Black Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  “We don’t even know where it is, within a hundred miles,” Castillo said.

  “Oh, we can find it,” DeWitt said.

  “ ‘We,’ DeWitt?” Castillo asked sarcastically.

  “I thought this was an employment interview,” DeWitt said straight-faced. “You mean it wasn’t?”

  “Charley,” Leverette said, “we could HALO a team, maybe just four, five shooters. Find the sonofabitch, paint it, and call in the Air Force.”

  “You’d have to—” Castillo began. He stopped when a bell rang loudly, and then a telephone buzzed.

  Lorimer picked up the telephone, listened, said, “Thank you,” and hung up.

  “Someone else just happened to be in the neighborhood and is dropping in. Chief Inspector Ordóñez.”

  “Oh, shit!” Castillo said.

  “May I suggest that Dmitri and Svetlana might be more comfortable if DeWitt took them for a ride around the estancia?”

  “How about just putting them in another room?” Castillo asked. “This could just be a coincidence.”

  Or . . . he could be waving that Interpol warrant.

  “If you’d like to come with me, Svetlana, Dmitri?” Ambassador Lorimer asked politely.

  “No rush. It’ll take him five, six minutes to get here from the highway,” DeWitt said professionally.

  XIV

  [ONE]

  Estancia Shangri-La

  Tacuarembó Province

  República Oriental del Uruguay

  1505 4 January 2006

  Chief Inspector José Ordóñez of the Interior Police Division of the Uruguayan Policía Nacional—an olive-skinned, dark-eyed man in his late thirties who was well-tailored—walked into the interior patio five minutes later.

  “The door was open, Mr. Ambassador,” he greeted Lorimer politely. “I just came in.”

  “You’re always welcome here, José. I’d hoped that I had made that clear when you last visited.” He gestured toward the table. “We’re just finishing lunch, but there’s more than enough—”

  “That’s very kind, Mr. Ambassador. My day has been extraordinary, and I haven’t had my lunch.” He looked around the table, nodding.

  “Good to see you, José,” Munz said. “Extraordinary, you say?”

  Ordóñez took an open seat at the table. “Quite. I began the day very early.”

  “Is that so?” Castillo said.

  “Someone rang my doorbell at an unholy hour,” Ordóñez said. “But when I got out of bed, no one was there. This, however, had been slipped under my door.”

  He handed Castillo a plain white letter-size envelope. It was unsealed.

  Ordóñez nodded at it. “Please. Have a look.”

  Castillo opened the envelope, took out a single sheet of paper, and read it.

  Castillo handed it to Alfredo Munz, who read it, then handed it to Edgar Delchamps, who read it, than passed it to Alex Darby, who read it:

  REFERENCE INTERPOL WARRANTS EUR/RU 2005-6777 FOR BEREZOVSKY, DMITRI AND EUR/RU 2005-6778 FOR ALEKSEEVA, SVETLANA

  RELIABLE SOURCES SUGGEST BEREZOVSKY AND ALEKSEEVA MAY BE IN THE COMPANY OF C.G. CASTILLO. LTCOL CASTILLO IS A US ARMY INTELLIGENCE OFFICER WHO ALSO POSSESSES OTHER IDENTIFICATION, INCLUDING THAT OF A SUPERVISORY SPECIAL AGENT OF THE US SECRET SERVICE. HE WAS SEEN IN BUENOS AIRES 2 JANUARY 2006

  IT ALSO HAS BEEN LEARNED THAT THE RUSSIAN OFFICER IN CHARGE OF THE BEREZOVSKY/ALEKSEEVA CASE, COLONEL EVGENY ALEKSEEVA, OF THE SVR, IS EITHER IN BUENOS AIRES OR EN ROUTE. HE IS TRAVELING ON A DIPLOMATIC PASSPORT.

  Darby folded it and handed it back to Ordóñez, then said: “If I didn’t know better—no member of the FBI would ever do something like this, as we all know—I’d say that somebody has slipped a confidential FBI backgrounder to a member of the local law-enforcement community.”

  Ordóñez did not respond to that. Instead, he said: “So, Colonel, before I had my breakfast, I made a couple of calls—these reports would have been on my desk anyway when I went to work, you understand—and learned both that your beautiful airplane had landed at Punta the previous afternoon and that Mr. Darby had taken the Buquebus to Montevideo.

