John David Parker—who loathed being called “Porky”—heard himself saying “Certainly.”
Castillo nodded, then went on: “Porky, you ever hear ‘What happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas’? That applies here in spades. You take my meaning?”
“I think so,” Parker said.
Roscoe thought, Porky took his meaning, all right. Castillo didn’t have to say, “Otherwise, we’ll have to kill you.”
Porky figured that out all by himself.
“Okay,” Castillo said. “Introductions are in order. You’ve met Sweaty.” He pointed at a man who looked very much like himself. “That’s her brother, Tom Barlow. And their cousin Aleksandr Pevsner. And their uncle, Nicolai Tarasov—they answer to Alek and Nick. The fellow watching porn on his laptop is Vic D’Alessandro . . .”
D’Alessandro, without raising his head from the laptop, gave Castillo the finger.
“. . . and that’s my cousin, Fernando Lopez. That’s Stefan—call him Steve—Koussevitzky, and last but certainly not least, Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley, USMC, Retired.”
Roscoe knew who Stefan Koussevitzky was. The last time he had seen him was on the island. He then had been wearing the uniform of a Spetsnaz major. About the last picture Roscoe had taken on the island as the Tupelov taxied to the runway was one of Koussevitzky sitting on the ground against a hangar wall, applying a compress to his bloody leg. Sweaty had shot him with her tiny .32 Colt automatic.
How did he get here?
And what the hell is he doing here?
A man wearing chef ’s whites appeared at the door to the swimming pool and said something in what Porky recognized as Russian.
Castillo then announced, “That’s Russian for ‘the steaks are done,’ ” and gestured for everybody to go onto the balcony.
A long banquet table had been set up around the corner of the building. The man with the chef’s hat and two white-jacketed waiters were lined up next to it. There was a large charcoal grill against the balcony railing, and a table loaded with bottles of wine against the building wall.
Castillo took a seat at one end of the table, and Alek Pevsner at the other. Sweaty sat at one side of Castillo, and Delchamps sat across from her. Pevsner had Tom Barlow on one side of him and Uncle Nicolai Tarasov on the other.
After everyone else filled the seats between, the waiters stood ready to pour the wine.
Pevsner picked up his glass, took a large sip, nodded his head as a signal to the waiter that it met his approval, and then watched as the waiter emptied the bottle between his, Uncle Nicolai’s, and Tom Barlow’s glasses. Much the same thing happened elsewhere at the table.
Then Pevsner made an announcement, or gave an order, that surprised—perhaps startled—both Roscoe and Porky.
“Let us pray,” he said, folding his hands piously before him, closing his eyes, and bowing his head.
He prayed in English: “Dear Lord and Father of mankind, we thank You for the bounty we are about to receive. We thank You for the continued good health and safety of our families . . .”
Roscoe had a somewhat irreverent thought: He sounds as if he’s having a conversation with a friend who happens to be the Almighty.
“. . . and our beloved friends. We ask that You permit us to assist the Archangel Michael and the Blessed Saint George in their and Your holy war against Satan, his wicked works, and his followers. We ask their and Your help in rescuing . . . what’s his name again, Karl?”
“Ferris, Colonel James D. Ferris,” Castillo furnished.
“. . . Colonel James Ferris from the evil men who hold him for Satan’s evil purposes, and we ask that those who are about to do battle in Thy name to this end be given the courage of Saint George.
“This we ask in the name of Thy son, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
There was a chorus of amens.
What the hell was that all about? both Porky and Roscoe thought more or less simultaneously.
Pevsner went on, now icily angry: “Where the hell are the shrimp cocktails?” He then switched to Russian, and apparently repeated what he had said in English, for both waiters hurried inside the building and quickly returned with trays of shrimp cocktails.
“It doesn’t get much better than this, Roscoe,” Castillo announced. “The shrimp were floating around out there”—he gestured toward the sea—“not six hours ago. And the beef and the wine arrived with the ex-Spetsnaz this morning from Chile.”
Parker wondered: With the what? The “ex-Spetsnaz”? Is that what he said?
