Black Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I remember you telling me something in those exact words before. Actually, on several occasions. The first was years ago in that motel in Daleville, when you were contemplating nailing the deputy post commander’s daughter. . . .”

  Where the hell did that come from? Castillo thought.

  He said: “That’s a long time ago. This is now.”

  Miller shrugged.

  “Cutting this short,” Castillo went on, “Ordóñez has twice told me I’m not welcome in Uruguay. The day we found Kennedy and Zhdankov, he told me to get out and stay out. And he told me again the time I used Shangri-La as a refueling point when we flew those black choppers off the Gipper. He sees me causing trouble for Uruguay.”

  “But he took the helicopters, right, when you were through with them?”

  “Not the way you make it sound, Dick. He’s a good guy, ethical, but not bribable.”

  “Really?” Miller replied sarcastically.

  “Yeah, really,” Castillo said angrily. “The point of this little lecture is that I want to pass through Punta del Este as quietly as possible. I do not want to have Ordóñez adding to our problems.”

  “As quietly and inconspicuously as possible, right?”

  “Right.”

  “That may be just a little difficult, the inconspicuous part.”

  He pointed out the cockpit window again.

  A glistening white Lincoln stretch limousine had driven up beside the Gulfstream.

  “That’s a mistake; that can’t be for us,” Castillo said. “What that looks like is the Conrad Resort & Casino meeting a Brazilian high-roller.”

  Miller chuckled.

  The liveried chauffeur got from behind the limousine wheel and opened the passenger door. An elegantly dressed man got out and with a welcoming smile waved at the airplane.

  There was the electrical whine as the stair door unfolded.

  “I hope Edgar has got Max on the leash,” Castillo said.

  Edgar did not.

  Max came down the stairs, trotted to the limousine—causing the smiling man to lose his smile—stuck his big furry head into the open rear door of the limousine, and then, curiosity satisfied, headed for the nose gear.

  Castillo unstrapped himself and went into the passenger compartment.

  “Terribly sorry, my fault, old chap,” Cedric Lee-Watson greeted him. “I should have known something like this would happen.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Castillo demanded angrily.

  “The thing is, you see, is that I have something of a vice.”

  “No!” Miller said in mock horror.

  Castillo could not restrain a smile.

  Lee-Watson mimed throwing dice.

  “You’re a crapshooter?” Miller asked. “Shame on you!”

  “The car is from the Conrad,” Lee-Watson said. “When I called to ask about accommodations for all of us, they must have assumed I was bringing friends.”

  “High-rolling friends?” Miller asked.

  Lee-Watson nodded.

  “And so you have,” Miller went on. “Sometimes, when I’ve known that Lady Luck was smiling at me, I have been known to wager as much as two dollars on the turn of a card.”

  Castillo chuckled. Then he said, “Well, what the hell do we do?”

  “One option, Ace,” Edgar Delchamps called, “would be to get in the limousine and go to the hotel. It’s getting hot as hell in here.”

  Castillo saw a Chrysler Town & Country van pull up behind the limousine, then a Chrysler Stratus behind the van. Two large men wearing wide-brimmed straw hats, sunglasses, and flowered Hawaiian-style shirts—which failed to conceal the outline of holstered pistols under them—got out of the front passenger seat of each and stood looking at the airplane.

  “Let me deal with this,” Lee-Watson said, and went down the stair door.

  Max appeared at the foot of the steps and started barking.

  Castillo turned to look at Svetlana.

  “Didn’t you hear Max, Cinderella? Your pumpkin is here.”

  [THREE]

  Restaurant Lo de Tere

  Rambla Artigas and Calle 8

  Punta del Este, Maldonado Province

  República Oriental del Uruguay

  2025 3 January 2006

  Charley held Svetlana’s hand as they waited for her to judge if the Uruguayan caviar—as the waiter had promised them with a straight face—was really as good as that from the Caspian Sea.

  Castillo sensed eyes on them and saw that an elderly, nice-looking couple a few tables away was smiling at them.

