Black Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  “As you may have guessed, Friedler was dealt with by ex-Stasi,” Berezovsky said. “I can give you the names they used, but they won’t do you any good. Their papers were phony. I borrowed them from the Special Center. There was no reason for me to know their names, and they weren’t given to me.”

  “You borrowed them for that one job?”

  Berezovsky nodded. “I didn’t want to run the risk of exposing my own people for that job. General Sirinov agreed and sent me men from the Special Center pool.”

  “Why did you eliminate Friedler?”

  “If your question, Colonel, is why was he eliminated, I think you know. He was asking the wrong questions of the wrong people—the Marburg Group—about their past activities in the international oil trade and the medical-supply business. If you meant to ask why did I execute the operation, General Sirinov delegated that action to me.”

  “I’ll want the names of your men.”

  “I understood that. But they won’t be of much use to you. Once I turn up missing, they will be transferred. The unlucky ones will be shot for failing to learn what I was planning.”

  “And the Kuhls?”

  “I can’t help you with the Kuhls, except to say that that action was most probably carried out by the rezident in Vienna on orders from Sirinov. He probably used Hungarians—ex-Államvédelmi Hatóság—because I read in the paper that a metal garrote was used.”

  “You knew nothing about that action?”

  Berezovsky shook his head. “Nyet.”

  “But you think it may have been a warning to you?”

  Now Berezovsky nodded, and exchanged a long glance with his sister. “Svetlana thinks that may be. And it may have been. On the other hand, it may have been decided it was finally time to reward the Kuhls for their long service to the CIA.”

  You really are a cold-blooded bastard, aren’t you?

  Castillo looked at Svetlana.

  And what about you?

  A cold-blooded bitch, a chippie off the same block?

  “So, what else have you got to offer me?” Castillo asked.

  “I will answer—Svetlana and I will answer—any questions put to us to the best of our ability.”

  “And, of course, volunteer nothing,” Castillo said. “I have heard nothing that sounds like it’s worth two million dollars and putting my South America operation at risk.”

  “What I have to tell you is worth the two million dollars,” Berezovsky said. “And more.”

  “Unfortunately, Tom, ol’ buddy, you’re operating in a buyer’s market,” Castillo said unpleasantly, “and this buyer doesn’t think so.”

  “Tell him,” Svetlana said.

  Berezovsky didn’t respond.

  “Tell me what, Svetlana?” Castillo asked.

  “There is a chemical factory in the former Belgian Congo,” she said.

  “There’re also several in Hoboken, New Jersey. So what?”

  “Weapons-of-mass-destruction chemical factory,” she said.

  Castillo felt the muscles at the nape of his neck contract involuntarily.

  “That sounds like more blue sky,” he said.

  “If you’ve made up your minds not to help us,” Svetlana said, “please be kind enough to tell us.”

  “Tell me more about the Congo.”

  “We know which German companies sold chemicals to it before Iraq fell,” Berezovsky offered reluctantly, clearly unhappy, if not uncomfortable, that that chess piece had been put into play. “We know which German companies are selling chemicals to it now. And running it, of course.”

  “Running it for whom?”

  “Who would you think, Colonel?” Berezovsky asked sarcastically.

  “Answer that question, Colonel, and any others I might pose, or get the hell out of here.”

  Berezovsky glared at him for five full seconds.

  “Iran, of course,” he said.

  “Why isn’t whatever is being made for the Iranians in this factory in the Congolese jungle—”

  “I didn’t say it was in the jungle,” Berezovsky interrupted.

  “—not being made in Iran?” Castillo finished.

  “How modest of you,” Berezovsky said. “Because if it were, that information would have been in Langley years ago. The CIA is not nearly as inept as they would have us believe.”

  Castillo had a quick moment to look at Davidson. It was enough to see in his eyes that he, too, believed what they were being told.

  “You know where this factory is?” Castillo said.

