Black Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  Father Frost took a small package from the stack and gave it to Pevsner, who unwrapped it, opened a small box, and took from it a wristwatch, which he then held up for everybody to see. There was a murmur of approval from “the people.”

  Next, Father Frost gave Anna a package, and a moment later, she held up a string of pearls for everyone to see. Next came Svetlana, who also got a string of pearls.

  Castillo had just decided that the kids had gotten their presents earlier. He looked at Elena and saw there was a string of pearls around her neck he hadn’t noticed before.

  Now what?

  Father Frost handed him a small box.

  Jesus Christ, a Rolex.

  “Hold it up, hold it up!” Svetlana hissed.

  He held it up.

  Corporal Bradley got a small package and moments later held up his Rolex for the approval of the people.

  Colonel Alfredo Munz got his Rolex.

  Well, Pevsner probably gets a discount if he buys them by the dozen.

  What did he say? “I took five percent of a lot more than a billion dollars’ worth of gold, Charley. And about twice that much of platinum.”

  And finally, János got his Rolex, and then began reading from a list of names.

  An old man left the group, approached the throne, literally tugged at his hair in front of Pevsner. Pevsner nodded. Father Frost handed the old man a package. He opened it. It contained a small, flat-screen television. The people murmured their approval.

  János called out another name, and a young woman approached the throne, and tugged at her hair, then took her package from Father Frost.

  It was more than an hour before the last of the people filed out of the throne room carrying their New Year’s presents.

  Tsar Aleksandr rose from his throne.

  “This will displease Anna,” he said. “But despite the hour, I am going to have a drink. That always wears me out. But the people expect it of me. You’ll join me, of course?”

  This is where I am supposed to say, “Alek, neither Lester nor I can accept a gift like those Rolexes.”

  Castillo saw that Lester was examining the new watch on his wrist.

  What the hell. He saved Pevsner’s life.

  “Just one,” Castillo said. “And then I’m going to take a nap. I have to fly in the morning.”

  “Happy New Year, Charley!” Pevsner said, touching his glass of vodka from an ice-encrusted bottle to Castillo’s glass.

  “Happy New Year,” Castillo said. “Alek, those people. They were Russian, right? Or at least most of them?”

  Pevsner nodded.

  “Where did they come from?”

  “Russia,” Pevsner said, obviously delighted with himself. When he saw the look on Castillo’s face, he said, “I learned that from you. If I do that to Anna, she usually throws something at me.”

  “How’d they get here?”

  “They’re Jews, most of them. They have worked for people in the Oprichina for many years. When the Communists decided to let some of the Jews leave to go to Israel, we first warned them they probably wouldn’t like it, and then we arranged for them to go first.

  “They didn’t like it. The culture shock, the climate—what is it you Americans say? ‘One more goddamned sunny day in L.A.’?; Tel Aviv is worse—what they saw of the future, the suicide bombers. They wanted to leave, but they didn’t want to go back to Russia. So I arranged for them to come here. One day the children will join all the Russian Jews in Argentina. There are forty thousand Jewish gauchos here, originally from Eastern Europe. Did you know that?”

  Castillo nodded. “I’d heard that.”

  “For now the parents work for me.”

  “Alek, I don’t know what to say about that Rolex.”

  “How about ‘thank you’?”

  “You have learned, haven’t you?”

  “The people, the Jews, would say, ‘Wear it in good health.’”

  “Thank you.”

  [SIX]

  Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Newbery

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  1240 2 January 2006

  As Castillo taxied the Aero Commander to the private aircraft tarmac, he saw that there were two Gulfstreams parked side by side.

  One was his. The other bore USAF markings and was painted in the paint scheme of the Presidential Flight Detachment.

  “Oh, shit,” he said.

  He parked the Aero Commander by the USAF Gulfstream.

  “I see Davidson,” Munz said. “And there are several of Pevsner’s people, too. And several of Duffy’s.”

