Sándor Tor draped the ermine-collared black leather overcoat over Eric Kocian’s shoulders.
The bitch, who answered to the name Mädchen, headed for a row of shrubbery to meet the call of nature. Kocian led the puppy, named Max, to the shrubbery.
“You and Gustav go to bed,” Kocian ordered. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Tor got back in the Mercedes, which then carried him to the hotel entrance. When Gustav had parked the car—a spot near the door was reserved for it—he followed Tor into the hotel lobby. Gustav got on the elevator to check the apartment out before Kocian got there, and Tor walked to a column and stood behind it in a position from which he could watch Kocian enter the lobby and get on the elevator.
Kocian came through the door four minutes later and walked toward the elevator bank.
A tall, well-dressed man who had been sitting in an armchair reading the Budapester Tages Zeitung suddenly dropped the newspaper to the floor and walked quickly to where Kocian was waiting for the elevator.
Where in the name of the goddamn Virgin Mary and all the fucking saints did that sonofabitch come from?
Tor had almost made it to the bank of elevators when the door opened. Gustav saw him coming and stopped, then stepped back against the elevator’s rear wall.
Kocian, Mädchen, and Max got on the elevator.
Tor followed.
“I thought I told you to go to bed,” Kocian said.
Tor took a Micro Uzi from his under-the-arm holster, held it at his side, and then pushed the button which would send the elevator to the top floor.
“I mean Herr Kocian no harm,” the tall, well-dressed man said in German, and then repeated it in Hungarian.
The elevator door closed, and the elevator began to rise.
“Pat him,” Tor ordered, now raising the muzzle of the Micro Uzi.
Gustav quickly, but unhurriedly, thoroughly frisked the tall, well-dressed man.
“Nothing,” Gustav said, referring to weapons. But he now held a Russian diplomatic passport, a Hungarian foreign ministry-issued diplomat’s carnet (a plastic-sealed card about the size of a driver’s license), and a business-size envelope.
He examined the carnet, saw that it read, COMMERCIAL COUNSELOR, RUSSIAN EMBASSY, and then handed the carnet to Tor.
“Actually, I’m Colonel Vladlen Solomatin of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki,” the tall, well-dressed man then said in Hungarian, and for the third time said, “I mean Herr Kocian no harm.”
“You’re from the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki?” Kocian asked in Russian.
“It’s the Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation,” Colonel Solomatin said. “Yes, I am.”
“I know what the SVR is, Colonel,” Kocian said.
The elevator door opened.
Kocian looked over his shoulder to make sure there was no one in the landing foyer, and then backed out of the elevator, motioning for Solomatin to follow him.
“Put the elevator out of service,” Kocian ordered.
“I mean you no harm, Herr Kocian,” Solomatin said again.
“You keep saying that,” Kocian replied. “What is it you do want from me, Colonel Vladlen Solomatin of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki?”
“A service, sir. Your help in righting a great wrong.”
“Specifically?”
Solomatin turned to the chauffeur, who was still holding Solomatin’s diplomatic passport and the envelope. He reached for the envelope.
“May I?” he asked.
Gustav looked to Kocian for guidance. Kocian nodded, and Gustav allowed Solomatin to take the envelope.
Solomatin removed a letter from the envelope and extended them to Kocian.
“I am asking that you get this to Colonel Berezovsky. Or Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva.”
Kocian read the letter:
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki
1 February 2007
Yasenevo 11, Kolpachny
Moscow 0101000
Tel: Moscow 923 6213
Second Directorate
Colonel V. N. Solomatin
My Dear Cousin Dmitri:
God’s blessings and the warmest greetings to you, Lora, Sof’ya and Svetlana!!
I am very happy to be able to tell you that the committee has finally reached the only conclusions that they could in the circumstances:
1. That the charges of embezzlement of state funds laid against you and Svetlana were without any basis in fact.
2. That the late Colonel Evgeny Evgenyvich Alekseev, who laid the charges against you both, was at the time bereft of his senses, more than likely suffering from paranoia and had been so suffering for a considerable period of time, possibly as much as a year or even longer.
3. That while it was clearly the responsibility of the both of you to bring your suspicions regarding Colonel Alekseev’s instability to the attention of General Yakov Sirinov, your failure to do so in the circumstances, and your vacating your posts without authority, was understandable.
Other points made during the committee hearing by General Sirinov put to rest once and for all the allegation that you defected. “If they intended to defect,” the general said, “they would not have left with only the clothing on their backs and what cash they had in their pockets. And if they had wound up in the hands of MI6 or the CIA, even involuntarily, you know our people would have told us.”
At the conclusion of the committee hearing, General Sirinov was ordered to do whatever was necessary to locate you, make you aware of what has happened, and to bring you home.
He has delegated that responsibility to me, telling the committee that if he were you or Svetlana, the only person he would trust would be me. I have been given the authority to take any steps I consider necessary.
Embassies of the Russian Federation worldwide have been directed to provide you with whatever you need, including funds, and to facilitate your return to the Motherland.
