“Pope clears Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five direct to Cozumel Airport, after takeoff, fly heading two-zero-nine, climb and maintain 5,000 feet, expect flight level three-five-zero ten minutes after takeoff. Contact departure on 120.9, squawk three-one-four-five. You are number one to go after the One-Thirty departing.”
Colonel Torine replied: “Understand Pope clears Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five to Cozumel Airport, after departure fly heading two-zero-nine, climb and maintain 5,000 feet, expect flight level three-five-zero ten minutes after takeoff. Contact departure on 120.9, squawk three-one-four-five, number one to go after the One-Thirty departing.”
Fernando turned around in the pilot’s seat and looked into the cabin to make sure nobody was wandering around.
Sergeant Sherman was strapped into his seat, holding a can of Coke, looking out the window.
Charley was also securely strapped into one of the seats. He had reclined it to nearly horizontal and was sound asleep.
“Takeoff power,” Fernando ordered. Colonel Torine carefully moved the throttles fully forward.
“Pope, Zero-Seven-Five rolling,” Torine said into his microphone.
[FOUR]
Office of the Director The Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia 0810 10 June 2005
Mrs. Mary Leonard, the statuesque, gray-haired executive assistant to the director of Central Intelligence, went into the DCI’s office and closed the door.
John Powell looked up from his desk.
“Mr. Jartmann is here, boss,” Mrs. Leonard said.
“Bring him in, Mary, please,” he said to the female who probably knew more of the nation’s most closely guarded secrets than any other female except Dr. Natalie Cohen.
“And,” Mrs. Leonard added, raising her eyebrows, “Mrs. Wilson walked in on his heels. I think she went to the beauty parlor just for you; I must say she looks stunning this morning. ”
“I told her quarter to eight,” the DCI said. “Have her wait, please, and curb your legendary charming hospitality. No coffee. Not even a goddamned glass of water.”
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Leonard said.
“I’ll deal with Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson just as soon as I’ve seen what Harry Jartmann has for me.”
“You’re about to make a mistake there,” Mrs. Leonard said. “A great big mistake.”
“I am? How do you know that?”
“When you said her name just now, spittle flew. It’s burning holes in the carpet.”
He looked at her, shook his head, and smiled but said nothing.
“Let me handle her, between us girls,” Mrs. Leonard said.
“You really think that’s the way to go, Mary?”
“It’s the only way to go. You want to get rid of the problem or exacerbate it?”
“You being a lady, I can’t tell you how I’d like to get rid of the problem,” Powell said. He waited for her to smile and then went on: “So what do I do?”
“Depending on what Jartmann’s got for you—and I think he’s got something—when you’re finished go out the back door with him. Go to Photo Analysis. I’ll transfer important calls to you there, and I’ll let you know when I’m through with her.”
“Jesus!” Powell said and then, “Okay, Mary. I again defer to your wise judgment. Bring Harry on.”
Mrs. Leonard went to the office door, opened it, and announced, “The DCI will see you now, Mr. Jartmann.”
When Harry Jartmann, a tall, tweedy, thin man with unruly hair, came into the office, she closed the door from the inside and leaned against it, watching and listening.
“Good morning, Mr. Director,” Jartmann said.