“That this abomination before God has been erected on his soil, but (b) not to worry, because his friend the United States of America is about to destroy it and no one will be the wiser.
“If he gives you any trouble about our airplanes overflying his country—or anything else—tell him his option is that we will destroy this abomination and then take it to the goddamned United Nations.
“Natalie, say, ‘Yes, Mr. President,’ or I will with great reluctance have to accept your resignation, then have the bastard appear in the Oval Office tomorrow and tell him myself. They knew goddamn well it was there. Palms were greased.”
After a long moment, the secretary of State said, “Yes, Mr. President.”
The President turned to Castillo.
“I hope this eases the pain of getting the boot a little, Charley.”
“It eases it a great deal, sir. Thank you.”
“For what? For defending the United States from all enemies, foreign and domestic? That’s what I was hired to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you before you start vanishing from the face of the earth?”
Castillo had seen this question coming, too, and was prepared for it.
“Yes, sir. Three things.”
The President made a Let’s have it gesture with both hands.
“First, sir, I would like to see Corporal Bradley here promoted to gunnery sergeant in the Marine Corps. He loves the Corps, but obviously, tainted with this, and knowing what he knows, he could never go back. He’ll have to take a discharge.”
The President pointed to the secretary of Defense.
“Do it,” he ordered, then turned back to Castillo. “And?”
“I’d like to see Berezovsky and Alekseeva taken off the Interpol warrants. They didn’t embezzle any money. And three, I would like myself, and anybody else connected to me, to be taken off the FBI’s ‘locate but do not detain’ list—and any other list we may be on.”
The President pointed at the DCI. “You can take care of that. And since the Russians have not defected to the CIA, I want the CIA to take no action to encourage them to do so. Understood?”
The DCI did not appear the epitome of happy. “Yes. Mr. President.”
The President looked at Castillo.
“I’m sorry it turned out like this, Charley. But bad things happen to good people.”
He put out his hand.
Castillo shook it, then he and Bradley walked out of the room.
[THIRTEEN]
McCarran International Airport
Las Vegas, Nevada
1530 14 January 2006
Castillo had made two calls on the AFC from Jack and Sandra Britton’s suite in the Four Seasons.
The first was to Dr. Aloysius Francis Casey. Casey told Castillo that while he’d said no problem to Charley’s request to get Dmitri and Svetlana to Cozumel, he admitted now that he’d instead brought them to Vegas, and what he suggested was that Castillo come, too, until he could straighten things out.
The second call was to Major Dick Miller in the Office of Organizational Analysis. He lied to Miller. He said he would explain the whole thing when he had the chance, but right now the President wanted them both out of sight, and he was going to go out of sight in Vegas, and the way they were going to do that was that Miller was going to meet him at BWI, where they would turn in the Lear, pick up the Gulfstream, and fly out to Nevada.
That had a secondary reaction. Castillo decided that there was no reason Jack and Sandra Britton should not enjoy the cultural advantages of Las Vegas. For that matter, Two-Gun Yung either.
The G-III went wheels-up out of Baltimore and four hours and forty minutes later touched down at McCarran. Somewhere over Pennsylvania, Castillo had called Aloysius again, told him who was now aboard the Gulfstream, and asked that rooms for one and all be arranged.
“Our last excursion, so to speak, on the tab of the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund.”
“I’ll send somebody to meet you,” Casey said.
What met them at the AFC hangar was a gleaming black Lincoln stretch limousine with THE VENETIAN lettered in gold on the doors.
Sandra was thrilled.
“I’ve always wanted to be mistaken for a rock star with five lovers,” she said.
When they were off-loaded at the Venetian’s grand entrance, there was one assistant manager in gray frock coat and striped pants for each of them.
“May we show you to your suites?” each asked.
Castillo, who still had not shaved, felt a little uncomfortable in the elegance of the lobby, but he reasoned he would soon be alone with Svetlana and right now that was all that mattered.
“The center door, sir. You are expected. Just go right in,” his assistant manager ordered.
Castillo pushed open the door.
“Sweaty?”
“In here, Charley,” Aloysius Francis Casey called.
Shit!
Swapping war stories with Aloysius is not what I had in mind.
He found himself at the head of a set of sweeping glass stairs leading down a floor to a dimly lit sunken living room. Aloysius Francis Casey and half a dozen men he could not remember ever having seen before sat on a circular couch that appeared to be upholstered with gold lamé.
Castillo started down the stairs, then realized he knew two of the men. Tom Barlow and Jack Davidson were sitting with their feet on a piece of furniture in front of the circular couch. And then he heard a familiar whine—Davidson was barely holding back Max.
What the hell is going on? he thought as Max broke loose and ran to him. Then Castillo realized that he did recognize some of the others. One was a legendary character who owned four—maybe five?—of the more glitzy Las Vegas hotels.
But not this one, a voice from the memory bank told him.
Another was a well-known, perhaps even famous, investment banker.
And another had made an enormous fortune in data processing. Castillo remembered him because he was a Naval Academy graduate.
The others he couldn’t place.
“Need a little taste, Charley?” Aloysius asked. “You look like you could use one.”
“Yes, thank you. I do.” He petted Max. “How are you, buddy?”
A butler in striped pants and a gray jacket took his order, and delivered it in a nearly miraculous short time.
“Gentlemen, now that the colonel has his drink,” Casey said, “I propose a toast to Colonel Hamilton, Phineas DeWitt, and the incomparable Uncle Remus. They did the job of getting Operation Fish Farm off the ground better than anyone in this room thought they could.”
Glasses were raised and clinked and there was a chorus of overlapping voices.
“Charley, word has come back-channel that a scrambled sortie comprised of F-16A, F-15E, and F-15C attack aircraft—on a black op devised by one Colonel Torine—has turned a so-called ‘fish farm’ into a flaming crater.”
All these people know about Op Fish Farm?
I can’t believe Aloysius has been running at the mouth.
Or Dmitri or Jack—and what the hell are they doing here?
“Everybody pay attention,” Casey said. “You don’t often get a chance to see Charley with a baffled look on his face.”
“Okay, Aloysius, you have pulled my chain—more than it’s ever probably been pulled. What the hell is going on around here?”
“How many times since you made the acquaintance of Colonel Hamilton have you said dirty words when he told you of ‘his people’?”
“Every damn time. So what?”