"He must be getting good efficiency reports. Excellent efficiency reports. According to General Naylor, he was promoted to captain on the five percent list, in other words, earlier than his peers, as an outstanding officer."
"Instead, he's living in an apartment in Washington and going to work in civilian clothing at the-do you know where?"
"At the Central Intelligence Agency," she said. "Where he is in charge of providing special security for CIA personnel in dangerous overseas areas."
" 'Special security' means he's running around Afghanistan protecting CIA agents 'who can't find their asses with both hands'-sorry, Abuela, that's the words he used last night-while they're looking for some Arab whose name I can't even remember. Or pronounce."
"Usama bin Laden," she furnished. "A very dangerous man. A Saudi Arabian who hates everything American. The CIA-and General Naylor-believe he's responsible for blowing up our embassies in Tanzania and Kenya last August. The State Department has placed a five-million-dollar bounty on his head."
"My God, Abuela, you and Naylor have been having some interesting chats, haven't you?"
"I'm getting a little tired, darling," she said. "Would you be willing to take as a given that Carlos will not be getting out of the Army anytime soon and go from there?"
"Yes, of course."
"I asked General Naylor if there was anything I could do to help and he said he thought it was unlikely that Carlos would come to me-or go to him-for any kind of help. But that he might go to you."
Fernando exhaled audibly and then said, "Yeah."
"What I want from you, Fernando, is this: Be there when Carlos needs you. Give him whatever he asks for. Your grandfather used to say that when people tell you they need a little help, they really mean money. The last thing Carlos will need is money-he has his own fortune and soon his share of 'the business'-but it is possible he could find himself in-how did your grandfather phrase it?-'a cash-flow problem,' 'a liquid asset shortage.' I think he would be uncomfortable if he had any idea I had any idea what's he doing. So don't tell him I know. If he does come to you, I want you to tell me. Will you do this for me?"
Fernando met his grandmother's eyes for a moment.
"Of course I will," he said, finally.
"One more thing," she said. "Just before God took your grandfather, he told me that he still had one faint hope: that Carlos would meet some suitable young woman, fall in love, and decide that what he really wanted out of life was a wife and family. He said he was praying for that. I have been praying every night. Would you pray for that, too?"
Fernando nodded. For some reason, he didn't trust his voice to speak.
Chapter XV
[ONE]
Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport
Arlington, Virginia
0125 10 June 2005
While the Lear was still slowing down on its landing roll at DCA, Castillo punched an autodial button on his cellular telephone.
The call was answered on the second ring.
"Three-zero-six," a man's voice said.
Those were the last three digits of the number Castillo's cellular phone had autodialed. It was the number of the supervisory Secret Service agent in charge of the secretary of homeland security's personal security detail.
If someone dialed the number by mistake-or even was "trolling" for interesting numbers-the three-zero-six answer didn't give much away.
"Mr. Isaacson, please," Castillo said.
"Welcome to our nation's capital, Don Juan," Isaacson himself replied.
"We just landed at Reagan, Joel. You sent someone to meet us, right?"
"Wrong."
"Why not?"
"I myself will greet you personally at Butler Aviation, to which ground control, I suspect, is directing you at this very moment."
The plug in Castillo's other ear was in fact at the moment carrying the order of Reagan ground control to take taxiway B left to Butler Aviation.
"To what do I owe the honor?" Castillo said.
"I was feeling generous," Isaacson said, then added: "Nice airplane, Don Juan."
If he can see the airplane, I should be able to see him.
Castillo looked out the window and saw Joel Isaacson leaning against the door of a black Yukon parked in front of the Butler Aviation fueling facility.
You're not supposed to have vehicles – except with flashing lights, etcetera – on the tarmac.
But I suppose if you are a very senior Secret Service guy, you can park just about anyplace you damned well please.
And all Joel heard was that I was bringing some special radio. He doesn't know how big or how heavy, and he wasn't about to help drag a big heavy radio from Butler to wherever he was supposed to park the Yukon.
"Joel, this is Master Sergeant Alex Dumbrowski," Castillo said as they all stood on the tarmac. "Sergeant, this is Mr. Isaacson of the Secret Service. He's in charge of Secretary Halls security."
The two men nodded and shook hands but said nothing.
"Where's the radio?" Isaacson asked.
Sergeant Dumbrowski pointed at the enormous hard-sided suitcase.
"That's all of it?" Isaacson asked, dubiously.
Sergeant Dumbrowski nodded.
Ground service people walked up, dragging a fuel hose. Fernando Lopez climbed down from the Lear.
"Fernando!" Castillo called and Fernando walked over.
Castillo introduced him to Isaacson as his cousin.
Isaacson motioned one of the fuel handlers over and handed him a credit card.
"Put that fuel and the landing fees on that," he ordered.
"Thank you," Castillo said.
"What the hell, it's in government service-you can send us a bill for the charter, Mr. Lopez-and this way no one gets to see the bills."
"You have just made our lawyers very happy," Fernando said. "Thank you."
Isaacson didn't reply, turning instead to Master Sergeant Dumbrowski.
"All set up, how big is this thing?" he asked. "The antenna, I mean?"
Sergeant Dumbrowski wordlessly demonstrated with his hands the size of the expanded antenna.
"Jesus, that small?" Isaacson asked, rhetorically. "Still, Charley, if we set it up on the roof of the OEOB all kinds of questions will be asked. What about Nebraska Avenue?"
As OEOB meant "Old Executive Office Building"-almost everything in Washington seemed to be boiled down to acronymns-Nebraska Avenue was verbal shorthand for the "Nebraska Avenue Complex," off Ward Circle in Northwest Washington. Originally a Navy installation dating to World War II, there are thirty-two buildings on thirty-eight acres. It was now the home of the Department of Homeland Security. Secretary Hall had his official office there, although, as a practical matter, he most often used his office in the OEOB, which was right next to the White House.
Before Charley could reply, Isaacson asked another question, this time of Master Sergeant Dumbrowski.
"How far can you set up the antenna away from the working part?"
"About fifty feet," Dumbrowski replied. It was the first time he had opened his mouth.
"The boss's office is on the top floor," Isaacson said to Charley. "It's a lot less than fifty feet from it to the roof. And it has secure phones. And, no one will ask questions about one more antenna out there. Make sense?"
"Makes a lot of sense, Joel," Castillo said. "Sergeant Dumbrowski's also going to have to teach a couple of your people how to operate it-it's not that hard-so that it's covered all the time. Most important messages come in when the operator is on the John."
"You can start with me and my partner, Sergeant, okay?"
Dumbrowski nodded and then said, almost hesitantly, "Major?"
"Joel, the fewer people who know these radios exist, the fewer people are going to absolutely have to have them," Castillo said. "Okay?"
"For the moment, Charley, fine. But if this equipment is as good as you told the boss it is, I'll want to talk about getting some permanently."