  “And I see that Gulfstream. Alfredo, can you take Svetlana to that second safe house you mentioned? Golf and Polo, Polo and Golf, whatever?”

  “I am going with you,” Svetlana announced.

  “You’ll do what I say. Fun-and-games time is over. Got it?”

  She nodded.

  “What I’m going to do is get out and have a word with the pilot,” Castillo said. “You stay—everybody but Max—in the airplane. If I walk toward Davidson, stay in the plane until we’re gone, then take Svetlana and Lester to the Polo whatever. Got it?”

  “What is it, Charley?”

  “I suspect it’s very bad news. The only thing that could make it worse is if they see me with Svetlana.”

  “You don’t think that’s Montvale?”

  “I think it’s either him or his flunky,” Castillo said. “We’ll soon find out. Open the door, please.”

  Svetlana didn’t kiss him as he walked, bent nearly double, past her seat. But she stopped him, laid her hand on his cheek, and looked for a long moment into his eyes.

  That was at least as intimate as a kiss.

  There were two Air Force types in flying suits standing near the nose of the Gulfstream. One drew the attention of the other to Max performing his ritual at the nose gear, and then to the man in khaki trousers and a polo shirt walking toward them.

  The taller of them, Castillo saw, was a light colonel wearing command pilot wings, the other a captain wearing ordinary wings.

  “You speak English, sir?” the lieutenant colonel asked.

  “I try,” Castillo said.

  “Nice dog,” the lieutenant colonel said.

  “Thank you.”

  Max trotted over, sat down, and offered his paw.

  The lieutenant colonel squatted and scratched Max’s ears.

  “Nice airplane,” Castillo said. “Presidential Flight Detachment, right?”

  The lieutenant colonel looked up at him, then stood up, but did not reply.

  “I’m the SVR rezident in Buenos Aires, Colonel. We like to keep up on what our American friends are doing.”

  He then handed the lieutenant colonel the identification card of Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, Special Forces, U.S. Army.

  The lieutenant colonel, recognizing the card immediately, smiled, then did a double take and examined it carefully.

  “I was about to tell you, Colonel,” he said, “as tactfully as I could, that I just can’t talk about the mission of this aircraft. But since you are the mission . . .”

  “Excuse me?”

  “. . . I will tell you, out of school, that you’re probably in the deep shit.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Ambassador Montvale just blew his top at the ambassador. You didn’t miss them by five minutes. Ambassador Montvale said, and this is almost verbatim, ‘I just flew five thousand goddamned miles down here to see Lieutenant Colonel Goddamn Charley Castillo, and you’re telling me you not only don’t know where the sonofabitch is, but that you didn’t even know the crazy bastard is in Argentina?’ ”

  He turned to the captain and asked, “Is that about what the ambassador said, Sam?”

  “Almost verbatim, sir,” the captain said. “I somehow got the idea, sir, that Ambassador Montvale doesn’t like Colonel Castillo very much.”

  “I always knew that Ambassador Montvale doesn’t like anybody very much, but I don’t ever
remember him being as pissed as he was just a couple of minutes ago,” the lieutenant colonel said. “What the hell did you do, Colonel?”

  “I guess I have been a very bad boy,” Castillo said. “And we never had this conversation, Colonel.”

  Fully aware that rendering the hand salute while not in uniform is proscribed by Army regulations, Castillo saluted.

  The lieutenant colonel and the captain returned the salute.

  Castillo turned to the Aero Commander, intending to wave.

  He changed his mind and blew a kiss.

  Then he said, “Come on, Max,” and walked to where Jack Davidson was waiting for him.

  “You just missed Ambassador Montvale,” Davidson said as they shook hands.

  “Did he see you?” Castillo asked.

  “No. The gendarmería had a heads-up that an Air Force Gulfstream was coming in, so I erred on the side of caution and waited in Darby’s car.” He pointed to a BMW with darkened windows and Argentine license plates. “The Mercedes SUV next to it used to be Duffy’s. Unless you look close, you can’t see where all the bullet holes were.”

