Covert Warriors pa-7

by W. E. B Griffin

  FOUR

  Cozumel International Airport Cozumel, Mexico 1920 12 April 2007

  Two glistening white Yukons with the legend GRAND COZUMEL BEACH AND GOLF RESORT painted on their doors and a much less elegant brown Suburban with the insignia of Mexican Customs and Immigration were waiting for the Cessna Mustang when the small twin-engine jet was wanded to a parking spot.

  John David Parker was relieved to be on the ground. Not only had it been his first flight in a Mustang, until today he had thought that jet aircraft required the services of two pilots. Not only had there been but one pilot-Major Dick Miller, U.S. Army, Retired-but he had seen Miller climb aboard the airplane at Baltimore Washington International-and suddenly understood why they called him “Gimpy.” There clearly was something wrong with his left leg; it didn’t bend as knees are supposed to.

  Surprising Parker not a little, moments after Miller had boarded the airplane, the gray-haired elderly lady and “the Reverend Father” Tom Sanders had shown up with his passport, as promised. They had even packed a small bag with a change of linen and his toilet kit.

  Three minutes later, they were airborne. The trip was uneventful. They went through immigration at New Orleans’s Louis Armstrong International Airport and then flew across the Gulf of Mexico.

  Two men got out of each Yukon. One of them-a burly, fair-skinned man wearing shorts, knee-high stockings and a white jacket with the logotype of the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort on the chest-came onto the airplane as soon as the stair door was opened.

  The man shook Edgar Delchamps’s hand and said something in Russian.

  “Hand him your passports as you get off,” Delchamps ordered. “He’ll take care of the formalities.”

  It was a five-minute ride from the airport to the Grand Cozumel, which turned out to be an enormous luxury resort complex at the center of which was a twenty-odd-story building surrounded by smaller buildings. There were two golf courses, acres of tennis courts, and, fronting the wide, white sand beach, lines of individual cottages.

  Parker was not surprised that the entire property was enclosed within a substantial fence, but when they reached the main building and went down a ramp to an underground garage, he was surprised at the steel barriers that were hydraulically lowered as they reached them. They looked exactly like the barriers at the White House, through which-he had been told and he believed-an M1 Abrams tank would have a hard time crashing.

  There was a line of elevators. Delchamps led them all to one marked THE TAHITIAN SUITE. In lieu of an UP/DOWN button, it had a keyboard and what looked like a small television screen or computer monitor.

  When Delchamps keyed in a series of numbers, the screen lit up, showing the outline of a hand. A moment after Delchamps placed his hand on the image, there came a ping sound-and the elevator door slid open.

  He waved everybody onto the elevator.

  There were no floor numbers on the elevator control panel, just up and down arrows.

  When Delchamps pushed UP, the opening bars of The Blue Danube came over loudspeakers. After just a faint sensation of movement, the door slid open.

  Parker thought: That was quick. We’re probably only going to the second floor.

  They were on a circular foyer, off of which were eight closed doors and one open double door. A burly man in a white jacket-a twin of the man at the airport-stood next to the open doors, holding an Uzi submachine gun along his leg.

  He ran his eyes among the elevator passengers and then sat down.

  Delchamps walked to and through the open doors with the others following him. Parker, confused for a moment, saw that rather than being on the second floor, they were on a very high floor.

  They were in a large room. There were six men. Two were playing chess while a third-a very young man, almost a boy-watched. A fourth was reading a Spanish-language newspaper, and a fifth was reading the Wall Street Journal. The sixth was working at a laptop computer on a glass-topped coffee table.

  Through wide plate-glass doors, Parker saw two more men-one of them a very large, obviously Latino man and the other a good-looking, six-foot, fair-skinned man in his late thirties who looked American-hoist themselves nimbly out of a swimming pool and start to towel themselves dry.

  A huge black dog like the ones at Lorimer Manor came trotting around the side of the pool with a white soccer ball in his mouth. He dropped it at the feet of the swimmers and then shook himself dry. It produced an explosion of water.

  What the hell is it with these dogs?

