Black Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  Castillo looked at Delchamps and Davidson. Both shrugged.

  Castillo handed the cards to Davidson, then took from the envelope a sheet of paper that had been neatly folded in thirds. He unfolded it.

  It was a photocopy of two pages of the data section of a passport. Castillo saw first that it was a Russian passport, and a split second later saw that it was a Russian diplomatic passport.

  Across the bottom of the first page was the legend SECOND SECRETARY OF THE EMBASSY OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION IN THE FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY.

  The second page had a photograph of a man of about Castillo’s age. His neatly trimmed, light-brown hair was nearly blond. He wore a crisp white shirt with a neatly tied, red-striped necktie.

  He looks, Castillo thought, more Teutonic than Slavic.

  It gave his name as Dmitri Berezovsky. It said he was born in the USSR on 22 June 1969.

  Which makes him four days younger than I am.

  What the hell does that mean—if anything?

  Castillo looked at Delchamps, who met his eyes and then said, “I think the passport is real, Ace.”

  Castillo waited for him to go on, and when he didn’t, said, “And? Come on, Ed!”

  “None of that could be traced back to your friend Dmitri. All you’ve got is four blank calling cards on which the names of three towns and Tom Barlow have been printed by a cheap computer printer. Berlin is X-ed out. So far as the photocopy of the passport is concerned, that could come from the Germans or whoever else’s border Dmitri has crossed and had it stamped. Just about everybody routinely photocopies the passports of interesting people.”

  “All of which means?”

  “First wild-hair scenario,” Delchamps said. “What we could have here is a spy who wants to come in from the cold and has decided you have the best key to the door of freedom. And, of course, the CIA’s cash box.

  “He’s proved that he knows who you are, knows where to find you, and suggests either Budapest or Vienna, but not Berlin, is where he would like to meet.”

  Castillo grunted, and looked at Jack Davidson.

  “This guy is good, Charley. If he wanted to take you out, I think he could have,” Davidson said.

  “And Edgar’s scenario?”

  “I think he’s on the money, Charley.”

  “No second scenario?”

  Davidson shook his head.

  “I don’t know if this is a second scenario or not,” Delchamps said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if this guy knows who whacked the Kuhls. And I’d sure as hell like that information.”

  “So what do we do now? Go to Vienna or Budapest and wait?”

  “Yeah,” Delchamps said. “But right now we have to go to the church. It’s supposed to start in ten minutes.”

  “And you don’t think anything’ll happen at the church?”

  “Dmitri told you he ordered the hit. And you responded the way he thought you would. The place is now crawling with cops and private security. I don’t think any Stasi guys are going to commit suicide to get you or Billy or Otto. Not when they can do it quietly elsewhere. So you stay alive, which is what Dmitri wants.”

  Castillo looked at Davidson, who nodded his agreement.

  “Okay,” Castillo said. “Let’s go to church.”

  Delchamps held out his hand for the envelope, and when Castillo gave it to him, dropped it in his briefcase.

  V

  [ONE]

  The Big Room

  Das Haus im Wald

  Near Bad Hersfeld

  Kreis Hersfeld-Rotenburg

  Hesse, Germany

  1630 27 December 2005

  Hermann and Willi Görner went straight from the elevator to Onkel Billy’s apartment, where Mädchen and the puppies had been left. Onkel Billy and everybody else went straight to the bar.

  The service in Saint Elisabeth’s had lasted almost an hour. Otto Görner had delivered the eulogy. Castillo had heard only a little of it. He hadn’t known—as Otto conveniently had not mentioned his role in the services—that Otto was going to make himself a perfect target in the pulpit for almost ten minutes.

  Castillo thought it quite possible—if unlikely—that Otto would be shot in front of his boys.

  That didn’t happen. Nothing untoward happened in the church, or in the cemetery later, if you didn’t count the behavior of the goddamn press. When that had happened—both at the church and in the cemetery—Castillo suddenly had been conscious that press passes can readily be forged, and that the still and video cameras shoved in the mourners’ faces could easily have concealed a weapon, if not a modified firearm then a compressed air system to launch darts tipped with ricin or some other lethal substance.

