Black Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Yes, I would.”

  “You’re talking about Africa?” Berezovsky said.

  “No. Or at least not yet. I have the gut feeling we should get out of the Buenos Aires area. I just haven’t figured out where to go.”

  “That’s a no-brainer, Ace,” Delchamps said. “Shangri-La.”

  Uncle Remus made a thumbs-up gesture.

  Svetlana asked, “Where?”

  “All any of us really know about the Congo is to keep your hand on your wallet and don’t drink the water,” Delchamps said. “But Ambassador Lorimer was stationed there. He was running through the bush around Stanleyville with a couple of ASA guys when the cannibals were eating missionaries in the town square.”

  “They didn’t eat all of them, Edgar,” Leverette said. “I mean, they ate only their livers. That kept them from being hurt by bullets.”

  “I stand corrected,” Delchamps said.

  “When we jumped the Belgian paratroops on Stanleyville to save the missionaries,” Castillo said, “it was called Operation Rouge; I read the after-actions. They jumped them onto the airfield. So there’s an airport there.”

  “Maybe was,” Jack Davidson said. “According to GoogleMaps and the CIA, there’s no airport now.”

  “Supplies to the laboratory would have to be flown in,” Svetlana offered. “So there has to be an airport. What is this ‘Shangri-La’?”

  “Charley, McNab wasn’t kidding about wanting to know everything,” Dick Miller said. “If you don’t have your oral Ph.D. thesis in African studies ready to recite when we go to see him, he’ll pull the plug on you. And we’re going to need that 727.”

  “Carlos, my darling,” Svetlana said. “What about Rule One?”

  He looked at her until he took her meaning.

  “Shangri-La is a mythical city of splendor somewhere in Asia,” he said solemnly, then added: “It’s also the name of the estancia Lorimer bought in Uruguay. His father—a retired ambassador—and mother inherited it and moved there when they lost their home in New Orleans to Hurricane Katrina.”

  “And,” Davidson added, “where they have a half-dozen guys from China Post keeping them company. Odds are one or more of them will know more about the Congo than any of us do.”

  “ ‘China Post’?” Berezovsky asked, smiling.

  “Shanghai China Post Number One of the American Legion in Exile, Tom,” Leverette said. “Surely you’ve heard of it?”

  “Of course,” Berezovsky said.

  “Okay,” Castillo said, chuckling. “Shangri-La it is. Chief of Staff, let’s hear your plan.”

  Miller looked at him in disbelief.

  “Charley, I wouldn’t know where to begin . . .” he protested before he realized his chain was being pulled.

  “He got you, Gimpy, didn’t he?” Delchamps said.

  Miller shook his head in mock disgust. “My experience with him, over long years, is that he’s most dangerous when he thinks he’s being funny.”

  “And that evens the score, doesn’t it, Ace?”

  Castillo said: “Okay, let me have a shot at it, then, since our crippled friend here has owned up to his inadequacy. First question: Are you all right to fly, Dick?”

  Miller nodded.

  “I don’t think Paul or Susanna needs to go to Shangri-La, because they’re not going to Africa. We can bring them up to speed after we find out what we can find out at the estancia. That will leave Paul free to deal with Duffy.”

  He looked at the others. With the exception of Berezovsky and Svetlana, who showed no reaction, everyone either nodded or gave a thumbs-up.

  “You all right, Tom, with sending your wife and Sof’ya to Bariloche?” Castillo asked.

  Berezovsky nodded.

  “Two ways to do that,” Castillo went on, “three, if they fly there commercial, and commercial means that Sof’ya would have to leave Marina here with Susanna. The other two options are to drive them there—which would attract the least attention, but it’s a hell of a long ride—or for Dick and me to fly them there in the Gulfstream. Comments?”

  “No-brainer, Charley,” Leverette said. “The Gulfstream.”

  The others showed their agreement, except Berezovsky, whose face was inscrutable.

  Castillo went on. “All right, then. Alfredo, get on the horn to Aleksandr and let’s hear what he thinks. When we know that, Paul, you call Duffy and see what he has to say about how to get the women to Jorge Newbery without attracting any attention.”