“Charley, why was it important that I come here?” Roscoe asked.
“I’d planned to get into this after dinner,” Castillo replied, “but what the hell? The thing is, Roscoe, you’re one hell of a reporter . . .”
What is this, soft soap from Charley Castillo?
Watch yourself, Roscoe!
“. . . and I figured it was just a matter of time before you figured out that the kidnapping of Colonel Ferris, and the whacking of the other three guys, including my old friend Daniel Salazar, probably has nothing to do with the drug trade. And I wanted to ask you to hold off writing what you learned or intuited.”
Otherwise what?
“Otherwise we’ll have to kill you”?
Do not pass GO.
Go directly to the cemetery and do not collect one million dollars?
“Are you going to explain that? If it’s not connected with the drug trade, what’s it all about?”
“Vladimir Vladimirovich has a problem, Mr. Danton,” Pevsner said.
Who? Oh! Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.
“That, and his ego is involved,” Tom Barlow said.
“That’s part of the problem,” Pevsner agreed, “but his major problem is that everyone in the Russian intelligence community, and the diplomatic community, and of course within the Oprichnina—”
“Within the what?” Roscoe interrupted.
Pevsner flashed him an icy glance and went on as if he hadn’t heard the question: “. . . is waiting for him to react. He either reacts, or . . . what is Carlos always saying? ‘There goes the old ball game.’”
“Reacts to what?” Roscoe asked.
“His gross underestimation of Svetlana and her Carlitos,” Tom Barlow said, and laughed.
“About sixteen months ago, Mr. Danton,” Pevsner said, “Vladimir Vladimirovich thought he had the world by the tail—”
“The expression, Alek,” Castillo interrupted, “is ‘had the world by the balls.’”
Delchamps chuckled. Pevsner glared at both of them, and again went on as if he had not been interrupted: “. . . but then a series of things went very wrong for him. Again, quoting my friend Charley, ‘cutting to the chase,’ culminating in what happened two months ago—”
Roscoe quickly did the arithmetic and interrupted: “Exactly two months ago today, Clendennen was ‘persuaded’ to name Montvale Vice President. Is that what you mean?”
This time Pevsner chose to answer.
“That had a bearing on it, of course, but what I was thinking of, Mr. Danton, was what happened in the lobby bar of the Mayflower Hotel immediately before that happened.”
Danton’s face showed his confusion.
Pevsner went on: “There was a meeting there between Sergei Murov, the SVR rezident in Washington, and Mr. Lammelle—who later that morning would be appointed as head of the CIA—and Dmitri, Svetlana, and Charley.
“The previous afternoon, as you reported on Wolf News, Charley landed a Tupelov Tu-934A at Andrews Air Force Base. On that pride of the Russian air force were the last barrels of Congo-X that Vladimir Vladimirovich and Lieutenant General Yakov Sirinov had.
“Thanks to your journalistic discretion, Mr. Danton, which we all deeply appreciate, there was no mention of the Congo-X or General Sirinov either on Wolf News or in The Washington Times-Post.
“But Sergei Murov, of course, knew about both, and was thus naturally quite anxious to hear what Mr. Lammelle and the oth
ers wished to say.
“Mr. Lammelle got right to the point. He informed Sergei that Secretary of State Natalie Cohen had called the Russian ambassador and told him that unless Murov voluntarily gave up his post and returned to Russia he would be declared persona non grata and expelled within forty-eight hours.”
“And I told him,” Sweaty chimed in, “that when he left, I had a little present for Vladimir Vladimirovich I wanted him to take with him; a barrel of Congo-X that had been rendered harmless. And I also told him that if Stefan Koussevitzky and his family were not in Budapest within seventy-two hours—”
“She would make sure,” Castillo picked up the narrative, laughing, “that every officer of the SVR would know that what Putin was doing behind closed doors when he was running the KGB in Saint Petersburg was write poetry. For some reason, I gather that Saint Petersburg poets are regarded with some suspicion vis-à-vis their sexual orientation.”
