Black Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  Sandra almost sadly nodded her understanding.

  “Oops,” Castillo said. “Code names. I don’t want anybody using their real names or the phrase ‘the Russians’ or anything like that. So, from this moment, when you’re talking about them, Berezovsky is Big Bad Wolf. His wife is Mrs. Wolf. Sof’ya is the Cub. Colonel Alekseeva is Little Red Under Britches.”

  Sandra’s eyebrow rose at that, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Dealing with Little Red Under Britches is going to be a problem until Susanna Sieno can get here from Asunción, probably before noon tomorrow. Until then, we’re fucked.” He heard what he had said. “Sorry, Sandra. It’s been a long couple of days, and I’m a little . . .”

  “ ‘Fucked up’?” Sandra replied. “I’ve heard the word, Charley. Not only am I a semanticist, for many long and painful years I have been married to a Philadelphia cop. They tend to use the ‘For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge’ acronym at least once every sixty seconds.”

  He smiled at her. “Is that what it means?”

  “According to Sherlock Holmes, that’s what the London bobbies wrote on their blotter when they locked up a hooker for practicing her profession.”

  Castillo glanced at Jack Britton, then said, “According to your Sherlock Holmes, you mean?”

  “I think the other one’s dead,” Sandra replied, straight-faced, and then went on: “Charley, I don’t want to put my nose in where it doesn’t belong, but this schoolteacher volunteers for anything you think I can do.”

  Jack Britton said: “Little Red Riding Hood—”

  “ ‘Under Britches,’” Castillo automatically corrected him. “Little Red Under Britches.”

  “I’d love to know the etymological root of that,” Sandra Britton said.

  “—doesn’t know that Sandra’s a professor,” Jack Britton finished.

  Sandra added: “And while I don’t think I could render the lady colonel hors de combat with a karate chop, I am famous for my icy stare’s ability to silence a roomful of obstreperous students.”

  “Jack, did the State Department issue you a diplomatic passport?”

  “The embassy gave us both one the minute we walked in the door. I don’t even know what it’s good for.”

  “It identifies you as a diplomat,” Castillo explained. “Which means you can’t be searched and then arrested for carrying a concealed weapon.”

  “Really?” Sandra said. “When do I get my gun?”

  “Do you know how to use one?”

  “Sherlock here took me shooting on our honeymoon.”

  “You sure you want to get involved?”

  “You said there may be a connection between all the things that have happened. And in the course of one of those things, my new car and house got shot up. Hell yes I want to get involved.”

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Britton,” Castillo said formally. “You are now a member of the Office of Organizational Analysis. Just as soon as we have a moment, I’ll get you on the horn with Agnes Forbison and we’ll get you on the payroll.”

  “You’re serious,” Jack Britton, surprised, declared out loud.

  “In the words of your bride, ‘Hell yes.’ ”

  Castillo had just decided that Sandra Britton being here was a fortunate happenstance.

  He had also just realized that neither Darby nor Santini had opened their mouths, not even to ask questions.

  That could be because my briefing was brilliant, covering absolutely everything that needed to be said.

  No questions necessary.

  More likely, however, it’s because they don’t like what they heard and are deciding how and when they can tactfully suggest to the boss that he’s about to fuck up by the numbers.

  When Castillo walked over to the quincho with the Brittons, Alex Darby, and Tony Santini, sitting on its verandah were Alfredo Munz, Edgar Delchamps, and Jack Davidson. Munz was holding a bottle of Coca-Cola; Delchamps and Davidson, liter bottles of Quilmes beer.

  “Kensington?” Castillo asked.

  “With our guests,” Delchamps said, jerking his thumb toward the interior of the quincho.

  “Everybody up to speed?” Castillo asked.

  “Ace, is this where you ask, ‘Any questions or comments?’ ” Delchamps said.

  Castillo shrugged. “Okay. Any questions or comments?”

