“Reagan.”
“Navy. Establish secure encrypted voice connection.”
“Hold one, Navy.”
“Navy, Reagan. This connection is encrypted Class Two.”
“Reagan. The White House is calling. Request upgraded encryption.”
“Hold one, Navy.”
“Navy, Reagan. This connection is now encrypted Class One.”
“White House, Navy. You read?”
“Reagan, this is the White House. We’re calling Rear Admiral K. G. Jacoby.”
“White House, Reagan. Ma’am, the admiral is in his cabin. He has only Class Two encryption on that line. It will take a minute to get him to the secure voice communication room.”
“We’ll wait. Thank you.”
“Radio, voice commo room.”
“Go.”
“We have Admiral Jacoby. Encryption status Class One.”
“White House, Navy. You read?”
“Admiral Jacoby?”
“Speaking.”
“This is the White House. Please hold for Colonel Castillo. Go ahead, Colonel.”
“We have verified Class One encryption?”
“Yes, sir, we do.”
“Good evening, Admiral. My name is Castillo.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Sir, I’m a lowly lieutenant colonel.”
“What’s this all about, Colonel?”
“Sir, I am in receipt of your Urgent referring to the Army helicopters you now have aboard. Your message referred to me as ‘Costello.’”
“Sorry about that.”
“Sir, getting my name wrong apparently is not the only communications problem we are having.”
“Is that so?”
“Sir, it was intended by the secretary of Defense that you or Captain Kenton receive your orders regarding the helicopters from the secretary of the Navy. According to your Urgent, Captain Kenton spoke with the deputy secretary.”
“That is correct, Colonel. Frankly, I wondered why the deputy secretary didn’t call me.”
“Sir, I had nothing to do with that call. But I am calling to do what I can to straighten out the mess. Let me begin by saying the helicopters are involved in an operation classified Top Secret Presidential.”
“I’ve heard nothing of the kind, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir. I understand. But that being the case, it is the reason the Army officer in charge was unable to explain what he’s doing or permit inspection of his helicopters. Unless I’m mistaken, there is no one aboard the Reagan with that security clearance.”
“Excuse me, Colonel, is there some way I can verify what you’re telling me? This is highly unusual.”
“Yes, sir, it is. May I suggest, sir, that you contact the secretary of Defense? Or, alternatively, wait until Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF, arrives on the Reagan.”
“What did you say?”
“The director of National Intelligence, Ambassador Montvale, as we speak, is arranging for Colonel Torine, who is my deputy, to be put aboard the Reagan—”
“Your deputy? You gave me to believe you are a lieutenant colonel.”
“I am, sir. And Colonel Torine is my deputy. We have both been detached from our respective services, sir, for this duty, and normal military protocol does not apply.”
“I will be damned!”
“I admit it often causes some confusion, sir. But as I was saying, sir, Colonel Torine will arrive on the Reagan probably within a matter of hours, and he’ll tell you what he can about what is being required of you. In the meantime, sir, I would be grateful if you could do several things.”
“Such as?”
“Sir, please permit the major to establish communication with us using the equipment he has with him. That is so much simpler for us than going through the White House switchboard.”
“Well, I can’t see any reason why that can’t be done.”
“And, Admiral, the sooner you have the helicopters moved to the hangar deck and the paint stripping started, the better.”
“I don’t know anything about any paint stripping, Colonel. What’s that all—”
“Colonel Torine will explain what has to be done, sir, when he comes aboard.” He paused, crossed his fingers, and went on: “Sir, with respect, I suspect you’re having trouble accepting all this. May I ask, sir, that you immediately communicate with the secretary of Defense to get his assurance?”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Admiral Jacoby said, “I think we can hold off, Colonel, until your deputy comes aboard. But in the meantime, I’ll have the aircraft moved to the hangar deck and the paint stripping started.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Break it down, White House.”
Admiral Jacoby just had time to say “shit” before a hissing announced the connection was gone.
“How’d I do, Dick?”
“I think you ruined the admiral’s day.”
“He was about to ruin mine. You know what to tell Jake, right?”
“He just took off from MacDill. That’s next.”
“Thanks a hell of a lot, Dick,” Castillo said, then signaled to Lester to break the connection.
Castillo looked at Pevsner.
“Now that that’s done, you want to tell me about the pistol?” Castillo said.
“People are trying to kill you, friend Charley.”
“You mean right here and now? Or can we go finish our dinner?”
“We will talk after dinner,” Pevsner said.