  A stunningly beautiful redheaded woman wearing a transparent flaming yellow jacket over a matching bikini-together, the garments left only negligible anatomical details to the imagination-rose gracefully from a chaise longue next to the pool and marched up to Roscoe Danton. She gave him a little hug and offered her cheek for him to kiss.

  Then she put out her hand to Porky, and announced, “I’m Sweaty. Welcome to Cozumel. What can I get you to drink?”

  That has to be a name, Parker decided, because she damn sure doesn’t smell sweaty.

  She smells as if she just took a bath in the most expensive of perfumes Chanel et Cie has to offer.

  “I’ll be almost pathetically grateful for anything with alcohol in it,” Porky said.

  A white-jacketed waiter suddenly appeared.

  “Scotch, double, rocks,” Porky ordered.

  “Twice,” Roscoe said.

  I don’t think ordering a double scotch was the smart thing for me to do, Porky thought. The last thing I need to do when I have to do some serious thinking is get bombed.

  Not only do I not know what I’m doing here, I’m not even sure where the hell “here” is.

  “Well, Gimpy, I see you managed to cheat death once again,” the swimmer Parker thought of as “the American” said. “Please tell me you didn’t bend my nice new bird.”

  Gimpy gave the American the finger.

  The American walked up to Parker.

  “Welcome to Cozumel, Mr. Parker, you’re just in time for an Argentine bife de chorizo, which I believe loosely translates from Spanish as ‘food for the gods.’ I’m Charley Castillo.”

  Parker knew a good deal about Charley Castillo, but this was the first time he’d ever seen him up close, and he was surprised at what he saw. It showed on his face.

  Parker thought: As a matter of fact, the only time I’ve ever seen him at all was on television, when he and the other guy who’d stolen that Tupelov airplane walked off it at Andrews Air Force Base.

  I guess-because of that Castillo name and because he’s a Mexican-American-I expected, if not Zorro, then that Mexican-American actor, Antonio Bandana, or whatever the hell his name is.

  This guy has blue eyes and lighter skin than mine, and damn sure doesn’t look like a Super Spook capable of stealing a Russian airplane right from under Hugo Chavez’s nose. Or, for that matter, stealing two Russian defectors from the CIA station chief in Vienna.

  Oh, Jesus! That’s who the redhead is!

  The Russian defector, the former SVR rezident in Copenhagen, who President Clendennen had been willing-hell, been trying desperately-to swap to the Russians.

  “Something wrong?” Castillo asked.

  “No. I guess I’m a little shook up by everything that’s happened.”

  The waiter put a glass in his hand, and Porky took a healthy swallow.

  Castillo gave his hand to Danton.

  “Thank you for coming, Roscoe,” he said. “I know it’s inconvenient, but it’s important.”

  “Anytime, Charley,” Danton replied.

  He added, mentally: I always try to oblige people who are going to give me a million dollars. And it’s not as if I had much of a choice, is it?

  “Mr. Parker. . can I call you Porky?” Castillo said.

  John David Parker-who loathed being called “Porky”-heard himself saying “Certainly.”

  Castillo nodded, then went on: “Porky, you ever hear ‘What happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas’?
That applies here in spades. You take my meaning?”

  “I think so,” Parker said.

  Roscoe thought, Porky took his meaning, all right. Castillo didn’t have to say, “Otherwise, we’ll have to kill you.”

  Porky figured that out all by himself.

  “Okay,” Castillo said. “Introductions are in order. You’ve met Sweaty.” He pointed at a man who looked very much like himself. “That’s her brother, Tom Barlow. And their cousin Aleksandr Pevsner. And their uncle, Nicolai Tarasov-they answer to Alek and Nick. The fellow watching porn on his laptop is Vic D’Alessandro. .”

  D’Alessandro, without raising his head from the laptop, gave Castillo the finger.

  “. . and that’s my cousin, Fernando Lopez. That’s Stefan-call him Steve-Koussevitzky, and last but certainly not least, Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley, USMC, Retired.”

  Roscoe knew who Stefan Koussevitzky was. The last time he had seen him was on the island. He then had been wearing the uniform of a Spetsnaz major. About the last picture Roscoe had taken on the island as the Tupelov taxied to the runway was one of Koussevitzky sitting on the ground against a hangar wall, applying a compress to his bloody leg. Sweaty had shot him with her tiny.32 Colt automatic.

