“Flight time in his Gulfstream, plus however long it takes for him to go by the bank to pick up the check and get to the airport.”
“Please have him call me when he’s an hour out of Reagan National.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The green LEDs on the CaseyBerrys faded after the secretary of State broke the connection.
“May I ask, Colonel, how you plan to use the SEALs?” Annapolis asked.
“Of course you may,” Castillo replied. “I fully understand why a former naval person such as yourself would be curious.”
This was followed by sixty seconds of silence, following which Annapolis asked, “Well, are you going to tell me?”
“Frankly, I’m still considering my options,” Castillo admitted.
“In other words, you don’t know.”
“Don’t be cruel, Admiral. You know that in time I’ll think of something.”
“The Czarina of the Gulf,” the Widow Alekseeva said.
“Isn’t it amazing how great minds march down similar paths?” Castillo asked. “I was just thinking of her.”
“Our marriage will be much happier, my darling,” the Widow Alekseeva said, “if you remember I always know when you’re lying to me.”
“Female intuition?”
“Actually, I think it’s more a course I took—Advanced Interrogation Techniques 204/2—at the SVR Staff College.”
“Who the hell is the Czarina of the Gulf?” Annapolis inquired.
“Not a ‘who,’ Admiral. A ‘she.’ The Czarina of the Gulf is the flagship of the Imperial Cruise Lines, Incorporated.”
“My darling,” the Widow Alekseeva interrupted, “get it right. That’s the Imperial Cruise Lines and Floating Casinos, Incorporated.”
“And a great operation that is,” Hotelier said admiringly. “They pack more people per square foot onto their vessels than any other cruise ship line and their food cost per passenger is the lowest in the industry. And from what I hear, their take from their casinos is just as good as mine, maybe a little better.”
“My cousin Aleksandr tells me the way he does that is to give his passengers all the free vodka they can drink,” the Widow Alekseeva explained. “Starting with a shot in their breakfast orange juice. That way they’re not as hungry or as particular when the food is served, and they tend to take greater chances at the crap tables.”
“Whatever he’s doing, Sweaty, he’s doing it right,” Hotelier said.
“Which vessel has been taken temporarily out of service so she may be used to accommodate the guests at our wedding,” Castillo went on. “Which frees her for use in the ‘C. G. Castillo Pirated Ship Recovery Training Program.’”
“How does that involve the SEALs?” Annapolis asked.
“What we’re going to do is have a couple of Delta Force A Teams simulate seizing the Czarina of the Gulf, and then the SEALs will try to take it back. All of this, of course, will be captured on motion cameras, so that we can send the video to President Clendennen to show him how hard we’re working.”
“How are you going to keep the SEALs and the Delta Force people from killing each other?” Radio & TV Stations asked.
“I’m still working on that,” Castillo replied. “The first thing that pops into my mind is taking their knives and other lethal weapons away from them and giving them paintball guns.”
[FOUR]
The Oval Office
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
1645 18 June 2007
“I thought I made it perfectly clear, Madam Secretary,” the President said, not at all pleasantly, “that I wanted to see Colonel Castillo and Roscoe J. Danton so they can explain to me what they were doing with the porn queen in Las Vegas.”
“You certainly made that perfectly clear, Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken said. “Didn’t you think he made that perfectly clear, Supervisory Special Agent Mulligan?”
“It was perfectly clear to me,” Mulligan said.
“And this fat Irishman doesn’t look like either of them,” the President said.
“Mr. President,” Secretary Cohen said, “this is Dr. Aloysius Casey.”
“If he’s a doctor, where’s his white coat and that thing that goes in his ears that every doctor I’ve ever seen has hanging around his neck?”
“Good question, Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken said. “How can he possibly be a doctor without that thing that goes in his ears?”
“I’m not a medical doctor, Mr. President,” Aloysius said.
“Then why did she say you were?”
“What I am, Mr. President,” Aloysius announced, “is temporary chairman of the Citizens Committee to Build the Joshua Ezekiel and Belinda-Sue Clendennen Presidential Library and Last Resting Place.”
“Watch it, Mr. President,” Mulligan said. “That sounds pretty fishy to me.”
“And I have with me a cashier’s check in the amount of ten million dollars to get things rolling,” Aloysius said.
He handed the check to the President.
“That’s hard to believe,” Robin Hoboken said.
The President examined the check and then said, “Shut up, Hackensack, I want to hear what ideas Dr. Casey has for my library and last resting place.”
[FIVE]
1500, 1600, 1700 18 June 2007
The screens of television sets tuned to Wolf News were, accompanied by a trumpet blast, suddenly filled with the Arabic numbers 3, 4, and 5 swirling around the globe like satellites.
“Hello there, again,” the voice of Andy McClarren boomed, as his image appeared in a corner of the screen. “This is Andy McClarren, and it’s five o’clock in New York.”
“And this is C. Harry Whelan,” Mr. Whelan intoned, “and it’s four o’clock in Chicago.”
His image, standing on a Chicago street, came onto the screen.
“And this is Bridget O’Shaugnessy,” Miss O’Shaugnessy proclaimed, “and it’s three o’clock in Sin City.”
