Uncivil Liberties (9 page)

“Quite well, actually. I’ve been invited to an asshole convention,” Carlos said.

Pug smiled and shuffled a stack of papers into a pile, shoving them toward the corner of his desk. “Some might say you qualify.”

“Touché,” Carlos acknowledged. “I didn’t see anyone until I received a cryptic note at the embassy, instructing me to be on St. Stephen’s Green at a designated time. Then, after being driven blindfolded out to a secluded location, we switched vehicles. I then had a twenty-minute personal meeting with Kevin Donahue while he drove me to the airport. He knew about our new public relations function and your promotion. He said to give the
general
his regards.”

Pug nodded. “I told you he was well informed.”

“After I checked in and was waiting for my flight, I got this email at the Dublin airport,” Carlos  said, placing a printed version on General Connor’s desk.

Pug scanned the paper quickly. “East Timor’s far too small to hold all the assholes I’ve met,” the general continued, a sharp grin crossing his face as he handed the note back. “Do you believe this information?”

Carlos nodded. “Yes, sir, I do. As you told me, Donahue had no reason to provide
any
information. He was not the least bit evasive. Why would he lay a false trail? I called Brigadier Colin McIntyre, military attaché at the British Embassy here in Washington, early this morning. He’s heard Wolff’s name through his channels. He felt certain this would get instant response from MI6 and suggested we’d be hearing from the Brits within a couple of days, if not immediately.”

“You think they’ll want to crash the convention?” Pug asked.

“Wouldn’t surprise me, General. Sounds like something right up their alley.”

“What about the Indonesians or the Timor government?”

“I doubt the Brits would share this information. They’ll probably just send some SAS guys in as tourists and snatch him.”

 “Something a recon marine might like to get involved in while working with a FAST team, I suppose?” Pug said, referring to one of the main components of their available assets, a Fleet Anti-Terrorist Security Team, mostly Force Recon Marines, located aboard each CBG, or Carrier Battle Group, throughout the world. Pug himself had commanded such a team several years before coming to the NSA and then the CIA.

“We
could
get some worthwhile information, sir. We’ve both been down that path before.”

Pug nodded. “I do miss that part of the game, Sergeant Major, but I’m on the bench now, and in short order, you’ll most likely become indispensible to this office. When that happens, I’ll bench you too. We might have to rely on our new assets to handle the field work. Don’t turn in your web gear just yet, but understand what I’m saying. Operational planning is just as important, maybe more so, than field ops. Speaking of that, we have three SEALS and two ranger candidates to interview tomorrow for our last two slots. I want you to go over their service records today. All good men, by first accounts. I know two of them. You probably do too. Besides, if we’re both benched, Trojan has to learn to rely on these guys. I think that after last week’s KLM drama, we’ll get more authority to go operational. The climate is feverish in the west wing.”

“General, have you met the new president yet?” Carlos asked.

“Not since he’s become president,” Pug replied.

Carlos remained silent, but tilted his head slightly, questioning the meaning.

“I’ll fill you in later, Carlos, but I knew President Snow over twenty years ago. He and my father and two other men were partners in a law firm in Phoenix. He taught me to play golf and my older brother is married to his daughter.”

Carlos whistled softly. “So you’re
family
.”

Pug bristled at the inference. “I don’t see it that way, Sergeant Major, and that information goes no further than this room until I decide how to address the issue.”

“Yes, sir. About the SAS and the extraction of Wolff?” Carlos said, a quick subject change seeming appropriate. “I’d like to be involved. He’s my first Trojan assignment, and if I’m likely headed for the bench, I’d like a bit more field time.”

“True, you’re not on the bench
yet
, and I agree that it’s probably necessary for you to accompany whoever is sent to get him. We might decide that it will be
just
you, with a small team to back you up. And . . . we might decide that it’s
not
an extraction.”

“I understand,” Carlos replied.

“But remember this, Carlos: there’s more than one way to fight a war. Especially the type of war we currently face. We both better get used to it. While we’re on the subject of East Timor, what do you make of this Intel?” he asked, handing Carlos a sheet of paper.

More than once, Pug had come to the same conclusion he was suggesting to Carlos—the necessity of stepping out of field operations—but for far different reasons. He had counted it up once when he was reviewing his life and his poor choices along the way. Pug had married Cheryl the week after he graduated from Annapolis in 1992. Within four months, he had gone to sea with a Marine Expeditionary Unit as a platoon commander. Out of eight years of marriage, over four and half of them he had either been at sea, commanding a platoon or company of Marines, or on a special covert assignment where he couldn’t even tell her where he was going, when he would be back, or where he had been. Finally, she’d had enough and told him, essentially, that she needed a husband who worked nine to five, cut the grass, went to bed with her, woke up next to her, and was going to be around to help raise the kids, if he was ever home long enough to participate in
making
any children. They’d parted ways in 2001, shortly before 9/11, and he’d remained single every since, notwithstanding the opportunities that had come his way. Fortunately they’d made the decision to divorce before children had complicated the process.

Scanning the document the general had handed him, Carlos assumed the role of analyst.

“It’s from Security Intelligence Service, Canberra,” Carlos said, basically to himself. “This confirms what we got last week from the DHS Intel Day Sheet, General. Increased indication that Al Qaida leadership is expanding operations in the Indonesian theatre and the South Pacific. They’ve got a lot of Muslim support there, just as many fanatics, but not much in the way of sophisticated weaponry. And the island Muslims are not happy about Australia’s support of the coalition forces in the war zone. They proved that a few years ago with the bombing in Bali, which targeted mostly Australian tourists, and more recently in Fremantle during the yachting regatta.”

