"If they had gotten on a plane sent by the CIA, Mr. Powell," the President said coldly, "we would have some sort of moral obligation to protect them. They didn't. Castillo was not acting on behalf of the U.S. government when he flew them to South America. Therefore, we have no such moral obligation."
"I don't agree with that at all, Mr. President," Powell said.
"I don't care, Mr. Powell, if you agree with it or not. I'm telling you that's the way it is."
He let that sink in for a moment, and then went on: "Madam Secretary, I want you to call in the Argentine ambassador and tell him that it has come to our attention that there are two people in his country illegally… what are their names?"
"Presumably, Mr. President, you are referring to Dmitri Berezovsky and Svetlana Alekseeva," she said.
"… for whom Interpol has issued warrants alleging the embezzlement of several millions of dollars."
"Excuse me, Mr. President," Mark Schmidt said. "Interpol has canceled those warrants at the request of the Russian Federation. Three days ago. Berezovsky and Alekseeva are no longer fugitives."
"You're sure?" the President said.
"Yes, sir. I'm sure."
"Well, so much for that idea," the President said. "That would have been easier. We'll have to come up with something else. So here's what we're going to do: Lammelle, get in touch with your Russian and tell him he has a deal."
"Am I to tell him the deal includes Colonel Castillo?"
"Yes. I told you I was not about to turn over an American to those Russian bastards, but if they think I am, so much the better for us."
"Yes, sir."
That sonofabitch is lying through his teeth. He'd happily turn Castillo over to the Russians, or anyone else, if it would get him out of this mess.
"The next step is to locate the Russians. You think they're in Argentina?"
"I have no idea where they are, Mr. President," DCI Powell said.
"Well, I want them found and I want them found quickly. Do whatever has to be done. Send as many people down there-or to anywhere else you think they might be-and find them. Run down the people who used to work for Castillo. See if they know where the Russians are. And Castillo is."
"Yes, sir."
"This is a no-brainer, Mr. Powell. If we can get these Russian bastards to keep that stuff out of the country, and all it costs us is giving them back two traitors, that's a price I can live with. I've always thought that people who change sides are despicable."
"Even if the side they change from is despicable, Mr. President?" Natalie Cohen asked.
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you say that, Madam Secretary," the President of the United States said. [THREE] Penthouse B The Grand Cozumel Beach amp; Golf Resort Cozumel Quintana Roo, Mexico 1310 7 February 2007 A good deal of conversation and thought had not shot many holes in the scenario of what was probably going on, but on the other hand it also hadn't done much to confirm it.
Neither had "all the agency intel" that Casey had furnished. The CIA's analysts also seemed to feel the Congo-X sent to Fort Detrick and left for the Border Patrol to find on the Mexican border had most probably come from the Fish Farm in the Congo. But they had no idea how it had been moved from Africa to the United States, and apparently had not considered that the Tupolev Tu-934A might have been involved.
Castillo had called Casey and asked him to see if his source could find anything about Tupolevs moving anywhere, and again asked him to send any intel, no matter how unimportant or unrelated it might seem.
The only thing to do was wait for something to happen. Everybody was frustrated, but everybody also knew that sitting around with your finger in your ear-or other body orifice-waiting for something to happen was what intelligence gathering was really all about.
So everybody but Castillo, Svetlana, Pevsner, and Tom Barlow had gone deep-sea fishing on a forty-two-foot Bertram owned by the Grand Cozumel Beach amp; Golf Resort.
Castillo had seen everybody's departure as an opportunity. But Tom Barlow had come to the penthouse and asked if he wanted to play chess before he could take advantage of the opportunity. Castillo no more wanted to play chess than he wanted to lunch on raw iguana, but the alternative was saying, "No, thanks, as I'm planning to spend the morning increasing my carnal knowledge of your sister."
When the door chime went off, they were playing chess, and Svetlana-in a bikini-was taking in the sun on a chaise longue by the pool, with Max lying beside her.
The latter went to answer the door.
Aleksandr Pevsner, Janos, and another man were standing there.
Before Pevsner knew what was happening, Max put his paws on Pevsner's shoulders and licked his face.
