"Who is Darby?"
"Until he was recruited for OOA, Mr. President, he was the CIA station chief in Buenos Aires. He retired when OOA was disbanded."
"And he's in Argentina?"
"Ambassador Montvale has information suggesting that Mr. Darby may be in Ushuaia."
"Where the hell is that?"
"It's the southernmost city in South America, sir."
"What's he doing there?" the President asked, and then, before Powell could reply, went on: "Is Usah… whatever you said… a place where Castillo could hide the defectors?"
"That has occurred to Ambassador Montvale and myself, sir."
"And what have you done about it, either of you?"
"I sent six first-class officers of the Clandestine Service down there, Mr. President, to assist the new station chief. And of course Ambassador Montvale. They should be in Argentina this morning. I'm sure that as soon as they get there, Ambassador Montvale will send at least two of them to Ushuaia."
Clendennen nodded.
"But I must tell you, Mr. President, that Ambassador Montvale told me he has also developed intelligence that suggests that Mr. Darby's presence in Ushuaia has nothing to do with Castillo or the Russians."
"What the hell else would he be doing in some town on the southern tip of South America?"
"He may be there with an Argentine national, a young woman not his wife, if you take my meaning, Mr. President."
"Where the hell did Montvale get that?"
"From Mrs. Darby, sir. She's here in the States."
"I'll be a sonofabitch!"
"May I speak, Mr. President?" the secretary of State said.
The President made an impatient gesture giving her permission to do so.
"Mr. President, I respectfully suggest that this whole business could be put behind us by sending either DCI Powell or-probably preferably-DDCI Lammelle back to Sergei Murov with this tape. And this time, Frank delivers the ultimatum: 'Turn over whatever Congo-X you have, give us a written statement that you neither have control of nor have knowledge of any more of this substance, or we'll call an emergency session of the United Nations and play this tape for the world.'"
The President didn't respond for a moment, then he asked, more or less courteously, "Are you through, Madam Secretary?"
"Yes. For the moment."
"The female is really the deadlier of the species, isn't it?" the President asked rhetorically. "Natalie, do you know what would happen while we're calling the Russian bluff? We'd be right back where we were when my impulsive predecessor sent the bombers to take out the Fish Farm: at the edge of a nuclear exchange."
"With respect, Mr. President, I don't think so," Cohen said.
"What you think doesn't really matter, does it, Natalie? I'm the President."
"With respect, Mr. President, I associate myself with the position of the secretary of State," Powell said.
The President ignored him.
"Now, what's going to happen is that nothing will be done with these tapes until I say so," the President said. "What I intend to do is find those Russians and put them on a plane to Moscow. Once we have done that, we'll evaluate the Russian reaction, and go from there.
"And since the way to find the Russians is to find Colonel Castillo, that is the priority. When I get back from Chicago this afternoon-somewhere around three, I would guess-I want you both back here. Plus the secretary of Defense and the director of the FBI."
"The secretary of Defense is in India, Mr. President," Cohen said.
"I was about to say, Madam Secretary, 'Then his deputy,' but when I think about it, when I think about who that is, I don't want to do that. Have General Naylor here, and if Naylor is in Timbuktu or someplace, get word to him to return immediately. When I walk back in this office this afternoon, I want to see Naylor, or you holding the general's estimated time of arrival in your hand, Madam Secretary.
"This meeting is concluded. Thank you for coming," the President said.
And then he walked out of the Oval Office without shaking hands with either Powell or Cohen. [THREE] Aboard Cessna Mustang N0099S Bahias de Huatulco International Airport Near Pochutla, Mexico 1015 8 February 2007 "Huatulco, Mustang Double Zero Double Nine Sugar," Castillo called in Spanish. "Will you close out my VFR flight plan from Cancun, please? We just decided to stop for lunch."
"Double Zero Double Nine, are you on the ground?"
"No. I'm on final to a dirt strip next to a marvelous restaurant on Route 200 near Bajos de Chila."
"I know the place. Report when on the ground. Have a nice lunch." Castillo passed over the coastline and made a slow, sweeping descent over the Pacific Ocean. Although there was a marvelous restaurant near Bajos de Chila, he had no intention of landing on the dirt strip behind it.
When he had dropped almost to the surface of the sea-and had thus, he hoped, dropped off the Huatulco radar-he touched his throat microphone again.
"Huatulco, Double Zero Double Nine on the ground at one seven past the hour."
"Double Zero Double Nine, Huatulco closing you out as of ten-seventeen."
"Thank you."
Two minutes later, having spotted the pier he was looking for, he picked up enough altitude to pass over a small hill on the coastline. At the peak of the climb, he spotted the landing strip he was looking for, dropped the nose, made a straight-in approach, and greased the landing.
Feeling more than a little smug, he pressed the cabin speaker button.
"Welcome to Grapefruit International Airport. Please remain in your seats with your chastity belts fastened until we reach the terminal. We hope you have enjoyed your flight, and the next time you're running from the CIA that you will choose High Roller Airlines again."
"You are insane," his co-pilot said, but she was smiling. Then she gestured, as he turned the Mustang around, out the windows, at rows of grapefruit trees lining the runway as far as the eye could see. "That's all grapefruit?"
"That's all grapefruit."
He taxied about halfway back down the runway, and then turned the nose toward the closed door of a hangar, and then shut the engines down.
"Carlitos," Svetlana said, her voice tinged with concern. When he looked at her, she pointed out the window.
Three very large, very swarthy men, each bearing a shotgun, had come around the side of the hangar and were approaching the airplane.
Castillo waved cheerfully at them, and after a moment, as they recognized him, they smiled and waved back.
"I better get off first," Castillo said. "Otherwise Max will probably get shot by people I've known since I was twelve."
He unstrapped himself quickly, rose from his seat, stepped into the cabin, and began to open the stair door.
"I trust the colonel is aware there are some armed, possibly unfriendly, indigenous personnel out there?" Uncle Remus asked.
The stair door opened and Castillo quickly went down it. Max leapt from the airplane, showed the men his teeth, and headed for the nose wheel.
The larger of the men tossed his shotgun to one of the others, spread his arms, and wrapped them around Castillo.
"Dona Alicia will be so happy, Carlos," he said.
"She's here?"
I should have considered that possibility. But it's too late now.
"Fernando brought her down yesterday. Dona Alicia said it was freezing in San Antonio," he said. And then added quietly: "I don't know about the dog, but I like your lady friend."
"Sweaty, say hello to Pablo," Castillo said. "We grew up together. The others are Manuel and Juan."
When all the introductions had been made, Pablo said, "Carlos, why don't you take one of the Suburbans and go up to the house? Just as soon as we push the plane inside, we'll bring your luggage."
"There's two cardboard boxes in the back," Castillo said, and then indicated with his hands the size. "Bring one of them, please?" It was a ten-minute drive from the airstrip to the house, down a gravel road that led between the apparently endless grapefruit trees and over two more ridge lines.
No one was on the verandah of the sprawling, red-tile-roofed building to greet them, which Castillo considered surprising.