“You’ve met Sergei, I understand,” Pevsner said. “But I don’t think you’ve met José Rafael Monteverde.”
Both men looked at Castillo. Monteverde looked terrified. Murov, Castillo decided after a moment, seemed resigned to his fate, whatever that might turn out to be.
“Untie their hands, Janos,” Castillo ordered in Hungarian. “Lester, get them water and a cigarette if they want one.”
Janos looked at Pevsner for guidance. Pevsner nodded.
Lester went to the wet bar for water.
“Where is Colonel Ferris?” Castillo asked.
Neither man replied.
“I don’t know about you, Mr. Monteverde,” Castillo said in Hungarian, “but you’re a professional, Mr. Murov. You know what options you have. You either answer my questions or Janos will slowly beat you to death.”
Castillo looked at Janos. “What have you been using on him?”
Janos flicked his wrist and a telescoping wand appeared in his hand. He flicked it back and forth. It whistled.
“That’s the one with the little ball of shot at the end?” Castillo asked.
Janos extended the wand to show Castillo the small leather shot-filled ball at the end of his wand.
“Very nice,” Castillo said. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen one.”
“As one professional to another, Colonel Castillo, can we get this over with quickly?” Murov asked, in Russian.
“Do you speak Hungarian, Mr. Monteverde?” Castillo asked, in Hungarian.
Monteverde’s face showed he did not.
“Pity,” Castillo said, in Russian. “Hungarian seems to have become the lingua franca of interrogations like this. Now you won’t know what Mr. Murov and I are talking about, will you?”
Monteverde’s face showed he understood this.
Castillo then said in Hungarian: “As a matter of personal curiosity, Mr. Murov—though it doesn’t really matter—when did you become aware of President Clendennen’s mental instability? Before or after he became President?”
“It wasn’t much of a secret, was it, Colonel?” Murov replied.
“Lester, where’s the cigarettes I asked for for these gentlemen?” Castillo asked.
Janos gave a quick order in Hungarian, and the waiter walked to Lester and handed him a package of Sobranie cigarettes.
Bradley looked at them dubiously.
“Those are Sobranie, Les,” Castillo explained. “I don’t know whether those are Russian made or the ones they make in London.”
“Huh?” Lester said.
“Cigarettes are very bad for your health, Lester. I wouldn’t smoke one of those, if I were you.”
“No, sir, I hadn’t planned to,” Bradley said.
Everyone on the patio—including Murov and Monteverde—looked askance at the exchange.
Lester walked to Murov and Monteverde, handed them cigarettes, then lit them for them.
“Thank you,” Monteverde said.
“Beware of either Americans or Hungarians bearing gifts,” Castillo said in Hungarian. “Especially counterfeit Russian cigarettes.”
Pevsner and Tarasov smiled and shook their heads.
Monteverde eyed his cigarette suspiciously.
“It’s soaked with sodium pentothal, of course,” Castillo said, in Spanish. “My protocol is to use that before pulling fingernails and doing other things like that.”
Monteverde’s face showed that he was perfectly willing to accept that.
I think I’ve got him.
“Tell me, Señor Monteverde,” Castillo then went on in Spanish, “when you were in Cuba, did you happen to run into Major Alejandro Vincenzo?”
Monteverde’s face showed that he had, and was surprised that Castillo knew of the Cuban Dirección General de Inteligencia officer.
“No,” he said.
“He got in a gun fight with Lester in Uruguay,” Castillo said, conversationally. “Right out of the O.K. Corral. Lester put him down with a head shot, offhand, from at least one hundred yards. That’s why we call him ‘Dead Eye.’”
Monteverde looked at Castillo as if he couldn’t believe what Castillo had just said.
“Well, those things happen in our line of business, don’t they?” Castillo said. “Sometimes people just don’t make it.”
He let that sink in for a moment, and then said, “Lester, why don’t you take Mr. Monteverde back where he came from? What we’re going to do next is see if Colonel Alekseeva and Chief Pena can’t talk Señor Monteverde into making the right decisions tonight, before things get unpleasant.”
