For a while he had been what he described as a “camp follower,” taking care of their house while Dianne stayed on active duty. That hadn’t worked, and eventually—Hell, with both our retirements we can live pretty damned well—Dianne had retired, too.
That hadn’t worked either.
They both had been climbing the walls of their garden apartment in Fayetteville, North Carolina, when CWO5 Colin Leverette, aka Uncle Remus, who had been around the block many times with Harold, asked them if they would be interested in running a safe house for Charley Castillo outside Washington. Harold had been around just as many blocks with Castillo as he had with Uncle Remus, and the Sanderses had jumped at the chance to get out of the garden apartment.
Julia Darby made Bloody Marys and handed them to Tom and Dianne.
“Take a sip of that, and then go back on duty,” she said.
He did so, and said, “Okay.”
“Ask me how Alex is,” Julia said.
“Okay. How’s Alex?”
“I hope that miserable sonofabitch and his hot-pants, large-breasted, twenty-year-old Argentine girlfriend freeze together in Ushuaia,” she said.
“Where or what is Ushuaia?”
“It’s the southernmost city in Argentina, way at the end. Coldest place I’ve ever been, including the personnel office at Langley.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that about Alex, do you?”
“I don’t care if you believe it or not, but I hope Charles M. Montvale does. I’d love to hear that he’s running around down there freezing his ass looking for Alex.”
Tom McGuire grinned.
“You have always been an evil woman, Julia,” he said admiringly, and tapped his Bloody Mary against hers. “How do you spell ‘Ushuaia’?”
[FIVE]
Penthouse B
The Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort
Cozumel
Quintana Roo, Mexico
1805 6 February 2007
En route to Cozumel—somewhere over Peru—a dozing Castillo woke to find Sweaty’s head resting on his neck. Upon smelling her perfume, he realized with more than a little pleasure that there was going to be enough time between their arrival in Cozumel and dinner for what the French—who sometimes do things with a certain style—called a cinq à sept.
He dozed off again considering this pleasant possibility, to be wakened perhaps an hour after that by one of the pilots of the Boeing 777 offering him a very nice luncheon plate fresh from the microwave.
Sweaty already had hers.
Castillo waited until the pilot had moved away, then asked her in French: “Ma chère, what does ‘a five-to-seven’ mean to you?”
“Five to seven means what it sounds like,” she replied in Russian. “I have no idea what a five-to-seven means.”
“Just as soon as we get to our room in the hotel, I’ll show you a”—he pronounced the term phonetically—“sank-ah-set.”
She kissed his cheek. “But I have other plans for you just as soon as we get to our room in the hotel, my darling.”
Svetlana then removed any doubt he might have had that there was a certain sexual overtone to her remark by quickly groping him.
It was not to be.
When they got to Penthouse B, they were not alone. Everybody who had been on the plane was with them.
“We had to move some guests,” Alek Pevsner explained. “That shouldn’t take long. I always like to know who’s in the room next to mine.”
“How long is ‘long’?” Castillo asked. “As in ‘shouldn’t take long’?”
Pevsner ignored him and went to the bar and reached for a bottle of bourbon.
Alex Darby opened a sliding glass door and inhaled appreciatively.
“The final death blow to my marriage will come when my wife hears I’m in a penthouse in Cozumel by the Sea,” he announced, “while she is in the snow and slush of Washington, trying to find some roof over her and our abused children.”
“Is that good or bad?” Delchamps asked.
Max pushed Darby out of his way, having seen Penthouse B’s swimming pool, which had obviously been put there for his use. He immediately decided that a quick dip after the long flight was just what he needed.
A Bouvier des Flandres is a large animal and can cause a substantial splash when diving into a pool.
The splash reached Darby.
Everyone laughed.
Pevsner went to a bathroom and returned with a towel for Darby.
