to make a comment?" the elder Naylor asked.

"Yes, sir. Of course."

"That tape should be in the hands of the President. He could have the secretary of State demand an emergency session of the UN Security Council. . . ."

"Not until we know how much Congo-X the Russians have," Castillo said very seriously, and then his voice became mocking: "And now, lady, Max, and gentlemen, if you'll be good enough to follow me to the war room?"

He bowed deeply, holding one arm across his middle and pointing the other toward the door.

Naylor thought: I'd like to throw something at him I'd like to throw something at him.

He glanced at McNab, who was smiling.

What's he smiling at? Charley playing the clown?

Or me?

The war room had been a recreation/exercise room. There was a Ping-Pong table, a pocket billiards table, and half a dozen exercise machines of a.s.sorted functioning.

The exercise machines had been moved into a corner of the room. The billiards and Ping-Pong tables were covered with maps. Lester Bradley was at a table on which sat a Casey communicator and several printers. There were armchairs, most of them in a semicircle facing large maps taped to a wall. Another armchair was alone against the side of the wall. And again, there were two burly, fair-skinned, Uzi-armed men sitting by the doors to the room.

"Colonel Castillo, I think we should discuss my understanding of my parole."

"With respect, sir, will you hold that until I ask the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency if it's convenient for him to join us?" Castillo replied, and then issued an order in Russian.

Thirty seconds later, Frank Lammelle was ushered into the room by two burly Russians. He was wearing a shirt and trousers. He was barefoot. His wrists were encircled with plastic handcuffs. The handcuffs were held against his waist by another plastic handcuff attached to his belt.

"Good afternoon, Frank," Castillo said.

"You're going to jail for this, Castillo."

Castillo issued another order in Russian. One of the ex-Spetsnaz operators left the room and returned a moment later with a folding metal chair. Castillo showed him where he wanted it, and then, not gently, guided Lammelle into it.

"Lester, go sit in the armchair. Take Mr. Lammelle's air pistol with you."

Bradley complied.

"Frank," Castillo then said, "you pose a problem for me. General McNab, General Naylor, and General Naylor's staff are also here involuntarily. But they have given me their parole under the Code of Honor. I'm fairly sure you've heard of it. I'm also absolutely sure-you being the DDCI-that you wouldn't consider yourself bound by it. So I will not accept your parole.

"Which means you will sit there in handcuffs. If you even look like you're thinking of getting out of the chair without my express permission, Lester will dart you. I should tell you that he's not only a former Marine gunnery sergeant but also a crack shot. He was a designated marksman on the March to Baghdad. He will also dart you if you speak without my permission. You understand?"

"You heard what I said about you going to jail for this, you sonofab.i.t.c.h!"

"You are ent.i.tled to one emotional outburst before Lester darts you. You just used it. Lester, put a dart in the back of his neck the next time he says anything."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"And, Frank, the next time you use language that offends my fiancee, I will let Max bite you. Show the man your teeth, Max," Castillo said, then spoke a few words in Hungarian while pointing at Lammelle.