VII

[ONE]

Estancia San Joaquín
Near San Martín de los Andes
Patagonia
Neuquén Province, Argentina
2130 5 February 2007
 
Aleksandr Pevsner took a sip of his after-dinner brandy, then took a puff on his after-dinner cigar, and then pointed the cigar at Castillo.
Castillo also had a cigar, but no brandy. In the morning he was going to have to fly the Bell Ranger to the airport at San Carlos de Bariloche, where, Pevsner had decided earlier, his Learjet would be waiting to fly them over the Andes to El Tepual International Airport in Puerto Montt, Chile. They would travel to Cozumel on a Peruaire cargo plane carrying foodstuffs for the cruise ship trade and Pevsner’s Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort. Castillo would have to do that twice; there wasn’t room in the helicopter to fly everybody at once.
“I have been thinking, friend Charley ...” Pevsner announced.
“Uh-oh,” Castillo replied.
Pevsner shook his head in resignation, and then went on: “Two things: First, I think it would be useful if I went to Cozumel with you. I have contacts in Mexico that might be useful, and if you’re going to use the Beach and Golf as a base, certain arrangements will have to be made. Comments?”
“Makes sense,” Tom Barlow said.
“I agree,” Svetlana said.
“Pay attention, Marlon Brando,” Delchamps said. “Your consiglieri have been heard from.”
“This meets with your approval, Charley?”
“Who am I to argue with my consiglieri?”
But I wonder what you would have said if I had said, “That’s a lousy idea.”
“Second, I’ve been thinking that it would be best if you flew the Aero Commander to Puerto Montt. That would both save us time in the morning, and we would be less conspicuous. The latter depends, of course, on whether you can fly that airplane over the Andes. Can you?”
“Quick answer, no,” Castillo replied. “The Commander’s cabin is not pressurized, and the service ceiling is about thirteen thousand feet. There are lots of rock-filled clouds in the Andes much higher than that.”
“Actually, the average height is about thirteen thousand feet,” Pevsner said. “Could you fly around the peaks?”
“Probably,” Castillo said. “I’d have to look at the charts, and I don’t have any charts.”
“János, call down to the hangar and have them bring the necessary aerial charts,” Pevsner ordered. “And when you’ve finished that, call the house and have our luggage prepared.”
“If, after I look at the charts and decide I can fly around the peaks, I’d still have to make two flights,” Castillo said. “We can’t get everybody in the Commander at once. Have you considered that?”
“You’d have to make two flights in the Lear, too. Taking the little airplane still makes more sense,” Svetlana said.
“Concur,” Tom Barlow said.
“There they go again!” Delchamps said. “What would you do without them whispering sage advice in your ear, Don Carlos?”
Tom Barlow chuckled. Svetlana gave him the finger.

[TWO]

El Tepual International Airport
Puerto Montt, Chile
0830 6 February 2007
 
The first flight in the Aero Commander from Estancia San Joaquín through the Andes mountains had carried Alek Pevsner—who had said he wanted to make sure things went smoothly in Puerto Montt—plus János, Tom Barlow, Sweaty, and of course Max.
The Casey avionics worked perfectly, and everyone but the pilot seemed to enjoy the flight. In the early light of day, the snow-capped Andes were incredibly beautiful. The pilot spent much time during the flight—whenever the altimeter showed that he was at or just over thirteen thousand feet—remembering that the U.S. Army had taught him that at any altitude over twelve thousand feet, the pilot’s brain is denied the oxygen it needs.
Despite its grandiose title, El Tepual International was just about completely deserted when they landed. There was no Peruaire cargo jet in sight; just three Chevrolet Suburbans whose drivers looked more Slavic than one would expect of Chileans.
Svetlana immediately exercised her female right to change her mind and announced she would return to Estancia San Joaquín with Castillo to pick up Alex Darby and Edgar Delchamps.
That could be because my lover can’t bear to be even briefly separated from me.
But on the other hand it could be because former Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva of the SVR thinks she had better keep an eye on the crazy American to make sure that he doesn’t do something stupid.
 
 
The second flight went smoothly, and this time the pilot elected to fly more closely to the terrain, rather than trying to attain as much altitude as he could.
And when he turned on final approach, he saw that there was another aircraft on the tarmac: a Peruaire Boeing 777-200LR.
Jesus, that’s one great big beautiful sonofabitch!
When he taxied up close to it, feeling like one of the little people Gulliver had encountered in his travels, he saw that a swarm of workers had just about finished loading it with refrigerated containers.
What was the Triple-Seven freighter’s revenue payload?
I think Alek said just over a hundred tons—one hundred twelve tons, was what he said.
Jesus, that’s a lot of seafood and beef!
Ten minutes after he landed at El Tepual, he was strapped into one of the ten seats in the passenger compartment just behind the 777’s cockpit.
The plane began to taxi and when it turned onto the main runway, the pilot simply advanced the throttles and it began the takeoff roll.
One of Marlon Brando’s consiglieri caught his hand with one of hers and crossed herself with the other.

[THREE]

Jorge Newbery International Airport
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1305 6 February 2007
 
