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“Until about thirty seconds ago,” the secretary began, “I wasn’t buying your argument that you were justified, or fair, in not bringing me in on this from the git-go. I am the secretary of defense. I have the right to know what’s going on.”
“And what happened thirty seconds ago?” the president asked, softly.
“I realized that I was letting my delicate ego get in the way of reality,” Beiderman said. “The two pertinent facts— maybe it’s only one fact—here are that you’re the president and the commander in chief of the Armed Forces of the United States. The Constitution lays the defense of the nation on your shoulders. You have all the authority you need to do any goddamned thing you want to do.
“Once I got past that, what I had decided was the dumbest idea you’ve had in a long time, sending a goddamned major—a major, for Christ’s sake—to check on how all the generals and the top-level civilians are doing their jobs, didn’t seem so dumb after all.
“It made a hell of a lot more sense than setting up one more blue-ribbon panel—particularly after the 9/11 commission ’s report—which would have taken three months to determine that what wasn’t working the way it should— what was wrong—was the other guy’s fault.
“And, knowing you as well as I do, I knew that what you had against using a commission or panel or something of that ilk to find out what’s wrong had nothing to do with the other—perhaps the most significant—thing that panels are good for, giving your political enemies ammunition to use against you.”
“The truth, Fred,” the president said, “is that forming a blue-ribbon panel never entered my mind. All I wanted to do was quietly find out who knew what and when they knew it. I thought this would put us ahead of the curve. Using Major Castillo to that end seemed to be the way to do that very quietly. No one was going to pay attention to a major. It just got out of hand, is all.”
“Out of hand, Mr. President?” Beiderman said. “I don’t follow that.”
“I’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest. If you’
ve learned about this Gray Fox operation—and you were, you admit, furious when you did—wait until the DCI and the director of the FBI find out.”
“Excuse me, Mr. President. And with all respect, so what? You found out—this Major Whatsisname found out . . .”
“Castillo,” Secretary Hall interrupted. “Major Carlos G. Castillo.”
“. . . among other things,” Beiderman went on, “that the DCI was prepared to hang another major out to dry for doing his job in Angola and was far more interested in covering his ass about his connections with this Russian arms dealer than getting the intelligence that was apparently there for the asking.”
The president looked at him with a raised eyebrow but said nothing.
“And without Charley, Mr. President,” Hall interjected, “we would never have found out about Kennedy. Schmidt damned sure wasn’t going to volunteer that information.”
“About Kennedy?” Beiderman asked. “Who’s he?”
“A former FBI agent who now works for Pevsner,” the president said. “We don’t know how important he was in the FBI before he left but, to judge from Mark Schmidt’s reluctance to come up with his dossier when Matt asked for it, I don’t think he was a minor functionary.”
“If I were paranoid,” Hall said, “and, God knows, I’m starting to feel that way, I’d say there’s a conspiracy on the part of Schmidt and the DCI to tell us—the president—only what they want him to hear.”
“That’s a pretty strong accusation, Matt,” the president said.
“What other interpretation can we put on it, Mr. President? ” Hall responded.
“Mr. President,” Beiderman said, “wouldn’t giving Matt anything and everything he asked for as soon as he asked for it come under that memo Natalie Cohen sent around?”
The president looked at him for a moment.
“Point taken, Fred,” he said.
“More important,” Beiderman went on, “Major What-sis . . . Castillo has come closer to finding this airplane than anybody else. And isn’t that the priority? Neutralizing the goddamned airplane before these lunatics fly it into the Liberty Bell or do something else insane with it?”
“Are you suggesting, Fred, that we don’t rein Major Castillo in?” the president said.
“Exactly. I was about to suggest sending him to Fort Bragg to bring Delta and Gray Fox—which, I submit, we’re really going to have to use to take this airplane out—up to speed on this, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Do you know General McNab?” Beiderman asked. “I mean, personally? Feisty little bastard. He’s not going to listen to a major. Maybe I better go down there myself, or at least get on the horn to McNab.”
“Charley Castillo flew McNab’s helicopter around Iraq in the first desert war,” Hall said. “And after 9/11, Charley commanded one of McNab’s Delta Force operations in Afghanistan. McNab will listen to him.”
“Especially,” the president said, “after we tell General McNab that I personally ordered him to Fort Bragg.”