  That didn’t happen either.

  The only thing out of the ordinary at the cemetery was that Eric Kocian told Otto Görner he was getting a little short of breath and felt dizzy and thought it would be best if he went back to das Haus im Wald rather than to the Friedler home.

  Görner wanted to call for an ambulance, but Kocian insisted that he would be all right once he had lain down for a few minutes, and that he would ask Karlchen to drive him to Bad Hersfeld.

  The minute Charley had driven the Jag carrying Billy, Max, and Jack Davidson out of the cemetery, Castillo had asked Kocian if he was sure he didn’t want to go to a hospital, or at least see a doctor.

  “My medicine is in the house in the woods. Now just drive me there, Karlchen, at a reasonable speed, and spare me your concern. I know what I need.”

  Castillo thought he heard a snicker from the backseat, but when he glanced in the rearview mirror all he saw was Max putting his head on Davidson’s lap and Jack ostensibly taking in the view of the glorious German countryside.

  At the house, Delchamps, Torine, Yung, and Doherty were in the Big Room when Max led in Castillo, Kocian, and Davidson.

  They all had watched as Kocian made a beeline for the liquor bottles and poured four inches of Slivovitz into a water glass, drank half, then smacked his lips and set the glass down.

  “You want me to get you your medicine before you drink the rest of that?” Castillo said.

  Kocian shook his head in disbelief, raised the glass, and finished off the Slivovitz.

  “I just took my medicine, Karlchen, thank you very much.”

  Castillo laughed. “You old fraud! You weren’t dizzy or short of breath!”

  “Karlchen, which would have been kinder: To tell Gertrud Friedler that I thought I had expressed my sympathy enough and what I was going to do now was find the sonsofbitches who did this to him? Or to announce I wasn’t feeling well?”

  “Touché.”

  “Pressing my advantage, Karlchen, I suggest that in the morning you and I—and the dogs, of course—catch the nine-oh-five fast train from Kassel to Vienna.”

  “You do?”

  “That will put us—after a nice luncheon on the train—into the Westbahnhof a little after five.”

  “You don’t want to fly down?”

  “I don’t like to fly, period. And the dogs have suffered enough from the miracle of travel by air.”

  “And have you a suggestion about what I should do with the airplane?”

  “Aside from the scatological one that leaps to mind, you mean?” Kocian asked innocently, looked smugly around the room, then went on: “Jacob and Richard can fly the others to Schwechat, go to their hotel, the Bristol, and wait for us. Unless, of course, we get there before they do, which is a possibility. As soon as I have another little taste of the Slivovitz, I shall get on the telephone and ask Frau Schröeder to get us on the train.” He looked at Davidson. “And, Jack, I will call the manager of the Bristol, a friend of mine, to beg him not to put you and your friends in those terrible rooms he reserves for you Americans.”

  Davidson laughed appreciatively, but said, “I’ll be going with you on the train, Billy. I’ll need a room where Charley’s staying.”

  Kocian made a face no one would confuse with being friendly. �
��At the risk of sounding rude, Jack, I don’t recall inviting you to go along.”

  “You didn’t have to. McNab did.”

  Castillo chuckled.

  “Who is McMad?” Kocian demanded.

  “McNab. And if I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Davidson said.

  Torine and Delchamps chuckled. Kocian glared at them.

  “Think of him as Charley’s fairy godfather, Billy,” Delchamps offered.

  “That,” Davidson put in, “is a very dangerous choice of words.”

  “Yes, it was,” Delchamps agreed. “I hastily withdraw that description and replace it with ‘Charley’s guardian angel.’”

  “I thought that the Boy Marine was his guardian angel,” David Yung said.

  “Corporal Bradley is Charley’s guardian cherub, Two-Gun,” Torine went on. “General McNab is Charley’s guardian angel.”

  Everybody laughed.

  “Another very dangerous choice of words, Colonel,” Davidson said.

  “But, oh, how appropriate!” Delchamps said. “Charley’s Cherub!”

