The Outlaws (Presidential Agent 6)

“He’s a retired officer. Subject to recall.”

“He’s also Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger, a German national, who owns a bunch of newspapers. I wonder if our commander in chief had that in mind when he told you to go fetch him. What is it the politicians say? ‘Never get in an argument with somebody who buys ink by the barrel.’

“Let’s say that Charley and the Russians are in Germany. In his house in Fulda, eating knockwurst and drinking beer, not a care in the world, as Charley/ Karl is a German citizen, and the Russians have been granted political asylum by the German Republic in exchange for their cooperation in certain intelligence matters.”

“Is that what he’s done?” Naylor asked.

“I don’t know. I’m sure he’s considered it. But I hope he doesn’t have to. That would really piss Putin off, and there would be bodies all over the place as Putin’s SVR assassins tried to whack Charley’s girlfriend and her brother for traitorously spilling the beans about the SVR to the Krauts, and Charley’s pals took them out. Several of Charley’s pals, as I’m sure you heard, are very good at taking out officers of the SVR.”

“And you don’t think Putin knows these Russians told us about the bio-warfare laboratory in the Congo?” Naylor exploded. “Don’t you think Putin considers that a traitorous act?”

McNab took a moment to form his reply, then said, “One: President Putin stood in the well of the UN, you will recall, and told the whole world the Russians knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about the so-called Fish Farm. Two: As the CIA has never had the Russians under their benevolent control, the Russians have not spilled the beans about the Fish Farm to us, either. How could they? The Russians knew absolutely nothing about it.”

“They know the Russians told us. That’s why they want them back.”

“That’s why they want Charley, too. That’s what this whole thing is all about. That’s why I want to ask Charley what he wants to do about all this. Maybe he’s got some ideas. He’s always been very resourceful, Allan, you know that.”

“What makes you think you can find him?”

“That will take me a couple of days. First, I have to find someone who knows and who trusts me. I can think of several people who are in that category.”

Naylor thought: What I should do now, McNab, is tell the President that you know how to get in contact with Castillo and have the President order you to find him.

Naylor said: “General, since you tell me that you believe you know how to locate Colonel Castillo and the Russian defectors, I feel duty-bound to inform the President of that fact.”

“If you did that, Allan, this whole sordid story would be on The Straight Scoop with—what’s his name again?—with Andy McClarren tonight.”

“You could be held incommunicado—”

“That would last only until Andy McClarren, or C. Harry Whelan, Jr., heard about it. And they would.”

“—and ordered not to discuss this with the press or anyone else. You are not immune to the provisions of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, General, and it would behoove you to keep that in mind.”

“We took an oath—the day we threw our hats in the air so long ago—to obey the lawful orders of officers appointed over us. I can’t understand how you think an order making a human sacrifice of a fellow officer can possibly be considered legal.”

“Perhaps a general court-martial would determine that.”

McNab stood up. He said, “Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, General. We’ll have to do this more often.”

“I didn’t give you permission to leave, General.”

McNab ignored him. He said, “What I’m going to do is go find Charley and see what he wants to do. You do what you want, Allan. But if you’re smart you’ll mark time until I get back to you. Which reminds me: I’m going to leave a GS-Fifteen civilian with you. His name is Vic D’Allessando, and before he was a GS-Fifteen, he was a CWO-Five, and before that, he was a sergeant major. Some people think he’s associated with Gray Fox, but I can’t comment on that, as—as I’m sure you know—everything connected with Gray Fox is classified.

“Vic has a radio which will allow him to stay in touch with me no matter where I am. I will keep him posted on how I’m doing in finding Charley, and he will tell you. Vic will also keep me posted on your location, and if you leave MacDill, or Lammelle does, before I tell you that you can, Plan A—that’s telling Andy McClarren—will kick in. I don’t think you want that to happen.”

“You think you can sit in my office and tell me what to do? Goddamn you, McNab!”

“Of course not. But what I can do is tell you what’s going to happen if you elect to do certain things. And in that regard, if Vic D’Allessando suddenly becomes not available to me or other people on that net, Plan A—McClarren—will automatically kick in.”

McNab put on his green beret, popped to attention, and saluted.

He did not wait for Naylor to return it, but immediately did an about-face movement, and marched out of his office.

Naylor knew that Franklin Lammelle, the deputy director of the CIA, was in his outer office when he heard McNab say, “Well, hello, Frank. Whatever brings you to beautiful Tampa Bay?”

The automatic door closer shut off any reply Lammelle might have made.

The door opened thirty seconds later, and Colonel Jack Brewer put his head in.