He paused.
“You heard me, Monteverde. Stand up!” he ordered, unpleasantly. Monteverde did so, and then as he was again suddenly aware he was naked, he put his hands over his crotch.
“Not necessary, Señor Monteverde,” Castillo said. “Colonel Alekseeva is also a professional. That’s not the first ding-dong she’s ever seen, although I don’t think she’s ever seen one quite that—how do I say this?—unappealing. You have an accident or something or is that the way it usually looks?”
Flushing from his forehead to halfway down his chest, Monteverde allowed himself to be led, shuffling in his plastic ankle ties, off the patio. Pena and Svetlana walked after him.
Castillo waited until Monteverde was out of hearing, and then turned to Murov.
“Well, what brilliant psychological weapon do I use on you, Sergei? Threaten to have ‘Saint Petersburg Poet’ chiseled on your tombstone?”
Pevsner and Tarasov chuckled.
Despite himself, Murov smiled.
“Now I know, Aleksandr,” Murov said, “why you wanted him here. He’s a master at this, isn’t he?”
“No, I am but a simple novice sitting at the feet of Master Pevsner,” Castillo said. “But this much I know, Sergei: When you get over your humiliation at being grabbed by Aleksandr’s people, you will decide yourself that you don’t have any choice but to tell me everything I want to know.”
“Or Janos will beat me to death with his wand?”
“Or I’ll leave you tied up on the steps of the Russian embassy in Mexico City and let Vladimir Vladimirovich decide how painfully you should die.”
He looked around and caught the waiter’s eye.
“Yes, thank you, I will have another sip of that lovely Cabernet Sauvignon while I’m waiting.”
Ten minutes later, Svetlana came back onto the patio and somewhat imperiously signaled to the waiter for a glass of wine. When he delivered it, Castillo held up his glass.
“How much of that have you had?” she challenged.
Castillo caught her eye. “Try to get this straight. You may ask that only after we’re married. And if you keep asking now, your chances of that happening diminish exponentially.”
She glared at him but did not respond.
“Well?” Castillo asked. “How did you do with Señor Monteverde?”
“He’ll be out in a minute,” she replied. “He’s cleaning himself up. When Juan Carlos was dangling him from the balcony, Monteverde threw up all over himself.”
“‘Dangling from the balcony’?” Castillo parroted.
“Juan Carlos hung him by his foot from the balcony,” she said, “using a sheet for a rope. When he was swinging back and forth”—she demonstrated with her hands—“Juan Carlos took another sheet and ripped it. It made a sound loud enough for Monteverde to hear. Then Juan Carlos let the sheet rope drop another couple of feet. Monteverde thought he was about to die.”
“It would then be safe to presume that Señor Monteverde is going to be cooperative?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Your Colonel Ferris is being held in Retainhuled, Guatemala. It’s about fifty miles from the border.”
“Who’s holding him?” Castillo asked.
“Venezuelan drug traffickers under the direction of the SVR,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Which brings us to the senior officer of the SVR involved in this. What are we going to do with you, Sergei?”
>
“I’d say that’s in the hands of God, wouldn’t you, Svetlana?” Murov replied.
“Actually, it’s in my hands,” Castillo said, “and I’m not nearly as nice as God.”
“Don’t blaspheme, Carlito,” Svetlana said, and then added, “He pretends to be a heathen, Sergei. But he’s really not.”
“You want to take a chance betting on that, Sergei?” Castillo asked. “Let’s start over, before I tell Janos he can start up again with his flyswatter. Here’s where we are: Monteverde is going to tell me everything he knows, and you know that. But what he doesn’t know, and what I want from you, is the names of the people you have in the Oval Office, and I will do whatever I have to find out.”
“And you know I can’t tell you that,” Murov said. “I have given my vow to God, and whatever happens to me is in his hands.”
“Whatever happens to you in is my hands,” Castillo said. “But I digress. I want those names. And will do whatever I have to do to get them. That includes guaranteeing you asylum in the United States, or anywhere else you’d like to go, and a hell of a lot of money. Opening bid, one million.”