  “I then called the Conrad, thinking maybe you might be there playing a little Vingt et Un or something like that. And, sure enough, they told me you were there, in the company of what the manager told me was a truly striking red-haired lady.

  “I asked myself, ‘Since I made it so clear that I personally and the government of Uruguay semi-officially have stated that we would prefer that you take your tourist business elsewhere, why are you unable to resist the temptation to return to Punta?’ ”

  Ambassador Lorimer placed a plate heaped with slices of beef tenderloin on the table before him.

  Castillo avoided the question. He gestured at Ordóñez’s lomo. “There are some lovely grilled peppers to go with that, José. Won’t you try some? And some really nice Cabernet Sauvignon. I’ll get you a glass. Unless, of course, you’re on duty and not drinking?”

  Castillo got up from the table, and returned with a bottle and held it up.

  “It’s called Bodegones del Sur, and it’s from the Bodega Juanicó. The label says it has a complex aroma, whatever that means, with notes of mature fruits—which calls to my mind a mental image of a cologne-soaked elderly gentleman of exquisite grace. . . .”

  Ordóñez shook his head. “Pour the wine, please, Colonel. But, for the record, I’m always on duty.”

  Castillo half-filled the large glass before Ordóñez, then helped himself to one.

  “I’ll join you, so there will be two of us always on duty giving in to Demon Rum. Or Demon Cabernet.”

  They touched glasses.

  Ordóñez put some beef in his mouth and chewed.

  When he had finished, he said, “Very nice, Mr. Ambassador,” and then turned to Castillo.

  “So I hopped into my car and drove to Punta. I thought I might be able to have breakfast with you, Colonel, to chat about this.

  “When I got there, I heard that you had rented a car and gone for an early-morning drive. But, as you can certainly understand, Colonel, my professional curiosity was piqued.”

  Ordóñez took a sip of his wine, then went on: “So I showed the picture on the warrant of Miss—or is it Mrs.?—Alekseeva to the manager. He said that it sure looked like the lady who was sharing 1730 with you.

  “And then I showed it to the maître d’ of the Restaurant Lo de Tere—which is the sort of place I would take a lovely redhead if I was having a romantic interlude in Punta—and he said a woman who looked very much like the woman in the photo had been in his restaurant last night eating caviar and drinking champagne with a big tipper who looked just like the picture I showed him of you.

  “But you weren’t in the Conrad. Or on the beach. Or having coffee in one of our quaint seaside coffeehouses. So I asked myself, ‘If I were in Uruguay and knew that I was not exactly welcome, where would I go?’

  “And here I am.”

  “And here we are,” Castillo said.

  “So it would seem,” Ordóñez said. “On the way here, I wondered if maybe it had occurred to you that Shangri-La might be an ideal place to hide these fugitives from Russian justice.”

  “That thought never entered my head,” Castillo said.

  “There have been too many foreigners’ bodies here as it is,” Ordóñez said, and when he had, his eye caught Lorimer’s. “Forgive me, Mr. Ambassador, but that had to be said.”

  Lorimer made a deprecating gesture.

  Ordóñez looked again at Castillo. “And, for that matter, more than enough bodies in the Conrad. Everywhere you go, Colonel, there seem to be bodies.”

  Castillo could think of no reply to make.

  “That’s not going to happen anymore,” Ordóñez said simply.

  “There’s more going on here, José, than you understand,” Munz said.

  “Alfredo, whatever it is, I don’t want to know about it.” There was a moment’s silence, then Ordóñez went
on: “Something else occurred to me on the drive here. How much easier it would be if you weren’t one of my oldest friends, Alfredo, or if I didn’t like—and admire—Colonel Castillo despite all the trouble he’s caused me. I even thought it would be very nice if I was one of those people who have a picture of Che Guevara on their office wall.”

  Ordóñez smiled as he saw that the Che Guevara reference was lost on his audience.

  “Why? Because if I were in the Che camp of followers, I would first find the people on the Interpol warrants, arrest them, then turn them over to the Russian embassy and see if the Russians really would pay the two hundred fifty thousand euros they’re offering as a reward.

