Great . . . more goddamn fish eggs.
“Wonderful,” he said a moment later.
“And Pommery extra brut,” she said, offering him one of the glasses. “That Uruguayan champagne was not bad, but it was not French, and we’re celebrating.”
What the hell are we celebrating?
Dmitri volunteering that the both of you commit suicide?
She saw something in his eyes.
“Not to worry, my Carlos, I am rich. I will pay for it.”
He touched his glass to hers.
“Exactly what is it that we’re celebrating?”
“Us. You and me. Being in love.”
“Sweetheart, what would I have to do to get you to stay here?”
She ignored him. “And after you finish the caviar and the champagne, I have a small present for you.”
“Did you hear what I asked?”
“It is something I know you like. . . .”
“Jesus Christ, honey. Listen to me, please.”
“No,” she said flatly. “There is nothing you can say, my Carlos.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
She flipped the robe open and then closed it. “What sort of a present, my darling, do you think Little Miss Red Under Britches has in mind for you?”
He smiled—So, she’s heard her codename, he thought—then reached for her and wrapped his arms around her. Even through the thick terry cloth, he could feel the softness and warmth of her belly against his cheek.
He felt a tightness in his throat, and then his chest heaved.
Jesus Christ, I’m crying!
[SIX]
Portofino Island Resort & Spa
Pensacola Beach, Florida
1530 6 January 2006
“Welcome to the Portofino, Mr. Castillo,” the manager on duty said.
Castillo recognized his voice.
This is the sonofabitch from the phone call yesterday.
The same sonofabitch who tried selling me everything in the place as a “surprisingly inexpensive option to enhance your visit.”
“Before we get going here,” Castillo said pointing to a signboard standing beside the reception desk, “can you please get rid of that? Our donors might not understand.”
The signboard had movable white letters on a black background that announced:
THE PORTOFINO ISLAND RESORT & SPA
WELCOMES
THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS OF THE LORIMER CHARITABLE &
BENEVOLENT FUND
C.G. CASTILLO, EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR
“I understand completely, Mr. Castillo,” the man announced with an unctuous tone. “Consider it gone!”
He snapped his fingers to attract the attention of a bellman, and when a languid youth appeared, the two of them carried the sign somewhere out of sight.
“Until just now,” Delchamps offered, “I had no idea you were our executive director. Just what does that entail?”
Castillo gave him the finger.
“I just had a very discomfiting thought,” Delchamps said seriously. “If there’s a ‘locate but do not detain’ out on you, our friends in the FBI are going to know where you are as soon as your sales manager buddy runs your credit card.”
“Jesus! I didn’t think of that.”
“Well, you’re in love. That tends to make people forgetful.”
The manager returned.
Delchamps handed him an LC&BF platinum American Express card. “Put everything on this, please.”
“Mr. Castillo won’t be using his card?”
“Oh, no. Our executive director never pays for anything. That’s my job. I’m director for corporate gifts. And while we’re here, perhaps you’ll be able to give me a few minutes of your valuable time?”
[SEVEN]
They were in a large suite on what looked like the top floor of the high-rise resort on the beach.
Lester Bradley checked the AFC, which he had installed on a wide balcony overlooking the beach and the Gulf of Mexico, then gave Castillo a thumbs-up signal.
Castillo picked up the handset and told the computer to connect him with General McNab with Level One encryption.
When he heard McNab’s voice, Castillo said, “Advance party reporting, sir. We hold the high ground. No unfriendlies have been sighted.”
“As strange as this may sound, I’m really glad to hear from you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was the meaning of what you just said?”
“I’m in a very nice room on the top floor of the Portofino Island Resort & Spa, which is on Pensacola Beach about half an hour from the Pensacola Airport and about thirty miles from Hurlburt.”
“It must be nice not to have to worry about living on per diem.”
“Yes, sir. It is.”
“You have wheels?”
“A small fleet, sir.”
“I’m in the Hurlburt O Club. On the beach?”
“Yes, sir. I know where it is.”
“The question would then be: Does Phineas know where it is?”
“I’m sure he can find it, sir.”
“What kind of wheels?”
“Two Suburbans and a Mustang convertible, sir. A red one.”
“The Mustang sounds nice, but I have with me my aide, an old friend of yours and Miller’s, and the co-pilot. And, of course, the AFC. I don’t think we’d all fit in a Mustang. Send Phineas in one of the Suburbans.”
“Old friend”?
Probably Vic D’Allessando.
But more likely somebody from the Aviation School, maybe somebody from the 160th.
“Is putting everybody up going to cause any problems?”
“No, sir. I’m sure they’ll be happy to accommodate everybody.”
Especially since this place doesn’t seem to be turning away people rushing to pay them two hundred and fifty bucks a night minimum.
“Well, make sure.”
“Yes, sir. I will. Sir, if DeWitt leaves now, he can be there in, say, thirty-five, forty minutes.”
“Does this Porto Whatever Resort & Spa have a restaurant? One I can afford?”
“Sir, you will be an honored guest of the Lorimer Fund.”
“We didn’t have any lunch, and until seventeen hundred, all the O Club has to offer is stale peanuts and even more stale popcorn.”