  “Charley,” Darby said, “you’re aware that there is a U.S. government agency that’s charged not only with trying to get the bad guys—and girls, come to think of it—to change sides but has all the facilities in place to deal effectively with them. Yes? They call it the CIA.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “With that in mind,” Darby went on, “now that you’ve gotten Berezovsky and family safely out of Europe—where, I suspect, they were about to be grabbed by the Sluzhba Vnezhney Razvedki and/or the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, which, I also presume you know is charged with keeping defectors from defecting—”

  “Why don’t I just get on the horn,” Castillo interrupted reasonably, “and call Langley and have them send a plane down here to take our guests off our hands?”

  “Yeah,” Darby said. “Why don’t you?”

  “I’m glad you brought that up, Alex. It reminds me of something else I’ve forgotten to do. Alex, if you happen to have a friendly conversation with your pal Miss Eleanor Dillworth in Vienna, you have no idea where I am, and you never heard of Berezovsky and company.”

  “What?” Darby said.

  “I didn’t get into that,” Delchamps said.

  “Into what?” Darby asked.

  “Miss Dillworth is not a big fan of our leader,” Delchamps offered.

  “Your leader. I work for Langley.”

  “No, Alex,” Castillo said, “you don’t. Ambassador Montvale has informed the DCI that—at the direction of the President—the CIA is to furnish the OOA—me—with whatever assets I think I need. You are such an asset. I don’t mean to get starchy, but it’s necessary. You will not tell the CIA or anyone else that you have been requisitioned. That’s an order, Top Secret Presidential, as was what I said before about the woman in Vienna. Clear, Alex?”

  Darby’s face whitened.

  “He does have the authority, Alex,” Delchamps said. “You’d better say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”

  “Jesus Christ!” Darby blurted.

  “That’s close enough,” Castillo said.

  “Are you now going to tell us what’s going on, Ace?”

  “Two things,” Castillo said. “One is that I’m following my original orders, which remain in force until the man who issued them—and no one else—changes them. Those orders are to ‘find and render harmless’ whoever is responsible for the murder of Jack The Stack Masterson. I think that may be a General Sirinov; Berezovsky mentioned his name. He said Sirinov ordered the elimination of the Kuhls, Friedler, and Billy, Otto, and me. I think he probably had something to do with what happened to Jack and Sandra and to Liam Duffy.

  “Second, Berezovsky said—for the two million bucks I promised him—that he would give me the details about a chemical factory in Congo-Kinshasa making some kind of weapon of mass destruction. I thought he was telling the truth, and so did Davidson.”

  Davidson nodded.

  “So,” Castillo finished, “I’m going to deal with these people myself until I am convinced that they are fucking with me or that I can’t—we can’t—handle them ourselves.”

  “Ace, you realize you just bit off a hunk that’s going to be hard to chew, never mind swallow?”

  Castillo took a long, thoughtful look at Delchamps, then said, “Meaning you think I’m wrong? On some kind of ego trip?”

  “Meaning, Ace, I think you’re doing the right thing—I can think of fifty ways that Langley could, would, fuck this up—and that means what I said, I just hope you realized what size chaw you just bit off.”

  Castillo nodded.

  “Any other questions or comments?” he asked.

  When there wer
e none, he gestured toward the sliding door of the quincho. “Let’s see to our guests.”

  Bob Kensington, in a chair against one wall of the quincho, was still in his bathing trunks. He had the Uzi on his lap, the weapon’s sling, with a two-magazine pouch hanging from it, slung around his neck.

  Sof’ya was sitting on the floor with the pups and Max. The puppies were trying to climb high enough on Max, who was sitting beside the girl, to gnaw on his ears. He didn’t seem to mind.

  The adult Russians were sitting in a row on wicker chairs. Berezovsky had removed his jacket, revealing a sweat-soaked shirt and what Castillo decided was a really cheap pair of suspenders. His wife and Svetlana had removed their jackets. Their blouses were the opposite of crisp and fresh.

  “Did you all get something to drink?” Castillo asked.

  Berezovsky and his wife nodded.

  Sof’ya said, “Thank you.”