  “You’re sure Montvale didn’t see you?”

  Davidson nodded. “Moot point, though. He doesn’t know who I am, much less what I look like.”

  “Never underestimate Montvale. Was he alone?”

  “Three guys with him. Two of them probably his Secret Service . . .”

  “Who just might have recognized you.”

  “If they had seen me, which they didn’t, since I had erred on the side of caution, Colonel, sir.”

  “Sorry, Jack. I’m tired. And the third guy?”

  “Six-two, maybe six-three, one eighty, forty-odd, GI haircut, Sears, Roebuck suit. I’d guess he was military. Probably Army.”

  “Why?”

  “Officers of our brother services in civvies tend to look like civilians. Our officers in civvies tend to look like Army officers in civvies.”

  Castillo chuckled.

  “I wonder who he is,” Castillo said rhetorically. “What happened?”

  “Right after I erred on the side of caution and got in the BMW, Ambassador Silvio showed up. With an embassy Suburban. And no, Colonel, sir, he didn’t see me, as I had erred on the side of caution. . . .”

  “Okay, Jack,” Castillo said.

  “But I think it’s possible he recognized Darby’s car, as he is a clever guy. He did not come over to say ‘Howdy.’ Then the Gulfstream landed and Montvale and the others got out and had a conversation in which Montvale got red-faced and waved his arms around. I think maybe they were talking about you.”

  “And then?”

  “They loaded into the Suburban and drove off.”

  “You have any idea where they went?”

  “Yes, sir, Colonel, sir, I do. In the BMW to which I retired, erring as I said—”

  “Enough, goddamn it, Jack,” Castillo said.

  “There is an embassy radio, to which I listened, and am thus able to tell you they reported they were going to the embassy.”

  “Not to the safe house?”

  “I’m guessing, Charley, I can’t read lips, but I think maybe one of the reasons Montvale was so pissed was that he asked the ambassador about the safe house and the ambassador said, ‘What safe house?’”

  Castillo turned and looked at the Aero Commander.

  Everybody had gotten out of it.

  And why didn’t I think that at one o’clock in the afternoon of a sunny summer day in Argentina, the sun quickly turns the interior of an Aero Commander into an oven?

  He signaled to Alfredo Munz to come over. Munz alone.

  And why am I not surprised that everybody’s coming over?

  When Pevsner’s men saw Munz, Svetlana, and Bradley walking to Castillo and Davidson, they got out of their cars and walked to them. When the gendarmería officers saw Pevsner’s men walking to Castillo and Davidson, they got out of their cars and walked to them.

  Davidson read Castillo’s mind.

  “Well, maybe they’ll think Little Red Under Britches is a movie star and we are her groupies.”

  “The Air Force Gulfstream brought Ambassador Montvale here,” Castillo announced when the little group had gathered around him. “They went to the embassy, which is where Jack and I are going. Alfredo is going to take Svetlana to Pilar. Lester, you take the AFC and go with them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Castillo turned to the gendarmería officer.

  “What are your orders?”

  “To place ourselves at your orders, mi coronel.”

  “You have two cars?”

  “Si, mi coronel. The Mercedes and the Ford.”

  “Send one of the cars with me, and the other with El Coronel Munz. Follow him and these gentlemen, but go no farther than the gate of the country club; we don’t want to attract any more attention than we have to.”

  “Si, mi coronel.”

  He turned to the people Munz had called “Pevsner’s people” and took a chance and spoke Russian.

  “The Panamericana is so busy this time of day that following someone is very difficult.”

  One of “Pevsner’s people” nodded his head in understanding. He was to lose the gendarmería car if possible.

  Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva, presumably reasoning that if it was safe for Lieutenant Colonel Castillo to speak Russian it would be safe for her, too, had a question of her own, which she expressed in Russian:

  “When will you join me, Charley, my darling?”

  Castillo saw the look on Jack Davidson’s face.

  Well, fuck it. The cow’s out of the barn. I’d have to have told him anyway.

