The Outlaws_ A Presidential Agent Novel Part 51

But what good would that do him?

He pushed the CALL b.u.t.ton.

A female voice answered on the third buzz.

"Miss Eleanor Dillworth, please."

"May I ask who's calling?"

"My name is C. Harry Whelan."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Whelan?"

"Do you know who I am, Miss Dillworth?"

"If this is the talking head I see on Wolf News, yes, I do."

"Miss Dillworth, I'm running down a story that a rogue special operator named Castillo stole two Russian defectors from you. Would you care to comment?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"I'd rather not say just now, Miss Dillworth, but if this story is true ..."

"It's true."

"I'd like to talk to you about it at some length."

"Okay. When and where?"

I have had too much of the Egri Bikaver.

"It's too late tonight. But what about first thing in the morning? Would it be convenient for you to meet me at the Old Ebbitt Grill? Do you know it?"

"What time?"

"Half past eight?"

"See you there, Mr. Whelan."

"How will I recognize you?"

"I'll recognize you. Half past eight."

She hung up.

Whelan closed the cell phone and handed it back to Murov. Murov returned it to his jacket pocket and then put out his hand.

"I presume we have a deal, Harry?" he asked.

Whelan took the hand.

Forty-five minutes later, Sergei Murov laid three one-hundred-dollar bills on the waiter's leather check folder and told him to keep the change.

"Mind if I look at that?" Whelan asked, and picked up the bill.

"They don't give that Egri Bikaver away, do they?" he asked.

"They don't give anything at all away," Murov said.

Whelan slipped the check in his pocket, and followed Murov out of the restaurant.

[ONE].

Quarters #1 MacDill Air Force Base Tampa, Florida 2015 8 February 2007

The driveway of Quarters One was empty as the Chrysler Town & Country minivan that General Allan B. Naylor, Sr., had chosen over a staff car for his official vehicle pulled into it. The vehicle had of course come with a driver, and Naylor was traveling with his senior aide-de-camp, Colonel J. D. Brewer.

"I wonder where the h.e.l.l she is," Naylor said, making obvious reference to his wife.

"Does she know you're here?" Brewer replied.

"Who knows?" Naylor said as he opened his door. "Can I interest you in a drink? I hate to drink alone."

"Allan's here," Colonel Brewer said, pointing back to the street at a Chevrolet Suburban.

"Offer's still good," Naylor said.

"Offer is accepted."

"You can take off, Tommy," Naylor said to the driver. "I'll see that Colonel Brewer gets home. Don't be late in the morning."

"No, sir. I won't be. Good night, sir. Good night, Colonel."

The two got out of the van and walked up the driveway and entered the house by the kitchen door.

Major Allan B. Naylor, Jr., in khaki trousers and a flowered Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt, was sitting at the kitchen table holding a bottle of Heineken beer.

"Well, if it isn't the commanding commanding officer of Headquarters and Headquarters Company," Brewer said. officer of Headquarters and Headquarters Company," Brewer said.

"With all possible respect, Colonel, sir, go f.u.c.k yourself," Allan Junior said.

When Allan Junior had been released from the hospital, mostly recovered from mortar sh.e.l.l wounds suffered in Afghanistan, he had been placed on limited duty and a.s.signed "temporarily" as executive officer of Headquarters and Headquarters Company, Central Command. It was a housekeeping job and he hated it.

Armor Branch Officer a.s.signment had asked him where he would like to be a.s.signed when he was taken off the "limited duty" roster. He had requested, he'd said, "any of the following": the 11th Armored Cavalry at Fort Irwin, California, where The Blackhorse now served as "the enemy" in training maneuvers; Fort Knox, Kentucky, the Cavalry/Armor Center; or Fort Hood, Texas, which always had at least one armored division.

When his orders had come, ten days ago, they had named him commanding officer of Headquarters and Headquarters Company, Central Command, and informed him it was at least a two-year a.s.signment.

Brewer was not really offended by Allan Junior's comment. For one thing, he had known the young officer since he was a kid in Germany; he thought of him as almost family. And he really felt sorry for him.

"If you don't watch your mouth, Major, you're liable to find yourself an aide-de-camp. Trust me, that's a much worse a.s.signment."

"Well, Jack, you can go to h.e.l.l, too," General Naylor said, and then asked, "Allan, where's your mother?"

"She and my wife and my sister and all all your grandchildren are in Orlando, at Disney World. I am under maternal orders to look after you." your grandchildren are in Orlando, at Disney World. I am under maternal orders to look after you."

General Allan B. Naylor, Sr., USA, Commanding General, United States Central Command, had four aides-de-camp-a colonel, two lieutenant colonels, and a captain.

They were his personal staff, as opposed to his command staff at Central Command. The latter was headed by General Albert McFadden, USAF, the deputy commander. Under General McFadden were nine general officers-four Army, three Air Force, and two Marine Corps-plus four Navy flag officers-one vice admiral, two rear admirals (upper half), and one rear admiral (lower half), plus enough full colonels, someone had figured out, to fully staff a reinforced infantry platoon if the fortunes of war should make that necessary.

Approximately one-third of these generals, admirals, and colonels was female. All of General Naylor's personal staff were male.

Despite what Senator Homer Johns frequently said-and apparently believed-General Naylor's personal staff did not spend, at G.o.d only knows what cost to the poor taxpayer at G.o.d only knows what cost to the poor taxpayer, their time catering to the general's personal needs, polis.h.i.+ng his insignia, mixing his drinks, s.h.i.+ning his shoes, carrying his luggage, peeling his grapes, and myriad other acts, making him feel like the commander of a Praetorian Guard enjoying the especial favor of Emperor Caligula.