  Svetlana didn’t respond at all.

  “The first thing we’re going to do is get you some summer clothing,” Castillo said. “And the way we’re going to do that is that Mrs. Berezovsky will go with Agent Britton”—he pointed to Sandra, not Jack, surprising more than a few—“to the local shopping center. Make sure you know the sizes of everyone, Mrs. Berezovsky.

  “While they are gone, I will show the others your accommodations, and you can move your luggage into them. Mr. Darby and Mr. Delchamps will have to take a look through the luggage—”

  “Is that necessary?” Svetlana interrupted.

  Does that mean you have something you don’t want me to find?

  Or that you have nothing I might consider contraband, and are going to be amused at our fruitless search?

  “Obviously, Colonel, I have decided that it is,” Castillo said. “And right now I would like your purses, wallets, money, passports, and all identification. Put them on the Ping-Pong table, please, now. The purses will be returned after Agent Davidson has had a chance to examine them.”

  “Less the contents, of course?” Svetlana asked sarcastically.

  “Colonel, why don’t we try to start our relationship as amicably as possible? We are going to be spending a good deal of time together, and I don’t see much point in making it any more unpleasant than necessary.”

  Colonel Alekseeva responded to the proffered olive branch by standing, then walking over to the Ping-Pong table and dumping the contents of her purse on it.

  “Okay?” She held up the purse—he thought it looked like something that could be used to hold horse feed—so that he could see it was empty.

  “Fine. But leave the purse, will you, please?”

  She glowered at him.

  What’s this, a new tactic?

  Now she’s going to be a martyr, and I’m going to have to be nice to her, so she’ll look deeply into my eyes again?

  “One never knows, does one, Colonel, what might be hidden in the lining of a purse? For all I know you might have another .32 in there.”

  She tried to stare him down and failed.

  “Are you about ready to go shopping, Mrs. Berezovsky?” Castillo said.

  “May I take my daughter with me?”

  “You may. But don’t you think she’d rather play with the dogs?”

  She looked at her daughter and then smiled.

  “Yes, I do,” she said.

  “Just get enough clothing for three days,” Castillo said. “Plus a bathing suit or two.”

  “Bathing suits?” Svetlana asked incredulously.

  “This is a five-star prison, Colonel. With a swimming pool. I also think you will like the food, which will be ready by the time Mrs. Berezovsky and Agent Britton have returned.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Your choice, Colonel,” Castillo said. “Use the pool or don’t use it. For that matter, wear a bathing suit or don’t wear one. That’s up to you.”

  “There are three bedrooms—actually suites—on the second floor, Tom,” Castillo said to Berezovsky, then pointed at a closed door. “The center one here is mine; it has an office in which I will conduct my part of the interrogations. The other two suites don’t have the office. Arrange yourselves in them any way you want.

  “At night, the doors will be locked and there will be someone in the corridor to make sure we have no ‘sleepwalkers.’ And there will be someone in the drive to make sure no one opens—or goes through—the windows. That should prove no problem, as only a fool sleeps with an open window in an Argentine summer.

  “The point I’m trying to make, Colonel,” Castillo went on, making it clear that he was talking to Berezovsky, not to Svetlana, “is that I will make every reasonable effort to make our relationship as business-like as possible, as comfortable as possible, so long as you’re here.”

  “And how long will that be?” Svetlana asked.

  Castillo ignored her.

  “Every reasonable effort for comfort is dependent, of course, on good behavior. The alternatives range from moving you onto cots in the garage, which is not air-conditioned, to leaving one or both of you trussed up like Christmas turkeys on the driveway of the Russian embassy on Rodríguez Pena.”

  “I asked, ‘How long are we going to be here?’ ” Svetlana said.

  Castillo turned to her after a moment. “Until you earn back the cost of what it cost me to get you here, plus of course the two million dollars we’ve talked about.”

  “And how long do you think that will take?” she pursued.

  “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to leave you with Mr. Darby and Mr. Delchamps. While they are having a look at your luggage, Mr. Davidson, Max, and I are going to take a dip until supper.”