  How did he get here?

  And what the hell is he doing here?

  A man wearing chef ’s whites appeared at the door to the swimming pool and said something in what Porky recognized as Russian.

  Castillo then announced, “That’s Russian for ‘the steaks are done,’ ” and gestured for everybody to go onto the balcony.

  A long banquet table had been set up around the corner of the building. The man with the chef’s hat and two white-jacketed waiters were lined up next to it. There was a large charcoal grill against the balcony railing, and a table loaded with bottles of wine against the building wall.

  Castillo took a seat at one end of the table, and Alek Pevsner at the other. Sweaty sat at one side of Castillo, and Delchamps sat across from her. Pevsner had Tom Barlow on one side of him and Uncle Nicolai Tarasov on the other.

  After everyone else filled the seats between, the waiters stood ready to pour the wine.

  Pevsner picked up his glass, took a large sip, nodded his head as a signal to the waiter that it met his approval, and then watched as the waiter emptied the bottle between his, Uncle Nicolai’s, and Tom Barlow’s glasses. Much the same thing happened elsewhere at the table.

  Then Pevsner made an announcement, or gave an order, that surprised-perhaps startled-both Roscoe and Porky.

  “Let us pray,” he said, folding his hands piously before him, closing his eyes, and bowing his head.

  He prayed in English: “Dear Lord and Father of mankind, we thank You for the bounty we are about to receive. We thank You for the continued good health and safety of our families. .”

  Roscoe had a somewhat irreverent thought: He sounds as if he’s having a conversation with a friend who happens to be the Almighty.

  “. . and our beloved friends. We ask that You permit us to assist the Archangel Michael and the Blessed Saint George in their and Your holy war against Satan, his wicked works, and his followers. We ask their and Your help in rescuing. . what’s his name again, Karl?”

  “Ferris, Colonel James D. Ferris,” Castillo furnished.

  “. . Colonel James Ferris from the evil men who hold him for Satan’s evil purposes, and we ask that those who are about to do battle in Thy name to this end be given the courage of Saint George.

  “This we ask in the name of Thy son, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  There was a chorus of amens.

  What the hell was that all about? both Porky and Roscoe thought more or less simultaneously.

  Pevsner went on, now icily angry: “Where the hell are the shrimp cocktails?” He then switched to Russian, and apparently repeated what he had said in English, for both waiters hurried inside the building and quickly returned with trays of shrimp cocktails.

  “It doesn’t get much better than this, Roscoe,” Castillo announced. “The shrimp were floating around out there”-he gestured toward the sea-“not six hours ago. And the beef and the wine arrived with the ex-Spetsnaz this morning from Chile.”

  Parker wondered: With the what? The “ex-Spetsnaz”? Is that what he said?

  “Charley, why was it important that I come here?” Roscoe asked.

  “I’d planned to get into this after dinner,” Castillo replied, “but what the hell? The thing is, Roscoe, you’re one hell of a reporter. .”

  What is this, soft soap from Charley Castillo?

  Watch yourself, Roscoe!

  “. . and I figured it was just a matter of time before you figured out that the kidnapping of Colonel Ferris, and the whacking of the other three guys, including my old friend Daniel Salazar, probably has nothing to do with the drug trade. And I wanted to ask you to hold off writing what you learned or intuited.”

  Otherwise what?

  “Otherwise we’ll have to kill you”?

  Do not pass GO.

  Go directly to the cemetery and do not collect one million dollars?

  “Are you going to explain that? If it’s not connected with the drug trade, what’s it all about?”

  “Vladimir Vladimirovich has a problem, Mr. Danton,” Pevsner said.

  Who? Oh! Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.

  “That, and his ego is involved,” Tom Barlow said.

  “That’s part of the problem,” Pevsner agreed, “but his major problem is that everyone in the Russian intelligence community, and the diplomatic community, and of course within the Oprichnina-”

  “Within the what?” Roscoe interrupted.

  Pevsner flashed him an icy glance and went on as if he hadn’t heard the question: “. . is waiting for him to react. He either reacts, or. . what is Carlos always saying? ‘There goes the old ball game.’”

