“But he has them, right?”
“Uncle Remus said he’s got eighteen coal-blacks, five a little lighter, and one he says they may have to leave in Tanzania he’s so light.”
“Okay. I guess that leaves us with nothing to do now but set up Casey’s toys and wait.”
“I have the feeling we’ll be doing a lot of that, Charley. Waiting.”
“Do they have sophisticated tools like this in Marine Corps communications, Bradley?” Casey asked, holding up a very-fine-pointed soldering iron from Radio Shack.
“I don’t know what they have in Marine Corps communications, sir,” Bradley replied. “I was a designated marksman, not in that. I think they mostly use semaphore flags.”
He mimed waving semaphore flags.
Casey shook his head. “What’s a designated marksman? That anything like a shooter?”
“I really don’t know how well your shooters shoot, Dr. Casey, so I don’t know if they would qualify to be a Marine Corps designated shooter. But if you were asking can I use that soldering iron, then yes, sir, I can. Before I joined the Corps, I was in the AARRL. I made most of my stuff.”
“I was also in the American Amateur Radio Relay League,” Casey said. “That’s how I got suckered into Special Forces; they needed people who knew the difference between an ohm and a watt.”
He pointed to a rat’s nest of twisted-together wires on the table.
“Why don’t you see what you can do with that?” Then he turned to Castillo, Ernesto, and Davidson, who were resting from their monitor-carrying labors. “Why don’t you guys get out of here and leave those of us who know what we’re doing to do it?”
Castillo and Davidson went to the kitchen, carrying an AFC handset with them. Estella offered them coffee. Castillo had just picked up his mug when Svetlana came into the room, almost causing him to drop the mug.
She was wearing her cowboy suit, which included a light gray Stetson hat, a denim jacket worn open over a translucent blouse of Western cut—through which he could see her upper undergarment—a pair of lizard-skin boots, and of course denim trousers.
She spun around.
“No comment?” she asked.
“How the hell did you get those pants on? With a paintbrush?”
“You’re not supposed to ask questions like that of a lady, my heathen,” she said.
“Jesus, Charley!” Davidson said in mock disapproval of his query. “Even I know that.”
Svetlana smiled at Davidson, then went to Castillo, put her arms around him, and whispered in his ear, “If you will be a good boy, later I will show you how I get them off.”
[NINE]
0700 9 January 2006
When Castillo walked into the library he saw that while it was not going to win any prizes for order and cleanliness, it was a great deal cleaner and more in order than it was the last time he had seen it the night before.
He also saw Lester Bradley sound asleep in an armchair, and that Casey, heavy-eyed, was sitting in another.
“He wouldn’t go to bed when we finished about oh-five-hundred,” Casey greeted him. “Said he ‘had the duty.’ He’s been like that since about ten after five.”
Castillo gently shook Bradley’s shoulder and, when he opened his eyes, said, “Wake up and go to bed, Lester.”
Bradley was on his feet a second later.
“Sir, I guess I dropped off for a second.”
“Go to bed, Lester. Say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Castillo waited until Bradley had walked sleepily out of the room, then asked, “What would you say, Dr. Casey, sir, if I gave you the same order?”
“I would say, ‘Yes, sir, whatever the colonel desires, sir.’ Right after I tell you what Miller had to say and I show you what we’ve done.”
“What did Miller have to say?”
“Delchamps’s and Darby’s planes got off the ground, and so far there has been no report that they dropped into the Atlantic. And he said Doherty and Two-Gun Yung arrived. He said he’s going to install Doherty in the office to keep an eye on the FBI trying to put an eye on you, and that Yung will arrive at the Midland Airport at twelve twenty-five. He said he thought he might be useful here.”
“He will be. Thanks. And now why don’t you get some sleep?”
“You’ll notice that all four monitors are glowing dully,” Casey continued. He pointed at the monitors, one of which was on a table too small for it, and the others sitting on the floor. “But when the proper buttons are pushed, they begin to show us things. For example, the physical location of the AFCs in which I have activated the transponder.”
One of the monitors showed a map of the world. Lightning-bolt symbols showed the locations of the radios in Germany, Argentina, Uruguay, Hungary, and the United States.
“At various scales,” Casey went on, “for example, here in the States.”
A second screen lit up, with a map of the United States, showing lightning bolts in Nevada, Texas, North Carolina, and the District of Columbia.
“Or closer.”
The first screen went blank, then lit up with a map of the Washington area, with lightning bolts at the Nebraska Avenue Complex, the Baltimore airport, and the safe house in Alexandria.
“Or closer.”
The second screen now showed a map of the Baltimore airport, with a lightning bolt coming out of a hangar.
“That’s the one in your Gulfstream. And thanks to the friendly folks at Google, we have this view of that, as well.”
A third screen lit up showing a three-dimensional image of the Signature Flight Support, Inc., hangar.
“God knows that picture wasn’t taken yesterday, or even last month, but it’s better than no picture. And I sure as hell didn’t want to hack into Fort Meade.”
“Could you do that?”
“Who do you think set up their imagery? Whenever we need that, we can. Just didn’t think it wise in the middle of an op.”
Castillo was awed. He smiled. “Go to bed, Aloysius.”
“And so far as people are concerned”—Casey punched more buttons on a keyboard. The world map reappeared with symbols of humans—“this shows the last known location of everybody of interest.”
Casey then repeated the process of demonstration, which this time ended with a three-dimensional view of the ranch house, above which was a line of numbered symbols. A chart to the right identified the numbers. Castillo was represented by the number 1, Casey by the number 2, and so on.
“I’m awed.”
“This is pretty rough, Charley, but it’s up and running.”
“Now, go to bed. We’re going to have to wait for what comes next.”
“I think I will.”
“Thanks, Aloysius.”
Casey yawned, then made a deprecating gesture and walked out of the library.
Castillo sat down in the armchair Lester had vacated, reached for the coffee thermos, poured himself a cup, and began to wait for what would come next.
XVII
[ONE]
Double-Bar-C Ranch
Near Midland, Texas
1725 9 January 2006
The first thing Castillo had to wait for was the arrival of former FBI Special Agent David W. Yung, Jr. Jack Davidson, who had gone into Midland to meet Yung at the airport, called at half past twelve to report that Yung hadn’t been on the plane, had probably missed his connection at Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport and might be on the next plane, or planes, one of which was due at two something and the other at four something.