As the Gulfstream III carrying Ambassador Montvale and his party had made its approach to the airport, Montvale had remembered that the last time he had met with the sonofabitch in Argentina, Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo had pointed out to him that inasmuch as they were in a foreign and sovereign nation, his Secret Service security detail did not enjoy diplomatic immunity and therefore had no right to bear arms, and were thus liable to be arrested for doing so.
He elected not to mention this to anyone. If there was a problem, Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio would have to deal with it. And deal with it, he would have to: I’m here at the direct order of the President of the United States. I look forward to making that point to that slick bastard and pal of Castillo’s.
Before the Gulfstream III had reached the end of its landing roll, Jorge Newbery ground control directed it to the commercial side of the airfield on the bank of the River Plate.
There they were met by Argentine immigration and customs officers and two members of the staff of the United States embassy. They were passed through both bureaucratic procedures quickly and without incident. Importantly, no Argentine official searched the persons of anyone, which neutralized the problem of his armed security detail, at least for the moment.
There were two diplomats from the American embassy on hand to meet the Gulfstream. One introduced himself as Colonel C. C. “Call me CC” Downs, the military attaché. He said he was there to take care of the crew. There were three crew members: the male pilot, a major; the male co-pilot, a captain; and a stout woman wearing the chevrons of a senior master sergeant. She had delivered a stewardess-type speech about the safety features of the C-20A, ordered everybody to fasten their seat belts, and then taken a seat, from which she had arisen only once to announce that intoxicants were prohibited aboard Air Force C-20A aircraft and if the Secret Service agent in the process of pouring Scotch into glasses for the Montvale party continued to do so, she would have to make an official report to her superiors.
“CC” said he would take care of the crew, and that Mr. Spears would know how to contact them when their services were required. He then loaded the crew into an embassy’s Yukon and drove off.
Mr. I. Ronald Spears was carried on the books as an assistant consular officer but was in fact the acting CIA station chief for Buenos Aires. He had assumed that duty following the unexpected retirement of Alexander W. Darby.
The director of the Central Intelligence Agency had first planned to replace Darby with Paul Sieno, the CIA station chief in Paraguay, only to learn that Sieno, too, had suddenly retired, presumably to join Lieutenant Colonel Castillo in his disappearance from the face of the earth, and was therefore not available. Next, the CIA station chief in Mexico City, Robert T. Lowe, had been ordered to Buenos Aires to replace Darby, but he was still in the process of clearing his desk in Mexico City.
I. Ronald Spears was twenty-four years old, looked to be about nineteen, and had graduated from CIA training four months before.
Apparently unaware that the director of National Intelligence and his deputy each had Secret Service protection details, Spears had brought to the airport a single embassy Yukon, into which the four Secret Service agents, Montvale, Ellsworth, and their luggage could be loaded only with great difficulty.
Spears lost no time somewhat smugly telling Ambassador Montvale that he had “taken the liberty” of changing the reservations Ambassador Montvale had requested. The ambassador and his party would now be housed in the Alvear Palace Hotel, rather than the Marriott Plaza, as Spears had learned that the former was “much classier” than the latter.
With great effort, Montvale did not say what he wanted to say. Instead, he asked, “Do you happen to know, Spears, if Mr. Danton is in the Marriott Plaza?”
“Mr. who, Ambassador Montvale?”
At that point, Montvale remembered that he had asked Jack Powell, the DCI, only to tell the acting station chief that he was going to Buenos Aires, and had not asked him to tell the acting station chief to start looking for either Roscoe J. Danton or Lieutenant Colonel Castillo.
“My first order of business is to see the ambassador,” Montvale then announced. “So we’ll go to the embassy first.”
The pleasure of envisioning that confrontation—“Mr. Ambassador, I am here at the personal order of the President”—was quickly shattered when Spears told him that the ambassador and most of his staff would be out of town until the next day.
I shouldn’t be surprised by that. The moment that sonofabitch heard I was coming down here, Silvio got on his horse, and galloped his miserable ass out of town.
“Certainly someone’s minding the store, right, Spears?”
“Yes, sir. Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt has the duty.”
“And she is?”
“The embassy press officer, Mr. Ambassador.”
Roscoe J. Danton is either still in the Marriott Plaza, or he isn’t. And even if the press officer can’t tell me where to find Castillo, she might know where that station chief—Darby—is, and Darby can lead me to Castillo.
At the very least, this female has the authority to order up another vehicle and driver. Riding around Buenos Aires in a stuffed-to-the-gills Yukon is simply not acceptable.
“Take me to see Miss Grun ... whatever you said her name is,” Montvale ordered.
“Grunblatt, Mr. Ambassador. Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt.”
 
 
“Miss Grunblatt, the President has sent Mr. Ellsworth and me down here to have a word with Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo. Do you know who I mean?”
“Yes, I do, Mr. Montvale.”
“Do you happen to know where I can find him?”
“I’m afraid not,” Grunblatt said. “There’s been a journalist—a good one, Roscoe J. Danton, of The Washington Times-Post—down here looking for him, too. What’s that all about?”
“You said has been? May I infer that Mr. Danton is no longer here?”
“The last I heard, he was in the Marriott Plaza.”
“What about Alexander Darby, Miss Grunblatt?”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Montvale, I prefer ‘Ms.’”
After a perceptible pause, the director of National Intelligence said, “Excuse me, Mizz Grunblatt.”
“What did you mean, Mr. Montvale, when you asked, ‘What about Alexander Darby?’ I assume you know he resigned.”
“I don’t suppose it would surprise an experienced foreign service officer such as yourself, Mizz Grunblatt, if I told you Mr. Darby had duties beyond those of commercial attaché?”
“If you’re asking did I know that Alex was a spook, yes, I did. I’ve known that he was in the agency’s Clandestine Service since we served in Rome, and that’s ... oh, twenty years ago.”
“And do you know where he is now, by any chance, Mizz Grunblatt?”
“Haven’t a clue. The last time I saw him was at Ezeiza. The airport.”
“He was going where, do you know?”
“What he did, Mr. Montvale, was go through the departing Argentina immigration procedure on his diplomatic passport, and then he turned right around and came back, so to speak, into Argentina on his regular passport. He then gave me—as an embassy officer—his diplomatic passport and carnet. Then I drove him here to the embassy, where he got out of my car, and got in a taxi.”
“Then he’s still in Argentina. Would you know where?”
“I didn’t say that he’s still here. I don’t know if he is or not. I know his wife and children aren’t here any longer; I put them on a plane to the States.”
“But not Mr. Darby?”
“No. Not Mr. Darby. I don’t know where Alex is.”
“Do you happen to know where Mrs. Darby was going?”
“I do. And I’ll give you the address once you tell me you’re acting in an official capacity.”
“I’ve already done that.”
“That’s right, you have,” Grunblatt said.
She picked up a pen and wrote an address on a piece of notepaper and handed it to him.
Montvale glanced at it, saw that it meant nothing to him, then handed it to one of his Secret Service men.
“Hang on to that.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Secret Service agent looked at it, and then said, “Mr. Ambassador, I know what this is, this 7200 West Boulevard Drive. It’s the Alexandria house Colonel Castillo and the others had. I drew the duty there a couple of times when it was under Secret Service protection.”
“Mizz Grunblatt, I’m going to have to get on a secure line to the Secret Service in Washington.”
Grunblatt considered that a moment, then said, “Yes, I can arrange that for you. I presume you’d prefer to talk from a secure location?”
You’re damned right I would.
There’s absolutely no reason for you to hear what I’m going to say.
“Could that be arranged?”
“It’ll take me a minute or two to set it up,” she said. “You’ll have to go to the commo room.”
“I understand. Thank you very much.”
“Not a problem,” Grunblatt said as she pushed herself out of her chair.
“And while I’m on the phone, Mizz Grunblatt, do you suppose you could rustle up another car for me? All we have is a Yukon, and we’re stuffed into it like sardines.”
“The call I can do. The car I can’t. All of our vehicles are out of town with the ambassador. Tomorrow afternoon, if he returns as scheduled, it should be no problem at all.”
Is that Cuban sonofabitch capable of that? Taking all the cars with him, so that I have to ride around town like a fish in a can?
 