By then Max, having enough aquatic activity, had climbed out of the pool and was now standing on the edge of the pool shaking the water from his body. The fur of a Bouvier des Flandres can hold an astonishing amount of water. Pevsner’s shirt and trousers had received a good deal of flying water, and there were drops all over his face, which was now pale with anger and tight-lipped.
Everyone waited for Pevsner’s explosion. When it didn’t come, Castillo poured gasoline on the smoldering embers.
“Well, it was high time you had a bath,” Castillo offered. “And Max was just being helpful.”
Pevsner looked at him and then said, “I have just had a horrible thought.”
“I can’t wait to hear what that is,” Castillo replied.
“Those adorable puppies you gave my Elena and Dmitri’s Sof’ya are going to turn into uncontrollable beasts like that.”
Pevsner took another look at his drenched trousers, and announced, “Believe it or not, this place makes it clear on all the advertising that it is not a pet-friendly hotel.”
“I hear that they make exceptions for friends of the owner,” Castillo said.
“Sometimes the owner is sorry he has certain friends,” Pevsner said as he patted his clothing with a towel.
“Sweaty, I think he means me,” Castillo said. “Say something rude to him.”
“Why doesn’t everybody get out of here so that I can have a shower?” Sweaty said.
“Methinks the lady has carnal desires on our leader’s body,” Delchamps said.
Throwing water on that topic, Pevsner said, “Colonel Torine and the others are on their way from the airport.”
“They just got here?” Castillo asked.
“The manager just told me. I told him to send them here when they arrive,” Pevsner said, and glanced at Svetlana. “While we’re waiting for rooms.”
“Further delaying Svet’s bath and the satisfaction of her other desires,” Tom Barlow said. “Now she will say something rude.”
“Very probably,” Pevsner said, and smiled warmly at her and Castillo.
Castillo thought: My God! Aleksandr Pevsner, you’re good!
I’ve known you long and well enough to know when you’re really pissed off, and the last time I saw you this pissed was when you learned that Howard Kennedy had betrayed you.
If you could, you’d happily throw Max off the balcony, à la Ivan the Terrible, who Svetlana told me threw dogs off the Kremlin walls so he could watch them try to walk on broken legs.
But right now, you need all the help you can get to protect you and your family from Putin and the SVR—which means you think that’s a real threat, which is nice to know—and you can’t afford to piss me off—which means you think I have what you don’t have and can’t do without, which is also nice to know—so you smile warmly at the uncontrollable beast’s owner and his girlfriend as if you agree that he’s an adorable puppy and you didn’t mind getting soaked at all.
They call that professional control, and it’s one facet of character I don’t have and really wish I did.
Ten minutes later, the doorbell chimed, and when Alex Darby answered it, seven former members of the now-defunct Office of Organizational Analysis—two more than Castillo expected—walked in.
They were Colonel Jake Torine, USAF (Retired); former USAF Captain Richard Sparkman; former USMC Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley; Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., USA (Retired); First Lieutenant Edmund Lorimer, MI (Retired); Chief Warrant Officer (Five) Colin Leveret
te (Retired); and former FBI Special Agent David William Yung, Jr.
“I knew in my bones that there would be no rest for the weary,” Leverette greeted him. “How they hanging, Charley?”
Colin Leverette was an enormous black man, a legendary Special Operations man, known to his close friends—and only his close friends—as Uncle Remus.
“You and Two-Gun got yourselves kicked out of Uruguay, did you?” Castillo said, and turned to Torine. “You actually went to Uruguay to pick them up? Wasn’t that a little out of your way?”
“It was a supply run, Charley,” Torine said, and then, seeing the confusion on Castillo’s face, added, “about which, I gather, you didn’t know?”
“I’m always the last to know anything, Jake. You know that.”
“We went down there with a planeload of the newest Casey radios,” Torine said. “That’s not precise. We went down there with a bunch of the newest Casey radios. You won’t believe how small the new ones are. And they don’t need the DirecTV dish antenna.”
Leverette said, “Colonel Torine was kind enough to take pity on us when we met him in Montevideo and told him that unless he took us with him, we couldn’t get here in less than seventy-two hours.”