Tom Barlow chuckled.
“I’m not sure that pouring salt on an open wound was wise,” Pevsner said.
“I disagree,” Nicolai said. “Always press an advantage, Alek. You know that.”
“And it worked,” Koussevitzky said. “We were on our way to Argentina via Budapest the next day.”
“Which caused you to decide that Charley’s offer of an armistice had been accepted,” Pevsner said. “Which we now know is not the case.”
He let that sink in a moment, and then went on: “It was a low point for Vladimir Vladimirovich, Mr. Danton. He had dispatched General Sirinov personally on the super-secret Tu-934A with the last stocks of Congo-X, confident that President Clendennen would happily exchange Svetlana, Dmitri, and Charley for the Congo-X.
“When Sergei—who had proposed the exchange to Lammelle—walked into the hotel bar to learn he was about to be declared persona non grata, Charley’s March Hare assault on Hugo Chavez’s La Orchila Island had not only already taken the Congo-X—and rendered it harmless—but also had taken possession of the Tu-934A and taken General Sirinov prisoner.”
“And under those circumstances, Aleksandr,” Tom Barlow said, “Svetlana was right to rub salt in his wound, and Charley was right to propose the cease-fire.”
“And he accepted the cease-fire proposal, didn’t he?” Pevsner countered sarcastically. “Even going so far as to permit Stefan and his family to leave Russia. Unless, of course, he did that to lull us to sleep.”
“But, according to your theory,” Castillo said, “in our naïveté we were already asleep. So what’s the hit and kidnapping all about? Wouldn’t that wake us up?”
“I thought we were agreed, Charley,” Pevsner said, “that we are all now wide awake.”
“Touché,” Castillo said.
“I don’t know about any of that, Charley,” Vic D’Alessandro spoke up. “But everything I heard in Acapulco—correction—nothing I heard in Acapulco makes me think Danny and the others were whacked because they were causing the Sinaloa cartel trouble.”
“So,” Tom Barlow said, “what do these people—whoever they are—want with this Colonel Ferris?”
“The last time we went down that road,” Sweaty said, “we agreed we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“On the other hand,” D’Alessandro said, “there’s the possibility—which a couple of our guys—”
“‘Your guys,’ Vic?” Tom Barlow said.
“The Special Forces guys in Acapulco as trainers,” D’Alessandro explained. “A couple of them suggested that they snatched Colonel Ferris to exchange him for some—maybe all—of the Sinaloa cartel guys we have in jail in the states.”
“And killed the others to make the point they’re willing to kill Ferris if we don’t go along?” Castillo asked.
“Right.”
“That’s possible, Vic,” Delchamps said. “But I go along with Alek. I think his pal Vladimir Vladimirovich is behind this. A prisoner swap may well be part of their game plan, but my gut tells me there’s more to it than that.”
“And do you agree with my suggestions as to how we should deal with the situation?” Pevsner asked softly.
“I’m a dinosaur, Alek, you know that. As well as what that means.”
Both Parker and Danton had sudden clear memories of what they had heard from the elderly lady with the walker at Lorimer Manor: “Dinosaurs believe that the only good Communist is a dead Communist.”
“And you, Charley, are you in agreement?” Pevsner asked again, softly.
It took a moment for Castillo to frame his reply, and then he said, “I would really have preferred the armistice, but count me in, of course.”
This time, Danton thought, they’re talking about killing people.
And this time they’re not kidding!
“So, as I understand our agreed-upon plan, we wait for Vladimir Vladimirovich’s next move, in the meantime putting in place certain precautions. Need I spell them out?”
“Yeah, you do,” Castillo said. “Just so everybody understands everybody else.”
“Very well,” Pevsner said. “I have already taken what precautions I think are called for here at the Grand Cozumel and in Argentina. What happened in Acapulco might be a diversion; and they might really start what they’re up to with me.
“That said, I agree with you, Charley, that they probably are considering action against your grapefruit farm here, or even against your family—especially your grandmother—in the United States. Against that possibility, the ten ex-Spetsnaz Stefan and I brought up this morning will be flown to the grapefruit farm at first light tomorrow by Fernando and Uncle Nicolai.
