The Outlaws (Presidential Agent 6)

“. . . I think we should move to the war room, where I will attempt to explain our plan.”

“Am I permitted to make a comment?” the elder Naylor asked.

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

“That tape should be in the hands of the President. He could have the secretary of State demand an emergency session of the UN Security Council. . . .”

“Not until we know how much Congo-X the Russians have,” Castillo said very seriously, and then his voice became mocking: “And now, lady, Max, and gentlemen, if you’ll be good enough to follow me to the war room?”

He bowed deeply, holding one arm across his middle and pointing the other toward the door.

Naylor thought: I’d like to throw something at him.

He glanced at McNab, who was smiling.

What’s he smiling at? Charley playing the clown?

Or me?

The war room had been a recreation/exercise room. There was a Ping-Pong table, a pocket billiards table, and half a dozen exercise machines of assorted functioning.

The exercise machines had been moved into a corner of the room. The billiards and Ping-Pong tables were covered with maps. Lester Bradley was at a table on which sat a Casey communicator and several printers. There were armchairs, most of them in a semicircle facing large maps taped to a wall. Another armchair was alone against the side of the wall. And again, there were two burly, fair-skinned, Uzi-armed men sitting by the doors to the room.

“Colonel Castillo, I think we should discuss my understanding of my parole.”

“With respect, sir, will you hold that until I ask the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency if it’s convenient for him to join us?” Castillo replied, and then issued an order in Russian.

Thirty seconds later, Frank Lammelle was ushered into the room by two burly Russians. He was wearing a shirt and trousers. He was barefoot. His wrists were encircled with plastic handcuffs. The handcuffs were held against his waist by another plastic handcuff attached to his belt.

“Good afternoon, Frank,” Castillo said.

“You’re going to jail for this, Castillo.”

Castillo issued another order in Russian. One of the ex-Spetsnaz operators left the room and returned a moment later with a folding metal chair. Castillo showed him where he wanted it, and then, not gently, guided Lammelle into it.

“Lester, go sit in the armchair. Take Mr. Lammelle’s air pistol with you.”

Bradley complied.

“Frank,” Castillo then said, “you pose a problem for me. General McNab, General Naylor, and General Naylor’s staff are also here involuntarily. But they have given me their parole under the Code of Honor. I’m fairly sure you’ve heard of it. I’m also absolutely sure—you being the DDCI—that you wouldn’t consider yourself bound by it. So I will not accept your parole.

“Which means you will sit there in handcuffs. If you even look like you’re thinking of getting out of the chair without my express permission, Lester will dart you. I should tell you that he’s not only a former Marine gunnery sergeant but also a crack shot. He was a designated marksman on the March to Baghdad. He will also dart you if you speak without my permission. You understand?”

“You heard what I said about you going to jail for this, you sonofabitch!”

“You are entitled to one emotional outburst before Lester darts you. You just used it. Lester, put a dart in the back of his neck the next time he says anything.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“And, Frank, the next time you use language that offends my fiancée, I will let Max bite you. Show the man your teeth, Max,” Castillo said, then spoke a few words in Hungarian while pointing at Lammelle.

Max, growling deep in his throat, walked to Lammelle and showed him his teeth. Lammelle squirmed on the folding chair.

All the special operators in the room, plus Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor, chuckled.

General Naylor thought: There’s that perverted sense of humor again!

And Allan thinks that threatening to sic that enormous dog on Lammelle is perfectly acceptable conduct!