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[FIVE]
Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., looked around the small room off the outer office of the mayor of the City of Philadelphia. There were three other people in it. Sergeant Betty Schneider of the Philadelphia Police Department and Supervisory Special Agents Joel Isaacson and Thomas McGuire of the United States Secret Service.
“Interesting question,” Isaacson said, dryly. “Who do you believe? The director of Central Intelligence or Don Juan?”
“I’ll go with Don Juan,” Agent McGuire said.
“He sounded very sure of himself,” Sergeant Schneider said.
“Don Juan is always very sure of himself,” Isaacson said. “Which is not the same thing as saying he’s always right.”
“I don’t have the faintest idea where to get that information at the airport. Or that they’ll give it to me without a lot of hassle.”
“I’ll go out there with you, Sergeant,” Tom McGuire said. “Maybe my badge, plus my Irish charm, will be useful.”
“You think I should barge in the mayor’s office and tell Secretary Hall?” Miller asked.
“Not without more to go on than what Don Juan told you, I don’t,” Isaacson said. “But I think you should do what Don Juan wants done.”
“Anytime you’re ready, Sergeant,” Tom McGuire said.
“I just had a wild hair,” Sergeant Schneider said, thoughtfully.
She took out her cellular, scrolled through the names and numbers displayed on it, and pushed the CALL button when she had found it.
“Mr. Halloran, this is Sergeant Schneider, Betty Schneider. Remember me?—
“This is a strange question, Mr. Halloran, but please bear with me. Off the top of your head, do you know of any airline from Costa Rica that comes to Philadelphia frequently? I don’t mean a passenger service, especially—
“Oh, you do know one? Could you tell me about it, please?”
Less than sixty seconds later, she covered the microphone with her hand and said, “Bingo! I think you’d better get Castillo back, Dick.”
And thirty seconds after that, Miller reported, “The channel ’s in use.”
“Keep trying,” Sergeant Schneider ordered.
[SIX]
“Before you say anything, Charley,” Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab said, “let me tell you the latest words of General Allan Naylor vis-à-vis you and me. ‘You’re a goddamned lieutenant general. You don’t take goddamned “suggestions ” from a goddamned major! And you goddamn well know it!’ ”
“He found out you’re at Hurlburt?” Castillo asked, but it was a statement, not a question.
“Yes, he did. And apparently he’s not nearly as impressed with your status as the personal representative of the president as I hoped he would be.”
“Well, I’ll take the heat, sir. I still think it was a good idea to pre-position at Hurlburt.”
“That’s very noble of you, Charley, but he’s right. Lieutenant generals should not take suggestions from majors, and, if they do, they should expect to feel the heat. What’s up?”
“The airplane is somewhere in Costa Rica; it’s been rerenumbered and rerepainted.”
“Jesus, are you sure? The only reason we’re not on our way to Suriname right now is because they haven’t been able to find us someplace where we can sit the C-17 down.”
“It’s not in Suriname,” Castillo said.
“You got that from your friend the Russian arms dealer, right?”
“Right.”