 
“Secret Service, Claudeen.”
“This is the State Department switchboard. I have Ambassador Montvale on a secure line for the senior agent on duty.”
“Hold one, please, for Supervisory Special Agent McGuire.”
“It will be a moment, Ambassador Montvale.”
“Not a problem.”
Montvale knew Supervisory Special Agent Thomas McGuire. He had once been in charge of the presidential protection detail.
A good man.
More important, he knows who I am.
“McGuire.”
“Tom, this is Charles M. Montvale.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador. How are you, sir?”
“Much better now that I’ve got you on the phone, Tom. I need someone with a grasp of the situation.”
“What situation is that, sir?”
“There are two facets of it, Tom. I’m sure you know what happened to the Office of Organizational Analysis?”
“That’s not much of a secret, sir.”
“And you’ve heard, I’m sure, about what’s been going on in the last few days at Fort Detrick?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m in Buenos Aires. The President sent Mr. Ellsworth and me down here to locate Colonel Castillo to make sure he understands that he is not to go anywhere near that problem. I am to personally relay that presidential order to Castillo, once I find him.”
“Castillo’s in Argentina, sir?”
“I don’t know where he is. But I’ve come across a lead. One of the members of the now-disbanded OOA was an agency officer named Alexander W. Darby. He retired when Castillo got the boot. Now, I can’t find him. But I have reason to believe his wife ... Got a pencil ...?”
“Yes, sir.”
“. . . is in a house at seventy-two hundred West Boulevard Drive in Alexandria.”
“Isn’t that the place we used to protect?”
“Yes, it is. That’s what I meant by your having a grasp of the situation. Now, what I want you to do is send a couple of your best men out there—better yet, go yourself—and see if Darby is there, and if he’s not, ask his wife if she knows where he is. I’m sure Darby knows where Castillo is.”
“Have you got a first name on the wife, sir?”
Call her “Mrs. Darby,” you Irish moron!
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Well, then I’ll just call her Mrs. Darby.”
“That’ll work. Now, Tom, there is a possibility that she might deny he is there, and another possibility, slight but real, that Castillo himself might be there, and even a remote possibility that two Russians we’re looking for—former SVR Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky and former SVR Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva—may also be in that house. Castillo is just arrogant enough, wouldn’t you agree, to try to hide himself, and the Russians, in plain sight, so to speak.”
“Would you spell those Russian names for me, please?”
Montvale did so. Then added: “So, do a really thorough job of searching the place.”
“Yes, sir. And what do I do if I find these people?”
“If you find Darby”—you Irish moron--“you find out from him where Castillo and the Russians are. If you find Castillo or the Russians, you detain them, and immediately notify the President, or his chief of staff.”
“Yes, sir. And whom do I see at Justice for the warrants, sir?”
“What warrants?”
“The search warrant for the premises, and the arrest warrants for Castillo and these Russians.”
“You don’t need a warrant”—you cretin—“you’re acting on the authority of the President.”
“Yes, sir. I understand. And from whom do I get that, sir?”
“Get what?”
“The presidential authority.”
“I just gave it to you.”
“Sir, it has to be in writing. I would suppose if I’m to act on the authority of the President, President Clendennen would have to sign it himself.”
Well, what did I expect? McGuire is part of the Washington bureaucratic establishment.
You don’t rise in that—for that matter, stay in that—unless you have mastered the fine art of covering your ass.
“Tom, I’m not sure if President Clendennen would be available to do that at this time. So here’s what I want you to do. Just go out there with enough of your people to place the premises under around-the-clock surveillance—discreet surveillance. This situation requires, as I’m sure you understand, the greatest discretion.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Do you happen to know either Darby or his wife, Tom?”
“I’ve met them, sir.”
“Then could you just knock at the door, unofficially, and tell Mrs. Darby you were in the neighborhood and took a chance to see if Darby was at home?”
“That would work, sir. And if he is?”
“Then you tell him that you’re looking for Colonel Castillo; that you have a message for Castillo from me that has to be personally delivered.”
“Yes, sir. And if he directs me to Colonel Castillo—I mean, if I find him—then what do I do?”
“You don’t actually have to talk to him, Tom. Just locate him. Put him under really tight surveillance. Then call my office and tell them to get word to me that you’ve found Colonel Castillo. I’ll take it from there.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
“Good man! I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you were on duty, Tom. I know I can rely on you.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”
There may be just about a dime’s worth of silver in this black cloud. Darby might be at the house in Alexandria. He might know where Castillo is. And he might tell McGuire.
Montvale found I. Ronald Spears waiting for him outside the communications room.
“Get in touch with that Air Force colonel, Spears. Tell him to keep the pilots off the booze. Something has come up that might require my immediate return to Washington.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do that immediately after you drop me off at the hotel.”
“Yes, sir.”