Colonel J. D. Brewer, whose lapels had carried the crossed sabers of Cavalry before he exchanged them for the insignia of an aide-de-camp, was in overall charge. One of the lieutenant colonels dealt with General Naylor's relations.h.i.+p with Central Command. The other dealt with General Naylor's relations.h.i.+p with Was.h.i.+ngton-the Pentagon, the chief of staff, Congress, and most importantly, the White House.

The captain was in charge of getting the general-which meant not only Naylor, but those officers he needed to have at his side, plus the important paperwork he had to have in his briefcase-from where he was to where he had to be. This involved scheduling the Gulfstream, arranging ground transportation and quarters, and ensuring that Naylor never lost communication with either MacDill or Was.h.i.+ngton.

Jack Brewer and his boss went back together a long time. Brewer had been a second lieutenant in The Blackhorse on the East German-West German border when Naylor had been there as a major. Later, Brewer, as a major, had been the executive officer of a tank battalion in the First Desert War. He had been a promotable light colonel during the Second Desert War, and now he was waiting, more or less patiently, to hear that his name had been sent to Capitol Hill for confirmation by the Senate of his promotion to brigadier general.

It was said, with a great deal of accuracy, that Brewer's rapid rise through the ranks had been the result of the efficiency reports that Naylor had written on him over the years.

"Following your mother's orders," General Naylor said, "you can start looking out for your old man by getting that bottle of Macallan from the bar and fixing Jack and me a drink."

"The Macallan?" Allan Junior asked. "What are we celebrating?"

"Actually, what we're marking is almost the exact opposite of a celebration," Naylor said.

The telephone rang as Allan Junior was walking out of the kitchen to get the single malt. He s.n.a.t.c.hed its handset off the wall.

"Quarters One, Major Naylor, sir."

He listened, then put his hand over the microphone, and turned to his father.

"It's Charley," he said to his father, referring to Captain Charles D. Seward III, his father's junior aide. "He says that Mr. Lammelle is having dinner with Mr. Festerman and will spend the night with him, rather than in the VIP Quarters. He wants to know what you want him to do."

Bruce L. Festerman was the liaison officer of the Central Intelligence Agency to the United States Central Command.

Naylor walked to his son and took the telephone receiver from him.

"Charley," he ordered, "ask Mr. Lammelle if it would be convenient for him to have you pick him up at half past eight in the morning. If so, drive him slowly to the office. I want to be through with General McNab before he gets there. If that doesn't work, call me back."

When Naylor had returned the telephone to its cradle, Allan Junior said: "The deputy director of the CIA and Scotty McNab. What the h.e.l.l's going on?"

Colonel Brewer had wanted to ask the same questions, first when Lammelle had been waiting for him and General Naylor at Andrews Air Force Base in Was.h.i.+ngton, and later at MacDill, when General Naylor had walked into his office and, even before he sat down, had told Sergeant Major Wes Suggins to get General McNab on the horn.

But he hadn't asked. He knew Naylor would tell him what he thought he should know when he thought he needed to know it.

Brewer's natural curiosity-both personal and professional-was not to be satisfied now, either.

"I thought you were fetching the bottle of Macallan," General Naylor said.

"Yes, sir," Allan Junior said. "Coming right up, sir."

The younger Naylor returned with two bottles of Scotch whisky-the single malt Macallan and a bottle of blended Johnnie Walker Red Label. General Naylor's father had taught him-and he had taught his son-that one never took two drinks of really superb Scotch in a row. One drank and savored the superb whisky. A second drink of the superb would be a waste, however, as the alcohol had deadened the tongue to the point where it could not taste the difference between a superb Scotch and an ordinary one-or even a bad one.

General Naylor drank his Macallan without saying a word. When that was gone, he poured a double of the Johnnie Walker, added a couple of ice cubes to his gla.s.s, moved the cubes around with his index finger, and then looked up.

"Did either of you see that actor-the guy who usually has a big black mustache-in the movie where he played Eisenhower just before D-Day?"

"Tom Selleck," Brewer said. "Countdown to D-Day."

"Something like that," Naylor said. "Allan?"

"Yeah, I saw it. Good movie."

"Very accurate," Naylor said. "Down to his chain-smoking those Chesterfields. My uncle Tony, who was at SHAEF, said Eisenhower's fingers were stained yellow from the cigarettes."

He took another swallow of his drink, and his son and aide waited for him to go on.

"There was a segment where one of his officers, a two-star, let his mouth run in a restaurant. Do you remember that?"

His son and his aide nodded.

"That was also quite accurately shown in the movie. Uncle Tony knew all the players. The officer was in his cups, in a restaurant, and came close to divulging when the cross-channel invasion would take place. He was overheard, and someone reported him."

"Eisenhower should have had the sonofab.i.t.c.h shot," Allan Junior said. "Instead, they knocked rings and he walked. He didn't even get thrown out of the Army."

"Did you read that line in the Bible that says something about 'Judge not, lest ye be judged'?" General Naylor said. "He was Ike's roommate at the Point."

"What are you saying, Dad? That if that general had gotten his commission from ROTC and/or wasn't Ike's cla.s.smate, that would have been different?"

"Would you so callously order your roommate at West Point shot under similar circ.u.mstances?"

Allan Junior raised his eyebrows, then said, "I thought about that when I saw the movie. I don't know whether I'd have either one of them shot, but I d.a.m.n sure wouldn't let either one of them walk. When that two-star put men's lives at risk letting his mouth run away with him, he forfeited his right to be an officer."