"Look at that!" Tom Barlow called happily. "Max loves you, Alek."
And then he recognized the man with Pevsner and exclaimed, "I'll be damned!"
The man with Pevsner was plump, ruddy-faced, and in his early fifties. His short-sleeved blue shirt had wings and epaulets with the four stripes of a captain on it.
"Well, my God, look who's all grown up and wearing lipstick! And not much else," the man said, and spread his arms.
"Uncle Nicolai!" Svetlana cried happily and ran into his arms.
Castillo watched, then thought: Well, that explains that. Another relative.
But what is Uncle Nicolai doing here?
Tom Barlow was now waiting patiently for his chance to exchange hugs with Uncle Nicolai. When it came, the two embraced and enthusiastically pounded each other's back.
"Aleksandr said you were in Johannesburg," Svetlana said.
"I spend a good deal of time there," Uncle Nicolai said. He looked at Charley and offered his hand. In fluent, just slightly accented English, he said, "I'm Nicolai Tarasov."
"Charley Castillo."
"Who has captured Svetlana's heart. Alek told me."
"So what brings you to Cozumel by the Sea, Uncle Nicolai?" Castillo asked.
Tarasov avoided the question.
"Alek and I go back to our days with Aeroflot," Tarasov said. "When I tried without much success to teach him to fly Ilyushin Il-96s."
Castillo felt his temper turn on.
"Why don't you want to tell me what brings you to Cozumel by the Sea, Uncle Nicolai?" he repeated, then added: "Somehow I don't think this is a happy coincidence and that you're all going to sit around eating fried chicken and telling stories about Grandma."
"Why are you going out of your way to be unpleasant, Charley?" Svetlana asked.
Castillo switched to Russian: "Because Cousin Alek"-he pointed at Pevsner-"can't seem to get it through his thick Russian skull that since I'm running this operation, it's not nice to spring surprises on me. Like Uncle Nicolai just happening to drop in from Johannesburg to say hi."
"You speak Russian very well; you sound like you're from Saint Petersburg," Tarasov said. "Aleksandr told me you did. Just after he told me to be very, very careful not to underestimate you."
"I still don't have an answer," Castillo said.
"Just for the record, Charley," Tom Barlow said, "I'm as surprised to see Nicolai as you are."
"Goodbye, Uncle Nicolai," Castillo said, motioning toward the door. "The next time you're in town, make sure you call."
"Now, wait just a minute, Charley!" Pevsner flared.
"Why do I have to spend all my time making peace between you two?" Svetlana asked.
"Maybe because Alek the Terrible has trouble understanding I don't recognize him as the tsar," Charley said.
Both Barlow and Tarasov chuckled.
Pevsner gave them both an icy glare.
"'Alek the Terrible'?" Tarasov quoted. "I like that."
"I got in touch with Nicolai to see what he could contribute to our scenario," Pevsner said after a moment.
"And can he?" Castillo challenged, and then looked at Tarasov. "Can you?"
"I'm trying to run down something I heard, about an incident that took place at the El Obeid Airport in Sudan," Tarasov said. "That
may take a little time. And I think there's at least a good chance that if a Tupolev Tu-934A was used in this operation, I know where they landed in Mexico."
"What took place in Sudan?"
"They found a lot of dead people at the burned-down airport," Tarasov said. "From what little I know so far, it sounds like something that one of Yakov Sirinov's Vega Groups would do. No witnesses."
"And the airport in Mexico?"
"Laguna el Guaje," Tarasov said. "In Coahuila State."
"Laguna el Guaje mean anything to you, Charley?" Pevsner asked.
Castillo shook his head.
"It's sort of the Mexican version of Groom Dry Lake Test Facility," Nicolai explained. "Far fewer aircraft, and different secrets."
Castillo knew that Groom Lake, on the vast Nellis Air Force Base near Las Vegas, was rumored to be where-in Area 51 thereon-the CIA was holding little green men from Mars, or elsewhere in the universe. He hadn't seen any of them when he had been to Area 51, but he had seen some very interesting experimental aircraft.