[FOUR]

7200 West Boulevard Drive
Alexandria, Virginia
1525 6 February 2007
 
Dianne Sanders, a grandmotherly type in her early fifties, was wearing an apron over her dress when she answered the chimes.
“Well, hello, Mr. McGuire. What brings you to our door?”
“I’m hoping Mrs. Darby is here,” Tom McGuire said.
“Can I wonder why you might hope that? Or would that be impolite?”
“Come on, Dianne,” McGuire said.
“I’ll see if Mrs. Darby is at home. If you’ll please wait?”
“Lock up the liquor,” Mrs. Julia Darby said thirty seconds later. “The Secret Service is here.”
She walked up to McGuire, and said, “I’m not sure if I’m glad to see you or not. But I’ll give you a kiss anyway.”
She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.
“Are you here socially or otherwise, Tom?” she asked.
“Otherwise, I’m afraid.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Why did I suspect that?” Dianne Sanders asked.
“I have been ordered here by Ambassador Montvale to see if Alex is here, and if not, to ask you to tell me where he is.”
“Did he say why he was curious?”
“He hopes Alex will point him to Charley Castillo. He says he has a message for him.”
“Why didn’t he come himself?”
“He called me from Buenos Aires.”
“Ah-ha! The plot deepens,” Julia Darby said.
“Is Alex here?”
She shook her head.
“Can you point me either to him or Charley?”
“The question is not whether I can, but whether I will. If I pointed at somebody, you would feel duty-bound to tell Montvale, right?”
“Yes, I would.”
“I cannot tell a lie, especially to a senior officer of the United States Secret Service,” she said. She then took a moment to orient herself and pointed in the general direction of South America. “To the best of my knowledge and belief, both of them are somewhere down there.”
“Your cooperation is deeply appreciated. You were pointing at South America, right?”
“In that general direction, yes.”
“Can you ... will you be more specific?”
She shook her head.
“Not even if I told you that Ambassador Montvale told me he’s acting for President Clendennen?”
“Especially if you told me that.”
“One final question, Julia. You’re not concealing two ex-SVR officers on the premises, are you?”
“I will answer that question. No, I am not.”
“And you wouldn’t know where such people would be, either, right?”
Julia Darby again pointed toward South America.
“They could be down that way,” she said. “But on the other hand, maybe not. Those SVR people are slippery, you know.”
He chuckled.
“Is my interrogation over, or is there anything else you’d like to know?” Julia Darby asked.
“This interview is concluded, Mrs. Darby. Thank you for your cooperation.”
“I’m always willing to cooperate with the Secret Service, Mr. McGuire. It’s my duty as a patriotic citizen.” Julia smiled warmly, then said: “Dianne and I were about to have a Bloody Mary. Would you like one?”
He hesitated.
“Come on, Tom. The interrogation is over. I swear Montvale will never know.”
He smiled. “Why not?”
“Let’s go in the kitchen,” Julia said. “Dianne is baking brownies for the boys. I was never much in the kitchen department, but I do make great Bloody Marys.”
 
 
In the kitchen, McGuire asked Dianne Sanders, “Where’s Harold?”
“My husband is shopping. He shops. I cook. Should be back anytime now.”
Dianne Sanders had spent most of her working career as a cryptographer and later as a highly respected cryptographic analyst. Harold, her husband, had been a Delta Force special operator until he developed heart disease and had been medically retired.
For a while he had been what he described as a “camp follower,” taking care of their house while Dianne stayed on active duty. That hadn’t worked, and eventually—Hell, with both our retirements we can live pretty damned well—Dianne had retired, too.
That hadn’t worked either.
They both had been climbing the walls of their garden apartment in Fayetteville, North Carolina, when CWO5 Colin Leverette, aka Uncle Remus, who had been around the block many times with Harold, asked them if they would be interested in running a safe house for Charley Castillo outside Washington. Harold had been around just as many blocks with Castillo as he had with Uncle Remus, and the Sanderses had jumped at the chance to get out of the garden apartment.
Julia Darby made Bloody Marys and handed them to Tom and Dianne.
“Take a sip of that, and then go back on duty,” she said.
He did so, and said, “Okay.”
“Ask me how Alex is,” Julia said.
“Okay. How’s Alex?”
“I hope that miserable sonofabitch and his hot-pants, large-breasted, twenty-year-old Argentine girlfriend freeze together in Ushuaia,” she said.
“Where or what is Ushuaia?”
“It’s the southernmost city in Argentina, way at the end. Coldest place I’ve ever been, including the personnel office at Langley.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that about Alex, do you?”
“I don’t care if you believe it or not, but I hope Charles M. Montvale does. I’d love to hear that he’s running around down there freezing his ass looking for Alex.”
Tom McGuire grinned.
“You have always been an evil woman, Julia,” he said admiringly, and tapped his Bloody Mary against hers. “How do you spell ‘Ushuaia’?”

[FIVE]

Penthouse B
The Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort
Cozumel
Quintana Roo, Mexico
1805 6 February 2007
 
En route to Cozumel—somewhere over Peru—a dozing Castillo woke to find Sweaty’s head resting on his neck. Upon smelling her perfume, he realized with more than a little pleasure that there was going to be enough time between their arrival in Cozumel and dinner for what the French—who sometimes do things with a certain style—called a cinq à sept.
He dozed off again considering this pleasant possibility, to be wakened perhaps an hour after that by one of the pilots of the Boeing 777 offering him a very nice luncheon plate fresh from the microwave.
Sweaty already had hers.
Castillo waited until the pilot had moved away, then asked her in French: “Ma chère, what does ‘a five-to-seven’ mean to you?”
“Five to seven means what it sounds like,” she replied in Russian. “I have no idea what a five-to-seven means.”
“Just as soon as we get to our room in the hotel, I’ll show you a”—he pronounced the term phonetically—“sank-ah-set.”
She kissed his cheek. “But I have other plans for you just as soon as we get to our room in the hotel, my darling.”
Svetlana then removed any doubt he might have had that there was a certain sexual overtone to her remark by quickly groping him.
 
