The Outlaws (Presidential Agent 6)

Montvale considered that a moment, and then said, “Truman, be so good as to call Mr. Whelan. Tell him I will agree to be interviewed tonight, providing that it is on my terms, and that he and a camera crew are outside in thirty minutes.”

“My pleasure,” Ellsworth said.

“If he agrees, I will spend that thirty minutes getting those terms from Roscoe and drinking black coffee. I understand that the only thing that black coffee does to a drunk is make him a bright-eyed drunk, but perhaps C. Harry Whelan, who is not too bright, will not notice.

“If Whelan agrees to come, call the limousine service and have a car outside in thirty minutes.”

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador,” Truman Ellsworth said as he took his cell phone from his pocket.

[TEN]

The President’s Study

The White House

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

Washington, D.C.

2055 13 February 2007

DCI Jack Powell put his hand over the telephone microphone.

“Mr. President, that airplane is on final approach to Andrews.”

“Have they got cameras out there? I want to see it,” the President said.

“Wolf News does, Mr. President,” presidential spokesman Jack Parker said, and, when the President turned, pointed to one of the televisions mounted on the wall.

The monitor showed a flashing banner—WOLF NEWS BREAKING NEWS ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE WASHINGTON DC—and an image of the Tu-934A making its approach.

“Turn the fucking sound up, Porky! I’m not psychic!”

The stirring strands of the “William Tell Overture” filled the President’s study.

“Shit,” the President said, then asked, “What kind of an airplane is that?”

“I believe that’s a Tupolev Tu-934A, Mr. President,” Powell said.

“Where the hell did Naylor get that?” the President asked rhetorically.

Wolf News cameras followed the airplane as it touched down, and until its landing roll took it far down the runway.

Then C. Harry Whelan and Roscoe J. Danton appeared on the screen.

“Good evening. This is C. Harry Whelan. What we all have just seen is the landing of a super-secret Russian airplane, the Tupolev Tu-934A. And standing with me is my good friend, the distinguished, prize-winning journalist Roscoe J. Danton of The Washington Times-Post, who knows the details of this incredible intelligence accomplishment.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” the President asked.

“Thank you, Harry,” Danton said, patting Whelan’s back almost affectionately. “The CIA has had a long-standing offer of one hundred and twenty-five million dollars to anyone who could bring them one of these airplanes. That prize—I see the deputy director of the CIA, Franklin Lammelle, standing over there beside our director of National Intelligence, Ambassador Charles M. Montvale, both of them wearing big smiles; they were the brains behind this incredible operation—”

“What the hell is Lammelle doing out there with Ambassador Stupid?” the President asked. “I thought he was with Naylor, getting Castillo and those Russian traitors.”

“I don’t know, Mr. President,” DCI Powell said.

“—has apparently just been claimed by two recently retired American officers, Colonel Jacob Torine, U.S. Air Force, and Lieutenant Colonel Carlos Castillo, U.S. Army.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” the President said.