A wild hair popped into Castillo’s mind. He considered it briefly.
Well, why the hell not?
He’s a general officer and a gentleman.
He’s not going to throw one of his celebrated tantrums in McGuire’s.
“General, there’s a great steak house in Pensacola called McGuire’s. We need to eat, too. May I suggest you have DeWitt take you there directly? And then we can come to the hotel.”
“I know McGuire’s,” General McNab said. “Every once in a great while, Colonel, you have a decent idea. This one, however, is an excellent one. We’ll see you at McGuire’s when we get there. McNab out.”
[EIGHT]
Ruprecht O’Tolf Wine Cellar
McGuire’s Irish Pub
Pensacola, Florida
1750 6 January 2006
The only thing the obliging management and staff of McGuire’s would not do to accommodate the Lorimer Charitable & Benevolent Fund’s board of directors dinner was permit its executive director to smoke a cigar. They had even sneaked Max in through a fire exit door.
The management had made available to them the Wine Cellar, which was both a bona fide wine cellar—with, so the menu said, more than seven thousand bottles of wine—and a private dining room with a long banquet table in a sunken room within sight of the wine.
By the time DeWitt opened the door for Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab’s spectacular appearance on the passageway between the door and the wine cellar—McNab was in uniform, which was adorned not only with an impressive display of multicolored ribbons representing the wars he had been in and the decorations he had been awarded but seven sets of parachutist’s wing
s and two aiguillettes—Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo had had ample time to consider that coming to a festive Irish pub (with, for example, some two hundred thousand dollars in one-dollar bills stapled by “honorary Irishmen and lasses” to its ceiling and walls) might not be, after all, one of his brightest ideas.
To say that the general was going to be surprised when he found everyone—Castillo, Dick Miller, Colin Leverette, Jack Davidson, Alex Darby, Edgar Delchamps, Lester Bradley, Jack and Sandra Britton, plus, of course, Dmitri Berezovsky and Svetlana Alekseeva—gathered around a table covered with an impressive display of hors d’oeuvres and numerous bottles of wine from the cellar was something of an understatement.
But what proved to be the real surprise, which caused Castillo’s mouth literally to momentarily gape, was that one of the three officers—also in full uniform, trailing the general, “the old friend” who McNab had mentioned—was not Chief Warrant Officer Five (Retired) Victor D’Allessando. Nor was it some old crony from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment with whom Charley and Dick could swap war stories.
It was, instead, Lieutenant Colonel Randolph Richardson III, of the Army Aviation School.
Corporal Bradley broke the silence as he shot to his feet, sending his heavy chair loudly screeching five feet backward across the hardwood flooring.
“Attention on deck!” he bellowed as loud as he could. “Flag officer on deck!”
“As you were,” McNab said. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He then saw Svetlana and Sandra. He looked at Castillo. “And ladies.”
McNab came regally down the stairs and headed for Svetlana and Sandra, who were standing at the table, washing oysters down with Chardonnay.
“Bruce McNab, ladies. May I ask what two beautiful women are doing with all these ugly men?”
“I’m Sandra Britton, and I’m waiting for the good time that ugly man promised if we came along with him,” Sandra said, pointing at her husband. “All he’s produced so far is a couple of lousy oysters.”
Svetlana laughed, and McNab turned to her.
“And you, my dear. What did the ugly man promise you?”
“I thought it would probably be more than oysters. But I have to admit these are very good.”
“And you are?”
“Susan Barlow, General, and this man is my brother, Tom.”
McNab’s eyes said, Like hell. I know who you and Brother Tom are.
“An honor, General,” Berezovsky said. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Carlos.”
“I’ll bet you have,” McNab said.
“I’m Edgar Delchamps, General. Ditto.”
“Ditto?”
“I’ve heard a lot about you, General.”
“Ditto. From some mutual acquaintances in Virginia.”
“Alex Darby, General.” Darby offered his hand, chuckled, and added, “Ditto, ditto, ditto.”
“Meaning?” McNab said.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, and I’ll bet you’ve heard a lot about me. From the same mutual acquaintances in Virginia.”
“True,” McNab said, and turned to Lester Bradley.
“Why do I suspect you’re the Marine Corps representative?”
“Sir, Corporal Bradley, Lester, sir.”
“And I have heard a lot about you, son,” McNab said. “All of it from people I respect, and all of it good.”
Corporal Bradley’s face turned red.
McNab looked at Miller. “How’s your knee, Dick?”
“Coming along just fine, sir.”
McNab wordlessly shook hands with Davidson and Leverette, then turned to the others in his party. They still stood on the passageway. He pointed them out, left to right, and said: “Lieutenant Colonel Peter Woods, the second-worst aide-de-camp I’ve ever had; the worst by far was Colonel Castillo. Next is Major Homer Foster, who kept Colonel Richardson from making fatal flying errors on the way down here. On the end is Colonel Richardson, who was a classmate of Castillo and Miller at West Point. Make your own introductions, please, gentlemen.”
Max padded up to McNab, sat before him, and offered his paw.
“General McNab, Max,” Castillo said. “Max, General McNab.”