  “I would then escort Colonel Castillo and the rest of his entourage to their airplane, see that their passports were stamped ‘Not Valid for Reentry into Uruguay,’ and watch until the aircraft was in the air.

  “That would allow me to go to my superior and report that the situation had been dealt with.”

  He took a moment to have some more beef and wine.

  “But I can’t do that,” Ordóñez finally said. “So I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. About ten o’clock tomorrow morning, I am going to tell my superior that although I rushed to Punta immediately on learning that Colonel Castillo and possibly the Russian embezzlers might be there, I got there an hour after Colonel Castillo and entourage flew away from Aeropuerto Internacional Capitán de Corbeta Carlos A. Curbelo, having filed a flight plan to Porto Alegre, Brazil.”

  There was quiet while the pronouncement was considered.

  Ordóñez met Castillo’s eyes, then Munz’s.

  “Thank you, José,” Munz said.

  There you go, Alfredo, Castillo thought, once again acting before asking.

  But once again you’re right.

  “Me, too, José,” Castillo said.

  Ordóñez made a gesture that said, Of course. It is nothing.

  He said, “And so, having of course never been here, I’m going to have another glass of the perfumed fairy Cabernet and leave.”

  [TWO]

  Berezovsky and Svetlana came out of the room where they had been waiting.

  Castillo handed the FBI backgrounder to Berezovsky, who read it and then gave it to Svetlana.

  “I do not know what this is,” Berezovsky said.

  “It’s a backgrounder,” Castillo said. “The FBI sends this sort of thing to people they think would be—or should be—interested. It’s unofficial, but of course in effect it is official.”

  “The question,” Darby said, “is: Where did it come from? My primary suspect is Montvale.”

  “Ye olde knife in Ace’s back?” Delchamps said. “Despite his promise to lay off?”

  “Could be Montvale,” Castillo said. “But it could be the FBI itself, never mind the President’s standing order of hands off the OOA. The FBI’s under the Department of Justice, not Montvale. They don’t like him any more than they like me. And by now the story of me having snatched Dmitri and Svet from the agency station chief in Vienna has had plenty of time to get around Washington. They have the capability of locating the Gulfstream; they know it was in Buenos Aires. That’d explain the ‘was seen in Buenos Aires’ line.

  “So, thinking that it would be very nice indeed if they could embarrass Montvale and stick it to me and get credit for bagging the Russian defectors, they sent that backgrounder to both Buenos Aires and Montevideo. Shines a different light on their motto, ‘Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity,’ eh?”

  Darby, DeWitt, and Davidson chuckled. Delchamps grunted.

  “In Buenos Aires,” Castillo went on, “a couple of things might’ve happened. Maybe Artigas got the backgrounder and ‘lost’ it—”

  “Who, Charley?” Dick Miller said.

  “Julio Artigas. Used to be an FBI agent in Montevideo. He looks like Ordóñez’s brother. Smart. Good guy. He learned—intuited—more about us than was comfortable, so we had him transferred to OOA and moved him to the embassy in Buenos Aires. Inspector Doherty has made it clear to him that if he behaves, Doherty will take care of him in the FBI.”

  Miller nodded his understanding.

  “So he got the backgrounder and tore it up. Or he didn’t get it. Some other FBI agent did and took it to Ambassador Silvio for permission to tell SIDE or whatever, and Silvio said ‘Not yet’ or even ‘Hell, no.’

  “The backgrounder also went to Montevideo, where (a) the FBI guys are still pissed at Two-Gun Yung, who they now know works for us, and (b) the ambassador is still pissed at us generally because of Two-Gun, and me personally. I can see McGrory—”

  “Who?” Miller said again.

  “The ambassador,” Castillo furnished. “I can see him smiling broadly, saying that he thought the local authorities should be made aware of the contents of the message. But then McGrory also says to slip it under Ordóñez’s door in the middle of the night, thus covering his ass by producing what is called ‘credible deniability.’ I thought it interesting that ‘FBI’ was nowhere to be found on this.”

  He tapped the backgrounder with his fingertips.

  “Yeah,” Darby said.

  “Ol’ Ace really isn’t as dumb as he looks, is he?” Delchamps said, earning him a cold look from Svetlana.