“No sophisticated weapons, you say? Carlos, you know as well as I do that a reliable weapons delivery system in the Middle East, Indonesia, or anywhere else for that matter, can be nothing more than one single religious fanatic, a bulky overcoat, and a dozen sticks of dynamite plus several hundred ball bearings and nails strapped to his—or her—body. I want you to give this top priority. It coincides with your search for Wolff, at least geographically, and it may help to clarify why he’s going to East Timor in the first place. Put together an analysis of capability, timing, anything you can conceive of that terrorists could mount in the south and west Pacific theatre. You might need to have a chat with the Aussies.”

“I understand, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

“And let me know what the Brits decide. I think Brigadier McIntyre is right that they’ll be a bit anxious to get the SAS involved in this . . . what is it the Brits would call it,  an
arsehole
convention?”

“Yes, sir.”

“One further thing, Carlos,” Pug said, stepping behind his desk. “Your retirement is not until February 28
^th
, but let’s drop the Sergeant Major and commence immediately with Mr. Castro, Deputy Director, especially for the interviews tomorrow. Some of these guys may know you, and those that don’t will check us out with the SOG network. Since most of them are officers, we have to ascertain that they can work under the direction of a former enlisted man. Leave that part of the interview to me.”

“Yes, sir. No problem.”

“And Carlos, I’m going to remain on active duty as a general officer. In private, feel free to call me Pug, but in a public or staff setting, we will retain protocol.”

Carlos smiled again. “No problem . . . Pug.”

Carlos walked down the corridor toward his office, his thoughts mixed with regard to the possibility of going after Wolff, and the new, certainly more dangerous possibility of Al Qaida developing a new geographical base of operations in Indonesia. As he entered his office, he saw a Post-it note on his telephone, signed by his secretary.

Carlos, Brigadier McIntyre has called twice in the past hour.

Carlos looked at the note briefly, closed the door, sat behind his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed.

“British Embassy, Military Attaché’s office. May I be of assistance?”

“Brigadier McIntyre, please. Carlos Castro returning his call.”

“Certainly, sir, one moment please.”

A slight pause ensued, and then McIntyre came on the line. Brigadier Sir Colin McIntyre had served Her Majesty through three decades and part of a fourth, as a young officer with the Coldstream Guards, eventually rising to command the regiment, and then as a member of MI6, Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, posted abroad the past decade.

“Carlos, thank you for returning my call. Your Irish information has stirred up the proverbial hornet’s nest, dear boy. Are your swimming skills still in good form?”

“Sir?”

“About now, or certainly within the hour, I suspect General Connor will be getting a call from the Pentagon. The thrust of the message, lad, will be that Her Majesty’s government shall be requesting the use of your personal skills.”

“In what capacity, Brigadier?” Carlos asked.

“
Who dares, wins
, I should think, Carlos. You know those Stirling Lines SAS boys, of course. The CRW, our counter-revolutionary warfare wing, will probably be assigned this mission, although given the proximity of the target, they might farm it out to the colonials. That would be the Aussies to you.” He laughed.

Carlos smiled briefly, recognition of a previous assignment in the Middle East drawing distant memories. “It seems I’m destined to spend a portion of my career seconded to Her Majesty’s Special Air Service. And we’re going swimming, you say?”

“Indubitably, my dear boy, but not to worry. It’s quite warm in the South Pacific this time of year, so I’m led to believe, and with six to eight inches of snow due here in Washington later this week—well,  I envy you. Were I twenty . . . no, make that
thirty
years younger, I’d see about a set of togs and flippers for myself. Let me know when you hear something.”

“Certainly, Brigadier. Thanks for the heads-up.”

President William Snow, 5’ 11”,  trim and healthy at age 59, with a thick shock of salt-and-pepper hair and a piercing set of steely gray eyes, sat comfortably on a soft, terra cotta-colored lounge chair, its new smell faint in the Oval Office.

Former President Joshua Steadman, 71, was a native of South Carolina and had retired to a secluded, Hilton Head Island estate. His hair was now thinner and a slight paunch had begun to appear in what had remained, well into his 60’s, a stocky, athletic build. He sat across from Snow on an equally new, burgundy-toned settee.

Steadman had served two terms as president, departing just over eight years ago after transferring power to President Eastman. He had returned to Washington to participate in President Clay Cumberland’s inauguration, and had stayed for the funeral ceremony. Six weeks later, he had graciously accepted an invitation to meet with President Snow.

Despite his advancing age, Steadman was visibly animated in his actions and speech, his mind clear, decisive, and his verbal presentation authoritative, yet not directive. Both men had spent the previous thirty minutes in discussion, alternating between casual chatter and more serious, penetrating, conversation. From opposite political parties, they had only met once previously. However, on this second occasion, arranged at the personal invitation of President William Snow, each had taken an immediate liking to the other, notwithstanding their philosophical differences.

“I could beat around the bush, Bill, but to get to the heart of the matter, there’s only one real question you need to answer,” Steadman said. “Do you want a chance at a second term?”

Bill Snow smiled and nodded his head, agreeing with the other man. “That
would
be the bottom line, wouldn’t it?”

“Indeed,” the older man replied. “The answer to that question will form all your other decisions in these first few weeks. If you act forcefully, relying on your own counsel and those you
know
you can trust, and if you make your own decisions and are determined in what you seek, you’ll undoubtedly set some of your own party against you. Unfortunately, there’s no way around that. I came here today, at your invitation, to discuss this with you as candidly as possible. You’ve got an unprecedented opportunity, Bill. You can do what few of us who have sat behind that desk have truly been able to do.”