“Bud.”
“Drew, I need a fast plane for two in the Los Angeles area, pronto.”
“What? Bud, we’re kind of busy here,” Meyerson said. “Delta is on their way, the Russians have their ABM system on alert, and you’ve got us crossing wires like some telephone-switching crew.”
“Christ, Drew!” Bud drew back and cooled down. “Look, I don’t have time to explain. Not now. Please. Something fast that can get across the country.”
“Just a minute.” The minute was only thirty seconds, thanks to the ability of the National Military Command Center to almost instantly locate a piece of hardware any where on the globe. “All right. I’ve got a VC-Twenty-one at Los Alamitos. It’s CINCPAC’s plane. He’s on a visit, and he’s not gonna be happy with you taking it.”
“Thank you, Drew. I’ll call you back in a minute with a flight plan for it.” He brought Jefferson back up. “Okay, you and your partner get out to Los Alamitos, and fast. I don’t care how.”
“Sir, my partner was just involved in a—”
“I don’t give a damn what he was involved in, just—”
“She, sir,” Art said loudly. “Her name is Frankie Aguirre, and she just shot three bad guys dead. Okay?”
Bud knew he had to come down from the high his mind had put him in. “I’m sorry, Jefferson. But this is very, very important, and we can’t let anyone else in on it. You and your partner are already in, and what needs to be done is a nonevent.”
“I don’t follow.”
Bud explained it briefly. “Do you have a problem doing this?”
Art remembered what he had done to protect Bill Sturgess from a legal system that could not comprehend his anguish. Now he would have to lie again, actually just not tell, about a similar act, though this time a quite opposite goal was the motivation. “I can do it.”
“And your partner?”
“No problem.”
“Good. You’ll get more instructions in the air.” Bud went back to his conference call. “Sorry, but it was well worth the interruption.”
“What was it?” Jones asked.
“A couple of your agents in L.A. got a recording from Portero’s killers that has Anthony listening to Portero tell the story of the missile. Problem is, it’s an illegal recording.”
“Christ!” Healy swore. “Why are we tiptoeing around this? Legal, illegal. I know we have to follow basic principles, but Anthony is the highest intelligence officer in the land, and he’s fucked things up royally. God knows what his backdoor shit is going to cost us in the long run, and I mean lives, not dollars!”
“Mike…”
“Greg, he’s right,” Bud said. “Gordy, the agents who handled the wiretap — can we use them for something?”
“For what?”
Bud told him without attempting any justification of his plan. “I’m leaving out what follows.”
The director of the FBI wasn’t a rocket scientist, but then he didn’t have to be to take the NSA’s thought process to a conclusion. “You know that’s a crime.”
“I haven’t said anything,” Bud pointed out correctly. “The part your agents will play is completely legal. What comes next—”
“I’ll handle,” Greg Drummond said, jumping in. It was also clear to him, and it would be a pleasure.
“I suggest you do not know the rest, Gordy.”
Jones was a lifelong Bureau man, sworn to uphold the law. He had a particular dislike of those in government who used their positions to skirt the rules of society that John and Jane Q. Public were bound to follow. And he was a pragmatist above all else. He also could not forget that he had once run interference for a colleague who’d taken too much of a liking to the tables in Atlantic City while involved in an undercover operation. Looking the other way was infinitely easier than bearing false witness, but no less challenging for the soul. “I’ll inform the agents down South personally,” the director said, hanging up immediately.
“I can do this, Greg,” Bud offered.
“Right. With that missile still there and the Russians on the edge.”
He was right. Bud’s place was in D.C., with the man who would be making decisions, not running off to involve himself in something that he should be physically removed from. “You’ll have to face him down, Greg.”
“Bud, I’ve been in this town a long time. Longer than you, even. If there is one person out of all the shitheads that I am not afraid to tangle with, it’s Anthony Merriweather. I think I’ll even enjoy it.”
Bud wondered if any man could enjoy destroying another at the moment of its happening. He was also suddenly glad that it wasn’t going to be him doing it.
“If this all works, then we have a new problem,” the DDO pointed out. “Who is going to take the reins in Cuba?”
“I’ll talk to Jim,” Bud said. “He brokered the original agreement. Maybe he has some idea on this. And you, Mike, you need to get in touch with your man in Cuba.”
“I guess they will want to know there’s been a change.” Healy considered something for a second. “It might be good if Jim and I do the talking together.”
“Good idea.” Bud took another look at the time. “You better get a move on, Greg. We need you in position to coordinate.”
“On my way.”
Both CIA men hung up together. Bud kept the phone in his hand and rang the office of the chief of staff. “Ellis, listen. I need to see the Boss again.”
“You just left him.”
“Get him back to the Oval Office,” Bud mildly demanded.
Gonzales realized he shouldn’t argue, considering the way the “request” was delivered. “It’s done. Is this about Jefferson’s call?”
“What call?” Bud asked, his tone hinting at the answer he expected.
“Oh.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FORCES
“The advance scouts are turning south toward Juragua,” the radioman reported as he walked, the heavy radio and its whip antennae bouncing with each quick step.
Colonel Ojeda, a third of the way back in the twin columns that totaled three hundred men, considered the situation and his mission briefly before responding. “Order them to cross the highway to the east and prepare an ambush. In one hour they are to spring the trap and set up a defense to draw the loyalists to them.”
A defense? Antonio thought, the unfamiliar rifle suddenly feeling very present in his hands. With twenty-five men?
“They know, Papa Tony,” Ojeda answered, the look on the CIA officer’s face asking the question he had heard many times. Those for whom command was an unknown often expressed horror at the thought of their fellow men used in a sacrificial maneuver. Leaders of warriors, however, lived with the horror of having to do so.
Antonio switched the rifle from hand to hand and cinched the straps that held his satellite manpack snug against his back. He looked away from the colonel, focusing on the rutted dirt track ahead and trying to think of something other than the scouts. Twenty-five men four miles ahead, all about to give their lives. A hundred more immediately in front of him and twice that number behind. He found himself wondering how many would survive what was to come, and whether he would be among the living. Or would he join his father as yet another casualty in the struggle to free his homeland?
A staccato burst of fire from the front ended Antonio’s questioning. Ojeda reached out and pushed him down to the right. He fell on his side, consciously protecting the satellite radio from impact damage. Looking up, he could see the lead element of the column running left into the cane fields and right for the edge of the marsh. A half-dozen men had fallen by Antonio’s count before any fire was returned. Ojeda’s men were disciplined and knew the value of ammunition when far from their supply lines.