  “Just as soon as I can, my love,” he said in Russian, then met Davidson’s eyes. “Are you all right to drive, Jack? You look like you’re in shock.”

  X

  [ONE]

  The Embassy of the United States of America

  Avenida Colombia 4300

  Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina

  1325 2 January 2006

  It was a fifteen-minute drive from Aeropuerto Jorge Newbery, on the west bank of the River Plate, to the American embassy, and their route through heavy noontime traffic took them past six traffic lights, all of which were red when they reached them, and all of which seemed to be timed on a five-minute sequence.

  Jack Davidson didn’t say a word during the entire trip, even when waiting for the lights to change. But his face showed that he was thinking of what he needed to say—and how to say it.

  Castillo spent the trip dreading this inevitable dropping of Davidson’s shoe.

  Not shoe, Charley thought.

  Boot—damned lead-soled, thirty-pound diver’s boot.

  Castillo, of course, had all that time to think, too. He had known Davidson just about as long as Castillo had been in the Army. Technical Sergeant Davidson had been covering Colonel Bruce J. McNab’s back—with a twelve-gauge sawed-off Remington Model 870 shotgun—when Second Lieutenant Castillo had reported to McNab for duty in the First Desert War.

  And then Sergeant Major Davidson had manned the Gatling gun in the Black Hawk helicopter that Major Castillo had “borrowed” in Afghanistan to go see if he could get back Major Dick Miller and the crew of his shot-down Black Hawk before the bad guys overran their position, a task that had been solemnly considered by some very senior officers and pronounced absolutely impossible.

  Between their first meeting and this latest trip around the block, Charley and Jack had gone around many blocks together.

  Castillo also thought about when Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab had released Davidson from his duties at Camp Mackall to join Castillo at the Office of Organizational Analysis. McNab had called Castillo to tell him: “Just in case you might be thinking I have mellowed in old age, Colonel, and was being a nice guy, know that the sole reason I’m loaning you Sergeant Major Davidson is because he’s the only guy I know who can pour cold water on you when you’re about to fuck up big-time. So, Col
onel, one more time I’m telling you something that you should have learned as a second lieutenant: ‘When Jack Davidson tells you not to do something, for God’s sake take his counsel and don’t do it!’ ”

  Castillo knew that that counsel also worked in other ways.

  In Afghanistan, when Castillo had told Davidson that he was going to “borrow” the Black Hawk and go after Miller despite just having been ordered not to—“Frankly, Major,” the brigadier general had barked, “I’m starting to question your mental health for even suggesting you try something so suicidal. What part of ‘Absolutely no!’ don’t you understand?”—all Davidson had said was, “You sure you want to do this, Charley?”

  And then Davidson had gone to get them flak vests to wear over their Afghan robes and to make sure he had enough ammo for the door-mounted Gatling gun.

  Castillo now thought:

  Viewed objectively, as an indication of poor judgment and mental instability, “borrowing” a Black Hawk to fly through a snowstorm to go after Dick and his crew pales when compared to considering oneself in love with a lieutenant colonel of the SVR and deciding that she is telling me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  I knew I was safe to fly that day. I wouldn’t have taken Jack along if I didn’t really believe I could do it.

  And the cold truth here is that whenever I look into Svet’s eyes—or in other more intimate situations—and hear the celestial chorus singing “I Love You Truly”—the small, still voice of reason keeps popping up and whispering, “This is wrong, you dumb fuck, and you know it. That violin music you hear is her playing you.”

  Davidson pulled the BMW nose-in to the curb in front of the embassy. The gendarmería’s Mercedes-Benz SUV pulled in beside them.

  Davidson put both hands on the top of the steering wheel and turned to Castillo. Their eyes met.

  Here comes Jack’s lead boot. . . .

  After a moment, Davidson said, “Please tell me, Charley, that you are (a) fucking Little Miss Red Underpants as an interrogative technique to gain the confidence of the interrogatee, or at least (b) you had a couple of belts and things got temporarily out of control.”