  “You do have a death wish, Edgar,” Davidson said. “If Bradley hears that you called him that, you’ll have one—probably two or more—Aleksandr Pevsner Indian beauty spots on your forehead.”

  “I have no idea what any of you lunatics are talking about,” Kocian said.

  Davidson took pity on him.

  “Billy, General Bruce J. McNab,” he explained, “is who I work for. When he sent me to work with Charley, his orders were to keep Charley out of trouble and never let him out of my sight. I hear and I obey. It’s not open for discussion.”

  Kocian looked at Castillo, who nodded.

  “Jack goes,” Castillo said. “Jake, any problem about taking the Gulfstream to Vienna?”

  “Not today. I’ve been—I am—tippling. But if I get to the airport by noon, I can probably be in Vienna about the time you get there. Unless the weather really gets bad, of course.”

  Castillo turned to Inspector John “Jack” Doherty.

  “Jack, any reason for the FBI—you and/or Two-Gun—to stick around here?”

  “The guy from the Bundeskriminalamt showed us what they had, and what the local cops had. Conclusion—mine and Two-Gun’s—is that it was a professional hit by people—probably ex-Stasi—who knew what they were doing and who now are probably in Russia. He said if anything turned up he’d let Otto know.”

  “So you guys can go to Vienna with Jake?” Castillo asked.

  Doherty nodded.

  “Okay, Billy,” Castillo said. “Call Frau Schröeder. Set it up.”

  “Thank you,” Kocian said. “And there”—he pointed to a small table near the elevator—“is a second line you can use for your call, or calls.”

  “And you have, I’m sure, a suggestion—or suggestions—of who I should call?” Castillo asked sarcastically.

  “Well, Karlchen, I thought you might possibly be interested in learning what you can about Dmitri Berezovsky. Or is your relationship with the CIA one in which you feed them information, and they tell you only what they think you should hear?”

  They locked eyes for a long moment, during which no one else even coughed.

  Finally, Castillo said, “I would say ‘touché’ again, Billy, but that wasn’t a gentle tap with a fencing saber. You just nailed me to the wall with a battle-ax, and that’s my blood you see all over the carpet.” He paused. “I guess I forgot for a moment what a tough old codger you are.”

  “Sonofabitch would be more accurate, Karlchen. I tend to be a real sonofabitch when someone doesn’t seem to be as anxious as I am to find the bastards who murdered someone very dear to me.”

  Kocian walked to a coffee table, picked up the telephone there, then sat down on a small couch. Holding the telephone base on his lap, he began to punch a number.

  Castillo pushed himself out of his chair, walked to the telephone by the door, and entered a long telephone number from memory.

  “Lester,” Castillo said thirty seconds later, “this is Colonel Castillo. Is either Major Miller or Mrs. Forbison there?”

  “I think the cherub answered the phone,” Delchamps said.

  No one laughed.

  [TWO]

  Aboard EuroCity Train “Bartok Bela”

  Near Braunau am Inn, Austria

  1325 28 December 2005

  They had two first-class sleeping compartments. Castillo, Jack Davidson, and Max were in one, and Kocian, Sándor Tor, and Mädchen and her puppies in the other.

  Mädchen was missing one of her puppies, the male that Hermann and Willi had selected. She had decided that Max was somehow responsible and, when they were in sight of one another, either snarled or showed her teeth at him, making it plain she would like to remove at least one of his ears and very likely other body parts as well.

  Max had assumed an attitude of both righteous indignation and self-defense. He obviously had done nothing wrong to the mother of their offspring and naturally felt obliged to show his teeth to let her know that he wasn’t too fond of her, either.

  Under these conditions, having the “nice lunch” on the train between Munich and Vienna that Kocian had promised posed a problem. Because they could not leave the dogs alone, it was finally decided that Davidson and Castillo would eat first. Sándor Tor would move into their apartment to restrain Max. Then, after Castillo and Davidson had eaten, Castillo would ride with Mädchen and the puppies, and Davidson with Max.