 
It was not to be.
When they got to Penthouse B, they were not alone. Everybody who had been on the plane was with them.
“We had to move some guests,” Alek Pevsner explained. “That shouldn’t take long. I always like to know who’s in the room next to mine.”
“How long is ‘long’?” Castillo asked. “As in ‘shouldn’t take long’?”
Pevsner ignored him and went to the bar and reached for a bottle of bourbon.
Alex Darby opened a sliding glass door and inhaled appreciatively.
“The final death blow to my marriage will come when my wife hears I’m in a penthouse in Cozumel by the Sea,” he announced, “while she is in the snow and slush of Washington, trying to find some roof over her and our abused children.”
“Is that good or bad?” Delchamps asked.
Max pushed Darby out of his way, having seen Penthouse B’s swimming pool, which had obviously been put there for his use. He immediately decided that a quick dip after the long flight was just what he needed.
A Bouvier des Flandres is a large animal and can cause a substantial splash when diving into a pool.
The splash reached Darby.
Everyone laughed.
Pevsner went to a bathroom and returned with a towel for Darby.
By then Max, having enough aquatic activity, had climbed out of the pool and was now standing on the edge of the pool shaking the water from his body. The fur of a Bouvier des Flandres can hold an astonishing amount of water. Pevsner’s shirt and trousers had received a good deal of flying water, and there were drops all over his face, which was now pale with anger and tight-lipped.
Everyone waited for Pevsner’s explosion. When it didn’t come, Castillo poured gasoline on the smoldering embers.
“Well, it was high time you had a bath,” Castillo offered. “And Max was just being helpful.”
Pevsner looked at him and then said, “I have just had a horrible thought.”
“I can’t wait to hear what that is,” Castillo replied.
“Those adorable puppies you gave my Elena and Dmitri’s Sof’ya are going to turn into uncontrollable beasts like that.”
Pevsner took another look at his drenched trousers, and announced, “Believe it or not, this place makes it clear on all the advertising that it is not a pet-friendly hotel.”
“I hear that they make exceptions for friends of the owner,” Castillo said.
“Sometimes the owner is sorry he has certain friends,” Pevsner said as he patted his clothing with a towel.
“Sweaty, I think he means me,” Castillo said. “Say something rude to him.”
“Why doesn’t everybody get out of here so that I can have a shower?” Sweaty said.
“Methinks the lady has carnal desires on our leader’s body,” Delchamps said.
Throwing water on that topic, Pevsner said, “Colonel Torine and the others are on their way from the airport.”
“They just got here?” Castillo asked.
“The manager just told me. I told him to send them here when they arrive,” Pevsner said, and glanced at Svetlana. “While we’re waiting for rooms.”
“Further delaying Svet’s bath and the satisfaction of her other desires,” Tom Barlow said. “Now she will say something rude.”
“Very probably,” Pevsner said, and smiled warmly at her and Castillo.
Castillo thought: My God! Aleksandr Pevsner, you’re good!
I’ve known you long and well enough to know when you’re really pissed off, and the last time I saw you this pissed was when you learned that Howard Kennedy had betrayed you.
If you could, you’d happily throw Max off the balcony, à la Ivan the Terrible, who Svetlana told me threw dogs off the Kremlin walls so he could watch them try to walk on broken legs.
But right now, you need all the help you can get to protect you and your family from Putin and the SVR—which means you think that’s a real threat, which is nice to know—and you can’t afford to piss me off—which means you think I have what you don’t have and can’t do without, which is also nice to know—so you smile warmly at the uncontrollable beast’s owner and his girlfriend as if you agree that he’s an adorable puppy and you didn’t mind getting soaked at all.
They call that professional control, and it’s one facet of character I don’t have and really wish I did.
 
