Black Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Is that so?” Castillo said, his tone somewhat sarcastic. He looked at Delchamps. “She give you a name?”

  “No. Is this none of my business?”

  “The lady in question is Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson. She was some kind of an analyst at Langley, and when she fucked up doing what she should have done with that stolen airliner, she tried to put the blame on the local spook. She said that not only was the local spook incompetent but a drunk, the proof of that being that while in his cups, he made improper advances to her, knowing full well she was a married woman. She probably would have gotten away with it had she not been, at the time Dick Miller was supposedly trying to rape her—”

  “Our Dick Miller?” Delchamps interrupted.

  Castillo nodded. “—Had she not been fucking me at the time. She lied that Miller was working his wicked way on her. That got her transferred. Then she went to C. Harry Whelan, Jr., the infamous journalist, and tried to blow the whistle on me. Whelan then went to Montvale with the dirt that he had on me, which was what Mrs. Wilson had leaked to him.

  “Montvale—and I owe him big-time for this, as I frequently have to remind myself—not only turned Whelan off but taped their conversation, in which Whelan referred, several times, to Mrs. Wilson as ‘his own private mole in Langley.’ ”

  “Jesus Christ,” Delchamps said disgustedly.

  “Then Montvale played the tape for the DCI. And that’s what got her fired.”

  “Women in this business are dangerous,” Delchamps said.

  “I was saying exactly the same thing to Charley earlier today,” Davidson said innocently.

  Castillo slid the laptop to him.

  “Take a quick look at this, Jack, and tell me what you think.”

  Delchamps said: “I don’t think the truth would impress Miss Dillworth very much, Charley. You’re an unmitigated sonofabitch. What I think I should do is get on the horn to Alex Darby and get his take on the lady. Then I think I can deal with her. I’ll start out by telling her what a sonofabitch I know you to be.”

  Castillo held his hand up as a signal for Delchamps to wait. He was looking at Davidson.

  Finally, Davidson raised his eyes from the computer screen.

  “It looks like the Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Under Britches are who they say they are, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it sure does,” Castillo said. “Jake, how soon can we go wheels-up?”

  “I told you before: thirty minutes after we get to the airport. Where are we going?”

  “Edgar, you can discuss Miss Moneypenny with Alex personally,” Castillo said.

  “Why are we going to Buenos Aires, Charley?” Delchamps asked warily.

  “Because when Colonel Berezovsky and Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva, the spies who want to come in from the cold, do come in from the cold, that’s where they want to go.”

  “He’s already been in touch? Christ, you just got here.”

  “I work fast,” Castillo said. “Can we get out of here tonight, Jake?”

  Torine nodded, and repeated, “Thirty minutes after we get to the airport.”

  Castillo looked at his watch. “It’s seven-forty. Let’s shoot for a ten o’clock takeoff. Sparkman, get out there and file a flight plan to Prestwick, Scotland. Then we file a new en-route flight plan to Morocco or someplace else that’s our best and safest route to Buenos Aires. That’ll work, Jake, right?”

  Torine nodded. “Let me get this straight. We’re taking this Berezovsky character with us?”

  “And his wife and daughter. And, of course, Little Red Under Britches.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Delchamps asked. “Why are you calling the sister that?”

  Castillo exchanged glances with Davidson and grinned. “That’s undercover spy talk, Edgar. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “And if we told you, we’d have to kill you,” Davidson added.

  “Until this moment, Jake, I thought we were having our chain pulled,” Delchamps said. “Now I don’t know.” He looked at Castillo. “You’ve actually got the SVR’s Berlin rezident in the bag?”

  “Plus the Copenhagen SVR rezident.”

  “I’ll believe this when I see it,” Delchamps said.

  “Oh, ye of little faith!” Castillo said.

  “If you think they hate you at Langley now, Ace,” Delchamps said, “wait until they hear about this.”

  VI

  [ONE]

  General Aviation Apron West

  Schwechat Airport

  Vienna, Austria

  2145 28 December 2005

  “Work the radios, First Officer,” Colonel Jake Torine said.

  Castillo checked the commo panel, saw that the radio was set to the correct frequency, and pressed the TRANSMIT button on the yoke.

