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“Yeah,” Castillo agreed thoughtfully, after a moment.
“And I called, as I said before, to beg you to join yourselves in holy matrimony in the Elvis Presley Wedding Chapel in Vegas,” Juan Carlos said. “If you try to get married here, there will be bodies and rivers of blood all over the streets, which will greatly distress the Greater Cozumel Area Chamber of Tourism.”
Again, Sweaty answered for Castillo: “We can’t get married until this nonsense with President Clendennen is over. But when it is, I intend to be married in the Grand Ballroom of the Grand Cozumel by His Eminence Archbishop Valentin, assisted by Archimandrite Boris. I don’t think His Eminence would be willing to conduct the service in the Elvis Presley Wedding Chapel.”
“I don’t see it as a problem,” Charley said. “I don’t know how long it will take to dissuade President Clendennen of his notions I should get rid of the Somali pirates and seize Drug Cartel International, but it’s not going to be anytime soon. Another month or six weeks at a minimum, during which I have no intention of going anywhere near the North American continent.”
“I hear and obey, Master,” Paul Sieno said.
“Pancho,” Sweaty said, “as soon as we get off the line, I’ll call my brother and tell him to call Pietr and explain the situation to him.”
“Take care, Red,” Juan Carlos said, and the green LEDs on their CaseyBerrys stopped glowing.
[SEVEN]
Green Acres Farm
Near Hershey, Pennsylvania
0830 17 June 2007
“Nice breakfast, Frank,” FBI Director Mark Schmidt said to DCI Lammelle. “Really nice ham!”
“We do it all here on the farm,” Lammelle replied. “Breed the pigs, slaughter them, and cure the hams and bacon in our own smokehouse. We had a Russian—an SVR biological warfare chemist we turned in Africa—in here a couple of years ago who showed us how to do that. Before him, we used to sell the live pigs to an Amish farmer.”
“May I suggest we get started?” General Allan B. Naylor asked, with an unmistakable tone of annoyance in his voice.
As someone once suggested, the best-laid plans of mice and men “gang aft agley,” which meant they often don’t come to pass. In this case, not everyone who was to participate in what Secretary Cohen was diplomatically calling “the conversation” was able to make it to Green Acres Farm as early as Secretary Cohen had hoped.
The first delayed arrival, that of DCI Lammelle, had been caused by the motion picture star Shawn Ohio, whose portrayal of CIA agent Dirk Eastwood in a series of films had made him the thirty-fourth-highest-paid actor in Hollywood. In his private life Mr. Ohio was somewhat to the left of his screen persona. He was a great admirer of Hugo Chávez, and deeply convinced that Mr. Chávez had been grossly wronged by the CIA.
To bring this outrage to the attention of the American people, Mr. Ohio, wearing a T-shirt, the back of which was emblazoned with the legend GET THE CIA OUT OF VENEZUELA AND GIVE HUGO HIS TUPOLEV BACK!! had covered his hands with Magic Glue and attached himself to the plate-glass doors leading to the foyer of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.
It had taken some time to get Mr. Ohio out of sight of the members of the media—including Mr. C. Harry Whelan of Wolf News—he had brought with him, and into the hands of the Virginia State Police, as it proved to be extremely difficult to separate Magic Glue–covered hands from plate glass. Mr. Ohio, who was really not nearly as stupid as some of his right-wing critics alleged, had learned this technique after he had handcuffed himself to the fence around the White House on two previous occasions of protest. Then it had taken only seconds to detach him with bolt cutters.
His demonstration this time had caused DCI Lammelle to delay his departure for Pennsylvania by nearly two hours. Lammelle did not feel comfortable in leaving until Mr. Ohio was firmly—and safely—in the hands of the state police, as he feared the CIA security officers might not enthusiastically obey his admonition not to hurt the sonofabitch. If that should happen, Mr. Lammelle knew, Mr. Whelan would bring it to the world’s attention on Wolf News, as would the other media members via their respective outlets. The world would love to see and hear the real CIA clubbing a fictional CIA hero into unconsciousness while he was glued to their front door, and the media knew it.
And then Director of National Intelligence Truman Ellsworth had telephoned at nine p.m. to say he was lost somewhere in the vicinity of Intercourse, Pennsylvania, and God only knew when he would be at Green Acres. Secretary Cohen had then decided they would hold off starting the meeting until after breakfast the next morning, when everybody would be there and fresh to deal with the problem.
Gathered around the picnic table set up for breakfast on the veranda of the farmhouse were Attorney General Palmer, Defense Secretary Beiderman, DNI Ellsworth, DCI Lammelle, FBI Director Schmidt, and Generals Naylor and McNab.
Secretary Cohen began the conversation by saying, “General McNab, you have the floor.”
“The President arrived at Fort Bragg unannounced,” General McNab began simply, “and in a C-37A, not in his 737.”
“What’s a C-37A?” FBI Director Schmidt asked.
“A Gulfstream,” DCI Lammelle answered for him, adding, “Mark, for Christ’s sake, if you keep interrupting, we’ll be here all day.”
Schmidt was unrepentant.
“I want to get the facts straight. This is important business we’re undertaking.”
“Please continue, General McNab,” Secretary Cohen said.
“Yes, ma’am,” McNab went on. “With him, the President had…”
Five minutes later, McNab concluded with: “As he left the President implied that I might be promoted if the seizure of the airfield by Clendennen’s Commandos went smoothly, and that my promotion might be further speeded if I showed more enthusiasm for getting Clendennen’s Commandos to wear Clan Clendennen kilts. After the President left, I called Secretary Cohen and reported his visit.”
