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“And does Mr. McCarthy have plans for the plane landing at San Antonio?” Secretary of Defense Beiderman asked.
“San Antonio?” the President asked.
“Yes, sir. All three men are from Texas. It is intended to bury Warrant Officer Salazar in the national cemetery there. Plans for the DEA agents have not been finalized.”
“Mr. McCarthy had made all the necessary arrangements with the press for the landing of the plane at Andrews Air Force Base,” the President said. “And for their interment at Arlington the day after tomorrow.”
“Mr. President, I spoke with General Naylor about this. Mrs. Salazar wishes to have her husband buried in San Antonio.”
“Well, call General Naylor and tell him I said for him to tell her that her husband is going to be buried in Arlington. All three are going to be buried in Arlington. And you’re all going to be there. There will be a photo op. I will make remarks.”
“Mr. President,” Beiderman said, “I don’t know what the families of the DEA agents wish with regard to their interment—”
“I just told you, Mr. Secretary, where they are going to be buried.”
“—and I’m not sure that either of the DEA agents is eligible for interment at Arlington. I’m not even sure they’re both veterans. And, as you know, sir, they’re running out of space at Arlington.”
Clendennen looked at Attorney General Crenshaw.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Attorney General, but don’t I, as Commander in Chief, have the authority to say who is eligible for interment at Arlington?”
“You have that authority, Mr. President,” Crenshaw said.
“Subject closed,” the President said.
He turned to the DCI.
“Lammelle, I asked you what seems like a long time ago about what new developments there are.”
“Mr. President,” Lammelle replied, “may I defer to the FBI?”
The President’s face showed that he didn’t like this answer, but he turned to FBI Director Mark Schmidt and asked, “Well?”
Schmidt handed him a large manila envelope. The President opened it, withdrew its contents, then asked, “What am I looking at?”
“Photocopies of a UPS Next Day envelope and its contents, which were delivered early this morning to General McNab at Fort Bragg.”
“The address on here says ‘Sergeant Terry O’Toole,’ ” the President said.
“Major General Terrence O’Toole is General McNab’s deputy, sir,” Schmidt said. “In the belief that another message would be sent to General McNab, possibly using an address that would not attract attention but would nevertheless reach General McNab—the first message from these people was addressed to Lieutenant Colonel McNab—the FBI instituted a nationwide surveillance of both FedEx and UPS overnight packages. We found that one last night in El Paso.”
If Schmidt expected a compliment for the FBI’s success, he was to be disappointed.
“The FBI found this last night?” the President asked. “Then why am I getting it—why am I getting copies of it and not the original—now? Why wasn’t I informed of this last night? Why didn’t I have the whole damn thing a lot sooner than now?”
“Once we located the envelope, we notified General McNab and then put it back in the UPS delivery process.”
“And then?”
“General McNab notified General Naylor of the package’s arrival, and then turned it over to the FBI liaison officer at SPECOPSCOM. He notified FBI headquarters and we sent a plane to pick it up. As we speak, Mr. President, our forensic people at Quantico are examining it to see what can be learned. I ordered that a photocopy of everything be sent to me.”
“What your people in El Paso should have done is sent it directly to you. The less General McNab has to do with this, the better.”
“Sir, it was addressed to General McNab.”
The President slammed the envelope on his desk. “No. It was addressed to Sergeant Terry O’Toole. And if you had done that, I would be looking at it a lot sooner than just now. And I’ll tell you what I have learned from this, without the help of your forensic experts: These people want to swap Colonel Ferris for”—he paused and dropped his eyes to the message—“for Félix Abrego. Who the hell is he?”
“He’s a Mexican national, Mr. President,” FBI Director Schmidt said, “serving a sentence of life without the possibility of parole at Florence ADMAX in Colorado.”
