Well, here it is. The schmooze starts.
“Beware of Russians bearing booze is my motto, baby.”
“And why didn’t you tell me you’re a legend?”
“Who said I was?”
“Kiril. When I said, ‘Thank you for letting Carlos fly as your co-pilot,’ he said, ‘I was glad to have him. I don’t think anyone knows more about flying in the mountains than he does. He even wrote a book about it. He’s a legend in the American army.’ Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Modesty.”
She pinched his nipple.
Well, she’s a good schmoozer. I almost believe her.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” he said.
“No.”
“What kind of don’t-get-pregnant medicine do you take?” he pursued, then thought: Where the hell did that come from? Did Alek put a little sodium pentothal in that vodka?
“I should have known. .” she said with a sigh.
“You’re not answering the question.”
“You really want to know?”
“I really want to know.”
Why not? Like it says on the CIA’s wall in Langley, “Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.”
“When I stopped living with Evgeny, I stopped taking those once-a-day pills.”
“You were on that stuff when you were married to Evgeny? Why?”
“I didn’t want his baby, obviously.”
Charley thought: And since you certainly don’t want mine. .
He said: “And now?”
“When I knew Dmitri and I were going to try to get out, I went to a Danish gynecologist and she gave me a shot.”
“What kind of a shot?”
“I don’t know what it was called, but she said it would keep me from getting with child for a year. .”
In case you just happened to meet somebody who could be useful if you let him into your pants, right? Like me?
“. . which was enough. I didn’t mind dying, but I didn’t want the bastard child of an SVR interrogator. .”
“What?”
“The first step when breaking down a senior female traitor is to rape her,” Sweaty said matter-of-factly. “Multiple times, different men, over a forty-eight-hour period. I could handle that, but I didn’t want a child coming into the world that way. If they shot me, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but they could have-probably would have-just kept me in prison, where I would wind up giving birth to the bastard child. So I got the shot from the Danish doctor.”
Update on the epiphany: She’s not making this up.
Jesus H. Christ!
“Two weeks later I met you,” Sweaty went on. “And sure enough, the shot kept me from being with child for a year. Actually for fourteen months.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
She met his eyes, and after a moment said: “In seven months, we’re going to have a baby. I told you I was going to give you a son. Sons. Didn’t you believe me?”
He stared into her ice blue eyes, now genuinely warm, and thought: Calling Charley Castillo a miserable lowlife sickly suspicious sonofabitch is the monumental understatement of all time.
Then, taking him absolutely by surprise, his chest started to heave and his eyes teared.
“Oh, God!” he said in anguish. “Oh, Sweaty!”
“I thought you’d be happy?” she said, confused.
“Sweetheart, I am so happy I think I’m going to have a heart attack.”
TWO
The Breakfast Room Casa en el Bosque San Carlos de Bariloche Rio Negro Province, Argentina 0815 18 April 2007
Aleksandr Pevsner, Tom Barlow, Nicolai Tarasov, Stefan Koussevitzky, Kiril Koshkov, and Anatoly Blatov were sitting around the long table when Castillo and Svetlana walked in, holding hands, trailed by Lester Bradley, his arms full with two laptops and a Brick. Janos was in his usual place, sitting in a chair against the wall.
A maid and one of Pevsner’s ex-Spetsnaz waiters were clearing away the breakfast dishes.
I knew Alek was going to play King of the Hill sooner or later, and that just won’t work. Better settle it once and for all right now.
“Sweaty, I don’t think the Reichsmarschall plans to feed us,” Castillo said in English. “Do you think we could possibly have annoyed him in some way?”
“The Reichsmarschall,” Pevsner replied sarcastically, “didn’t know how long it would be before-or even if-Romeo and Juliet could bear to be torn apart. So we decided we’d better start without you.”
Castillo looked around the table. Tom Barlow was smiling. The others were stone-faced.
“Nice try, Hermann, but no brass ring,” Castillo said. “Starting without me would be what Kiril, Anatoly, and I would call really flying blind, and you know it. Or you should.”
Pevsner stared at him icily but didn’t reply.
Castillo turned to the waiter and, switching to Russian, ordered: “Set places for us. Put me at the head of the table, where Mr. Pevsner is now sitting. Podpolkovnik Alekseeva will sit to my right, and Mr. Bradley to my left.”
The waiter looked at Pevsner for direction. He got none.
“Your house, Alek, your call,” Castillo said. “You either stop behaving like you think you’re Ivan the Terrible and I’m a second lieutenant of your household cavalry, or we’re out of here.”
“We’re out of here?” Pevsner parroted sarcastically.
“ETA of Jake Torine and the Gulfstream at San Carlos de Bariloche International is twelve fifteen,” Castillo said. “Unless you agree that I’m the best man to deal with our mutual problem, I’ll just get on it and leave you here to deal with your problem by yourself.”
“Then get on your goddamn airplane and go,” Pevsner said.
“Where Carlos goes, I go,” Svetlana said.
Pevsner shot back: “Then both of you get on the goddamn airplane and go. I will deal with the problem this family faces.”