  “Vienna Delivery, Gulfstream 379,” Castillo announced.

  “Gulfstream 379,” the traffic controller replied in English, “this is Vienna Delivery. Go ahead.”

  “Gulfstream 379 at Block Alfa Six-Zero. We are a Gulfstream Three with ATIS information Bravo. Request clearance to Prestwick, Scotland, please.”

  “Gulfstream 379, Vienna Delivery. Your clearance is ready. Advise when ready to copy.”

  “Gulfstream 379 ready to copy.”

  “Roger, Gulfstream 379. You are cleared to Prestwick, Scotland, via the Lanux One Alpha Departure, then flight-planned route. Expect flight level three-four-zero ten minutes after departure. Squawk code 3476.”

  “Roger, Vienna Delivery. Understand we are cleared to Prestwick via the Lanux One Alfa Departure, flight-planned route, expect flight level three-four-zero, one-zero minutes after departure. Squawk three-four-seven-six.”

  The routing they had been given would take them briefly across the airspace of Czechoslovakia, Germany, and Belgium. Then, after crossing the English Channel, they would fly over the British Isles. Finally, they would be “handed off” to Scottish control for their final routing into Prestwick.

  “Gulfstream 379, read-back is correct. Advise when fully ready.”

  “Vienna Delivery, Gulfstream 379 fully ready.”

  “Gulfstream 379, contact Vienna Ground on one-two-one-decimal-six for engine start and taxi.”

  “Gulfstream 379. Roger. Good day.”

  Castillo punched in 121.6 on the radio control panel, then keyed the yoke’s TRANSMIT button.

  “Vienna Ground, Gulfstream 379 at Block Alfa Six-Zero. Request engine start.”

  “Roger, Gulfstream 379. Engine start-up approved. Advise when ready to taxi.”

  “Gulfstream 379. Roger.”

  Castillo looked at Torine, raised an eyebrow, and drew circles with his index finger.

  Torine shrugged, said, “Why not?” and reached for the Number One Engine start button.

  “Vienna Ground, Gulfstream 379 ready to taxi. Block Alfa Six-Zero with information Bravo.”

  “Gulfstream 379, Vienna Ground. Taxi to Runway One-One via Alfa One-Two. At runway holding point, contact tower on frequency one-one-nine-decimal-four when ready for departure.”

  “Roger. Gulfstream 379 taxi to Runway One-One via Alfa One-Two.”

  “Gulfstream 379, Vienna Ground. That is correct. Have a nice flight.”

  “Gulfstream 379. Roger. Good day.”

  Castillo reached to dial in the new radio frequency of 119.4 as Torine rolled the aircraft to the threshold of Runway 11.

  “Vienna Tower, Gulfstream 379 ready for takeoff Runway One-One at Alfa One-Two.”

  “Gulfstream 379, Vienna Tower. You are cleared for takeoff Runway One-One.”

  “Gulfstream 379 cleared for takeoff Runway One-One. Roger. Three-Seven-Nine rolling.”

  The Gulfstream began to move.

  “Take it, Charley,” Torine said. “You need the practice.”

  Castillo put his right hand on the yoke and his left on the throttle quadrant.

  “I have it,” he said.

  Torine held up both hands in the air to show that he had relinquished contr
ol.

  Billy Kocian had suggested, at just about the moment the same thought had occurred to Castillo, that Inspector Doherty and Two-Gun Yung would be more useful in Europe tracing the money trail than they would be in South America, so they had stayed in Vienna.

  The only problem Castillo had with that was that he worried Two-Gun might not be as capable as Two-Gun thought he was in setting up the AFC satellite communications device. Two-Gun assured Castillo that Corporal Lester Bradley had taught him everything he needed to know about the radio, which forced Castillo to consider again that, as Two-Gun was not the typical FBI agent whose primary expertise was in tracing dirty money, Lester had skills far beyond those expected of a Marine Corps corporal two years short of being legally able to purchase intoxicants in the country for which he served.

  For example: Having been tutored in the use and maintenance of the AFC satellite communications device by its inventor, Aloysius Francis Casey, Ph.D., MIT.