Murov shook his head. “How could I shave in the morning, Colonel Castillo, looking out on some Caribbean beach, knowing that the price of my being there was my family in the basement of the Lubyanka prison?”
“Just as soon as Vladimir Vladimirovich finds out you fucked up again, that’s where Vladimir Vladimirovich is going to put them, and you know that, too.”
“The matter is in God’s hands,” Murov repeated doggedly.
“Jesus Christ, you people make me sick! Are you listening to yourself, Murov? You sound like a character in a very bad Russian novel. In the first place, committing suicide is not noble. I’m not sure, but I strongly suspect, in this religion all of you keep spouting, it’s also a sin.”
“I’m not committing suicide,” Murov said.
“What would you call it? And you’re the one who put your beloved wife and kiddies in a Lubyanka cell, Murov. You. Don’t try to hang that on Vladimir Vladimirovich. That’s the rules of this game we play, and you damn sure know them as well as I do.”
Murov was silent.
“Okay, Murov. For the sake of argument, after Janos literally beats you to death with that thing of his, you nobly refuse to tell me what I want. You pass out. You open your eyes, and there you are, inside the pearly gates. Saint Peter looks down at you.
“‘Tell me, my son, why the fuck didn’t you at least try to get your beloved wife and kiddies out of Lubyanka?’ What are you going to say, Sergei? ‘Nothing I could do, Pete. It was in God’s hands.’ Jesus!”
“Carlos, you’re blaspheming,” Svetlana said.
“Butt out, Sweaty!” Castillo snapped.
“You just don’t get people out of Lubyanka, Colonel, and you know that,” Murov said.
“Maybe not, but a man—particularly a Christian—would fucking well try for his family,” Castillo fumed. “And what are you going to say when good ol’ Saint Pete asks—”
“Carlos, stop!” Svetlana said.
“Stay out of this, Svetlana,” Nicolai Tarasov said, sharply.
“He’s blaspheming,” she said.
“I don’t think so,” Tarasov said. “What it looks like to me is that he’s trying to save Sergei’s soul.”
The support came as a shock to Castillo. He forgot what he had been saying.
“Where the hell was I?” Castillo said aloud. “Okay. So, what are you going to say to Saint Peter, Saint Sergei, when he asks, ‘Why the hell wouldn’t you tell Castillo what he wanted to know? I know he’s a heathen, but what was he doing wrong? Were the Americans about to nuke Moscow? Maybe drop a couple of barrels of Congo-X on it? Did you really believe, as well educated as you are, as widely experienced, that the Americans were planning to attack Holy Mother Russia? For that matter, anyone?”
“Fuck you, Colonel Castillo,” Murov said. “And may God forgive you!”
Castillo saw that Svetlana had tears running down her cheeks.
“I am still in charge here, Aleksandr,” Castillo said, but it was a question.
Pevsner nodded.
“Janos,” Castillo then ordered, “put some clothes on him, and take him back where you found him. And leave him.”
“You’re still going to interrogate him?” Svetlana asked.
“No, my love, I’m through interrogating him. He wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway; you heard him, God is on his side. And I won’t give the miserable bastard the satisfaction of having Janos beat him to death. Three’ll get you ten he’s already into self-flagellation. Get him out of my sight, Janos.”
Janos, Castillo noticed, did not look this time to Pevsner for permission to carry out the order.
Janos went to where Murov was seated, pulled him to his feet, and started marching him out of the room.
“Hand me the wine, my dear, and spare me your comments,” Castillo ordered.
Svetlana complied docilely.
“Colonel Castillo,” Murov called.
Castillo looked. Murov and Janos were at the door. Janos had his arms wrapped around the struggling naked man.
Castillo made the sign of the cross.
“Bless you, my son,” he called. “Go in peace, and sin no more. Amen.”
“Carlos!” Svetlana said, in almost a whine.
“It’s Clemens McCarthy, Colonel Castillo,” Murov said. “And a Secret Service agent named Douglas.”