  Berezovsky nodded. “Somewhere between Kisangani and Lake Albert.”

  “That’s a large, empty area.”

  “That’s why it was chosen in the first place.”

  “Chosen by whom?”

  “Some chemical manufacturers in what was then known as East Germany. They said they wanted the land to grow various products for medicinal use.”

  Castillo looked at Davidson and mimed flipping a coin in the air and then looking to see how it came up.

  “You just won, Colonel,” he said. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that if I find out you’ve been less than truthful with me, I guarantee that I personally will hand you over to the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti.”

  Berezovsky nodded calmly.

  “Like yourself, Colonel,” he said, “I am an officer. You have my word.”

  Jesus Christ, does he believe that? Does he think I will?

  “You ever hear that Roman Catholic priests assigned to the Congo—at least in the old days—were excused from their vows of celibacy?” Castillo asked.

  Berezovsky looked at his sister and chuckled.

  “Is true, Svetlana.”

  “Well, much the same thing happens to West Pointers such as myself. When they give us jobs like mine, we are perfectly free to lie, cheat, steal, and get to be pals with other people who do.”

  Berezovsky thought that was amusing. Castillo saw in Svetlana’s eyes that she did not.

  “Okay, what happens now is that when the train pulls into the Westbahnhof, there will be Wiener Tages Zeitung trucks on each platform.”

  “ ‘Each platform’?” Svetlana parroted.

  “You’re familiar with the station?” Castillo asked.

  Both nodded. Vienna’s Westbahnhof—Western Station—was a major Austrian railway terminal.

  “There’re two tracks between the platforms. There will be a truck on each one. Nothing suspicious about them; they’re there every day to load newspapers on the trains for the boonies—the countryside.

  “When the train pulls in, you will already be at the end of the car with your luggage. If everything looks kosher—looks all right—two men will come to the car from the truck on the platform you’d normally use. They will load you into the truck.

  “However, if it appears that people are looking for you on the platform, the men in the truck will create a diversion, and you will leave the train by the other door, which means you’ll have to jump onto the tracks, get onto the other platform, and then get into the truck on the other side.”

  “And what if there is a train on the other track?” Svetlana asked.

  “Then a man will help you pass through it,” Castillo said.

  “Where will they take us?” Berezovsky asked.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Castillo said. “Somewhere safe. A man named Sándor Tor will be with you. I don’t think we should risk being seen together.”

  “Is this man good at what he does?” Berezovsky asked.

  “He was a Budapest police inspector and, before that, he did a hitch in the French Foreign Legion.”

  “I wish you were coming with us,” Svetlana said.

  So do I, sweetheart!

  But are you saying that just to save your ass?

  Or did those sky-blue eyes just tell me you meant it, that you’re back to putting the make on me?

  Careful, Don Juan!

  “I think you should leave one at a time,” Castillo sai
d. “You first, Svetlana.”

  [FIVE]

  The corridor side—as opposed to the compartment side—of the sleeping car was next to the platform as the “Bartok Bela” backed into the Westbahnhof.

  Castillo waited until he saw that both trucks with Tages Zeitung logotypes on their sides were on the platforms and then stepped into the corridor. The trucks were much smaller than he expected; it was going to be a tight fit with four people and their luggage.

  As Davidson waited in the compartment, Castillo looked up and down the platform but couldn’t see anyone he wanted to see.

  It would have been helpful, 007, if you had asked the nice people which car they were in!

  Then he saw something he didn’t want to see.

  A departing passenger, a well-dressed stout gentleman of about forty, was suddenly hit in the stomach by an eight-inch-thick bound stack of the newest edition of the Tages Zeitung. The mass of newsprint knocked him onto his rather ample gluteus maximus and caused him to say very unkind things in a very loud voice to and about the cretins in the newspaper truck.

  Castillo moved quickly back into the compartment. Davidson pointed.