“Aleksandr,” Nicolai Tarasov said, “I think you should listen to what Podpolkovnik Castillo has to say.”
Pevsner looked at him in disbelief.
“I’ll go further than that,” Tom Barlow said. “You have to listen to what Carlos has to say.”
“Or what?” Pevsner snapped.
“Or when Carlos’s airplane leaves, Lora, Sof’ya, and I also will be on it. Presuming of course Carlos will take us.”
“Of course we will,” Svetlana said. “You’re family.”
“Family? Family? What it looks like to me is that my family is betraying me and taking the side of this goddamn American.”
Svetlana snapped: “You goddamn fool! You are alive because of this ‘goddamn American.’ ”
Castillo thought: She sounds like an SVR lieutenant colonel.
“And if not for Carlos,” Tom Barlow added, “Svetlana, Lora, Sof’ya, and I would never have gotten out of Vienna. And you really would be handling this family problem by yourself.”
“Before this family starts doing to each other what Vladimir Vladimirovich wants to do to us,” Tarasov said, “can we at least listen to what Podpolkovnik Castillo has to say?”
Pevsner glared at each of them.
“I’ll listen,” he said after a moment.
“How gracious of you,” Castillo said, his tone dripping sarcasm. “May I presume that I have the floor?”
“I should have killed you on the Cobenzl,” Pevsner said evenly.
“I guess I don’t,” Castillo said.
“Yes, you do,” Tom Barlow said. “Aleksandr, I just figured your odd behavior out. You just can’t face the fact that Carlos can deal with this problem better than you can. Carlos was right-again-to say that you think you’re Ivan the Terrible and we’re in Russia. You’re not, and we’re not. I say, thank God for Carlos.”
“So do I,” Anna Pevsner put in.
Castillo snapped his head around. He had been unaware she’d come into the room.
“What?” Pevsner snapped.
“Will anyone join me in giving thanks to the Lord for bringing Carlos into the family?” Anna said as she bent her head and put her hands, fingertips touching, together in prayer.
Castillo thought that Svetlana would be agreeable to involving the Deity, but he was genuinely surprised when Nicolai Tarasov and Stefan Koussevitzky got to their feet, bowed their heads, crossed themselves, put their hands together, and waited for Anna to continue.
And really surprised when Aleksandr Pevsner did the same thing.
Ninety seconds later, after everyone had joined Anna in saying “Amen,” Castillo suddenly found himself facing an expectant audience.
And so I have the floor. .
“The way I’m going to do this is with what the U.S. Army calls a staff study,” he began. “If we can get laptops in here for everybody, Lester has my staff study on a thumb drive. .”
“You heard Podpolkovnik Castillo,” Aleksandr Pevsner barked at the waiter. “What are you waiting for? Bring the goddamn laptops! And immediately serve their breakfast, as was ordered.”
THREE
The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 0830 18 April 2007
“Go see who’s out there, Douglas,” President Clendennen ordered. “I called this meeting for half past eight, and that’s what time it is.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” replied Secret Service Special Agent Mark Douglas, who now saw himself as the guardian of the President’s door. He went through the door into the outer office.
The President pointed at Clemens McCarthy, the presidential press secretary, and at Supervisory Secret Service Agent Robert J. Mulligan-both seated on simple chairs against the wall-and motioned them toward the armchairs and couches to which senior officials felt entitled.
“We don’t want these disloyal bastards to feel too comfortable in here, do we?” the President asked rhetorically.
Douglas came back into the office and announced, “The secretary of State, the attorney general, and the FBI director are out there, Mr. President.”
“Look at your watch, and in precisely five minutes let them in,” the President ordered.
“Yes, sir. And the secretary of Defense, Mr. President, and General Naylor are out there.”
“I didn’t send for them,” Clendennen said.
“Secretary Beiderman said he is aware he doesn’t have an appointment, Mr. President,” Douglas said. “He said he will await your pleasure.”
Clendennen considered that a moment, and then said, “Let them in with the others.”
“Yes, sir.”
Five minutes later, Secretary of State Natalie Cohen led Attorney General Stanley Crenshaw, FBI Director Mark Schmidt, Defense Secretary Frederick K. Beiderman, and CENTCOM Commander in Chief General Allan Naylor into the room.
“Since I didn’t send for you, Secretary Beiderman,” the President said, “what’s on your mind? Let’s get that out of the way first.”
“Mr. President, I regret to have to tell you that General Naylor was unable to speak with General McNab as you requested.”
“Why not?”
“General McNab was on his way to-by now is in-Afghanistan,” Beiderman said, and waited for the explosion.
It didn’t come.
Clendennen didn’t say anything at all.
Beiderman went on: “It was our intention, Mr. President-General Naylor’s and mine-to speak with General McNab together. But when General Naylor called, General O’Toole, the deputy SPECOPSCOM commander, reported that General McNab was on his way to Afghanistan.”
The President considered that for a moment, and then said, “Well, we’ll just have to deal with that issue at a later time, won’t we?”
“Yes, sir,” Beiderman said.
“And the photographs?”
“I have them right here, Mr. President.”
“Give them to Mulligan,” the President said. “We wouldn’t want them to disappear, would we?”