  Casey—once a Special Forces A-Team commo sergeant in Vietnam and now chairman of the board of the AFC Corporation—maintained his association with the Green Berets by providing Delta Force—free of charge—with the absolute latest developments in communication.

  The proof of that came thirty minutes after they had taken off. Two-Gun had called on the device to report, somewhat smugly, that he and the device had arrived in his room at the Bristol forty-one minutes before, and here he was already bouncing the deeply encrypted signal off a satellite twenty-seven thousand miles away.

  Once contact with Vienna was in place, Castillo used the device to call Sergeant Bob Kensington, the Delta Force communicator who had been left behind in Argentina to man the device in Nuestra Pequeña Casa—OOA’s safe house in the Mayerling Country Club in Pilar.

  He told Kensington to give Alex Darby, Alfredo Munz, and Tony Santini—and absolutely no one else—a heads-up that they were coming, his best guess of their ETA, and to lay on wheels at the Jorge Newbery airport to transport eight people, plus Max, to the safe house.

  He asked Kensington the whereabouts of the Sienos and was disappointed to learn that they were in Asunción, Paraguay. Susanna and Paul Sieno didn’t have an AFC radio. Castillo told Kensington to get word to them as quickly as he could that he wanted the husband and wife at the safe house as soon as possible—preferably both together, but the wife absolutely soonest.

  Susanna—a trim, pale, freckled-skin redhead—and Paul—with olive skin and dark hair—were CIA agents in their thirties. They had worked before for Castillo—for the OOA—but after the last operation Castillo had returned them to the CIA. Now he needed them back, especially Susanna.

  Naturally, Kensington had asked what the hell was going on.

  “I’ll tell you when I see you, Bob. Right now, the fewer people who know we’re coming the better.”

  Then Castillo made a final secure call on the AFC device, one to the safe house in Alexandria, Virginia. Corporal Lester Bradley answered the radio.

  Castillo asked him to tell Major Dick Miller where he was headed, but again not why, and when Lester said, “Yes, sir,” Castillo gave in to an impulse.

  “And tell him to get you on the next flight to Buenos Aires, Lester. Go directly from the airport to the safe house there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bradley replied with considerably more enthusiasm than he had with his previous use of the words.

  Castillo took off the headset and unstrapped himself. He looked at Jake Torine, who was in the pilot’s seat.

  “And was the cherub happy?” Torine asked.

  Castillo gave him the finger. He pushed himself out of the co-pilot seat and went into the cabin. Sparkman then got out of his seat and went into the cockpit.

  Castillo looked around the cabin.

  Lora Berezovsky was sleeping on the left couch, daughter Sof’ya on the right. Both puppies were cuddled asleep with the girl. Max had begun the flight on the corridor floor next to them, but then apparently had—without disturbing either the girl or the pups—moved onto the foot of the couch, where he was curled up and asleep.

  Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky was dozing in the forward-facing seat in the rear of the cabin. Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva was in the rear-facing seat by the forward bulkhead, with Edgar Delchamps in the seat facing opposite to hers. Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva was reading People magazine, shaking her head in disbelief from time to time.

  As Castillo moved into the seat Sparkman had been using—the forward-facing seat across the aisle from her—this caused him to wonder, Where the hell did that magazine come from? I hope she doesn’t think it’s mine.

  Jack Davidson walked up the aisle from the galley and went into the cockpit. He liked to watch the pilots—their piloting. Jack had a lot of time in the co-pilot seats of various aircraft that Castillo had flown, and he was actively working on somehow getting into flight school and staying in Special Operations at the same time. Everybody said that was just about impossible, but everybody didn’t know Davidson as well as Castillo did.

  Thirty-five minutes later, the public-address system speaker beeped three times, signaling that something was to be fed to the passengers.

  “Rhine Control, Gulfstream 379,” Torine’s voice came over the speaker.

  “Gulfstream 379, Rhine Control. Go ahead.”

  “Gulfstream 379. We need to amend our flight plan with a destination change. Our new destination is Dakar, Senegal, Identifier Golf-Oscar-Oscar-Yankee. Request present position direct Geneva. Over.”