  Berezovsky was hoisting his wife onto the adjacent platform by her hips as Sándor Tor did the same for the girl. Svetlana was throwing their luggage onto the platform. A man in a gray smock took the luggage and threw it into the Tages Zeitung truck there.

  Almost simultaneously, Berezovsky and Tor hoisted themselves onto the platform. Tor directed Berezovsky to the truck, then extended his hand to assist Svetlana onto the platform.

  She was well ahead of him. She had hoisted her skirt to her waist, which revealed that she was wearing both red lacey underpants and, on her inner thigh, some sort of small semiautomatic pistol in a holster.

  She then leapt to the platform with the agility of a gazelle, and, adjusting her skirt in the process, ran quickly to the truck and got in.

  “I have always been partial to women in red panties,” Davidson said.

  “Being a professional, I was of course more interested in the pistol.”

  “You didn’t notice the red panties, right?”

  “In passing, of course.”

  “I noticed the pistol in passing. I have no trouble walking and chewing gum at the same time. It was more than likely a Model 1908 Colt Vest Pocket, in more than likely .25 ACP, although they made some in .32 ACP.”

  “It was my in-passing snap judgment that the garment in question was Victoria’s Secret Model 17B, which comes with a label warning that there is not enough material in the garment for it to be used to safely blow one’s nose.”

  “You don’t think she gets cold, do you?”

  “Russian women have a reputation for being warm-blooded.”

  “You better keep that in mind, Charley. I think that dame is trouble.”

  Castillo grunted. “That would appear to be the understatement of the day.”

  He picked up his briefcase and waved Davidson ahead of him out of the compartment.

  There were three burly men in the corridor. Two of them were carrying the travel kennel. It now had Mädchen inside with her pups.

  That was a good idea, Charley thought. If Mädchen and Max had gotten into a fight, that would’ve been a real diversion.

  The third burly man blocked their way until Billy Kocian came out of the compartment and vouched for them.

  As they walked down the platform and then down the stairs to cars waiting for them on the street, Castillo saw four different groups of men—two pairs, one trio, and one quartet—who could have been waiting for Berezovsky and the others. Or who could be waiting for anyone else.

  The trio seemed unusually interested in Billy Kocian and the procession following him. Which of course could be attributed to Max and Mädchen, who were growling at each other.

  A silver Mercedes S600 with Budapest tags was waiting at the curb. Kocian opened the kennel, motioned Mädchen inside the automobile’s backseat, took a pup in each hand, and followed. A burly man closed the door, and the car immediately drove off.

  A much smaller and older Mercedes pulled up. The burly man opened the front and rear right-side doors and motioned for Davidson and Castillo to get in. Max did so first, taking his place in back.

  “Where are we going?” Davidson asked as the vehicle lurched forward.

  “The Sacher,” Castillo said.

  “As in Sachertorte? The cake of many layers?”

  Castillo nodded. “It was invented there. Billy has an apartment there.”

  “Room enough for us?”

  “Room enough for us and half a dozen other people.”

  [SIX]

  The Bar

  The Hotel Sacher

  Philharmonikerstrasse 4

  Vienna, Austria

  1925 28 December 2005

  Colonel Jacob Torine was surprised to find Castillo feeding Max potato chips in the bar when he walked in, so surprised that he opened the conversation with the question: “They let dogs in here?”

  “Only if they like you,” Castillo said.

  Sparkman and Delchamps chuckled; Torine shook his head.

  “Let’s get a table,” Castillo said, nodding to a table in the corner of the red-velvet-walled and -draped room.

  “When did you get here?” Castillo asked. “More important: Have you got something for me?”

  Delchamps handed him a padded envelope sized to ship compact discs.

  Castillo took his laptop computer from his briefcase, laid it on the table, and booted it up. He then pulled an unmarked recordable CD from the envelope and fed it to the computer.

  “We were here—over in the Bristol—at eleven,” Torine said. “Did you have a nice train ride down here?”

  “A very interesting one,” Castillo said.