  Romeo and Juliet are holding hands, sipping a very nice Chardonnay, waiting for their caviar, while an elderly couple, probably remembering their youth, smile kindly at them.

  And Romeo and Juliet are also under the watchful eyes of two Russian gorillas and Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC—all of whom are prepared to deal with however many bad guys, having miraculously located us, might at any moment crash through the door with Uzis blazing.

  “What are you thinking?” Svetlana asked.

  He lied.

  “I was wondering if you’re going to be honest enough to admit that the Uruguayan fish eggs are as good as Russian.”

  “I will be polite and say ‘very nice’ if they are at all edible, which I rather doubt.”

  Everything else was still going so smoothly that he could not get Castillo Rule Seven out of his mind.

  They had attracted much less attention than he expected when the limousine rolled up to the door of the Conrad. He thought there would be at least some people gaping at the limo to see the bride of the rock star or the rock star himself or a combination thereof emerge.

  There were no gapers.

  Their accommodations were first class, suggesting that Cedric Lee-Watson was not only a heavy roller, indeed, but a very unlucky one as well. They were all on an upper floor of the hotel, in suites with balconies that had provided Lester with an easy place to set up the AFC radio and Svetlana with a view of the swimming pool.

  “I’ve got my bathing suit,” Svetlana had announced, instantly triggering memories in Castillo’s mind of the last time he had seen her in—actually mostly out of—it.

  He had restrained his carnal urges until they returned from their swim, but had been on the verge of unleashing them when she entered the shower.

  The telephone had dashed that hope. It was Alex Darby calling from Montevideo to announce that he and the others were in Montevideo and what he suggested was that they stay there overnight and drive to Shangri-La in the morning, rather than meet in Punta del Este and drive to the estancia together.

  Castillo immediately decided that that was a sound proposition, based on a careful analysis of the tactical situation, which would also provide the opportunity for him to have a romantic dinner with Svetlana in some restaurant overlooking the blue South Atlantic.

  With Svetlana and no one else.

  “That’s fine with me, Alex,” he had pronounced solemnly. “We’ll see you at the estancia, say, about eleven, maybe a little later.”

  Why jump out of bed in the morning?

  All sorts of interesting things could likely happen if we don’t rise with the roosters.

  Those plans hadn’t gone off perfectly. No sooner had he hung up the telephone and gone into the bedroom than Svetlana had come out of the shower and stood in her unmentionables while aiming a roaring hair-dryer at her hair.

  When she saw him looking at her, she flicked off the dryer. “What do we do now?”

  He gallantly put aside the first thought that occurred to him and suggested instead that when she had finished dressing—“No hurry, sweetheart”—that they walk along the beach until they came to a nice restaurant.

  She’d smiled and flicked the dryer back on.

  But that hadn’t gone off exactly as planned, either. They were perhaps a quarter-mile down the beach when he noticed that walking along the roadside, with a car trailing, were Corporal Lester Bradley and two of
the Russian gorillas who had met the plane. The former wore a black fanny pack, which hung heavily, as if it possibly held, for example, a Model 1911A1 Colt .45 ACP semiautomatic and three or four full magazines, while the latter wore coats and ties and who knew what weaponry concealed.

  The headwaiter of the Restaurant Lo de Tere discovered a last-minute reservation cancellation a remarkable thirty seconds after Castillo had slipped him the equivalent of twenty-five U.S. dollars.

  “I’m in a generous mood,” Castillo then had told the headwaiter, holding up another twenty-five dollars’ worth of Uruguayan currency. “There’s a hungry-looking young man, looks like a college student, hovering near the door, probably wondering if he can afford your excellent restaurant. You tell him you have special prices for students and put the difference on mine.”

  The extended Uruguayan currency had been snatched from his hand.

  Let the gorillas bribe the maître d’ themselves.

  Five minutes later, as Bradley was shown to a table near the door, he saw the gorillas in conversation with the maître d’, and a minute or so later another canceled reservation was apparently discovered, for they were shown to a table near Lester.