 
Ten minutes later, the doorbell chimed, and when Alex Darby answered it, seven former members of the now-defunct Office of Organizational Analysis—two more than Castillo expected—walked in.
They were Colonel Jake Torine, USAF (Retired); former USAF Captain Richard Sparkman; former USMC Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley; Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., USA (Retired); First Lieutenant Edmund Lorimer, MI (Retired); Chief Warrant Officer (Five) Colin Leverette (Retired); and former FBI Special Agent David William Yung, Jr.
“I knew in my bones that there would be no rest for the weary,” Leverette greeted him. “How they hanging, Charley?”
Colin Leverette was an enormous black man, a legendary Special Operations man, known to his close friends—and only his close friends—as Uncle Remus.
“You and Two-Gun got yourselves kicked out of Uruguay, did you?” Castillo said, and turned to Torine. “You actually went to Uruguay to pick them up? Wasn’t that a little out of your way?”
“It was a supply run, Charley,” Torine said, and then, seeing the confusion on Castillo’s face, added, “about which, I gather, you didn’t know?”
“I’m always the last to know anything, Jake. You know that.”
“We went down there with a planeload of the newest Casey radios,” Torine said. “That’s not precise. We went down there with a bunch of the newest Casey radios. You won’t believe how small the new ones are. And they don’t need the DirecTV dish antenna.”
Leverette said, “Colonel Torine was kind enough to take pity on us when we met him in Montevideo and told him that unless he took us with him, we couldn’t get here in less than seventy-two hours.”
“He was weeping piteously,” Torine said. “He said you needed him.”
“To do what, Uncle Remus?” Castillo asked.
“To get you out of whatever trouble you’re in,” Leverette said.
“And your excuse, Two-Gun?” Castillo asked.
“I came to deliver this,” Yung said, and handed Castillo a small package.
“What’s this?”
“Two hundred thousand in used—therefore nonsequentially numbered—hundreds, fresh from the cashier’s cage at the Venetian,” Yung said. “When Casey told me you’d asked for the money, I told him to give it in cash to Jake. It would have been too easy to trace if it went into and out of your personal German account.”
“I don’t recall asking for volunteers,” Castillo said.
“Oh, come on, Charley,” Leverette said. “Come and let Uncle Remus give you a great big kiss.”
“Screw you,” Castillo said.
Moving with astonishing speed for his bulk, Leverette walked quickly to Castillo, wrapped his massive arms around him, which pinned Castillo’s arms to his sides, and then proceeded to wetly kiss both of Castillo’s cheeks and then his forehead.
Castillo saw that Pevsner was smiling.
That’s a genuine smile.
Because Uncle Remus is kissing me?
Or because he’s really happy to see the reinforcements?
Leverette finally turned Castillo free.
“Now,” Leverette announced, “just as soon as I have a little something to cut the dust of the trail, we will see what Charley’s problem is, and set about solving it. I already have the essential ingredient.” He dug in his pocket and came out triumphantly with a small bottle. “Peychaud’s bitters. I never leave home without it. I shall also require rye whisky—good rye whisky—some simple syrup, absinthe, lemons, ice, and a suitable vessel in which to assemble the above.”
“I feel better already,” Castillo said.
“What is he talking about?” Pevsner asked.
“A Sazerac,” Castillo said.
“And what is a Sazerac?” Tom Barlow asked.
“Nectar of the gods,” Leverette said. “God’s reward to the worthy.”
He examined the stock of intoxicants in the bar, finally coming up triumphantly with a bottle of Van Winkle Family Reserve rye in his left hand and a bottle of Wild Turkey rye in his right.
“These will do nicely, but I can’t find any syrup, absinthe, or lemons. Presumably, there is room service?”
“Lester,” Castillo ordered, “get on the horn and tell room service that Mr. Pevsner requires immediately what Uncle Remus just said.”
“Yes, sir,” Bradley said, and started for the telephone.
“You’re all going to sit around and get drunk, is that the idea?” Pevsner asked unpleasantly. “We have a serious problem and—”
Leverette interrupted him. “Charley, I hate to tell you this, but I’m starting to dislike your Russian buddy. Again.”
“Me, too,” Edgar Delchamps said.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Pevsner demanded angrily.
“Somebody who thinks he’s Ivan the Terrible, Jr.?” Leverette asked innocently.
Castillo laughed, but even as he did, he realized that was not the wise thing to do.
“Not one more word from anybody!” Svetlana snapped. “Not one!”
Everyone looked at her in surprise.
Castillo and Leverette had much the same thought at the same moment, but Leverette was the first to say it out loud: “Be careful,” he said in Russian. “Sweaty just put on her podpolkovnik’s hat.”
“You’d better be careful,” Castillo said. “That’s way over your word limit. What Podpolkovnik Alekseeva said was ‘Not one more word.’”
“I said from anybody and that includes you,” Svetlana snapped. “For God’s sake, Charley, you’re in command. Act like a commander!”
Everyone looked at Castillo to see what his reaction to that would be.
His first reaction was a sudden realization: This is getting out of control.
And the commander is in large measure responsible.
Sweaty’s right about that.
His next reaction was: On the other hand, Sweaty should not have snapped at the commander like that, telling him to act like a commander.
One of the problems of having women subordinates is that one cannot jump all over their asses when they deserve it.
Especially when said female subordinate is sharing one’s bed.
This sort of situation was not dealt with in Problems of Leadership 101 at West Point, nor anywhere else since I’ve been in the Army.
Correction: During the time I was in the Army.
So, what are you going to do now, General MacArthur, so that everyone can see you are in fact acting like you’re in command?
Confidently in command.
There’s a hell of a difference between being in command, and being confidently in command.
And those being commanded damned well know it.
You better think of something, and quick!
Colin Leverette came to his rescue.
“I know what,” Leverette said. “Let’s start all over.”
“What?” Svetlana asked.
“No, Mr. Pevsner,” Leverette went on, “we are not all going to sit around and get drunk. We’re going to have one—possibly two—Sazerac cocktails, and then we’re going to get down to business.”
Pevsner didn’t respond.
Castillo looked between them, and thought: I believe Uncle Remus just saved my ass.
What is that, for the two hundred and eleventh time?
“That was your cue, Mr. Pevsner,” Delchamps said, “to say, ‘I should not have said what I did. Please forgive me.’”
Pevsner looked at him incredulously.
“It’s a question of command, Aleksandr,” Tom Barlow said, his tone making it clear that now he was wearing his polkovnik’s hat. “If Charley, the commander, doesn’t object to something, you have no right to. Now, ask Uncle Remus to forgive your runaway mouth.”
“You have just earned my permission, Podpolkovnik Berezovsky,” Leverette said, “to call me Uncle Remus.”
Now, everyone looked at Pevsner.