[THREE]
The President’s Study
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
0805 21 April 2007
Secret Service Special Agent Mark Douglas pushed the door open and announced, “Mr. President, the secretary of State.”
“Well, show her in,” President Clendennen ordered.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Secretary Cohen said.
“Dare I hope, Madam Secretary, that you have heard from that miserable sonofabitch Martinez?” Clendennen asked.
“Actually, Mr. President, I’ve just spoken with Ambassador McCann,” she replied. “President Martinez called him with the information we’ve been waiting for. I took the call from the ambassador just now in my car.”
“And?”
“Mr. D’Alessandro is to meet with a Mexican deputy attorney general, a man named Manuel José Guzmán, at one o’clock this afternoon in the Camino Real Acapulco Diamante in Acapulco. Señor Guzmán will have the police chief, Pena, with him.”
“The where?”
“The Camino Real Acapulco Diamante, Mr. President. The literal translation is ‘Royal Road Acapulco Diamond.’ What it is is one of the better hotels in Acapulco.”
“Does this man D’Alessandro know how to find it? Where is he? How’s he going to get from where he is to Acapulco?”
Secretary Cohen said: “I understand that Mr. D’Alessandro is with General Naylor in the El Paso Marriott.”
“You heard that, Douglas,” the President ordered. “Get this man or General Naylor on the phone.”
“D’Alessandro may be registered as José Gomez, Mr. Douglas,” the secretary of State said.
“What the hell is that all about?” the President demanded.
“I don’t know, sir,” she said.
“Well, goddammit, don’t you think you should?”
“General Naylor told me that, sir,” she said. “I have no idea why Mr. D’Alessandro might be registered under another name. I was just trying to be helpful to Mr. Douglas.”
“I have General Naylor for you, Mr. President,” Douglas said, extending the handset of the red presidential circuit telephone to him.
“We finally heard from the goddamn Mexicans, General,” the President began the conversation. “Are you in contact with this man D’Alessandro?”
The telephone was not set on loudspeaker; only the Washington end of the conversation could be heard by others in the presidential study.
“This is the President, Mr. D’Alessandro,” Clendennen said. “Let me make this clear from the beginning. If you fuck this up, you’re not going back to Fort Bragg. If I can’t figure out some way to fire you, you’re going to find yourself counting envelopes in the Nome, Alaska, post office. You clear on that, Mr. D’Alessandro?”
“Okay. We’ve heard from the goddamn Mexicans. You’re to meet a deputy attorney general . . . what’s his name, Madam Secretary?”
Secretary Cohen furnished the information.
“By the name of Manuel José Guzmán,” the President went on. “In the Diamond hotel in Acapulco at one this afternoon—
“Yes, the Camino Real Acapulco Diamante,” the President confirmed impatiently. “He’s going to have this cop, Pena, with him. Can you make it down there in time?
“Okay. By the time you get there, these people will have figured out that they didn’t make a fool of me at the Juárez airport this morning. So let them know I’m mad. Tell them we’re not going to produce this Mexican bandito Abrego until we have proof we’re about to get Ferris in exchange for him. Like that photograph they wanted of Abrego standing outside somewhere recognizable in El Paso. Tell them to take a picture of Ferris standing outside the Oaxaca State Prison holding a copy of that day’s newspaper—
“How the hell am I supposed to know what newspaper? Find out what it is, and tell them to use that. And tell them to give the photo to somebody from the embassy. Hold one.”
The President turned to Secretary Cohen.
“How do we do what I just said?” he asked.
“I suppose I could ask Ambassador McCann to send an embassy officer to Deputy Attorney General Guzmán’s office,” she said, after a moment’s thought.
“Ask him, hell,” the President said. “Tell him. D’Alessandro, the embassy’s going to send an officer to Guzmán just as soon as Secretary Cohen tells him to. Have Guzmán, or this cop, give him the picture. He’ll send it to me. When I see it, we’ll move Abrego down there. Got it?
“And as soon as you do this, you get back to El Paso and stand by. Got it?
Covert Warriors Page 34