  The Uruguayan caviar was delivered in an iced silver tub, with toast triangles and a suggestion that it really would go nicely with champagne, and they just happened to have several bottles of Taittinger Comtes de Champagne Blanc de Blancs 1992 on ice.

  “Bring us a bottle of your finest Uruguayan sparkling wine,” Castillo said. “I’m told that, like your caviar, your sparkling wine is much better than what’s available in Europe.”

  The wine steward was visibly torn between national pride and selling expensive French champagne, but smiled.

  He returned shortly—as Svetlana dubiously eyed the caviar—with a bottle of Bodegas y Viñedos Santa Ana Chef de Cave ’94.

  Finally, as Castillo sipped at the wine, she steeled herself and used a tiny spoon to extract from the tub enough Uruguayan caviar that would partially cover a fingernail, then put it—with what Castillo thought was exquisite grace—into her mouth.

  Her face contorted.

  “Bad, huh?”

  “It has to be Russian! It is marvelous!”

  Using the tiny spoon, she thickly covered a toast triangle with caviar and put it into his mouth. And immediately began to do the same thing for herself.

  This is not the time to confess I’m not too fond of fish eggs.

  “Well?” Svetlana asked.

  “Marvelous,” Castillo said, forcing a smile and a swallow.

  They found themselves looking into each other’s eyes.

  Svetlana put her hand to his face and slowly ran her fingers down his cheek.

  “Oh, Carlos, my Carlos, I am so happy!”

  “Me, too, Svet.”

  And I mean it.

  And the evening is still young.

  And I am not going to remind myself of Rule Seven.

  [FOUR]

  Estancia Shangri-La

  Tacuarembó Province

  República Oriental del Uruguay

  1215 4 January 2006

  When Castillo stopped the Hertz rental Volkswagen in front of the main house, there were already five vehicles parked there. All were nosed-in at the hitching rail, to which were tied three magnificent horses.

  One of the vehicles was a Chevy Suburban with Argentine diplomatic license plates. That told Castillo that Alex Darby and Dmitri Berezovsky had arrived. There were two identical Ford pickup trucks, which Castillo guessed belonged to the hired hands from China Post Number One. And there were a smaller, older Ford pickup and a Chrysler Town & Country minivan. The older truck, he reasoned, was being driven by Ambassador Lorimer; the minivan by his wife.

  As Castillo opened his car door, Colin Leverette, at the wheel of an identical rental Volkswagen, pulled in beside him.

  Castillo looked around, wondering where the hell the guys from China Post were—then saw one, a portly, graying black man in his fifties or sixties, come around the corner of the building, a CAR-4 at his side.

  When he saw Castillo looking at him, he smiled faintly and gave him a very casual salute. Castillo waved back.

  Another black man, this one very small, very black, and with closely cropped white hair, came out the front door of the main house. He was wearing what Castillo thought of as the “Gaucho Costume”—the lower legs of the Bombachas trousers stuffed inside soft black leather boots, a white, open-collared billowing shirt, and a flaming red kerchief tied around the neck.

  He also held an enormous parrilla fork in one hand.

  “You seem to have gone native, Mr. Ambassador,” Castillo greeted him.

  “If you insist on calling me ‘Mr. Ambassador,’ Castillo, not only will I have no choice but to call you ‘Colonel’ but I will see that you get nothing to drink but Coca-Cola,” Ambassador (Retired) Philippe Lorimer said.

  “It’s hard for me to call you ‘Philippe,’ sir.”

  “Suit yourself, Colonel. Drink Coke.”

  “I will call you ‘Mr. Ambassador,’ sir,” Colin Leverette said, “because I am bigger and meaner than you are.”

  “Larger, perhaps,” Lorimer said, waving the parrilla fork.

  “And I come bearing gifts, sir,” Leverette said.

  “Good God, I hope you didn’t bring flowers!”

  “No, sir. Bitters. Peychaud’s Bitters.”

  He handed him a small bag.

  Lorimer opened it and took out three small bottles; the bag obviously held more.

  “You will be rewarded in heaven, Colin,” the ambassador said. “I’m out. And they’re not available here.”