  On his way to the quincho five minutes later, Castillo—now wearing bathing trunks—was intercepted by the housekeeper. She was holding up a bathing suit.

  “For the poor little chica, if that’s all right. It belongs to Juanita. I already gave one to the other lady.”

  Castillo presumed that “Juanita” was either a diminutive maid or one of the housekeeper’s children. Or grandchildren.

  “That’s very kind,” Castillo said. “How about going out there with me and helping her get into it?”

  When Castillo, trailed by the maid, walked into the quincho, Bob Kensington was standing by the AFC communications device and a stand-alone all-in-one device that could print, scan, and send and receive facsimile transmissions. Kensington was feeding the machine from the stack of passports, identification cards, driver’s licenses, and the like that they had taken from the Russians.

  Kensington stated the obvious. “This goddamn thing is the slow-link—takes forever to scan this stuff.”

  “Miller can’t run that stuff through NSA at Fort Meade until he has it. Nose to the grindstone, Sergeant Kensington!”

  “Yes, sir,” Kensington said, then loudly shouted, “Hoooo-rah!”

  Castillo laughed. The shouting of “Hoooo-rah!” to indicate their enthusiasm to carry out a difficult task was getting to be almost a hallmark of U.S. Army Rangers, and even some lesser ordinary soldiers.

  Most Special Forces people—and almost everybody in Delta Force—thought doing so was ludicrous.

  Castillo said: “Your oh-so-commendable enthusiasm, Sergeant, has earned you a promotion. You are now the detachment’s classified documents officer.”

  “I guess I should have seen that coming. Where’s the Pride of the Marine Corps when I need him?”

  “Lester will be here tomorrow morning. But you will not delegate that responsibility to him. A lot of that stuff’s likely to be very important later on, not just now. I don’t want any of it lost.”

  Kensington nodded his understanding. He scanned two pages of Svetlana’s passport, then using a flash memory thumb-sized chip, put the chip into a slot and transferred the file to the AFC device. It beeped. Before he could open the scanner to rearrange the passport and repeat the process, the AFC beeped again—and a sultry female voice announced, “All done, baby. Slip it to me
again! I never get enough!”

  Castillo raised an eyebrow. “I presume that means the file has been received and verified, and the AFC is ready to accept another file?”

  “That’s about it, sir,” Kensington said, a little—but only a little—embarrassed.

  “Where’d you get the voice?”

  “I played around with the voice-recognition circuits.” Kensington now smiled. “I can make anybody say almost anything.”

  Castillo turned to see what, if anything, Sof’ya thought of the sultry female voice. He saw that she was shyly and politely trying to tell the maid, in English, that she would please like to wait until Mama came back before accepting the bathing suit.

  The maid spoke very little English.

  Castillo wondered what the child had been told about what was happening, and what rules Mama had told her that now governed her behavior.

  He came to her rescue.

  “Sof’ya, you can wait for your mother, but why don’t you come out and watch Max and the pups?”

  “He goes in the pool?” she asked.

  “Watch.”

  Castillo retrieved a soccer ball from the top of a refrigerator. It was the only place where the ball could be kept out of the dog’s reach.

  Max jumped to his feet, having instantly decided that playing with the ball would be more fun than having his offspring gnaw on his ears.

  Castillo went to the quincho door and drop-kicked the ball into the pool. Max raced after it, not even pausing before jumping into the water. He swam to the ball and took it in his mouth.

  Then Max saw that the pups had not only followed him to the pool but jumped in it after him.

  Sof’ya screamed. “They’ll drown!”

  Castillo didn’t think so, but Max was suddenly overcome by paternal emotions. He dropped the soccer ball, swam to one of the pups, and picked it up gently in his mouth.

  The pup howled.

  Sof’ya screamed again as she ran to the side of the pool.

  Max looked confused. There were two pups, but he could get only one in his mouth at a time. He began to paddle in a circle. The pup that had not been rescued paddled desperately after him.