"I have never heard of either what you just said or Area 51," Castillo said. "But if I had, and talked to you about it, I'd have to kill you."
Nicolai laughed out loud and punched Castillo's shoulder.
"I like him, Alek," he said.
"Don't speak too soon," Pevsner said.
"Why do you think that might be the place?" Castillo said.
"Because we use it from time to time," Tarasov said.
And what do you use it for, from time to time?
Moving cocaine around?
"How do we find out?"
"A man who you should know is going to meet us there," Pevsner said.
"And how do we get there?"
"Fly," Tarasov said. "It should take us about an hour."
"Two of the three pilots who can fly our Gulfstream are deep-sea fishing. It may take some time to get them back here. And when they get here, they'll probably be half in the bag. They didn't expect to go flying. And I really don't like flying that airplane by myself."
"But you could if you had to, right? I hear you're quite a pilot." He paused, then added: "Schwechat-Ezeiza via Africa is a long way to go in a G-Three unless you really know how to fly a Gulfstream."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Uncle Nicolai. Goodbye, Uncle Nicolai," Castillo said.
Tarasov seemed unaffected by Castillo's belligerence.
"Actually, Colonel Castillo," he said, "I have an airplane. I just picked up a Cessna Citation Mustang at the factory in Wichita. That's what I was doing when Aleksandr called, getting checked out in it."
"And now you're going to fly it to Johannesburg, right?" Castillo said sarcastically. "I hope you know how to swim. The specs I saw on the Mustang gave it a range of about eleven hundred nautical miles, and the last time I looked, the Atlantic Ocean was a lot wider than that."
"He's not going to fly it to South Africa," Pevsner said. "The casino here bought the Mustang to replace the Lear it uses to pick up good casino customers and bring them to Cozumel."
The last I heard, Cessna was happy not only to deliver a plane like that to the customer, but also to have whoever delivered it teach the new owner or his pilot how to fly it.
And since you own the casino, please forgive me for wondering what almost certainly illegal services this new Mustang will render to you when it's not hauling high-rollers around.
What's behind all this bullshit?
You know, but you don't like to think about it.
Fuck it. Get it out in the open.
"Alek, listen to me carefully," Castillo said. "Whatever we do to solve our current problem, we are not going to get involved with the drug trade or anybody in it."
"Friend Charley, you listen carefully to me," Pevsner said, icily furious. "I am not, and never have been, involved with the drug trade."
Castillo considered that a moment, and then realized: I'll be a sonofabitch if I don't believe him!
Why? Because I want to?
"Why do I keep waiting for you to say 'but'?" Castillo asked.
"Aleksandr, I think you should answer Charley's question, and fully," Svetlana said.
Pevsner glared at her.
"Svet took the words from my mouth, Alek," Tom Barlow said. "Not only is he entitled to an answer, but the last thing we need right now is Charley questioning your motives."
"I'm not used to sharing the details of my business operations with anybody," Pevsner said. "I told you I am not, and never have been, involved with the drug trade. That should be enough."
"I keep waiting for the rest of the sentence beginning with 'but,'" Castillo said.
"Colonel Castillo," Tarasov said, "let me try to explain: Once a month-sometimes three weeks, sometimes five-certain businessmen-most often Mexican, Venezuelan, and Colombian, but sometimes from other places-want to visit Switzerland, or Liechtenstein, or Moscow, without this coming to anyone's attention.
"We pick them up at Laguna el Guaje. It's always two of them. Each has two suitcases, one of them full of currency, usually American dollars, but sometimes euros or other hard currency. But only cash, no drugs."
"How do you know that?"
"Because we open them to count the cash, which determines the fare, which is five percent of the cash. We bring them here, where they travel to El Tepual International Airport at Puerto Montt, Chile, aboard a Peruaire aircraft returning from a foodstuff delivery here. At El Tepual, they transfer to an aircraft- depending on their final destination-of either Cape Town Air Cargo or Air Bulgaria-"
"Both of which the tsar here owns?" Castillo asked.
