“Sir, isn’t that to be expected?”
The president held up his hand as a signal for him not to interrupt.
“The DCI has reported that he found it necessary to relieve the station chief in Luanda for, one, turning over to your major the linguist-classified material that had already been evaluated and found useless by Langley because your major told him he was working for me—this was to be a secret operation, remember?—and, two, incidentally getting shit-faced at dinner—sorry, Nat—”
Dr. Cohen raised her hand in exactly the same way she had raised it when Hall had walked into the room.
“. . . and making a pass at his boss.”
The president took a sip of his drink and then looked at Hall, waiting for his reaction.
The secretary of Homeland Security, after three seconds of thought, made a profound philosophical decision that he learned in Vietnam, when lives also were at stake: Pick men you trust, and trust the men you pick.
“In my judgment, Mr. President,” Hall said, “there is an almost one hundred percent probability that the missing airplane is not at the bottom of the Atlantic.”
“That’s interesting,” Dr. Cohen said.
“You don’t happen to know where it is, do you, Matt?” the president asked very softly.
“Mr. President, there is an almost eighty percent possibility that as of five o’clock yesterday afternoon it was at a remote airfield in Chad, a place called Abéché. I have so informed the DCI.”
“And the source of your information, Matt?” Dr. Cohen asked, very softly.
“A Russian arms dealer by the name of Aleksandr Pevsner. ”
“And what did the DCI say when you told him you had learned from Mr. Pevsner that the airplane was in Chad?” the president asked, and then, without giving Hall time to reply, asked, “And did Mr. Pevsner happen to tell you what the 727 is doing in Chad?”
“In a short answer, sir, the airplane is being prepared to be flown into the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia by a Somalian group that calls itself the Holy Legion of Muhammad.”
“You told this to Powell?” the president asked.
“No, sir. Only that I had reliable information that the aircraft was at Abéché.”
“He didn’t ask for your source?”
“Yes, sir, he did. But I told him I was on a nonsecure telephone. ”
“This guy Pevsner has come up before,” the president said. “According to Powell, he’s a Russian gangster, the head of the Russian Mafia. Are you aware of that?”
“Did the DCI also tell you, sir, that the agency uses Pevsner ’s fleet of airplanes to move things covertly for them? And as a source for weapons of all kinds?”
“No,” the president said, thoughtfully. “He didn’t happen to mention that.”
“What was your contact with Pevsner?” Dr. Cohen asked. “How did that happen?”
“My contact was through Major Castillo,” Hall said. “You want all the details?”
“Every one of them, Mr. Secretary,” the president said. “Every goddamned last-minute detail!”
It took about ten minutes.
“Okay, Dr. Cohen,” the president said, “you’ve heard this fascinating yarn; you’re my security advisor—advise me.”
“Have I got everything, Matt?” Dr. Cohen said.
“There’s one or two more things, but nothing bearing on the location of the airplane or what the terrorists intend to do with it.”
“Goddammit, I said I wanted every detail, Matt!”