McNab squatted and shook Max’s paw.
“I met one of your progeny today, Max. He was soiling General Crenshaw’s office carpet at Fort Rucker at the time.”
“And my son Randy has his brother,” Colonel Richardson said.
Svetlana caught that and looked at Castillo. He nodded.
“Are we about finished making nice?” McNab asked. “Those appetizers look like a great starter, but I really could eat a horse.”
“Oh, I would say you’ll fare better than that in here, General,” Berezovsky said. “May we offer you a glass of wine?”
“A man after my own heart,” McNab said. “Is there some Malbec?”
“Sir?” Colonel Richardson said.
McNab looked at him.
“Sir, while I hate to pass up what looks to be a wonderful—”
“You have the name of the place we’re staying?” McNab cut him off.
“The Portofino Island Resort & Spa on Pensacola Beach, sir.”
“Check in with Woods at 0700,” McNab said.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Richardson made his apologies around the room and quickly left.
McNab looked at Castillo. “Mrs. Richardson is chaperoning a bunch of kids from Rucker. Including their boy. They’re at a motel near the Naval Air Station; the kids are visiting the Naval Aviation Museum.”
“That’s one hell of a museum.”
“General Crenshaw told me you taught the boy to fly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, perhaps you’ll have a chance to say ‘hello’ tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If there’s time. Since we are not going to talk business at dinner and our time later tonight will be short, I suspect we’ll really be busy tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And maybe by then you’ll have come up with some suitable explanation, Colonel.”
Explanation? Castillo thought. For what exactly?
That damn list is long—and complicated.
“I’m not sure I follow, sir. An explanation for what?”
McNab helped himself to some of the seared-rare ahi tuna appetizer. He chewed slowly, clearly enjoying the delicacy, then swallowed. “I told you on the phone that I was starving.”
And here we are. Eating.
“Yes, sir?”
“Then why the hell did you send the Suburban all the way to Hurlburt to then haul us back here to Pensacola?”
“But, sir—”
“We right now could be finished with our meals at the McGuire’s in Destin.”
Damn!
There’s a McGuire’s in Destin?
“There’s a McGuire’s in Destin, sir?”
“Not ten miles east of the O Club,” McNab said, shaking his head, “I was so informed by the lovely hostesses here. And you have the nerve to call yourself a seasoned world traveler.”
He looked past Castillo and suddenly grinned.
“Ah, there we are,” McNab said as Berezovsky handed him a glass of wine. “Now, where the hell’s the big menu I remember so fondly?”
[NINE]
The Malaga Suite
Portofino Island Resort & Spa
Pensacola Beach, Florida
2125 6 January 2006
“Get on the horn, Peter, and have room service bring us coffee,” General McNab ordered as he slumped onto a rattan couch. “Lots of coffee. I ate so much I’m half asleep, and this may go on for some time.”
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Peter Woods said.
“And then, if you’d like, you can hit the sack,” McNab said.
“Sir?”
“If you leave now, Peter, you will thereafter be able to swear under oath that you have no idea what was said in this room, or even who was in here.”
>
“I’m in, sir,” Colonel Woods said.
“Say ‘Hoo-rah,’ Peter.”
Woods laughed, said, “Hoo-rah,” and reached for the telephone.
“Lady and alleged gentlemen,” McNab said, making a grand gesture around the room. “If I may have your attention?”
He waited until he had it.
“If this didn’t come up before,” McNab then said, “Major Homer Foster is from the 160th. He’s one of us, and he’s in on this.”
The insignia on Major Foster’s uniform indicated he was a senior Army Aviator assigned to the Army Aviation School and Center; there had been nothing to identify him as a special operator.
Castillo couldn’t remember Foster having said a word during dinner, but he had caught Foster examining everybody very carefully.
“Reverend Castillo will now give the invocation, which begins: ‘You are hereby advised that anything and everything’—”
He gestured for Castillo to pick it up, and Castillo did so: “—discussed in this meeting is classified Top Secret Presidential and is not to be disclosed in any manner to anyone without the express permission of the President or myself.”
“And since we’re not going to bother the President with any of the details at this time, that means only Colonel Castillo. I would like to add my own little caveat, and that is that every serving officer here, me included, is putting his career at risk by participation in the very discussion we’re going to have. By that I mean that if we get caught doing what we are going to do, we will all be standing beside Colonel Castillo at his retirement ceremony the end of the month. This is your last chance to get out of here, Pete and Homer. My advice is go.”
“I’m in, sir,” Colonel Woods said.
“I’m in, General,” Major Foster said.
“Okay. Next item: opening remarks. When you get to be as old as I am, and have been around the block as many times as I have, you flatter yourself to think that you wouldn’t have all these stars, or, for that matter, have come back so often from around the block, unless you are a pretty good judge of character.
“And you have learned to trust the judgment of those who have been around the block with you, or those individuals you know have been around the block many times by themselves. So if there is anybody here who thinks that Colonel Bere . . . Mister Barlow and his charming sister have not told us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth with no mental reservations whatsoever, raise your right hand and speak now, or else forever after keep your mouth shut.”
Black Ops Page 46