  “So, what does it mean?” Berezovsky said.

  “Since we don’t know where else that backgrounder may have gone, I just don’t know what it means. But I don’t think it’s a very good idea for you and Svet—for that matter, any of us—to go back to Argentina right now.”

  Delchamps said, “One thought that pops into my mind is that you face facts and abandon this wild idea of yours to take out the chemical factory.”

  “Is that what you really think I should do?” Castillo said evenly. “That is, not do?”

  “It’s an option, Ace.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “It’s obviously the most sensible thing to do,” Delchamps said. “But on the other hand, I still have this romantic, second-childhood notion that I’d like to go out in a blaze of glory.”

  Miller grunted. “You’re saying your idea of going out in glory is being boiled in a pot for somebody’s juju supper? You heard what the ambassador said about the chances of a white guy in the Congo.”

  “And the ambassador is right, Mr. Delchamps,” DeWitt said.

  “If you call me ‘Mr. Delchamps’ one more time, I’m going to start calling you Bee Fu Om—that’s short for Bald Fat Ugly Old Man.”

  “Let me think a minute,” Castillo said.

  When it seemed to Delchamps the minute had expired, he said, “Well, Ace, since we can’t go to Argentina, and Ordóñez made it pretty clear Porto Alegre is not a viable destination option, wherever shall we go?”

  “Washington,” Castillo said.

  “That I think is what is known as an off-the-wall thought,” Delchamps said.

  “Hear me out,” Castillo said. “We send Alfredo back to Argentina. He can catch a civilian flight, Aerolíneas or something else. Maybe even catch a flight today. The minute he gets there, he calls Pevsner and tells him we’re headed for Cancún, and to set that up for Dmitri and Svet.”

  “You’ve lost me,” Delchamps said. “Cancún?”

  “Actually, an island just off Cancún. With an airport that will take the Gulfstream. Cozumel. On which is the Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort, featuring sandy beaches, a golf course, deep-sea fishing, and some really nice cuisine. You’ll like it, Svet—”

  “I am not going to . . . wherever you said.”

  “—and not only because it is owned by your cousin Aleksandr. It also has, for reasons I don’t wish to think about, a security system that is at least as mind-boggling as the ones in Bariloche and Pilar Polo & Golf. Or Golf & Polo. Whatever the hell it is.”

  “Where, my Carlos, do you think you would be going without me?”

  “To Washington, Svet. You heard what the ambassador said, what DeWitt said. Thinking that we can find the chemical
factory, much less take it out, is pissing in the wind. What I can do is go directly to the President.

  “According to Montvale, as of the day before yesterday, the President has been shielded from my ‘outrageous behavior’ in Vienna. I can see no reason for him to have told him since then, because that would mean the CIA would have to fess up that they don’t have either of the top SVR agent defectors wanted on an Interpol warrant that they claim they do.

  “That means I can get to the President. Just as soon as we drop Svetlana and Dmitri into the arms of luxury on Cozumel and go wheels-up, I get on the AFC and call him. Unless he’s in Nome, Alaska, we can go direct to wherever he is. And with a little luck, get there before Montvale hears what’s going on.

  “Even if Montvale’s sitting there with the President when we get there, and has told him his version of the story, the President will hear me out.” He paused and looked at the men seated around Delchamps. “That is, hear us out. You’re going with me, Edgar. And you, too, Alex. And Davidson, Leverette, and DeWitt. Everybody who has heard what Dmitri and Svetlana have told us and believe there’s more in the Congo than a fish farm.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Either the President will hear us out, or we go directly to jail without passing Go. Going with me will be on a voluntary basis, and I would be neither surprised nor disappointed if everybody elected instead to go trolling for sail-fish with Svet and Dmitri off sun-drenched Cozumel.”

  There was another long moment of silence.

  “May I speak?” Ambassador Lorimer asked.

  “Yes, sir, of course,” Castillo said.

  “I was thinking, Colonel, that if you thought it would be useful, I could prepare a short paper on the history of activity in that area of the Congo. For example, its initial use by the then-West Germans as a nuclear facility. That isn’t well-known, and I think it’s possible that he’s unaware of it.”

  “Your President wouldn’t know about that?” Berezovsky asked incredulously.