  “I’m sure you are considering that the comandante will then know where my wife and daughter will be,” Berezovsky said.

  “He’s a smart cop, Tom,” Castillo said. “He already knows where they are now, and I think he’ll suspect they’re going to Aleksandr’s place; he knows that I took Susan there. And with that in mind, Paul, tell Duffy we’re moving the women to Bariloche.”

  Munz stood, walked to a corner of the room, and took out his cell phone.

  “And while he’s doing that,” Castillo said, “we can begin to contemplate the interesting problem of getting everybody else from here to Shangri-La. Alex, you’re confident about Tom’s and Susan’s new documents?”

  “They’re good,” Darby said.

  “Which should they use? Uruguayan or Argentine?”

  “Argentines can travel back and forth to Uruguay on their national identity cards. I say use the Argentine.”

  “Done,” Castillo said.

  “Charley, it might be a good idea to get them U.S. visas,” Darby said.

  “I see a couple of problems with that,” Castillo said after a moment.

  “Such as? All I have to do is hand them to a consular officer I know and tell him to stamp them.” He paused, then explained himself: “He’s a spook-in-training, and knows what I really do for a living.”

  “I think I met him yesterday,” Castillo said. “My problem is Ambassador Silvio. I don’t like going around him, and he was there when I had my little chat with Montvale.”

  “Your call,” Darby said. “But visas may come in handy somewhere down the pike.”

  Castillo considered that a moment.

  “Alex, when this can be worked in, go see the ambassador. When all else fails, tell the truth. Hand him the passports. Say, ‘Mr. Ambassador, Castillo would like to see these fine Argentines get multiple entry visas, but only if it doesn’t put your ass in a crack.’ Or diplomatic words to that effect. If he seems to be thinking hard about it, tell him I said, ‘It’s okay. Thanks anyway.’ ”

  “Done,” Darby said. “Another thing, Charley. Maybe me driving to Uruguay—I mean, taking a vehicle on the Buquebus to Montevideo—would be a good idea. I’m accredited in both places, so no luggage searches. In case you want to take weapons. . . .”

  “There’re weapons in the Gulfstream,” Castillo said.

  “Getting them out of the airplane in Uruguay might be a problem, and I have all we’ll need at the embassy.” He stopped and smiled. “Last week, I permitted the consular officer I mentioned to come in at night and clean and inspect them for me. He was thrilled.”

  There were chuckles.

  “And one more thought, Charley: I take either Tom or Susan with me. There would be less chance that some zealous immigration guy who may have seen the Interpol warrants would have his attention heightened by seeing just one or the other. They’ll be presumed to be traveling together.”

  “And if you drove, we’d have at least one set of wheels in Uruguay, wouldn’t we? Okay, you drive. Next question: Where do you drive? Where do Dick and I take the plane?”

  Alfredo Munz walked back to the table. “Aleksandr suggests flying into San Martín de los Andes . . .” he began.

  Castillo’s face and shrug showed he didn’t understand.

  “. . . a small town several hours’ drive from Bariloche.”

  “Can we get the Gulfstream in there?”

  “Aerolíneas Argentinas flies a 737 in there once a day, weather permitting. When they’re not expecting t
hat flight, the control tower shuts down. What Aleksandr suggests—this is what he often does in the Lear—is file a flight plan to Bariloche, then land at San Martín, unload most of the passengers there, then go on to Bariloche. If any questions are asked, the pilot made a precautionary landing. Aleksandr will have people waiting in both places. Then they will drive to the house, instead of going to Llao-Llao and taking a boat from the hotel dock.”

  “Okay, done. Still-open question: How do we get from where we’re going—where are we going?”

  “Alek suggests Punta del Este,” Munz said.

  “Why?” Castillo asked. “That has to be a couple of hundred miles from the estancia.”

  Munz smiled.

  “Maybe he thinks you’d have some trouble landing the Gulfstream at Tacuarembó International,” he said.

  “Stupid question,” Castillo said, chagrined.

  “And it’s the busy season in Punta,” Munz said. “One more private jet won’t attract much attention—certainly less than at Carrasco in Montevideo.”