“Uncle Remus is waiting, Mr. Pevsner,” Delchamps said after a long moment.
After another long moment, Pevsner smiled, and said, “If an apology for saying something I should not have said is the price for one of Mr. Leverette’s cocktails, I happily pay it.”
Castillo had another unpleasant series of rapid thoughts:
Well, Pevsner caved, and quicker than I thought he would.
Problem solved.
Wait a minute! Aleksandr Pevsner—unlike me—never says anything until he thinks it through.
He knew the apology meant he understood he can’t question me.
But what about the first crack he made?
Was that an attempt to put himself in charge?
If we’d caved, that would have put him in a position to question—question hell, disapprove—of anything.
Alek, you sonofabitch!
His chain of thought was interrupted by the arrival of the butler—not a bellman; penthouses A and B shared the full-time services of an around-the-clock butler—bearing simple syrup, absinthe, a bowl of ice, a bowl of lemon twists, and a tray of old-fashioned glasses.
“The first thing we will do—actually, Lester will do,” Leverette announced, “is fill the glasses with ice. This will chill them while I go through the rest of the process. Now, how many are we going to need?”
Everyone expressed the desire to have a Sazerac.
Leverette arranged all the old-fashioned glasses in two rows.
“You understand, Sweaty,” he said, “that one of my Sazeracs has been known to turn a nun into a nymphomaniac?”
“I’ll take my chances. Stop talking and make the damned drink.”
“First, we muddle the syrup and the Peychaud bitters together,” Leverette announced. “When I’ve done that, we will carefully measure three ounces of rye per drink and a carefully measured amount of ice into the mixing vessel.”
He picked up a champagne cooler, and quickly rinsed it in the sink of the wet bar.
“This will serve nicely as a mixing vessel,” he said, and then demonstrated that his notion of a carefully measured three ounces of rye and ice per drink was to upend the bottle of Wild Turkey over the champagne cooler and empty it. He shook it to get the last drop, then repeated the process with the bottle of Van Winkle Family Reserve. He then added four handfuls of ice cubes.
He stirred the mixture around with one of the empty bottles.
“You’ll notice that I did not shake, but rather stirred. I learned that from Double-Oh-Seven,” he said, then looked at Bradley. “Lester, dump the ice.”
Lester emptied into the sink the melting ice from all the glasses.
“I will now pour the absinthe, and Lester will swirl. I know he will do a good job of swirling because I taught him myself.”
Leverette then picked up the bottle of absinthe, and ran it very quickly over the lines of glasses in one motion. This put perhaps a teaspoon of the absinthe in each glass.
Lester then picked up each glass, swirled the absinthe around, and then dumped the absinthe into the sink.
Leverette picked up the champagne cooler. Lester picked up a silver strainer and held it to the lip of the champagne cooler to hold back the ice cubes as Leverette poured the chilled liquid content of the cooler into the glasses.
“There is a slight excess,” Leverette announced as he looked into the cooler. “Stick this in the fridge, Lester. ‘Waste not, want not,’ as my saintly mother was always saying.”
Leverette then picked up handfuls of the lemon twists and squeezed them in his massive hands, which added not more than two drops of the essence into each glass.
“Finished!” he announced triumphantly.
He handed one to Castillo and another to Pevsner. He handed a third to Sweaty, and took a fourth with him as he walked to the couch.
He raised his glass to Pevsner, took an appreciative sip, and then asked, “And what do you think, Mr. Pevsner?”
Pevsner sipped his cocktail.
“Unusual,” Pevsner said. “But very good.”
“I will pretend that I don’t know the only reason you said that is because you knew I would tear off both of your arms and one leg if you hadn’t, and will accept that as a compliment.”
“You’re insane,” Pevsner said with a smile.
“Genius is often mistakenly identified as insanity,” Leverette said. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that. Now, shall we deal with our problem?”
He came to attention, gestured at Castillo, and gave the Nazi salute.
“Mein Führer, you have the floor.”
Pevsner’s eyes rolled in disbelief.
Castillo rose from his chair, walked to the bar, and leaned his back against it.
“Two-Gun,” he began, “I think you’d better take notes.”
Yung gave him a thumbs-up, then reached for his laptop computer.
“To bring everybody up to speed,” Castillo began, “let’s start with what we do know. First, somebody sent Colonel Hamilton a barrel of Congo-X. Then, in Budapest, Colonel Vladlen Solomatin of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki handed Eric Kocian a letter asking him to get it to Tom Barlow. The letter said, in essence, ‘Come home. All is forgiven.’ I think it’s likely the two actions are related.”
“About as likely as the sun will come up tomorrow,” Svetlana said.
She waited for a chuckle. When she didn’t get one, she looked at Castillo.
“We won’t know,” Castillo said, “about the sun rising until tomorrow morning, will we, Svet? Until then, it’s just likely that it will. And the way this works, Svet, is that no one offers an opinion, clever or otherwise, until I ask for it. Got it?”
Her face colored and her eyes flared angrily, but she didn’t reply.
Well, Commander Casanova, guess who’s not going to get laid tonight?
Castillo took a sip of his drink, then went on: “Let’s start with the Congo-X. Where did it come from? That raises the question, ‘Did we destroy it all in the attacks on the Fish Farm or not?’ Colin?”
“Sir, I respectfully suggest Colonel Torine can answer that better than I can,” Leverette said.
“Jake?” Castillo asked.
Torine nodded. “Charley, you know as well as I do, except for nukes, there is no such thing as total destruction of anything by high explosive or incendiary saturation bombing. The question then becomes: ‘How much was not destroyed? ’ And I suggest Colin can answer that better than I can. He (a) was there, and (b) he’s done a lot of damage assessment.”
Castillo motioned with his hand toward Leverette.
“The Fish Farm was a collection of concrete block buildings, none of them over three stories, most of them just one,” Leverette said. “The few I got into had basements, and I saw a half-dozen buried and half-buried steel-door revetments—like ammo bunkers. Let’s say the bombs and the incendiaries took out ninety-five percent of everything.”
“Jake?” Castillo said.
Torine nodded his agreement. “Leaving five percent,” he said.
“Until we run into a stone wall, let’s try this scenario,” Castillo said. “Five percent of the Congo-X in barrels survived the bombing. Let’s say that’s six barrels. Two of them got to the States. How and by what means? Tom?”
“I’m sure one of the first things Sirinov did after the bombing—”
Alex Darby interrupted: “General Yakov Sirinov, who runs the SVR for Putin?”
Barlow nodded, and went on: “What he did was send in a Vympel Spetsnaz team for damage assessment and to see if anyone was still alive.”
Castillo said, “Can we presume (a) the Spetsnaz made it into the Fish Farm, and (b) while they were there found—more important, took control of—the six barrels of Congo-X?”