In this connection, when I suggested to General Sirinov that, considering what injustices had occurred, you and Svetlana might question even my motives, he said he would have no objection to your leaving Lora and Sof’ya wherever they may be for the time being, and directed me to provide funds for their support.
They can join you here when you are satisfied that you have been welcomed home as loyal Russians.
I really hope to see all of you here together soon.
May God protect you both on your return journey!
Your loving cousin,
Vladlen
As Kocian handed the letter to Sándor Tor, he said, “I have no idea who either of these people are, Colonel.”
“Please, Herr Kocian,” Solomatin said. “I am really trying to help them; to right an injustice.”
“Well,” Kocian said dryly, “the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki does have a certain reputation for causing injustices. But this is the first I’ve ever heard of them trying to right any.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Colonel, I can’t help you.”
“Herr Kocian, the last confirmed sighting of Colonel Berezovsky, his wife and daughter, and Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva was when they got on Lieutenant Colonel Castillo’s airplane at Schwechat airfield in Vienna.”
Kocian looked him in the eyes, and said, “Colonel Castillo? Someone else I never heard of.”
“The colonel is sometimes still known by the name he was given at his christening, Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger. Inasmuch as you stood as one of his godfathers, Herr Kocian, I find it hard to believe you’ve forgotten.”
Kocian didn’t respond.
“Herr Kocian, I swear before God and by all that’s sacred to me that I am telling you the truth. And I am begging you to help me.”
Kocian said nothing.
“Will you at least get the letter to Colonel Castillo?” Solomatin asked, plaintively.
After a long moment, Kocian said, “Gustav, please be good enough to escort Colonel Solomatin to his car. Give him back his passport and carnet.”
Kocian looked at the letter for a long moment, and then folded it and put it in his jacket pocket.
He walked toward the door to his apartment.
“Thank you, Herr Kocian. May God shower you with his blessings,” Solomatin said.
Gustav motioned for him to get back on the elevator.
When Gustav walked into Kocian’s apartment a half hour later, the old man was sitting in a Charles Eames chair with his feet on its footstool, holding a glass of whisky. Mädchen lay beside him. Max was sitting beside Tor, his head cocked as if to ask, “What the hell are you doing?”
Tor was sitting on a Louis XVI chair that looked to be of questionable strength to support his bulk. A section of a bookcase that lined that wall of Kocian’s sitting room had been swung open, revealing a hidden compartment with a communications device on a custom-built shelf.
Tor had fed the communications device the letter Solomatin had given Kocian, and now took it from the device and walked to Kocian and handed it to him.
“There was no car outside,” Gustav said. “I offered him a ride to wherever he wanted to go. He accepted, and said the Russian embassy. A Volkswagen with diplomatic plates got on my tail as we got off the Szabadság híd and followed us to Baiza. What I think is there were two cars, that one and another—or at least some Russian sonofabitch with a cell phone—here. They were waiting for us at the bridge.”
“And what happened at Baiza?” Kocian asked, referencing the embassy of the Russian Federation at Baiza 35, Budapest.
“He got out of the car, and walked to the gate. The gate opened for him before he got there. They expected him. When I looked in the mirror, the Volkswagen that had been on my tail was gone.”
Kocian waved the letter Solomatin had given him.
“Did you get a good look at this, Gustav?”
When Gustav shook his head, Kocian handed it to him, and Gustav read it.
“Well?” Kocian said.
Gustav shook his head again.
“I don’t have a clue,” he said. “Except, if I have to say this, it smells.”
“You don’t think the SVR forgives defectors?” Tor said sarcastically.
Gustav gestured toward the communications device. “What does Herr Gossinger think?”
“There is one flaw in that miraculous device,” Kocian said. “It doesn’t work unless the party you’re calling answers, which my godson has not yet done.” He paused, pointed to the telephone on the table near him, and said, “See if you can get him on the horn, Sándor. Try the house in Pilar.”
Tor rose from his fragile-looking chair, walked to the couch by the phone, sat heavily down, then from memory punched in a long number on the keypad. He held the receiver to his ear.
“What time is it in Buenos Aires?” Kocian asked.
“It’s after midnight here, so a little after eight,” Tor said, then added, “It’s ringing,” and handed the receiver to Kocian.
Kocian reached over to the table and pushed the phone base’s SPEAKERPHONE button.
“¿Hola?” a male voice answered.
“With whom am I speaking?” Kocian asked in passable Spanish.
“Who are you calling?”
“I’m trying to get Carlos Castillo. He doesn’t seem to be answering his other telephone ...”
“You have the wrong number, Señor,” the man said and broke the connection.
“Sonofabitch hung up on me!” Kocian said, handing the receiver back to Tor. Tor, turning away so that Kocian would not see his smile, punched in the number again, waited for the ring, and then hit the SPEAKERPHONE button.
“¿Hola?”
“My name is Eric Kocian, I need to speak to Carlos Castillo, and don’t tell me I have the wrong damn number!”