“He was weeping piteously,” Torine said. “He said you needed him.”
“To do what, Uncle Remus?” Castillo asked.
“To get you out of whatever trouble you’re in,” Leverette said.
“And your excuse, Two-Gun?” Castillo asked.
“I came to deliver this,” Yung said, and handed Castillo a small package.
“What’s this?”
“Two hundred thousand in used—therefore nonsequentially numbered—hundreds, fresh from the cashier’s cage at the Venetian,” Yung said. “When Casey told me you’d asked for the money, I told him to give it in cash to Jake. It would have been too easy to trace if it went into and out of your personal German account.”
“I don’t recall asking for volunteers,” Castillo said.
“Oh, come on, Charley,” Leverette said. “Come and let Uncle Remus give you a great big kiss.”
“Screw you,” Castillo said.
Moving with astonishing speed for his bulk, Leverette walked quickly to Castillo, wrapped his massive arms around him, which pinned Castillo’s arms to his sides, and then proceeded to wetly kiss both of Castillo’s cheeks and then his forehead.
Castillo saw that Pevsner was smiling.
That’s a genuine smile.
Because Uncle Remus is kissing me?
Or because he’s really happy to see the reinforcements?
Leverette finally turned Castillo free.
“Now,” Leverette announced, “just as soon as I have a little something to cut the dust of the trail, we will see what Charley’s problem is, and set about solving it. I already have the essential ingredient.” He dug in his pocket and came out triumphantly with a small bottle. “Peychaud’s bitters. I never leave home without it. I shall also require rye whisky—good rye whisky—some simple syrup, absinthe, lemons, ice, and a suitable vessel in which to assemble the above.”
“I feel better already,” Castillo said.
“What is he talking about?” Pevsner asked.
“A Sazerac,” Castillo said.
“And what is a Sazerac?” Tom Barlow asked.
“Nectar of the gods,” Leverette said. “God’s reward to the worthy.”
He examined the stock of intoxicants in the bar, finally coming up triumphantly with a bottle of Van Winkle Family Reserve rye in his left hand and a bottle of Wild Turkey rye in his right.
“These will do nicely, but I can’t find any syrup, absinthe, or lemons. Presumably, there is room service?”
“Lester,” Castillo ordered, “get on the horn and tell room service that Mr. Pevsner requires immediately what Uncle Remus just said.”
“Yes, sir,” Bradley said, and started for the telephone.
“You’re all going to sit around and get drunk, is that the idea?” Pevsner asked unpleasantly. “We have a serious problem and—”
Leverette interrupted him. “Charley, I hate to tell you this, but I’m starting to dislike your Russian buddy. Again.”
“Me, too,” Edgar Delchamps said.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Pevsner demanded angrily.
“Somebody who thinks he’s Ivan the Terrible, Jr.?” Leverette asked innocently.
Castillo laughed, but even as he did, he realized that was not the wise thing to do.
“Not one more word from anybody!” Svetlana snapped. “Not one!”
Everyone looked at her in surprise.
Castillo and Leverette had much the same thought at the same moment, but Leverette was the first to say it out loud: “Be careful,” he said in Russian. “Sweaty just put on her podpolkovnik’s hat.”
“You’d better be careful,” Castillo said. “That’s way over your word limit. What Podpolkovnik Alekseeva said was ‘Not one more word.’”
“I said from anybody and that includes you,” Svetlana snapped. “For God’s sake, Charley, you’re in command. Act like a commander!”
Everyone looked at Castillo to see what his reaction to that would be.
His first reaction was a sudden realization: This is getting out of control.
And the commander is in large measure responsible.
Sweaty’s right about that.
His next reaction was: On the other hand, Sweaty should not have snapped at the commander like that, telling him to act like a commander.
One of the problems of having women subordinates is that one cannot jump all over their asses when they deserve it.
Especially when said female subordinate is sharing one’s bed.