Castillo picked up the Argentine .45, slipped it into the waistband at the small of his back, and gestured for Pevsner to precede him out of the room.
XII
[ONE]
The Llao Llao Resort Hotel
San Carlos de Bariloche
Río Negro Province, Argentina
2035 10 September 2005
They all crowded into the elevator and rode to the lobby floor. When the door opened, Pevsner touched Castillo’s arm and motioned everyone else out.
“I need a moment with my friend Charley,” he announced, waving toward the dining room. “The rest of you go in.”
Everyone obeyed but Max, who simply sat down and looked to Castillo for instructions. The others made their way around him, and when they all had left the car, Pevsner pushed one of the upper-floor buttons. The door closed and the elevator started to rise.
Pevsner somehow managed to stop the elevator as it ascended; Castillo wondered if an alarm bell was about to go off.
“I don’t want to scare Anna and the children,” Pevsner said, “so don’t say anything at the table.”
“What’s going on, Alek?”
Pevsner didn’t respond directly.
“I will arrange for your baggage to be taken to the boat,” he said. “You can spend the night at the house. Among other things, that’ll give us the opportunity to talk.”
“I can’t get far from the communicator,” Castillo said, thinking aloud.
“And the boy who operates it?”
Castillo nodded, then said, “He’s the communicator, and he’s young, Alek, but don’t think of him as a boy.”
Again, Pevsner didn’t respond directly. After a moment, he said, “All right, everybody goes. That’ll take a little longer to arrange.” He smiled. “That’s probably better anyway. A gun battle would disturb the guests.”
“There’s a possibility of that?”
Pevsner nodded.
“What’s going on, Alek?”
“About an hour and a half ago,” Pevsner said, “Gellini called and said you were back in Argentina—”
“Gellini?” Castillo wondered aloud, then made the connection: “The SIDE guy?”
Pevsner nodded.
“The man who replaced Alfredo when he was relieved,” he confirmed.
“And who now works for you?” Castillo asked.
Pevsner seemed unable to answer that directly, too.
“He admires you, friend Charley. The way you stood up for Alfredo when
he was relieved.”
Alfredo Munz had been chief of SIDE when J. Winslow Masterson was murdered. He had been retired—in fact, fired—in order to be the Argentine government’s scapegoat. Castillo, who had found Munz not only unusually competent and dedicated, thought that the Argentine government’s action was inexcusable and had told his replacement, Coronel Alejandro Gellini, so much in less than tactful terms.
“Alfredo was screwed, Alek, and you know it. I told Gellini what I thought of it. And him.”
“Gellini could not protect Alfredo from the foreign minister, and neither could I. But there was a silver lining to that cloud: Alfredo now works for you, and Gellini admires you.”
“And what did my admirer have to say besides telling you that I was back down here?”
“That people are trying to kill you.”
“A lot of people have been telling me that lately. He didn’t happen to say who?”
“This is serious business, friend Charley,” Pevsner said, smiling and shaking his head in exasperation.
“Gellini didn’t happen to say who?” Castillo asked again.
“What is that word you use? ‘Bounty’? Gellini said there is a bounty on you.”
“I think he probably meant ‘contract,’” Castillo said. “Meaning: whoever would whack me would get paid.”
Pevsner nodded. “What is a ‘bounty’?”
“A price the good guys put on the head of a bad guy,” Castillo explained. “Or on some bad guy who jumps bail. Who put out the contract on me?”
“Gellini knows only that the gangsters know about the contract; he didn’t know who issued it. It could be something the FSB has done in addition to their own plans for you, but I don’t know. They usually like to do that sort of thing themselves.”
“What’re the FSB’s plans for me?”
“What do you think, friend Charley? First you took out the Cuban, Vincenzo—”
“Major Vincenzo was shooting at me at the time.”
“—and then Komogorov of the FSB.”
“Colonel Komogorov was shooting at you at the time. And I didn’t take him out, Lester did.”
Pevsner shook his head in exasperation again.
“As you well know, when something like that happens, what the FSB wants to hear—what Putin himself wants to hear—is not some excuse or explanation. They want confirmation that whoever has killed one of them has himself been killed.”
“I know an Argentine cop who has much the same philosophy of life.”
Pevsner looked at him curiously.
“I don’t understand,” he said, finally.
“It’s too long a story to be told in an elevator. It will have to wait until after dinner.”
This time Pevsner expressed his exasperation by exhaling audibly. He pushed a button on the control panel and the elevator began to descend.
