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“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that explains, wouldn’t you agree, Charles, why the President didn’t feel I had to know about this? He knew I wouldn’t stand for it. There’s nothing in the Constitution that gives the President the authority to order the killing of anybody.”
Montvale thought: Well, he knew you wouldn’t like it. But there is nothing you could have done about it if you had known, short of giving yourself the floor in the Senate and committing political suicide by betraying the man who had chosen you to be his Vice President.
Being morally outraged is one thing.
Doing something about it at great cost to yourself is something else.
And if the story had come out, there’s a hell of a lot of people who would have been delighted that the President had ordered the execution of the people who had murdered Jack the Stack in front of his wife. And even more who would have agreed that the murder of any American diplomat called for action, not complaints to the United Nations.
The only reason Clendennen said that is to cover his ass in case the story of OOA gets out.
“I never knew a thing about it. When DNI Montvale told me the story, after I had become President—he had been forbidden to tell me before—I was outraged! Ask Montvale just how outraged I was!”
“The security was very tight, Mr. President,” Montvale said. “The access list, the people authorized to know about OOA, was not only very short, but extraordinarily tightly controlled.”
“What does that mean?”
“There were only two people who could clear others for access to OOA information, Mr. President. Major Castillo and the President himself. I was made privy to it, of course, but I was forbidden to share what knowledge I had with anyone else—not even my deputy or my secretary—no matter how many Top Secret security clearances they had.”
“That isn’t surprising when you think about it, is it, Charles? When you are ordering murder, the fewer people who know about it, the better.”
Montvale didn’t reply.
“Just how many bodies did this Major Castillo leave scattered all over the world, Charles?” the President asked.
“I really don’t know, Mr. President,” Montvale said. “He reported only to the President.”
“And now that there’s a new President, don’t you think it’s time somebody asked him? Where is he?”
“I don’t know, Mr. President.”
“You’re the DNI,” the President snapped. “Shouldn’t you know a little detail like that?”
“Mr. President, will you indulge me for a moment? I think it would be useful for you to know what happened vis-à-vis the Congo.”
“I think a lot of people would find it useful to know what happened vis-à-vis the Congo.”
“On Christmas Eve, Mr. President, there were several assassinations and attempted assassinations all over the world—”
“By Major Castillo? On Christmas Eve? Unbelievable!”
“No, sir. Directed against people with a connection to Lieutenant Colonel—by then he had been promoted—Castillo. A newspaper reporter in Germany, for one. An Argentine gendarmería officer, for another. A Secret Service agent on the vice presidential detail—”
“Which one?” the President again interrupted.
“His name is John M. Britton, if memory serves, Mr. President.”
“Black guy,” the former Vice President recalled. “Smart as hell. Funny, too. I liked him. I wondered what happened to him.”
“Well, sir, immediately after the attempt on his life, he was of course taken off your protection detail.”
“Why?”
“Sir, if someone was trying to kill Special Agent Britton and he was guarding you, standing beside you ...”
The President stopped him with a gesture. He had the picture.
