"Jesus, I don't know," Charley said and then corrected himself immediately. "Yeah, I do. I flew it into Baltimore just before I went to Angola. Five-Oh-Seven-Five."
"Learjet 45XR. Five-Oh-Seven-Five," Hall repeated. "Anything else, Charley?"
"I'm going to see if I can't borrow some Gray Fox radios," Charley said. "The secure kind."
"I can have Beiderman arrange that, too, if you want."
"I think the Gray Fox people who have them-or I hope do have them-would probably stall even him until McNab okayed it," Charley said. "Let me see how far I get by myself."
"Your call. Are you running into any kind of hassle with anyone down there? I thought I picked up:"
"No, sir. General Gonzalez even loaned me his aide to see that I get whatever I think I need."
He looked at Captain Brewster as he spoke.
"Okay. Keep me in the loop, Charley."
"Yes, sir, of course."
He broke that connection and pushed another autodial number.
"Maria," he said a moment later, in Spanish, "this is Carlos. I realize it's late, and I hope I didn't wake you up, but I really have to talk to Fernando."
He saw the surprise on Captain Brewster's face at the Spanish and wondered how much Spanish Gonzalez's aide knew.
He probably speaks it. Or at least has been trying hard to learn it. A wise move, considering his general is named Gonzalez and he likes to speak Spanish.
"What's up, Gringo?" Fernando Lopez, sounding sleepy, asked.
"Fernando, I need the Lear," Castillo said.
There was a just perceptible hesitation before Fernando replied, "As long as you deal with the lawyers and the IRS, Gringo, you're welcome to it. You know that."
"I mean, I need it right now. Tonight."
The hesitation was more evident this time.
"You want to tell me why?" Fernando asked.
"How soon can you find a pilot to fly it here?"
"Where's here? The last I heard from you, you were on your way to Africa."
"I'm at Fort Bragg."
"Welcome home, Gringo. How was the Dark Continent?"
"Hey! I'm not fooling around. I need you to find a pilot and have it brought up here."
"Jesus Christ, do you know what time it is?"
"Yeah, I do. This is important."
"But you're not going to tell me why?"
"And leave your Jeppesen case in it. I'm presuming you've got approach charts for Mexico?"
"Yeah, I've got them. Until the lawyers screamed, I was going to take the family to Cozumel and call it a proficiency flight. What the hell are you going to be doing in Mexico?"
"Just do what I ask. For the third or fourth fucking time, Fernando, this is important."
"Okay, okay. If you don't hear from me in an hour-your cellular is up and running?"
Charley replied by giving him the number.
"I have that number," Fernando said. "If you don't hear from me in an hour, you can presume the Lear is wheels-up for Fort Bragg. Which, I just realized, is a restricted zone. And I don't think they allow civilian airplanes to land at Pope Air Force Base. What to do about that?"
"The plane'll be cleared for the restricted area and to land at Pope. Have the pilot give them his ETA and I'll meet him and get him a ride into Fayetteville. You better give him some money, too. I haven't had a chance to cash a check lately."
"Jesus Christ, Gringo, this better be important. I think you've just destroyed my happy marriage."
"I'm sorry, Fernando."
"But it's important, right?" The line went dead in Fernando's ear.
Charley turned to Captain Brewster.
"We're going to need wheels," he said.
"I can probably get the staff duty officer's van," Brewster replied. "Where do you want to go?"
"Out to the stockade."
"Now, sir?"
"Now. And I think it would be better if I-we-had our own wheels."
"Major, I just don't know:"
"Call the motor pool, identify yourself as General Gonzalez's aide, and tell them to send a car, or a pickup, a van-something-here right now. And call Delta Force and have them have the senior officer present meet me at the stockade in twenty minutes."
"Major:"
"Alternatively, Captain, get General Gonzalez on the phone. I told you before, I just don't have time to fuck with you."
Without waiting for an answer, Castillo picked up his laptop briefcase and the go-right-now bag and carried them into the bedroom.
He was not going to try to talk the Delta/Gray Fox communications officer out of Mr. Aloysius Francis Casey's latest communication jewels while he was dressed in his Washington middle-level bureaucrat's gray-black suit.
As he unzipped the go-right-now bag, he heard Captain Brewster on the telephone:
"This is Captain Brewster, General Gonzalez's aide. I need a van and driver right now at the VIP guesthouse."
Among other things, the go-right-now bag held a very carefully folded Class A uniform. He hated it. It-and the shirt that went with the tunic and trousers-were sewn from miracle fabrics that didn't pick up unwanted creases. But the by-product of that convenience was that he itched wherever the material touched his skin. If he had the damn thing on for more than six hours, he could count on having a rash around his neck and on his calves and thighs. And the miracle fabrics did not absorb perspiration as cotton and wool did; after wearing it a couple of hours, he smelled as if he hadn't had a shower for a couple of days.
That thought, as he held up the uniform to confirm that it indeed did look amazing crisp, triggered the thought that a lot had happened since he had taken a shower in the Warwick hotel early that morning.
He took fresh linen and the go-right-now toilet kit from the go-right-now bag, stripped off the clothing he was wearing, and marched naked into the bathroom.
Five minutes later, freshly showered and shaved-he had shaved under the shower, a time-saving trick he'd learned at West Point-he replaced the razor in the toilet kit and saw the ring that testified to his graduation from Hudson High with the Class of 1990.
He slipped it on.
Ninety seconds after that, he was sitting on the bed lacing up his highly polished jump boots. And ninety seconds after that, after having walked back into the bath in the unfamiliarly heavy boots, he was examining himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
Something was missing, and, after a moment, he understood what. He went back to the go-right-now bag and took out his green beret. Then he took one more check in the mirror.
He thought: Okay. Major Carlos G, Castillo, highly decorated Special Forces officer, all decked out in his incredibly natty Class A uniform, is prepared to try to talk the Delta/Gray Fox commo officer out of his best radios.
Then he had a second thought.
Shit, my ID card is still in the lid of the laptop briefcase and I'm going to have to have it. Otherwise, I'm likely to get myself arrested for impersonating an officer.
He had the lid open and was extracting his ID card when Captain Brewster knocked on the jamb of the open door.
"Sir, a van is on the way, and Lieutenant Colonel Fortinot will be at the Delta compound when we get there."
"Good," Castillo said and smiled at him.
"That was a quick change," Brewster said.
"I also do card tricks," Castillo said.
[TWO]
Police Administration Building
8th and Race Streets
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
2305 9 June 2005
Two detectives, one a very slim, tall white man, the other a very large African American, came out of the Roundhouse and walked purposefully to an unmarked Crown Victoria, which had just pulled up to the entrance.
The slim white man opened the rear door and got in beside the African American in the backseat.
"Face the other door and put your hands behind you," he ordered matter-of-factly as he produced a set of handcuffs.
"Is this necessary?" Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., asked as he complied.