This sort of situation was not dealt with in Problems of Leadership 101 at West Point, nor anywhere else since I’ve been in the Army.
Correction: During the time I was in the Army.
So, what are you going to do now, General MacArthur, so that everyone can see you are in fact acting like you’re in command?
Confidently in command.
There’s a hell of a difference between being in command, and being confidently in command.
And those being commanded damned well know it.
You better think of something, and quick!
Colin Leverette came to his rescue.
“I know what,” Leverette said. “Let’s start all over.”
“What?” Svetlana asked.
“No, Mr. Pevsner,” Leverette went on, “we are not all going to sit around and get drunk. We’re going to have one—possibly two—Sazerac cocktails, and then we’re going to get down to business.”
Pevsner didn’t respond.
Castillo looked between them, and thought: I believe Uncle Remus just saved my ass.
What is that, for the two hundred and eleventh time?
“That was your cue, Mr. Pevsner,” Delchamps said, “to say, ‘I should not have said what I did. Please forgive me.’”
Pevsner looked at him incredulously.
“It’s a question of command, Aleksandr,” Tom Barlow said, his tone making it clear that now he was wearing his polkovnik’s hat. “If Charley, the commander, doesn’t object to something, you have no right to. Now, ask Uncle Remus to forgive your runaway mouth.”
“You have just earned my permission, Podpolkovnik Berezovsky,” Leverette said, “to call me Uncle Remus.”
Now, everyone looked at Pevsner.
“Uncle Remus is waiting, Mr. Pevsner,” Delchamps said after a long moment.
After another long moment, Pevsner smiled, and said, “If an apology for saying something I should not have said is the price for one of Mr. Leverette’s cocktails, I happily pay it.”
Castillo had another unpleasant series of rapid thoughts:
Well, Pevsner caved, and quicker than I thought he would.
Problem solved.
Wait a minute! Aleksandr Pevsner—unlike me—never says anything u
ntil he thinks it through.
He knew the apology meant he understood he can’t question me.
But what about the first crack he made?
Was that an attempt to put himself in charge?
If we’d caved, that would have put him in a position to question—question hell, disapprove—of anything.
Alek, you sonofabitch!
His chain of thought was interrupted by the arrival of the butler—not a bellman; penthouses A and B shared the full-time services of an around-the-clock butler—bearing simple syrup, absinthe, a bowl of ice, a bowl of lemon twists, and a tray of old-fashioned glasses.
“The first thing we will do—actually, Lester will do,” Leverette announced, “is fill the glasses with ice. This will chill them while I go through the rest of the process. Now, how many are we going to need?”
Everyone expressed the desire to have a Sazerac.
Leverette arranged all the old-fashioned glasses in two rows.
“You understand, Sweaty,” he said, “that one of my Sazeracs has been known to turn a nun into a nymphomaniac?”
“I’ll take my chances. Stop talking and make the damned drink.”
“First, we muddle the syrup and the Peychaud bitters together,” Leverette announced. “When I’ve done that, we will carefully measure three ounces of rye per drink and a carefully measured amount of ice into the mixing vessel.”
He picked up a champagne cooler, and quickly rinsed it in the sink of the wet bar.
“This will serve nicely as a mixing vessel,” he said, and then demonstrated that his notion of a carefully measured three ounces of rye and ice per drink was to upend the bottle of Wild Turkey over the champagne cooler and empty it. He shook it to get the last drop, then repeated the process with the bottle of Van Winkle Family Reserve. He then added four handfuls of ice cubes.
He stirred the mixture around with one of the empty bottles.
“You’ll notice that I did not shake, but rather stirred. I learned that from Double-Oh-Seven,” he said, then looked at Bradley. “Lester, dump the ice.”
Lester emptied into the sink the melting ice from all the glasses.
“I will now pour the absinthe, and Lester will swirl. I know he will do a good job of swirling because I taught him myself.”
The Outlaws: a Presidential Agent novel Page 23