"The tsar or one of the more charming of the tsar's grand dukes," Tarasov said. "To finish, the aircraft is carrying a cargo of that magnificent Chilean seafood and often Argentinean beef to feed the affluent hungry of Europe. Getting the picture? Any questions?"
"Oh, yeah," Castillo said. "And the first one that comes to mind is: Are all you Russian expatriate businessmen really related? Aren't you worried that you'll corrupt the gene pool?"
Tarasov laughed. "I'm starting to understand you, Colonel Castillo. You say things designed to startle or outrage. People who are startled or outraged tend to say things they hadn't planned to say. Alek was right to warn me not to go with my first impression of you, which-by your design, of course-is intended to make people prone to underestimate you.
"Got me all figured out, have you, Uncle Nicolai? Tell me about the gene pool."
"We're not really related, except very distantly. Our families have been close, however, for many years."
"Do I see the Oprichnina raising its ugly head?" Castillo asked.
"Why ugly?" Tarasov said. "Did what you may have heard of the Oprichnina make you think that?" He turned to Pevsner. "How much did you tell the colonel about the separate state, Alek?"
"What I didn't tell him, Svetlana did," Pevsner said.
"And what Svet didn't tell him, Nicolai, I did," Tom Barlow said, and then turned to Castillo. "Charley, when Alek first left Russia and bought the first Antonov An-22 and went into business, the man who flew it out of Russia was an ex-Aeroflot pilot and Air Force polkovnik named Nicolai Tarasov."
"And we have been in business together since then," Tarasov said. "Does this satisfy your curiosity, Colonel Castillo, or have you other questions?"
This could all be bullshit, which I am, in my naivete, swallowing whole.
On the other hand, my gut tells me it's not.
"Just one," Castillo said. "Are you going to check me out in the Mustang on our way back and forth to Area 51?"
"It would be my pleasure," Tarasov said.
"Can I go like this?" Sweaty asked, twirling in her bikini.
Castillo saw in Pevsner's eyes that he was considering discouraging her notion, and wondered why, and then that Pevsner had decided she could-or even should-go, and wondered about that, too.
"You can go as naked as a jaybird, as far as I'm concerned," Pevsner said, "but you probably would be more
comfortable in a dress."
"Your dog thinks he's going," Tarasov said, pointing at Max, who was sitting on his haunches by the door.
And again Castillo saw something in Pevsner's eyes, this time that Max going was a good idea. He wondered about that, too.
"Max goes just about everywhere with Charley, Nicolai," Pevsner said. There were two Yukons with darkened windows waiting for them in the basement garage of the luxury hotel, and two men standing by, each not making much of an effort to conceal the Mini Uzis under their loose, flowered shirts.
Castillo wondered if all the security was routine, and then considered for the first time that if the Russians were successful in getting Svetlana and Tom back to Russia, they would probably-almost certainly; indeed Pevsner had said so-be coming after Pevsner.
And if that's true, they will also be coming after Tarasov.
I'll have to keep that in mind.
And continue to wonder when Alek will decide that if throwing me-and possibly even Tom and Sweaty-under the bus is the price of protecting his family and his businesses, then so be it.
Am I paranoid to consider the possibility that that's what may be happening right now? When we get to this mysterious airfield, is there going to be a team of General Yakov Sirinov's Spetsnaz special operators waiting for us, to load us on the Tupolev Tu-934A and fly us off to Mother Russia?
That would solve everyone's problems.
No. That's your imagination running away with you.
Scenario two: The crew of the Bertram terminates all the fishermen and tosses their suitably weighted bodies overboard to feed the fishes.
That would get rid of everybody else who knows too much about the affairs of Aleksandr Pevsner.
And nobody knows-except Pevsner and his private army of ex-Spetsnaz special operators-that any of us have ever been near Sunny Cozumel by the Sea.
Come to think of it, there was no real reason we couldn't have passed through customs under our own names, or the names on the new passports we got in Argentina.
You are being paranoid, and you know it.
On the other hand, you have had paranoid theories before, and on more than several occasions, acting on them has saved your ass. The Yukon convoy drove directly to the airport, and then through a gate which opened for them as they approached, then onto the tarmac and up beside a Cessna Citation Mustang.
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