  The dining car was two cars ahead of theirs on the train. At the rear, where Castillo and Davidson entered, it was sort of a diner, with plastic-topped tables. Farther forward, separated from the diner by a bar and serving counter, was a more elegant eatery. There were tablecloths and wine bottles and hovering waiters.

  Castillo and Davidson headed for the forward end of the car.

  Castillo saw something that made him suddenly stop. At the split second that Davidson walked into Castillo, Jack saw what had stopped Charley, and, as a reflex action, nudged him.

  At the last table on the right were four people, a man and three women. Or—more accurately, after they had a good look—a man, two women, and an adolescent girl.

  The man, who had made eye contact with Castillo, held his fork halfway between his plate and mouth. Then, as Castillo resumed walking, he put the food in his mouth.

  He looks older than his passport photo, Castillo thought.

  But that’s not unusual.

  It’s him.

  Castillo walked to the table and said loudly in English, “Well, I will be damned if it isn’t ol’ Tom Barlow! How the hell are you, Tom?”

  Castillo thrust out his hand.

  “Carlos Castillo, right?” Dmitri Berezovsky said. He stood, took the extended hand, and pumped it enthusiastically.

  “Actually, it’s ‘Charley,’ Tom, but what the hell! Jack, this is Tom Barlow. You’ve heard me talk about him.”

  “I sure have,” Davidson answered, then shook Berezovsky’s hand. “Jack Davidson, Tom. Going to Vienna, are you?”

  “A business conference,” Berezovsky said, and looked at Castillo. “Charley, I don’t think you’ve met the better half, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Castillo said.

  “Honey, this is Charley Castillo,” Berezovsky said. “Charley, this is my wife, Laura, and our daughter, Sophie, and my sister, Susan Alexander.”

  The girl’s about the age of Aleksandr Pevsner’s daughter, Elena, Castillo thought.

  And my Randy.

  Except that but for blood my Randy’s not my Randy.

  The wife and daughter smiled a little uneasily, offered their hands, but said nothing.

  The sister said, “How are you? Nice to meet you,” as she offered her hand.

  Nice English, Castillo thought. But the Russian comes through.

  And then he noticed that she was beautiful.

  I missed that until now?

  What is that, tunnel vision?

  “Charley, you know
what?” Berezovsky said. “I was going to see if I could find you in Vienna. A little business opportunity I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Oh, really? I’m always open for a good business opportunity.”

  “Well, we’re still a couple of hours from Vienna. What I was thinking was if we could find someplace to talk. . . . I don’t like to talk business in front of my family.”

  “I understand,” Castillo said. “Well, how about my compartment? That is, unless you don’t like dogs.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I have my dog with me. Some people are afraid of dogs.”

  “I love dogs,” Berezovsky said.

  “We’re two cars back,” Castillo said.

  Davidson took tickets from his pocket, looked at them, and announced, “Compartment four, wagon three.”

  “Compartment four, wagon three,” Berezovsky repeated. “Say, in thirty minutes?”

  “Fine,” Castillo said. He offered his hand again to Berezovsky’s wife and then to his sister. “It was nice to meet you. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

  He smiled at the girl, who smiled shyly back. Berezovsky’s wife again said nothing. The sister said, “That would be nice.”

  “There’s a very nice Wiener schnitzel,” Berezovsky said. “And the beer’s Czech, from Pilsen.”

  Castillo smiled at him, then turned and motioned for Davidson to go to a table across the aisle.

  The waiter appeared almost immediately. They both ordered the Wiener schnitzel and, at the waiter’s recommendation, two bottles of Gambrinus, which he said came from eastern Bohemia and he personally preferred over the better-known Pilsner Urquell.

  The beer was served immediately.

  Three minutes later, as the waiter approached their table with the food, Berezovsky and party rose from their table and walked down the aisle.

  Castillo waited until they were almost out of the dining car before asking, “Well, Jack, what do you think?”

  “Nice ass on the sister.”

  “Nice boobs, too, but that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  Davidson sipped thoughtfully from his beer, then said, “We’ll just have to see what happens. I have the feeling that guy’s a heavy hitter.”