Her image, showing her sitting with a good deal of shapely thigh showing on the fender of a shiny black Bentley, came onto the screen. The Bentley was parked on the street outside the Elvis Presley Wedding Chapel and Casino, Incorporated.
“And it’s time for Three, Four, and Five,” Mr. McClarren announced. “The big story today is the fifty-million-dollar defamation of character suit filed against Continental Broadcasting and Matthew Christian by adult film star Red Ravisher for this sequence on Hockey Puck. Roll the tape!”
Mr. Christian’s show of very early that morning was replayed for the edification of Wolf News viewers worldwide.
“Now, what’s wrong with that?” Andy asked. “Can you tell us, Bridget? Over to you in Sin City!”
“Why don’t I let Miss Ravisher herself explain that to you, Andy?” Miss O’Shaugnessy replied. “She’s right here with me. Welcome to Three, Four, and Five, Miss Ravisher.”
Miss Ravisher appeared wearing a dress the side slits of which exposed even more thigh than Miss O’Shaugnessy was displaying.
“Thank you for having me.”
“And exactly what is it, Miss Ravisher, about that video recording showing you punching the paparazzo and then throwing him at Wolf News’s distinguished correspondent Roscoe J. Danton that you find offensive? That you think defames your character?”
“There are those kind enough to refer to me as the Ethel Barrymore of the adult film industry. I have been honored with five Hard-Ons, plus the Lifelong Hard-On Achievement Award. I’m proud of that.”
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you punched that paparazzo gentleman and threw him at Mr. Danton. You should have known that might, as indeed it happened, see you arrested and taken to jail.”
“That wasn’t me, you stupid [BLEEEEP]ing broad! I never met Mr. Danton, and I never threw anybody at him.”
“That wasn’t you?”
“You’re [BLEEP BLEEP]ed right it wasn’t. I wasn’t anywhere near the [BLEEP]ing airport last night.”
“Then how do you explain what happened?”
“I guess that [BLEEP]ing Matthew Christian was into the sauce again. Like he was when he said just looking at the First Lady made him tingle all over.”
“So what do you think happened at the airport?”
“I’ll be [BLEEP BLEEP]ed if I know. All I know is that if I get my hands on that [BLEEP]ing Matthew Christian, I’m going to [BLEE—]”
“Over to you, Andy,” Miss O’Shaugnessy said.
“Thank you, Bridget,” Andy McClarren said. “C. Harry, can you shed any light on this?”
“I’ve checked into this, and my sources tell me that Roscoe J. Danton is in Europe on a story for Wolf News.”
“Well, there was an airplane at the airfield out there, and someone who looks something like Miss Ravisher threw a cameraman at someone who looks something like Roscoe. How do you explain that?”
“Well, it could be a publicity stunt to gain attention for the Hard-On Awards. That’s possible. So far as the airplane is concerned, I checked into that and learned it belongs to a charter operation in Panama City, Panama. I also learned that it left American airspace sometime this afternoon. When I called the charter company in Panama City, I couldn’t get anyone on the line who spoke English.”
“Well, that’s not surprising in that part of the world. Have you ever tried to call Miami International and been able to get someone on the phone who speaks English? And now for a word from our sponsors.”
[SIX]
Penthouse B
The Royal Aztec Table Tennis and Golf Resort and Casino
Cozumel, Mexico
0900 19 June 2007
When General Jesus Manuel Cosada of the Cuban DGI walked onto the balcony of the suite in which General Sergei Murov of the SVR had installed himself, he found the general in shorts and a T-shirt sitting in a lounge chair. Murov was sipping at a cup of clear liquid.
“Good morning, General,” Cosada said.
Murov raised somewhat glazed eyes to him and replied, in a cloud of essence d’alcool, “Jesus, Jesus, try to remember my cover. I’m supposed to be Grigori Slobozhanin of the Greater Sverdlovsk Table Tennis Association.”
“Why couldn’t you have picked a cover name people can pronounce?”
General Murov gave General Cosada the finger.
“Isn’t it a little early for that?” General Cosada inquired, pointing to the nearly empty liter bottle of Stolichnaya vodka sitting on the Ping-Pong table beside the general.
“It’s always too early for that stupid game. As far as I’m concerned, whoever invented Ping-Pong should be shot in the kneecaps.”
“I was referring to the vodka.”
“The last thing Vladimir Vladimirovich said to me before I left the Kremlin was, ‘Remember, my dear Sergei, when you get to Mexico, whatever you do, don’t drink the water.’”
“Sergei—excuse me, Grigori—what I came here to tell you is that we have a problem, a morale problem.”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” Murov said. “The next to last thing Vladimir Vladimirovich said to me before I left the Kremlin was, ‘I don’t want to hear about any of your problems, Sergei. The only thing I want to hear from you is when the Aeroflot airplane with Berezovsky, Alekseeva, and Castillo neatly trussed up in the baggage compartment is going to land at Domodedovo.’”
“Where’s that? I thought he wanted them taken to Moscow.”
“Jesus Christ, Jesus! How did you get to be a general? Domodedovo is the Moscow airport.”