  “After deep and profound consideration, I have decided that we’ll go to Punta del Este,” Castillo said.

  He took his cellular telephone from his pocket and slid it across the table to Miller.

  “Autodial five will get you the weather at Ezeiza, Dick. Get us the weather to Bariloche and Punta del Este.”

  Miller opened his laptop, waited until it awoke from its sleep mode, then picked up the cell phone.

  “Alek also suggests we take Lee-Watson with us,” Munz said.

  “If I ask why, would my stupidity show again?”

  “He has a connection with the Conrad,” Munz said. “Alek thinks you should stay there. Keep the apartments in case we need them.”

  “What apartments?”

  “He owns half a dozen, maybe more, luxury apartments in those high-rises along the beach. Lee-Watson manages them for him; people rent them for a week, two weeks. They’re not safe houses but could be used for that purpose. No questions would be asked if strangers show up, rent cars, etcetera.”

  Castillo nodded his understanding, then asked, “So, stay at the Conrad and then drive to Shangri-La in the morning?”

  Munz nodded.

  “Where is Lee-Watson?”

  “Having a cup of tea in the breakfast room. I didn’t think you’d want him here for this.”

  “Ask him to join us, please.”

  [TWO]

  Aeropuerto Internacional Capitán de Corbeta Carlos A. Curbelo

  Maldonado Province

  República Oriental del Uruguay

  1705 3 January 2006

  The wheels hardly chirped when the Lorimer Charitable & Benevolent Fund Gulfstream III touched down on the runway.

  “You must have been practicing, Charley,” First Officer Miller said to Captain Castillo over the intercom. “That wasn’t your usual let’s-bounce-three-times-down-the-runway-and-see-if-we-can-blow-a-tire landing.”

  “With all the time you’ve spent flying right seat with me, First Officer, I would’ve thought by now you’d have learned that landings come to me naturally, as a by-product of my superb reflexes and, of course, genius.”

  A grunt came through Castillo’s headset.

  “You ain’t no genius when you’re thinking with your dick, Captain. In fact, you ain’t never been too smart in that department.”

  Castillo turned to look at Miller. “If you have something to say, Gimpy, say it,” he said unpleasantly.

  Miller held up both hands, suggesting it had been only an idle, general comment.

  Bullshit, Dick!

  You’re just waiting to offer your heartfelt, well-meaning philosophical wisdom vis-à-vis my outrageous relationship with Svet.

  Well, I should’ve expected it.

  Everything so far today has gone well, almost perfectly, far better than one could reasonably expect.

  Berezovsky’s wife and little girl and Marina, their Bouvier des Flandres pup had arrived quietly at Jorge Newbery at exactly the right time. The Gulfstream had gone wheels-up five minutes later. The odds were strong that no one had seen them.

  Forty minutes into the flight, Sergeant Kensington had called over the secure AFC radio and reported: “Mr. Darby said to tell you that Ambassador Silvio says ambassadors can’t do visas—but that he asked the consul, who does, and who was delighted to authorize multiple-entry visas for any friends of Colonsel Castillo.”

  Thirty-five minutes after that, they landed at the San Martín de los Andes airport. Max had barely begun his nose gear ritual when three Mercedes-Benz SUVs pulled up beside the Gulfstream.

  There had been a brief but intensely emotional moment as everybody, tears running shamelessly down their cheeks, embraced everyone else. Castillo had been a little wet-eyed himself.

  Then everyone—including Ivan the Terrible and Marina—loaded into the SUVs and took off.

  Max looked at Castillo with his head cocked, as if asking, Where the hell are those people going with my children? But when he heard the whine as Miller began to restart the engines, he trotted quickly up the stairs into the fuselage without waiting to be told.

  Five minutes later, they broke ground.

  The fuel stop at Bariloche posed no problems whatever, and when Miller checked the weather he learned it would be perfect all the way to Punta del Este.