“Yes, sir,” Beiderman said. “I mean, no, sir, we wouldn’t.”
Still standing, and thus somewhat awkwardly, he opened his attache case, took out the manila envelope that held the photographs, and handed it to Supervisory Special Agent Mulligan.
“Will that be all, Mr. President?” Beiderman asked.
“No. Stick around. I think you should hear what we’re going to do about Colonel Ferris. You, too, General Naylor.”
“Yes, sir,” they replied, speaking on top of each other.
Natalie Cohen, although she had not been invited to do so, sat down in one of the armchairs. After a moment, Attorney General Crenshaw sat on one of the couches, and a moment later FBI Director Schmidt sat beside him. Beiderman and Naylor remained standing.
“So where do I start?” the President asked rhetorically, and then answered his own question. “With you, Schmidt.”
“Yes, sir?”
“How are things going in El Paso? Has that classified advertisement our Mexican friends have asked for been published yet?”
“Yes, sir. Yesterday. The first time, yesterday. It will run for four days.”
“And when do you think there will be a reply. Today? Or when?”
“Mr. President, my SAC there-William Johnson-I told you about him, sir. He’s one of my best-”
“That’s nice to hear, but it doesn’t answer my question,” the President interrupted.
“I was about to say, sir, that SAC Johnson has determined that the average time for delivery of a letter deposited in a post office to be delivered to a post office box in the same building is a minimum of six hours, and may take as long as twenty-four.”
“You’re telling me it takes our postal service at least six hours to move a letter from the in slot to a box?”
“Yes, sir. And that’s presuming the letter would be placed in a mail drop slot in the post office building itself. If it were placed-as it very likely would be-in one of the drive-past post boxes outside the post office, that could add as much as two hours to that time. Mail is collected from the outside boxes every two hours from eight A.M. to midnight. It is collected only once from there from midnight until eight A.M.
“And of course if a letter were deposited in a mailbox not immediately outside the main post office, that time would be further increased, as the mail is picked up from there usually only twice a day. And if it were mailed in Ciudad Juarez-right across the border from El Paso-that would add at least another twenty-fours to the time. And if it were mailed in, say, in San Antonio, it-”
“I get the picture, Schmidt,” the President said, cutting him off. “There is a very unlikely possibility-on the order of a miracle-that if our Mexican friends went to the main post office in El Paso yesterday, their reply could be in our box right now. If that isn’t the case, we have no idea when we’ll hear from them.”
“If a letter had been deposited in Post Office Box 2333, Mr. President, we’d know about it. SAC Johnson has agents all over that post office,” FBI Director Schmidt announced, more than a little proudly.
“Not only are there surveillance cameras inside and outside the building,” Schmidt went on, “but agents, male and female, are constantly rotated through the lobby. Additionally, there are agents in the working area of the post office physically checking each piece of mail as it is dropped in a slot. Other agents go through mail coming into the post office from all sources.”
Then Schmidt suddenly got carried away with his recitation of SAC Johnson’s accomplishments: “Mr. President, the FBI has got that post office covered like flies on horseshit.”
President Clendennen did not seem very impressed.
He said: “So what happens if somebody drops a letter addressed to box. . whatever. .”
“Box 2333, Mr. President,” Schmidt furnished.
“. . and an agent sees him do it? Or someone comes into the post office and goes looking in Box 2333? What then?”
“In the first case, Mr. President, two things will happen. The envelope will
be opened, and the contents photocopied, sent to the FBI’s San Antonio office, and immediately forwarded to the J. Edgar Hoover Building, where agents are standing by to bring it here. Meanwhile, the letter dropper will be surveilled to see where he goes. Same surveillance will be placed on anyone going to Box 2333.”
“What if he heads for Mexico?” the President asked.
“He will be arrested if he tries that, Mr. President.”
“No,” President Clendennen said. “He will not be arrested.”
“Sir?”
“And you tell your SAC that if this happens, and the person being surveilled even looks like he suspects he is being surveilled, your SAC will be fired. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to get this Colonel Ferris back,” the President said. “And this is how I’m going to do it. First step: Get on the phone right now, Schmidt, and tell your SAC what I just said-that he is not to arrest anybody without my permission, and if anyone he is surveil-ling in this situation even suspects we’re watching him, you will transfer him to Alaska.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go do it,” the President ordered as he pointed to the door to the outer office.
“Mr. President, I can contact SAC Johnson on my cell phone; it has encryption capability.”
“Well, then take your cell phone with its encryption capability in there and call him.”
He waited until Schmidt had reached the door and then turned to Secretary of State Natalie Cohen.
“Has Ambassador McCann proved to be as capable as I thought he would be, Madam Secretary? More important, how close has he managed to get to President Martinez?”
“Ambassador McCann is both highly capable, Mr. President, and has already established a good relationship with President Martinez.”
“I want you to get on the horn to McCann, Madam Secretary, and tell him to see Martinez right now, and get him to send me a letter.”
“Sir?”
“Give it to her, Clemens,” the President said.
McCarthy handed Cohen a sheet of paper.
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