“Once they are in place to his—and of course to Fernando’s—satisfaction, Stefan will return here to handle the ex-Spetsnaz, another ten of them, who will arrive on the PeruaireCargo flight the day after tomorrow.
“Fernando will stay at the grapefruit farm as long as he feels is necessary or return to the United States, whichever he feels is best. I will return to Argentina tomorrow morning and see what, if anything, I can learn about Vladimir Vladimirovich’s plans from my sources.
“Dmitri will stay here in the Grand Cozumel. My instructions to the staff are that he speaks with my voice. You and Svetlana will go to San Antonio to satisfy yourself about your grandmother’s security.”
Pevsner met Castillo’s eyes, and added: “Is that about it?”
“Two things, Alek. I don’t care what you told your staff about Tom. He and everybody else are to understand that I’m calling the shots in Mexico. Is that understood?”
“Dmitri,” Pevsner said, “is that satisfactory to you?”
“Perfectly,” Berezovsky replied. “But I wonder about you. You’re not used to asking anybody for permission to do anything.”
“I have given my word,” Pevsner said.
“That’s good enough for me,” Castillo said. “The agreement is that nobody takes any action—except in self-defense—until it is discussed and agreed to by Alek, Edgar, Dmitri, and me. And we’re all agreed, right, that that applies to snatching Pavel Koslov?”
“You know I don’t agree with that,” Sweaty said angrily. “We should grab him while we have the chance.”
“You made that point, my love, over and over. And you were voted down. They call that democracy.”
Her brother laughed.
“Who’s Pavel Koslov?” Danton asked.
“The Mexico City rezident,” Delchamps furnished. “I think we ought to whack him, tit for tat, if he hurts Colonel Ferris, but I agree with Charley that snatching him now is not a very good idea.”
Castillo nodded, then looked around and said, “Is that it?”
“What do I tell McNab, Charley?” D’Alessandro asked. “He said he wants to see me the minute I get back.”
“Tell him everything,” Castillo said. “I never lied to him before, I don’t want to start now, and I’m certainly not going to ask you to withhold anything from him.”
“He’s going to ask what you’re going to want from him,” D�
�Alessandro said. “What do I tell him?”
“I’d like whatever intel he feels he can give me. But aside from that, I’m not going to need anything from the Stockade. Except you, of course.”
“Got it.”
“Uncle Nicolai, you about ready to fly Vic to Mexico City?”
“No. I’ve been drinking. But one of my pilots is standing by.”
D’Alessandro walked around the table, shaking hands, and then disappeared past the sliding glass doors.
IV
[ONE]
Office of the Commanding General
United States Special Operations Command
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
0830 13 April 2007
A substantial number of liaison officers was attached to the Special Operations Command. Some of them were military—for example, the liaison officers from the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations; the Office of the Chief of Staff, USAF; the commander in chief, Central Command; the Defense Intelligence Agency; and even the XVIII Airborne Corps, which commanded the physical assets of Fort Bragg as well as the 82nd and 101st Airborne divisions.
There were also civilian liaison officers: They included a State Department liaison officer; an FBI liaison officer; and a CIA liaison officer. They all had staffs, some of them as large as a dozen deputies and clerks.
The building in which they were housed was known jocularly as “Foggy Bottom, South.” Others called it “Siberia.” Most liaison officers felt that Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab regarded them as spies for their superiors, and that they were treated accordingly. They rarely saw him in person after their first brief chat with him on their assignment. They dealt with Major General Terrence O’Toole, the SPECOPSCOM deputy commander.
O’Toole had summoned Charles D. Stevens, the FBI liaison officer, to his office two days before.
“This is in connection with Colonel Ferris,” he said, getting right to the point. “You’re aware of the package the general received with Ferris’s photo?”
Stevens had nodded. He knew about the FedEx package. He had learned of it through FBI channels, not from anyone in SPECOPSCOM.
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