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Kenyon looked off in the distance, thinking. Then he looked long and hard at Castillo.
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but you’ve got to believe me, I didn’t know the people in Philadelphia were terrorists.”
“Well, we’ll listen to what you have to say,” Castillo said. “Can I have your recorder, Jack?”
Doherty handed Castillo a small tape recorder.
Castillo went to Kenyon.
“Put your knees together, Tubby,” he said, and when Kenyon had complied, Castillo laid the tape recorder on Kenyon’s legs. “If that falls to the floor…” he said and mimed shooting the Taser again.
Kenyon quickly put his hands out to hold the recorder in position on his knees.
“Now, before I switch that on,” Castillo said, “there’s something I want to tell you in case you’re thinking that your civil rights have been violated and therefore it doesn’t matter what you tell us, it would not be admissible in court.
“You’re sitting in a sort of a court. We are your judges and the jury. Let me tell you who we are. You know Fernando, of course, and you remember me, and may even know I’m an Army officer. Special Agent Yung is with the FBI. That’s Edgar Delchamps of the CIA. That’s Inspector Doherty of the FBI. Those two are George Feller and Sam Oliver of the Secret Service. The airplane is being flown by Colonel Jake Torine of the Air Force. The copilot is an Army officer, Major Dick Miller.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this. The reason is—presuming you ever get back to Midland or when your lawyer is finally admitted to Florence and you could tell him—that neither your lawyer nor anyone else is going to believe that you were kidnapped by your classmate at Texas A&M and hustled aboard a G-III piloted by an Air Force officer and an Army officer, where you were threatened and humiliated by another Army officer with whom you were once in the Boy Scouts, and then interrogated by a very senior FBI agent, two Secret Service agents, and a CIA officer.
“Think about it, Tubby. The only chance you have of not spending the rest of your life in a cell at Florence ADMAX is to come clean with us. Do we understand each other?”
“I told you I’d tell you anything you want to know. But you have to believe me when I tell you I had no idea that was a terrorist group or mosque or whatever in Philadelphia.”
“So you keep saying,” Castillo said. “He’s all yours, Inspector.”
Doherty moved from the forward-facing chairs in which he had been sitting and sat down on the couch facing Kenyon. He took out a small notebook and a ballpoint pen, then reached across the aisle and switched on the tape recorder.
“Interview of Philip J. Kenyon III,” Doherty began, “begun at five-fifty p.m. central standard time, 12 August 2005, aboard an aircraft in the service of the United States somewhere above Texas en route to the Florence ADMAX, Florence, Colorado, by Inspector John J. Doherty, Office of the Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, acting under Presidential Authority. Present are Colonel C. J. Castillo, team chief, Mr. Edgar Delchamps, Office of the Director, Central Intelligence Agency, Special Agents George Feller and Samuel Oliver of the Dallas Office, United States Secret Service, and FBI Agent David W. Yung, Jr.
“State your name and occupation, please.”
Kenyon swallowed and then, as if he was having trouble finding his voice, finally announced that he was Philip J. Kenyon III, chairman of the board of the Kenyon Oil Refining and Brokerage Company of Midland, Texas.
“Mr. Kenyon,” Doherty said. “It is my understanding that you are making this statement voluntarily, without either coercion of any kind or the promise of immunity from prosecution or the promise of special consideration because of your cooperation. Is that true?”
Kenyon’s eyes glanced at Castillo, then looked at the floor. He exhaled audibly and said softly, “Yes.”
“A little louder, please?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Let’s start at the beginning,” Doherty said. “How did you first become involved in illegal transactions connected with the United Nations oil-for-food program?”
Kenyon exhaled again.
“They came to me,” he said, finally, “I didn’t go looking for it. They came to me.”
“Who came to you?”
“A man named Lionel Cassidy,” Kenyon said. “He came to me and asked if I would be interested in some thirty-two-dollar-a-barrel oil.”
“Do you have an address for Mr. Cassidy?”
“No. He always contacted me.”
“But he was known to you?”
“I never saw him before the day he came up to me at the bar at the Petroleum Club. The one in Dallas. Not the one in Midland.”