“How are you, Herr Kocian?” the male voice said politely. “Sorry I didn’t recognize your voice.”
“I should have given you my name,” Kocian said. “Paul Sieno, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought I recognized your voice when you told me I had the wrong number,” Kocian said. “Is Carlos handy?”
“Actually, sir, he’s not.”
“Where is he? Can you give me a better number?”
“I don’t have one, sir.”
“That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Charley’s fly-fishing with his girlfriend in Patagonia, Herr Kocian.”
“What did you say?”
“Charley went fishing with his girlfriend, Herr Kocian. In Patagonia. He left word not to bother him unless the sun went out.”
“What if I told you this is very important, Paul? And what girlfriend would that be?”
“I can get word to him, Herr Kocian. Maybe tonight, and certainly by morning.”
“And the girlfriend?”
There was a long pause, then Paul said, “Herr Kocian, if you don’t know about Sweaty, I’m sorry, but you’re not going to hear it from me.”
“Are you telling me he’s drunk and off in the woods with some floozy? Some floozy named Sweaty? That’s what you said her name is, right? Sweaty?”
“Well, I can tell you he’s probably not drunk, because Sweaty doesn’t like him to drink too much. And that I can get word to him to call you, probably tonight, and certainly by morning. Your AFC’s working, right?”
“As a matter of fact, Paul, my miraculous AFC communications device is not working at all. The reason I called on the telephone is because nobody we tried to call on it to find Carlos answered.”
“Sir, we’re not on twenty-four/seven anymore. Just once in the morning—oh-four-twenty-hundred Zulu time—and again in the afternoon at sixteen-twenty Zulu. I’m surprised no one told you.”
“By Zulu, you mean Greenwich?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your AFC is working?”
“Yes, sir. I can have it up in a minute.”
“There’s a document I want Carlos to see. I want to send it in the highest encryption possible.”
“Yes, sir, give me a minute to turn on my AFC.”
“You can get it to him?”
“In the morning, maybe even tonight.”
“I want you and Mrs. Sieno to have a look at it, to see if you can make more sense from it than I can. And tell Carlos what you think.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s not addressed to Carlos, Paul. It’s addressed to someone else. I don’t want that party to see it until after Carlos does.”
“This sounds important, Herr Kocian.”
“I don’t know. It may well be. Is Herr Delchamps available?”
“He’s here, but he went out for dinner.”
“Show this document to him, too, please, with the same caveat that I don’t want the addressee to see it until Carlos has.”
“Got it,” Sieno said. And then, “There goes the AFC, Mr. Kocian. It shows you as online. I’m ready to receive. Send the message.”
“It came through fine, Herr Kocian,” Paul Sieno said over the encrypted AFC not quite two minutes later. “What the hell is it all about?”
“I don’t know, Paul.”
“Where did you get it?”
“A Russian who said he was Colonel Solomatin was waiting for me in the lobby of the Gellért when I came in about an hour ago.”
“I will be damned! I’ll have this in Charley’s hands just as quick as I can.”
“Thank you, Paul.”
“Herr Kocian, I’m sorry I hung up on you before.”
“No apology necessary. My best regards to Mrs. Sieno.”
“Will do,” Sieno said, then gave the AFC the order: “Break it down.”
The green LED indicating the AFC was connected to another AFC device at Encryption Level One went out.
[TWO]
Club America
Miami International Airport, Concourse F
Miami, Florida
2205 4 February 2007
Roscoe J. Danton of The
Washington Times-Post was not in a very good mood. Eagle-eyed officials of the Transportation Security Administration had detected a Colibri butane cigar lighter and a nearly new bottle of Boss cologne in his carry-on luggage and triumphantly seized both.
The discovery had then triggered a detailed examination of the rest of the contents of his carry-on luggage. This had uncovered a Bic butane cigarette lighter in his laptop case and three boxes of wooden matches from the Old Ebbitt Grill in his briefcase/overnight bag. Two small boxes of matches, he was told he should have known, was the limit.
With the proof before them that they had in their hands if not an Al Qaeda terrorist cleverly disguised as a thirty-eight-year-old Presbyterian from Chevy Chase, Maryland, then at the very least what they categorized as an “uncooperative traveler,” the TSA officers had then thoroughly examined his person to make sure that he wasn’t trying to conceal anything else—a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, for example—in his ear canal or another body orifice.
With no RPG or other potential weapon found, he was finally freed.
Danton—convinced that his near crimes and misdemeanors had probably caused him to miss Aerolíneas Argentinas Flight 1007, nonstop service to Buenos Aires—had then run all the way down Concourse F to Gate 17 hoping to be proven wrong. There he learned that “technical difficulties” of an unspecified nature were going to delay the departure of Flight 1007 for at least two hours.
As he walked the long way back down the concourse to the Club America, he recalled that C. Harry Whelan had called Miami International Airport “America’s Token Third World Airport.”
Say what you want about Harry—and there’s a lot, all bad, to be said about Harry—but the sonofabitch does have a way with words.
The Outlaws: a Presidential Agent novel Page 13