  “Ahhh, roger, Gulfstream 379. I can clear you with routing direct Geneva, but I do not have the authority to clear you beyond Rhine airspace. You must coordinate further routing with Euro-control for clearance beyond Geneva. I suggest you contact Euro-control on frequency one-three-two-decimal-eight-five-zero for further clearance. Once I have received further clearance, I will contact you on this frequency. For now you are cleared present position direct Geneva. Maintain flight level three-four-zero.”

  The tone of the controller’s voice suggested he had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with such a significant change to a cleared routing.

  Torine didn’t mind. What he wanted to do was at least get the Gulfstream pointed in the right direction—toward Senegal. He knew that Geneva was on the edge of Rhine Control’s airspace boundary and probably would not be cleared beyond that. Also, he knew that making such a major change in their flight plan would take some time to coordinate with air traffic control. While en route to Geneva he would have Sparkman coordinate a new routing that would take them, after Geneva, over Toulouse, France; Malaga, Spain; Casablanca, Morocco; Tenerife, in the Canary Islands; then down the Atlantic Ocean just off the west coast of Africa; and finally into Dakar, Senegal.

  “Roger, Rhine,” Torine replied cheerfully. “Gulfstream 379 cleared direct Geneva. Maintain flight level three-four-zero. We will coordinate our request with Euro-control and will remain on this frequency. Thank you ever so much.”

  Castillo looked back into the cabin. Berezovsky’s eyes were wide open.

  What the hell, I’m a very light sleeper myself when my ass is in a crack.

  Berezovsky was still awake and alert when the loudspeakers beeped three times again.

  “Gulfstream 379, Rhine Control. I have your revised clearance. Advise when ready to copy.”

  “Gulfstream 379 ready to copy.”

  “Gulfstream 379, you are now cleared to Golf-Oscar-Oscar-Yankee. After Geneva direct Toulouse, direct Malaga.”

  This time, when Castillo glanced down the aisle to see if Berezovsky was showing any reaction to hearing the air traffic control conversation, the Russian was coming down the aisle. He reached Castillo and squatted beside him.

  “I presume this aircraft has GPS capability?”

  He has to ask?

  Are the Russians really that backward?

  Hell, he’s my age; GPS has been around our generation practically forever.

  Castillo nodded.

  “May I see it?�
��

  Castillo considered yelling for Davidson to open the cockpit door, then looked around the aircraft. Most everyone, including the women and child, were sleeping. He reached behind him and picked up the aircraft intercom phone.

  “Jack!”

  Davidson appeared in the cockpit door a moment later. He held a phone handset to his ear.

  “Show the colonel where we are on the GPS,” Castillo ordered into the phone.

  Davidson waved Berezovsky into the cockpit.

  The Russian went up the aisle and into the cockpit.

  A minute or so later, Berezovsky reappeared and approached Castillo.

  “Tom, you’re just going to have to learn to trust me, ol’ buddy.”

  Berezovsky didn’t reply. He simply walked back to his seat.

  Castillo sensed Svetlana’s eyes on him.

  Guess she wasn’t exactly sound asleep.

  “We have a training tape, a simulator, that shows that we’re approaching Sheremetyevo,” Castillo said to her, referring to the Moscow airport. “I should have had that running.”

  Svetlana shook her head. But he thought he noticed a smile.

  “You’re going to have to remember that he’s a senior SVR colonel,” she said.

  “Was a senior colonel. Now he’s what’s called a defector.”

  “And that makes me?” she asked.

  “Former Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva, a much prettier defector,” he said. “Who should also learn to trust me.”

  “Trust has to be earned, Colonel.” She held up the People magazine. “You read this all the time?”

  “From cover to cover,” he said.

  She smiled.

  “Are you about to tell me the real reason—that I won’t believe—why you’re defecting?” Castillo asked.

  “I told you that I’d tell you why we are—why we have—defected when the time was right. That’s not yet.”

  “You promised to tell the details of the family you have in Argentina.”

  “I told you that I would tell you that at the fuel stop. We’re not at the fuel stop, are we?”