  “Reacts to what?” Roscoe asked.

  “His gross underestimation of Svetlana and her Carlitos,” Tom Barlow said, and laughed.

  “About sixteen months ago, Mr. Danton,” Pevsner said, “Vladimir Vladimirovich thought he had the world by the tail-”

  “The expression, Alek,” Castillo interrupted, “is ‘had the world by the balls.’”

  Delchamps chuckled. Pevsner glared at both of them, and again went on as if he had not been interrupted: “. . but then a series of things went very wrong for him. Again, quoting my friend Charley, ‘cutting to the chase,’ culminating in what happened two months ago-”

  Roscoe quickly did the arithmetic and interrupted: “Exactly two months ago today, Clendennen was ‘persuaded’ to name Montvale Vice President. Is that what you mean?”

  This time Pevsner chose to answer.

  “That had a bearing on it, of course, but what I was thinking of, Mr. Danton, was what happened in the lobby bar of the Mayflower Hotel immediately before that happened.”

  Danton’s face showed his confusion.

  Pevsner went on: “There was a meeting there between Sergei Murov, the SVR rezident in Washington, and Mr. Lammelle-who later that morning would be appointed as head of the CIA-and Dmitri, Svetlana, and Charley.

  “The previous afternoon, as you reported on Wolf News, Charley landed a Tupelov Tu-934A at Andrews Air Force Base. On that pride of the Russian air force were the last barrels of Congo-X that Vladimir Vladimirovich and Lieutenant General Yakov Sirinov had.

  “Thanks to your journalistic discretion, Mr. Danton, which we all deeply appreciate, there was no mention of the Congo-X or General Sirinov either on Wolf News or in The Washington Times-Post.

  “But Sergei Murov, of course, knew about both, and was thus naturally quite anxious to hear what Mr. Lammelle and the others wished to say.

  “Mr. Lammelle got right to the point. He informed Sergei that Secretary of State Natalie Cohen had called the Russian ambassador and told him that unless Murov voluntarily gave up his post and returned to Russia he would be declared persona non grata and
expelled within forty-eight hours.”

  “And I told him,” Sweaty chimed in, “that when he left, I had a little present for Vladimir Vladimirovich I wanted him to take with him; a barrel of Congo-X that had been rendered harmless. And I also told him that if Stefan Koussevitzky and his family were not in Budapest within seventy-two hours-”

  “She would make sure,” Castillo picked up the narrative, laughing, “that every officer of the SVR would know that what Putin was doing behind closed doors when he was running the KGB in Saint Petersburg was write poetry. For some reason, I gather that Saint Petersburg poets are regarded with some suspicion vis-a-vis their sexual orientation.”

  Tom Barlow chuckled.

  “I’m not sure that pouring salt on an open wound was wise,” Pevsner said.

  “I disagree,” Nicolai said. “Always press an advantage, Alek. You know that.”

  “And it worked,” Koussevitzky said. “We were on our way to Argentina via Budapest the next day.”

  “Which caused you to decide that Charley’s offer of an armistice had been accepted,” Pevsner said. “Which we now know is not the case.”

  He let that sink in a moment, and then went on: “It was a low point for Vladimir Vladimirovich, Mr. Danton. He had dispatched General Sirinov personally on the super-secret Tu-934A with the last stocks of Congo-X, confident that President Clendennen would happily exchange Svetlana, Dmitri, and Charley for the Congo-X.

  “When Sergei-who had proposed the exchange to Lammelle-walked into the hotel bar to learn he was about to be declared persona non grata, Charley’s March Hare assault on Hugo Chavez’s La Orchila Island had not only already taken the Congo-X-and rendered it harmless-but also had taken possession of the Tu-934A and taken General Sirinov prisoner.”

  “And under those circumstances, Aleksandr,” Tom Barlow said, “Svetlana was right to rub salt in his wound, and Charley was right to propose the cease-fire.”

  “And he accepted the cease-fire proposal, didn’t he?” Pevsner countered sarcastically. “Even going so far as to permit Stefan and his family to leave Russia. Unless, of course, he did that to lull us to sleep.”