“There are some dissidents and counterrevolutionaries who say I got promoted because my mother is Fidel’s and Raúl’s first cousin once removed, but I think that’s just jealousy, so I don’t pay attention to it.”
“Tell me about this morale problem. What’s that all about?”
“I guess you could say it’s a family problem.”
“What is?”
“You remember when we left Havana, it was in sort of a hurry?”
“I remember. The ride to the airport in that 1958 Studebaker Hawk of yours was terrifying. It’s just too old to drive it at more than forty m.p.h., which you were dumb enough to try to do.”
“And do you remember Raúl ordering me to give you twenty-four of our best DGI people to help you get these people on the Aeroflot plane to Moscow?”
“Jesus, Jesus! To Domodedovo. Moscow is the city. Domodedovo is the airport. Why don’t you write that down?”
“Well, when we had to push my Hawk to get it to start, Raúl was looking out the window and saw us. So he decided to be helpful and called the DGI personnel officer himself and told him to get twenty-four of our best DGI agents out to the airport.”
“So?”
“The thing is, Grigori, although the People’s Democratic Republic of Cuba has absolutely done away with class distinctions, the truth is that there are two kinds of ‘best DGI agents.’”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“One group of ‘best DGI agents’ are the ones who have worked their way from the bottom.”
“And the other kind?”
“The other kind are the ones whose fathers, or uncles, are high-ranking officials of the government of the People’s Democratic Republic.”
“I think I know what’s coming,” General Murov said.
“So what the DGI personnel officer did was assume, since Raúl himself had called, that he was talking about that second group. So he took one of those buses we swapped rum for from the Bulgarians and went out to the Workers and Peasants Golf and Tennis Club and loaded twenty-four of them onto the bus and took them out to the airport.”
“They didn’t complain?”
“Not then. When I saw who they were, I told them we were going to the Cuban Mission to the UN in New York. They all knew, of course, that meant they would have diplomatic immunity so they could get in a UN stretch limousine, head for Park Avenue, find a fire hydrant, park next to it, and when the cops show up, open the sunroof and moon the cops to show their disdain for capitalist imperialism and its minions.”
“Well, I can understand that,” General Murov said. “But what happened when the plane landed here?”
“I lied to them again. I told them that before they went to New York they would have to prove they had been paying attention in Spy School, and the way they were going to do that was to pass themselves off as poor Mexicans and find menial employment at either the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort or with Imperial Cruise Lines, Incorporated. Those who did so successfully, I told them, got to go to New York. Those who didn’t would get sent back to Havana.”
“And this worked? Jesus, Jesus, I seem to have underestimated you.”
“Well, I was, you should know, trained in Moscow.”
“That would explain it, wouldn’t it?” Murov asked rhetorically. “So, what’s the problem?”
“The Czarina of the Gulf docked here this morning. I told you Aleksandr Pevsner is going to use her to house guests at the Castillo–Alekseeva nuptials.”
“No, Jesus, I told you that,” Murov said. “Is that how you got to be a general? Taking credit for intelligence developed by other people?”
“And I suppose you told me Castillo and his fiancée flew in here late yesterday?”
“No, I didn’t know that. Are you sure?”
“Would I tell you if I wasn’t sure?”
“You just told me Aleksandr Pevsner is going to use the Czarina of the Gulf to house wedding guests. If you lied about
that, why wouldn’t you lie about this?”
“You’ll just have to trust me that I’m not. Do you want to hear about the Czarina of the Gulf or not?”
“If you promise on your mother’s grave to tell the truth.”
“My mother’s still alive, so that wouldn’t work. How about on my honor as a graduate of the SVR Academy for Peace, International Cooperation, and Espionage?”
“That’ll do it.”
“Consider it given. The people we infiltrated into both the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort and Imperial Cruise Lines, Incorporated, have been told there is an emergency situation aboard the Czarina of the Gulf and they are going to have to work around the clock until it is cleared up.”
“What kind of an emergency situation?”
“I spent a lot of time and money developing this intel, Grigori, so pay attention.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Somehow—and I don’t know how; I’m still working on it—Aleksandr Pevsner has really pissed off some Mexican Indian witch doctors. So they put a curse on the Czarina of the Gulf.”
“What do you mean, a curse?”
“They call it ‘Montezuma’s revenge.’”
“What does it do?”
“I’m still working on that, too, but what I have learned is the toilets have stopped working, and when the ship unloaded its passengers, a bunch of them had to be carried off on stretchers, and the rest, who had medical masks over their mouths, had to be helped off and into the buses waiting for them.”
“What’s the problem? Isn’t that good for us?”
“Quite the opposite. Our people have heard about it—actually they smelled it—and are terrified. They sent a workers’ delegation to see me, and they said everybody wants to go back to Havana now, even if that means they can’t go to New York and moon the cops from the roof window of a UN limousine. That’s what I meant when I said we have a morale problem.”
“Jesus, Jesus, don’t panic,” General Murov said. “Let me think about this. Hand me the bottle, please. We Russians always think better with a little boost from our friend Stoli.”
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