The Outlaws (Presidential Agent 6)
Page 241
“Where did he call from?”
“Mexico City,” Powell said. “But I’m not sure I believe that. What I’m beginning to suspect is that Casey’s communications is not quite as miraculous as advertised. Or that Casey is fucking with us.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Maybe because he likes McNab more than he likes me.”
“Do we know what kind of an airplane Naylor has?”
“No. And that bothers me, too. All Naylor told MacDill is the call sign. He told MacDill ‘Big Boy’ will be at thirty thousand feet moving at five hundred knots.”
“That doesn’t sound as if that’s Naylor’s Gulfstream.”
“No, it doesn’t. Which may be because Naylor’s Gulfstream is on the tarmac at MacDill.”
“I forgot that,” Waters said.
“Yeah,” Powell said.
“You think he has Castillo? Or the Russians? Or both?”
“Well, he could be smuggling drugs. But I’d say it’s likely that he has either or both, wouldn’t you?”
“Looks that way. What are you going to do?”
Powell picked up his telephone.
“This is DCI Powell. Get onto whoever would know and get me a track on all aircraft operating over the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, or headed toward the middle, at thirty thousand feet and five hundred knots. The one I’m looking for will probably not—repeat, not—have a transponder. Got it?”
He hung up.
“Are you going to tell the President, John?”
“No. I thought this would be our little secret.”
He picked up a red telephone and punched one of the buttons on it.
“Jack Powell, Mr. President. I have just learned that General Naylor has ordered that a flight of F-16s . . .
“Mr. President, I assure you that I’m doing all that’s humanly possible to add to what I know, what I just told you . . .
“Yes, sir, Mr. President, I’ll leave here immediately . . .
“Yes, sir, Mr. President, I fully understand that I am to take no action of any kind in this matter without your prior permission.”
[EIGHT]
The Mayflower Hotel
1127 Connecticut Avenue, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
1745 13 February 2007
The manager on duty, who wore a frock coat with a tiny rose pinned to the lapel, intercepted the party before they were more than one hundred yards into the lobby.
“Mr. Barlow?”