By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

Castillo punched the autodial button that would connect him with the White House switchboard.

[THREE]

Camp David Catoctin Mountains, Maryland 1700 9 June 2005

The president of the United States, who had been resting his hand on the king with which, when the telephone light flashed, he had been about to checkmate the secretary of Homeland Security, finally took his hand away and leaned back in the pillow-upholstered armchair and tried to make sense of the one side of Hall’s telephone conversation he could hear.

After a moment, he gave up on that, too, and pushed a small button under the table beside his chair. A moment later, a white-jacketed steward appeared.

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Booze time,” the President said. “A little Maker’s Mark for me . . .”

He stopped, said, “Matt?,” and, when Hall looked at him, mimed drinking a shot.

“Scotch, please,” the secretary of Homeland Security said.

“And scotch. Cheap scotch. The secretary of Homeland Security is not looked favorably upon by his president at this time.”

The steward, a dignified, gray-haired black man, smiled. “One good bourbon and one cheap scotch. Yes, sir. Something to munch on, Mr. President?”

“In lieu of the hearty meal customarily offered to the condemned, why not?”

The steward smiled again and left.

“Okay, Charley,” Matt Hall said to the telephone. “Keep at it. Let me know if anything comes of it.”

He thoughtfully put the telephone back in its cradle, leaned back in his chair, and raised his eyes to the president.

“First things first,” the president said, pointing to the chessboard on the low table between them. “Checkmate.”

The secretary examined the board.

“Shit.”

“I always beat you,” the president said. “Why are you surprised?”

“I was hoping your mind might be on other things,” Hall said. “That was Major Castillo.”

“Our no-longer-so-secret secret agent,” the president said. “I picked up on that much.”

“He just had another call from Howard Kennedy, the ex-FBI man who now works for the Russian arms dealer.”

“And?”

“Kennedy told him the 727 was in Abéché but has left. With new—unknown—identification numbers, and painted in the color scheme of an airline. Which airline, no one knows. Nor did Mr. Kennedy have any idea where the airplane might be now.”

“God!”

“Charley—Castillo—said something else. Kennedy knew where Castillo was—made a point of letting him know he knew. Charley said the only way he can think of that Kennedy could know that was he has a contact with the cellular telephone people, who can trace a call to the nearest antenna.”

“In other words, this Kennedy character can do what the FBI can’t do without getting a warrant from a federal judge?”

Hall nodded.

“Castillo also said Kennedy seemed very worried that we were going to tip off the FBI about him. Castillo said he has no idea where Kennedy is—was—and Kennedy knows that. So Kennedy’s worries are a little unusual.”

“Is there a warrant out for this fellow?”