  “May I respectfully suggest, Mr. Ambassador, sir, that we put the essence of the Crescent City to the ultimate test to see if it has endured the rigors of travel?”

  “Making Sazeracs is the best idea I’ve heard this week,” the ambassador said. “But not until I welcome this lovely lady to Shangri-La. How do you do, my dear? Welcome to Shangri-La.”

  “Thank you,” Svetlana said.

  “I now understand,” Lorimer said.

  “Understand?”

  “How you captured the heart of the colonel. You’re stunning.”

  “You heard about that, did you?” Castillo asked.

  “I hear everything, Colonel. I thought you knew that.”

  “Okay, Philippe, I surrender.”

  “It was inevitable,” Lorimer said. “Corporal Bradley, you are always welcome here.” He gave Bradley his hand and looked at Dick Miller. “And you, sir, are?”

  “My name is Miller, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Oh. Charley’s Hudson High classmate. I’m Norwich, but I will not hold West Point against you. You probably didn’t know any better.”

  Leverette laughed.

  “Why don’t we go into the house—actually, through the house; the parrilla is in the interior garden—while Colin makes us one of his famous Sazeracs?” He looked at Svetlana. “We can watch as your brother, my dear, and my wife ruin some wonderful Uruguayan beef on the parrilla.”

  He got the expected chuckles.

  Lorimer turned to Castillo. “And then you can tell me what this is all about. I am old but not brain-dead, and therefore suspect that you didn’t just drop in because you were in the neighborhood.”

  He switched the parrilla fork to his left hand, offered his right arm to Svetlana, and marched with her through the door. She towered at least a foot over him.

  The portly black man who had come around the corner of the house holding the CAR-4 when they had arrived now walked into the interior patio as the ambassador was slicing an entire tenderloin of beef. He laid the weapon on the table, sat down, and reached for a silver cocktail shaker.

  “Colin,” he said, “this better be what I think it is.”

  “Have I ever failed you, DeWitt?” Leverette replied.

  “Yes,” the man said. “I shudder recalling how many times, where, and how.” He picked up the cocktail
shaker, poured himself a Sazerac, sipped it appreciatively, then announced, “This will do.”

  Castillo chuckled.

  The black man looked at Castillo and smiled. “You don’t remember me, do you, Colonel?”

  “No,” Castillo confessed.

  “All we black folk look alike, DeWitt,” Leverette said. “You know that.”

  “Fuck you, Uncle Remus!” Castillo flared.

  Leverette knows that was uncalled for.

  And bullshit besides.

  There are five “black” people here. The ambassador and his wife, Big Mouth Uncle Remus, Dick Miller, and this old guy, who I never saw before, and now that I think about it is older than I first thought. He’s at least sixty.

  And the one thing they have in common is that they don’t look alike.

  One’s uncommonly small (the ambassador), another’s uncommonly large (Uncle Fucking Remus), one’s trim (Miller), and one’s more than pleasingly plump (the China Post guy).

  And the color of their skin ranges from as light as mine (Mrs. Lorimer) to the you-can’t-see-him-when-the-lights-are-out pigmentation of Leverette, who until just now I thought was one of my best friends.

  “Easy, Charley,” Dick Miller said. “He didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Yeah, I did,” Leverette said.

  “Well, then fuck you, too!” Miller said angrily. “You know better than that, Colin. Goddammit!”

  Castillo glanced at the ambassador and saw concern on his face; his wife’s face looked even worse.

  “Goddamn you, Colin!” Castillo flared. “How many of those Sazeracs have you had?”

  “Just this one, Boss Man,” Leverette said in a thick accent, then raised the glass to Castillo.

  Castillo, literally speechless, looked at him in shock. His eye caught the fat old man, who was holding his hands in the form of a T, signaling Time-out.

  “We got him, Colin,” the black man said. “Enough’s enough.”

  “DeWitt, we got both of them,” Leverette said, laughing. “As ye sow, Carlos, so shall ye reap! You might want to write that down.”