"Oh, Allan's coming? Good. I'm sure Herr von und zu Gossinger will be glad to see him. And it'll be educational for him, won't it?"
"Is that about it?"
"General, I think I should tell you that I don't think Char… Herr von und zu Gossinger is going to be in Cancun. I don't think he entirely trusts Frank Lammelle. But it's the first step. And we are playing by his rules, aren't we?"
"For the moment," Naylor said.
"Your tickets will be waiting for you at the airport. First class, of course. There's nothing cheap about our… Herr von und zu Gossinger, is there? Nice to talk to you, General."
There was a muted click and General Naylor realized that General McNab was no longer on the line. [THREE] Office of the Director The Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia 1625 10 February 2007 "What are you going to do, Frank? Send the Gulfstream down to Cancun ahead of you?" Jack Powell asked.
"No. I think what I'll do is move it to the Lauderdale airport now, and then have it follow the Aeromexico flight once they're sure we're actually on it. Castillo may be up to something clever, like actually being in Disney World, or someplace, and this whole Mexican thing may be a diversion."
"Well, wherever you go, the people in the Gulfstream will know. Keep me posted, Frank."
The director of the Central Intelligence Agency hung up.
"Have a nice wild-goose chase, Frank," he said aloud, although there was no one to hear him.
Then he said, slowly, savoring each syllable, "John J. Powell, the director of National Intelligence."
He thought it had a certain ring to it, a certain je ne sais quoi. [FOUR] Room B-120 El Dorado Royale Spa Resort Kilometer Forty-five, Carretera Cancun-Tulum Riviera Maya Quintana Roo, Mexico 0230 11 February 2007 Vic D'Allessando had almost wished, as he crawled across the floor of Frank Lammelle's room toward the bed, that the sonofabitch would wake up. He would have loved an excuse to pop the bastard with one of the darts in the Glock-like air pistol he held in his hand.
But luck-at least, that kind of luck-had not been with him.
Frank Lammelle hadn't stirred as D'Allessando first pried the heels off Lammelle's shoes, removed the GPS transmitter from the right heel, and then replaced both. Not even when D'Allessando had grunted with the effort.
Neither had he stirred when D'Allessando went into Lammelle's briefcase, found Lammelle's Glock-like dart gun, removed the gas cylinder from the stock, and replaced it with a gas cylinder he had exhausted earlier shooting darts at the pineapple atop the tray of fruit that the El Dorado management had sent to his room as a welcoming gift.
Once he was back in his room, one floor up and directly above B-120-it might have been necessary, had Lammelle fastened the mechanical door lock, to gain entrance to his room by climbing down from the balcony-Vic checked his watch. The entire operation had taken twelve minutes, thirty seconds.
"Here," D'Allessando said in Russian, handing the GPS transmitter to a tall blond man in a nautical uniform. "Tell me, Captain, on the Queen of the Caribbean, are there lifeboats on an upper deck exposed to the sky?"
"Lifeboats, no," the blond man said. "Life rafts, yes."
"Then please put it someplace on one of the life rafts where it will not be seen, not get wet, and is in the best position to send a clear signal."
"I know just the place."
"And what time do you sail?"
"At half past eight."
"Marvelous! Bon voyage!"
"And when we get to Malaga, what do I do with the GPS transmitter?"
"I expect the battery will go dead before you're halfway across the Atlantic. Just put that gadget in a life raft, check it a couple of times a day, and after a week, toss it over the side." [FIVE] En route to Cancun International Airport Cancun Quintana Roo, Mexico 0915 11 February 2007 They were traveling in the same kind of minibus sent the night before to bring them from Cancun International Airport to El Dorado Royale Resort. It was manufactured in Mexico on a Mercedes-Benz chassis, and could hold fourteen passengers and their luggage in air-conditioned comfort.
This morning it held General Naylor, Colonel Brewer, Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor, Mr. Lammelle, Mr. D'Allessando, and two rather massive white-jacketed members of the El Dorado Royale's staff, one driving the bus and the other sitting in a jump seat beside him to handle the luggage and an enormous insulated container that held their lunches.
"Where are we going?" Frank Lammelle suddenly demanded to know. He was sitting alone on the row of seats at the back of the bus.
"We're off to see the Wizard, Frank," Vic D'Allessando said. "I told you where we're going: Where Charley told me to take you."
"Not good enough, D'Allessando. I want to know where."
"Pull to the side of the road, please," Vic called in Russian.
The bus pulled off to the side and stopped.
"That was Russian!" Lammelle challenged.
"God! You could tell?"
"What the hell is going on here?" Lammelle demanded. "I want you to tell me where we're going!"
"Or what? You'll stamp your foot?"
Lammelle's face showed that he understood, but he said nothing.
"Wouldn't do you any good, anyway, Frank," D'Allessando said. "Charley's not anywhere close."
"I know that. Castillo's in Budapest."
"Your computer tell you that, Frank?"
"You know fucking well it did. So what's going on here?"
"Allan-Allan Junior-did you ever see Ol' Frank's computer? He thinks-he's wrong, but that's what he thinks-it shows where Charley is. Why don't you let Allan Junior see your computer, Frank?"
"Fuck you, D'Allessando," Lammelle said.
"That's not nice!"
"Get out of the aisle, you sonofabitch. I'm getting off the bus."
"Sorry. Not permitted. When you go off to see the Wizard, you've got to go all the way."
Lammelle came out with his Glock-like air pistol, aimed it at D'Allessando, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He squeezed the trigger again.
"Funny thing about air pistols, Frank," D'Allessando said. "They don't work without air."
And then he took his Glock-like air pistol from under his pillowing Mexican resort shirt, aimed at Lammelle, and squeezed the trigger. There was a psssst sound.
"Shit!" Lammelle said, looking down at the dart in his chest.
"Allan Junior," D'Allessando said, "why don't you help Ol' Frank sit down before he falls down? And on your way back, bring his computer."
"What the hell is that you shot him with?" Allan Junior asked, as he moved down the aisle.
"I guess I'm not the only one your father didn't tell about Lammelle's CIA wonder gun," D'Allessando said. "Which raises the question, What do I do with General Naylor and his faithful sidekick, Colonel Brewer?"
Everyone watched as Lammelle went limp and as Allan Junior lowered him onto the row of seats. Then Allan Junior came down the aisle carrying a laptop.
D'Allessando called out in Russian.
The minibus began to move.
"General," D'Allessando said, "Charley said I was to treat you with as much respect as possible under the circumstances. Are you going to try anything brave and noble? Or… are you willing to give me your parole, sir?"
"That's a seldom-used term, isn't it?" General Naylor said. "The last time I think an officer gave his parole was when Colonel Waters-General Patton's son-in-law-gave his to his German captors, who then took him to the Katyn Forest and showed him the graves of the thousands of Polish officers the Russians had murdered."
"With all respect, General, thanks for the history lesson, but that doesn't answer my question."
"It seemed germane here. One of the German officers to whom Colonel Waters gave his parole was Oberst Hermann von und zu Gossinger, Colonel Castillo's grandfather. Yes, Mr. D'Allessando. If you give me your word that we are en route to see Colonel Castillo, I will offer my parole. And if memory serves, the Code of Honor says that my parole includes that of my immediate subordinates, which would mean you also have the parole of Colonel Brewer and my son, Major Naylor."