“If Tom is talking about Spetsgruppa V,” Leverette said, and looked at Barlow.
Barlow nodded. He said, “Also known as the Vega Group of KGB Directorate B.”
“The Russian Delta Force, Charley,” Leverette said. “They’re damned good.”
“It is because they are so good that they were selected to provide security for the Congo operation,” Barlow said. “I was surprised that you didn’t encounter at least one or two of them, Uncle Remus, when you were there.”
Leverette met his eyes for a moment.
“Quickly changing the subject,” Leverette said, making it clear there had been a confrontation with at least one or two Spetsnaz special operators and that they had lost. “So they found the six barrels of Congo-X. What did they do with it?”
“This is conjecture,” Barlow said, “based on my knowledge of how Sirinov’s mind works. The Spetsnaz were parachuted onto the site from a great height, probably from a specially adapted Ilyushin Il-96 passenger transport on a flight path duly reported to aviation authorities. The parachutists would not have opened their canopies until they were quite close to the ground, so they would appear only momentarily, if at all, on radar screens.”
“That’s what we call HALO,” Castillo said. “High-altitude, low opening.”
“Copyright, Billy Waugh,” Leverette said.
Castillo, Torine, and Peg-Leg Lorimer chuckled or smiled or both.
“Excuse me?” Barlow said.
“The first guy to do that was Billy Waugh, a friend of ours,” Leverette explained.
Castillo said, “Okay, back to the question of now that Spetsnaz has six beer barrels full of Congo-X, what do they do with it?”
“They would have to truck it out,” Barlow said. “But since—using Uncle Remus’s ninety-five percent destruction factor—there would be no trucks, at least not as many as would be needed, left at the Fish Farm, I don’t know how they could have done that.”
“They leave the Fish Farm area and steal some trucks,” Castillo said. “And then truck it out. But where to?”
“Any field where a Tupolev Tu-934A can get in,” Jake Torine said. “And that wouldn’t have to be much of a field.”
“You know about the Tu-934, Jake?” Tom asked.
“I’ve never seen one but, oh yeah, I know about it,” Torine said.
“I don’t,” Castillo said.
“Ugly bird,” Torine said. “Can carry about as much as a Caribou. Cruises at about Mach point nine. Helluva range, midair refuelable, and it’s state-of-the-Russian-art stealth. And it can land and take off from a polo field. The story I get is that the agency will pay a hundred twenty-five million for one of them.”
“You do know about it,” Barlow said, raising his drink in a toast, demonstrating he was clearly impressed.
Torine returned the gesture, and they both sipped their Sazeracs.
“Okay, picking up the scenario,” Castillo said. “The Spetsnaz load their six barrels of Congo-X onto their stolen trucks and drive it to some dirt runway in the middle of Africa, and then load it and themselves onto this ... what was it?”
“Tupolev Tu-934A,” Torine furnished.
“... which then takes off and flies at Mach point nine to where? To Russia?” Castillo pursued.
“No. They don’t want Congo-X in Russia. They know how dangerous it is,” Svetlana said. “They remember Chernobyl. That’s why the Fish Farm was in the Congo.”
“Could this airplane make it across the Atlantic?”
“Sure. With an en-route refueling, it could fly anywhere,” Torine said.
“Where’s anywhere? Cuba? Mexico?”
“Distance-wise, sure,” Barlow said. “But politically ...”
“They’d spot it on radar, right?” Castillo said.
“Charley, it has stealth technology,” Torine said. “And even if it didn’t, it could fly under the radar.”
“So why not Cuba, Tom?” Castillo asked.
“The Castro brothers would be too expensive,” Barlow said. “Both in terms of cash and letting them in on the secret. More the latter. Sirinov doesn’t like to be obligated to anybody.”
“Then right into Mexico,” Edgar Delchamps said. “Getting it across the border into the States would be easy.”
“I think we could say getting it across the border was easy,” Castillo said. “But I have a gut feeling Mexico is not—was not—the final stop.”
Alex Darby then said, “Drop off the Congo-X and enough people to get two barrels of this stuff into the States via Mexico, then fly the rest of it on to ... where?”
“Venezuela,” Delchamps suggested. “Hugo Chávez is in love with Communism, and has yet to be burned by the Russians, as the Castros were burned. And, God knows, Fat Little Hugo is no rocket scientist. Sirinov could easily have put him in his pocket.”
Barlow pointed at Delchamps, and said, “You’re on it, Edgar.”
“Okay, then. Now what?” Leverette said. “We’ve located the Congo-X in Venezuela. What do we do about it?”
“We start to prove—or disprove—the scenario,” Castillo said. “First step in that will be when we get from Aloysius the intel he’s going to get from the DCI.”
“You don’t know that’s who’s giving him the intel he’s promised to send, my darling,” Svet said.
Castillo, at the last split second, kept himself from saying something loving and kind—for example, What part of “Don’t offer a goddamn opinion unless I ask for it” didn’t you understand, my precious?
Instead, he said: “Who else could it be?”
Svetlana replied, “The value of the intel we get from Casey is only as reliable as the source, and we don’t know it’s coming from the CIA, do we? So I suggest we take what Casey sends us with a grain of salt.”
“She got you, Ace,” Delchamps said. “Listen to your consigliere.”
“Yeah, she did,” Castillo admitted. “Okay, Sweaty: Give us your take on the ‘Come home, all is forgiven’ letter from Cousin Vladlen.”
“You haven’t figured that out? It is meant to let your government off the hook, my darling. It’ll come out that we’ve returned to Russia—”
Castillo interrupted, “What do you mean, ‘we’ve returned to Russia’?”
“You asked me a question: Let me finish answering it,” Svetlana said. “Maybe I should have said if we return to Russia and it comes out—and it would—then your government couldn’t be accused of cruelly and heartlessly sending us home to the prison on Lubyanka Square. Your press will get that letter. It says ‘All is forgiven.’ Your government can then say all they did when they loaded us aboard an Aeroflot airplane was help us go home to our loving family.”
“Score another one for Sweaty,” Delchamps said.
“The U.S. government is not going to put you on an Aeroflot plane,” Castillo said.
“You better hope, Ace,” Delchamps said.
“Over my dead body,” Castillo said.
“Thank you, my darling,” Svetlana said. “I will pray that it doesn’t come to that.”
“Me, too,” Tom Barlow said. “May I offer a suggestion, Charley?”
“Sure.”
“Before we get whatever Casey is going to send us, why don’t we all, independently, try to find fault with our scenario?”
Castillo nodded. “Sure. Good idea.”
“And while we’re all doing that, independently come up with a scenario on how to deal with this?”
“Another good idea,” Castillo said.
“Are we going to try to grab this stuff in Venezuela?” Lorimer asked.
“What I would like to do is grab that Tupolev Tu-934A in Venezuela,” Torine said.
Everyone was quiet for a long moment.
Then Pevsner said: “I’ll check, but I think everybody’s rooms should be ready by now. Shall we meet here in, say, an hour and have another of Leverette’s cocktails and then dinner?”