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“The Monica Lewinsky Motel,” Lammelle said.
“The what?” Sweaty asked.
“If a President of the United States can hide his girlfriend there, it should be good enough for mine,” Castillo said. “How do you plan to get them there?”
“I wouldn’t want Senator Johns to hear about this, but I have a limo, armored, with radios, et cetera, and driven by agency officers,” Lammelle said.
“You want to fly them to Baltimore/Washington on Casey’s airplane?” Castillo asked.
Lammelle nodded.
“And General Sirinov?”
“On the Tu-934A. If Roscoe can get Wolf News out there to cover its arrival—”
“He would be on TV and Murov would see that,” Castillo interrupted, “but what do we do with him afterward?”
“I think General Sirinov would be comfortable in the Monica Lewinsky Motel,” Lammelle said. “And he’d be available if we need him, and we probably will.”
“Have you got enough people—people you can trust—to handle all this?”
“Yes, I do,” Lammelle said. “Your call, Charley.”
“What other options do I have?”
“Not many—none—that I can think of,” Lammelle said.
Castillo counted something on his fingers, then announced, “There’s room for Lester on the Tu-934A. So he goes, too, to sit on General Sirinov. Miller and Sparkman take the Spetsnaz to Cozumel as soon as they can—in the next thirty minutes—in our G-Three, then come back here and pick up Uncle Remus and Peg-Leg—and anybody I’ve forgotten. By then Uncle Remus and Peg-Leg will have Drug Cartel International all cleaned up. And then they go to Baltimore/Washington.”
He paused for a good thirty seconds, and then asked, “Any comments?”
“I want to know about this motel,” Sweaty said.
“You’ll like it, sweetheart,” Castillo said. “Inside plumbing and all the other conveniences one would expect in a Motel-8. Any other comments?”
There were none.
“Okay, then that’s it. That’s what we’ll do.”
[SEVEN]
Office of the Director
The Central Intelligence Agency
Langley, Virginia
1305 12 February 2007
“Keep me advised, Bruce,” DCI John Powell said. “We absolutely can’t afford to have this get away from us.”
He took the telephone handset from his ear, very slowly replaced it in the base, then met the eyes of J. Stanley Waters, the DDCI for operations.
“Festerman says that Naylor called Central Command and ordered that a flight of F-16s meet him over the Gulf of Mexico prepared to escort his plane into U.S. airspace and then to Andrews.”
“Where in the Gulf of Mexico? When?”
“Right in the goddamn middle of it. And right now.”