  Delchamps moved so he could see the laptop screen.

  “I was about to mention that that disc is classified,” Delchamps said. “But I see I won’t have to. It’s not working. What the hell happened?”

  “ ‘United States Central Intelligence Agency,’ ” Castillo read off the screen. “ ‘Foreign Intelligence Evaluation Division. Top Secret. This material may not be removed from the FIED file-review room or copied by any means without the specific written permission of the Chief, FIED.’ ”

  “How come I can’t see that?”

  “You’re getting a little long in the tooth, Edgar. When was the last time you had your eyes checked?”

  “Come on, Charley!”

  “It’s got a filter over the screen,” Castillo said. “Unless you hold your head in exactly the right position—dead straight on—you can’t read the screen. More important, other people can’t read your screen.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “Radio Shack,” Castillo said. Then: “Really. I think it cost four ninety-five.” Then he said, “Oh, good, this has got Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva’s dossier on it.”

  “You know about her?” Delchamps asked, surprised.

  “Charley and I can even tell you the color of her underwear,” Davidson said. “Professionally, of course.”

  Delchamps looked at him, shook his head, but didn’t respond exactly.

  “We had some trouble getting that disc, Charley,” he said.

  “Tell me,” Castillo said, not taking his eyes from the laptop screen.

  “Well, we got on the horn the minute we took off from Frankfurt. I told Miller what you wanted, and he said, ‘No problem. I’ll put Lester in a Yukon and send him over there. He’s feeling underutilized anyway.’”

  “And then?” Castillo asked.

  “Dick called me back as we were about to land here, and said Langley was giving Lester trouble and the best way he could think to handle it was to go over there himself. That raised the question of how we were going to get the data without taking one of the AFC portables to the hotel and going through all the trouble of setting it up.

  “Then Sparkman volunteered . . .”

  S
parkman snorted.

  “. . . to stay at Schwechat and get the plane fueled, etcetera, and listen to the radio.”

  “That came in about an hour ago, Colonel,” Sparkman said. “Major Miller said he had to call Ambassador Montvale to have him personally call the DCI.”

  “Montvale was supposed to have told Langley to give us whatever we ask for,” Castillo said.

  “That was my impression, too, Ace, but that’s what Miller told Sparkman,” Delchamps said.

  Sparkman nodded and went on: “Major Miller said that some guy he didn’t know said something about not wanting to interfere in any way with an ongoing operation of the highest importance. He wouldn’t say what that operation was. Miller said the guy shit a brick when the DCI said, ‘Give him the dossiers.’

  “And Miller said that’s when, reluctantly, they gave him the female’s dossier. What he said was that, when the DCI was in the file room, he said you wanted everything, and the DCI said, ‘Give them everything.’ That’s one good-looking woman; who is she, Colonel?”

  “Berezovsky’s sister,” Castillo said, then asked, “Edgar, how’d things go with the local spook?”

  “Bad karma, Ace. Your reputation has preceded you.”

  “Explain that,” Castillo ordered.

  “Well, the spook is a her. Miss Eleanor Dillworth, ostensibly the counselor for consular affairs. She’s a friend of Alex Darby’s—or so she said; I’d like to check that with Alex—and I’ve never heard anything bad about her. But she was not what you could call the spirit of enthusiastic cooperation when I asked her what she could tell me about the Kuhls. And that was before your name came up.”

  “How did my name come up?”

  “She asked what I was doing in Washington, and I told her I worked for you.” He paused. “Ace, to respond to that pissed off look on your face, OOA is no longer a secret within the intelligence community.”

  “Shit. I guess I’ve got to get used to that. Okay, so how did she respond when my name came up?”

  “She said, and this is almost verbatim, ‘I know all about that sonofabitch and I want nothing to do with him.’ I naturally inquired of the lady what she meant, and she said that, first, you ruined the soaring career of a Langley pal of hers and, second, you actually got said pal fired.”