"Really interesting," Swanson said. "Neither Tom or Joel mentioned anything about that, either."
"I told you they couldn't," Castillo said. "And what I said just now about parties unknown wasn't entirely accurate." He looked at Britton. "Jack, we now know who one of the Ninjas was. He was positively identified-fingerprints-by a Uruguayan cop as Major Alejandro Vincenzo of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia."
"No shit?" Britton said, in great surprise.
"I suppose you realize, Colonel, that you're really whetting my curiosity?" Swanson said.
"Let's get in one of the Yukons," Castillo said. "We can start clueing you in while Torine's dealing with the airplane. I don't think we can finish, but we can start." Fifteen minutes later, Jake Torine handed Castillo's American Express card to the Lehigh Aviation Services' fuel truck driver, who took it without question, ran it through his machine, then handed it back with the sales slip for his signature. Torine signed the slip-using his own signature, but it would have taken the expert eye of a forensic document examiner to determine that the scribble read "Torine" and not "Castillo"-then walked across the blazing-hot tarmac to the black Yukon that Castillo and the others had climbed in.
Special Agent Bob Davis of the Secret Service had to get out of the truck, fold down the middle-row seat he had been occupying, and get in the back, third row of seats so Torine could get in.
"If you weren't such a paragon of virtue and honesty, Charley," Torine said, after the introductions were made and as he handed Castillo his credit card, "you probably wouldn't have to pay for the fuel and the landing fee. I signed the bill 'Abraham Lincoln.'"
When Torine didn't get the laugh he expected, he added: "Somehow I sense I'm interrupting something."
"I have been regaling these gentlemen with the plot of the mystery," Castillo said.
"How far did you get?"
"Dropping the Munzes at the ranch in Midland," Castillo said. "I told them everything, Jake. We need all the help we can get."
"Any of this make any sense to you, Mr. Swanson?" Torine asked.
"No, Colonel, it doesn't. And I am about to be overwhelmed with curiosity as to how these Rambo operations of yours are connected with these home-grown Muslims we're watching 'as a highest priority.'"
"Tell them, Jack," Castillo ordered.
"Okay," Britton said, and took a moment to form his thoughts. "You know, Fred, that when I was on the Philly cops, I was undercover for a long time in the Aari-Teg mosque."
"That must have been fun," Special Agent Davis commented from the backseat. "How long did you get away with that before they made you?"
"Three and a half years-and they never made me."
"I'm impressed," Davis said in genuine admiration.
"Yeah, me, too," Castillo said.
"Right after we came back from Uruguay," Britton said, "I heard that another undercover cop in the Aari-Teg mosque, a pal of mine named Sy Fillmore, had gone over the edge-the cops found him wandering around babbling in North Philly. Once they learned, several days later, he was a fellow cop, they had him put in the loony tunes ward in Friends Hospital. So I went to see him.
"And he told me that AALs had bought a hundred-twenty-acre farm in Bucks County on which-or in which-were some pre-Revolutionary War iron mines that they were stocking with food and water, and in which they are going to take cover when a briefcase-sized nuclear bomb is detonated in Philly."
"Jesus Christ!" Special Agent Davis exclaimed.
"And you're taking this seriously?" Swanson asked, his tone serious. "It sounds incredible."
"Yes, it does," Britton said. "And that's what Chief Inspector Dutch Kramer decided when he heard it. First of all, it came from Fillmore, who slides back and forth between making sense and babbling, and is indeed incredible on its face value. Kramer didn't even tell the FBI. But when I told Charley, both he and McGuire, and I suppose Isaacson, too, decided I should look into it. That's when you got involved."
"You mean Joel knew this and didn't tell me?" Swanson asked, indignantly. "All I got was some bullshit about starting a 'highest priority round-the-clock surveillance' of these lunatics, the reason for which I would learn in due time."
"You weren't cleared for that information," Castillo said, reasonably.
"I've got a couple of security clearances," Swanson said. "Three or four of them with names. And Joel knows that."
"Joel couldn't tell you," Castillo said. "Only two people can decide who has the Need to Know."
The reply didn't seem to surprise Swanson. He nodded and asked, "The director of National Intelligence and the secretary of Homeland Security?"
Castillo shook his head. "The President and me."
"Only you and the President? That's impressive, Colonel," Swanson said. "Can I interpret that to mean somebody really high up thinks this threat is credible?"
"Ambassador Montvale thinks it's credible. And as soon as I have a look at this place, Jack, we're going to Washington. He wants to see you personally."
"Oh, shit," Britton said.
"Which reminds me," Castillo said. He pointed to a radio mounted under the Yukon's dashboard. "Is that tied into the Secret Service's communications system? I mean in Washington?"
Swanson nodded.
"I'd like to get word to Montvale that I'm here, and that I'm coming to Washington-with Britton-as soon as we're through here. ETA to come later."
Swanson nodded and pressed his finger to his lapel.
"Cheesesteak here," he said. "Is this thing working?"
The response came immediately: "Loud and clear."
"Get word to Big Eye that Don Juan is with me and will be coming to see him-with English-later today. ETA to follow. Acknowledge delivery."
"Got it. Will do."
Swanson turned to Castillo and said, "Done."
"Thanks," Castillo said. "Although I feel like I've just made an appointment with my dentist."
Swanson smiled, then asked, "You think this threat is credible, Colonel?"
"No," Castillo said. "I've been talking to some people who know about bombs like this and know about the Russians and they don't think so, and if I had to bet, I'd go with them."
"Why?" Swanson asked, simply. "There's supposed to be a hundred of these briefcase-sized nukes hidden around the country. There was even some KGB defector who testified before Congress that he'd scouted places to hide them."
"The defector's name was Colonel Pyotr Sunev," Castillo said. "And after the CIA set up a new identity for him as a professor at Grinnell College, he disappeared one day, then turned up in Europe, once again in the KGB."
"Disinformation?" Swanson asked.
Castillo nodded.
"And a lot of egg on the CIA's face?"
Castillo nodded again.
"And from everything I've learned about these bombs," Castillo said, "which I admit isn't much, they're the size of a suitcase, not a briefcase. And the firing mechanisms are coded. I can't imagine the Russians giving a bomb, much less that code, to a bunch of lunatics."
"What about our friends in the Muslim world?"
"I think if they had a bomb, and the code to detonate it, they would have already used it. The Russians have their own trouble with the Muslims. I just can't see them handing a nuke to any of them; they'd be liable to set it off in Moscow."
"So what's going on with these nuts in Durham?"
"I wish I knew. The first thing I'd like to know is where they got the money to buy the farm in the first place. Jack tells me the Aari-Teg mosque had trouble paying their rent."
"They paid for it with a cashier's check for $1,550,000 drawn against the account of the Aari-Teg mosque, Clyde J. Matthews, Financial Officer, in the Merchants National Bank of Easton, Colonel," Special Agent Harry Larsen said.
"Clyde, aka Abdul Khatami, is one great big mean sonofabitch," Britton added. "He's the head mullah of the Aari-Teg mosque. Before he found Muhammad, ol' Clyde was in and out of the slam from the time he was fifteen. Mostly drugs, but some heavier stuff, too-armed robbery, attempted murder, etcetera. He was doing five-to-ten in a federal slam-for cashing Social Security checks that weren't his-when he was converted to Islam."