  And they found that the immigration authorities had the same immigration setup at Bariloche as the Buquebus had in Buenos Aires. Which was: An Argentine immigration officer put the DEPARTED ARGENTINA stamp in their passports, officially stating that they had left Argentina. Then he slid the passports to a Uruguayan immigration officer sitting next to him, who put the ENTERED URUGUAY stamp in the passport. There would be no immigration formalities when they got to Punta del Este.

  An hour into what would be the final leg, Sergeant Kensington called again to report that Alfredo, Darby, and “their friend” were aboard the Buquebus about to leave for Montevideo. That meant there had been no questions asked about Berezovsky’s new national identity card.

  And the flight to Aeropuerto Internacional Capitán de Corbeta Carlos A. Curbelo had been smooth, uneventful, and had ended in what Castillo with all modesty considered to be one of his better landings.

  And what that means, as stated clearly in Castillo Rule Seven, is:

  “That inasmuch as everything has gone perfectly so far, something will surely fuck up big-time in the next couple of minutes.”

  “The last time I landed here, we were the only airplane on the field,” Castillo said as they turned off the runway to trail a FOLLOW ME pickup truck to where they would be parked. “Now look at it!”

  There were too many airplanes on the field to count, but the bigger aircraft among them were four glistening Boeing 737s. Two bore the logotypes of LAN-CHILE and Aerolíneas Argentinas. The other two—GOL and OceanAir—Castillo had never heard of, but to judge by the flag on their vertical stabilizers, both were Brazilian.

  The FOLLOW ME pickup truck led them between lines of private aircraft—mostly Beechcraft turboprops, but there were two Gulfstreams, one with Brazilian tail numbers and the other with American.

  “What is this place, anyhow?” Miller asked.

  “Where the rich of South America come in the summer to rest up from counting their money. In the winter, it’s just about deserted. The last time I was here, it was winter and it looked like a science fiction movie. Lots of plush apartment houses, multimillion-dollar beachfront houses—and just about no people.”

  “What were you doing here?”

  “Trying to grab Howard Kennedy.” He paused and made a question of the statement: “The renegade FBI agent who went to work for Pevsner?”

  Miller nodded his understanding.

  “Well, Kennedy sold Pevsner out. He tried to have him whacked, and in the process damned near got me. Would have gotten me if Lester hadn’t been there. My payback plan was to take Mr. Kennedy home so the FBI could arrange for him to be sent to t
he Federal ADMAX prison in Florence, Colorado, thereby earning me the profound gratitude of the FBI. For some reason, the FBI doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Miller said. “Jesus, look at all these airplanes!”

  “The last time I was here, it was just little ol’ me.”

  “Somebody had already whacked Kennedy when you got here, right?”

  “Yeah, unfortunately. Pevsner decided that being raped on a regularly scheduled basis was not sufficient punishment for Howard having taken Pevsner’s money and then betrayed him. When we got to the Conrad, which essentially is the Caesars Palace of Punta del Este, it looked like every cop in Uruguay was there.

  “There’s a Uruguayan cop—the chief inspector of the Uruguayan Policía Nacional, one José Ordóñez—who also doesn’t like me, by the way. I hope not to see him—”

  “Charley, I’ve never been able to understand why so few people actually do like you.”

  Miller then pointed out the cockpit window.

  The FOLLOW ME truck had stopped, and the driver and another man were getting out.

  “Finally,” Castillo said. “I thought he was taxiing us back to Montevideo.”

  They were wanded into a parking space, and they shut down the aircraft. Miller unfastened his harness.

  “Hold it a second. Let me finish,” Castillo said.

  “Okay.”

  “Ordóñez was in the lobby of the Conrad when we walked in. He took us to one of the better suites, where taped to two chairs were the bodies of Howard Kennedy and a guy who Delchamps recognized as Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Zhdankov of Putin’s Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight Against Terrorism. Taped because they had been beaten to death. Slowly, with what in Chief Inspector Ordóñez’s professional opinion was an angle iron. They started by smashing fingers and toes, then worked up to the larger parts. It was pretty gruesome.”

  “I wonder what your good buddy Pevsner would do to some guy who didn’t do right by his cousin?” Miller asked lightly.

  Castillo shook his head. “Not a problem, my friend, because that’s not going to happen.”