[TWO]
The dinner was first class, which did not surprise Castillo. But he was surprised at how hungry he was and how much he ate, including all of an enormous slice of cheesecake topped with a strawberry sauce he thought was probably a hundred calories a spoonful.
Afterward, Pevsner led the group back to the elevator bank and they filled both elevators. This time, the elevators went down and the doors opened on a corridor in the basement.
At the end of the corridor, a door opened to the outside, where a Peugeot van and three men—obviously armed—waited for them. They climbed into the van and were driven maybe a kilometer to a wharf on the lakeshore.
This has to be Lake Moreno, Castillo decided.
Munz said, “Pevsner’s place is on the other side of the lake—Moreno.”
Floodlights came on as they stepped onto the wharf. Castillo saw a cabin cruiser, what looked like a thirty-five-or forty-foot Bertram sportfisherman tied to the pier, and had a mental image of the boat being hauled along some narrow provincial road on a trailer, dazzling the natives.
There were no lights on the boat, but as they approached the vessel he heard its exhaust burbling. As soon as they were on the boat, in the cockpit aft, the floodlights on the pier went on and the cabin lights on the boat illuminated.
Pevsner asked with a gesture whether Castillo wanted to go into the cabin or up to the flying bridge. Castillo opted for the flying bridge, despite the fact that the air was chilly. These were the Andes Mountains, and springtime would not come to Argentina for several weeks. But Castillo—perhaps as a reflex response—wanted to see what could be seen and began climbing the ladder fashioned of heavy-gauge aluminum tubing toward the flying bridge.
Max barked his protest at not being able to follow him up the ladder. Elena appeared at the cabin door and called to him. He looked to Castillo for guidance.
“Go with Elena,” Castillo ordered, and after a moment’s thought Max walked into the cabin.
The man who had been with Pevsner when Castillo had first seen them was at the helm, his hands on the controls. As soon as Pevsner was on the flying bridge, the boat began to move.
Set into the panel were radar and GPS screens, and the man used the latter to navigate.
Meaning, of course, that he’s pretty sure nothing is out there, on the surface or below.
Wrong. I hear other engines.
A moment later, as Castillo’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw first the wake of a boat ahead of them and then the boat itself, a twenty-odd-foot inboard. The three men who had been waiting for them outside the Llao Llao were in it.
The small inboard boat picked up speed and began to turn, obviously intending to circle the sportfisherman.
“Nice boat, Alek,” Castillo said, raising his voice over the sound of wind and the rumble of twin diesels. “How did you get it here?”
“By truck,” Pevsner replied. “The first try was a disaster. They went off the road and turned over.”
“Jesus!” Castillo said, sympathetically.
“Always look for the silver lining, friend Charley. It took another month to get another boat from Miami—this wouldn’t fit in any of my airplanes—but I now have spare parts for everything but the hull.”
Twenty minutes later, a light appeared almost dead ahead. The radar screen showed something that had to be a pier extending into the lake from the shore. The engines slowed. A minute later, floodlights on a pier came on and the inboard boat came out of the darkness and tied up. A twin of the Peugeot van at the Llao Llao was backed up onto the pier.
Three minutes later, they had tied up to the wharf and were in the van, which started down the pier. As soon as the vehicle reached the foot of the pier, the floodlights went off.
It was a five-minute drive along a steep, curving, gravel road, and then they passed through a gate in a ten-foot-tall stone wall and came to a stop before an imposing house.
Pevsner led them all inside.
Anna and the boys and the girl—Elena, who is almost exactly as old as my son—said a polite good night.
Castillo looked around. There was an enormous room off the entrance foyer. A crystal chandelier hung from what was probably a thirty-foot-high ceiling, illuminating a wall on which hung probably fifty stuffed deer and stag heads. On either side of a desk, two stuffed, snarling pumas faced each other.
This is familiar.
Why do I recognize it?
The memory bank produced an image of a large, fat, jowly man standing at the entrance to the room, dressed in lederhosen and a Bavarian hat with a pheasant tail feather stuck in it, and holding a bow and arrow.
I’ll be goddamned!
Pevsner said in Russian: “My people will take care of your bags, friend Charley. Does the boy—your communicator—have to be present while we talk?”
“No, but he has to be close,” Castillo answered in Russian. “And he’ll need some place to set up his radio.”
“Will he require help?”
Castillo shook his head.
“Then let’s go in there,” Pevsner said, pointing to the enormous room and taking Castillo�
�s arm.
Castillo switched to German and asked, “Are you sure it will be all right with the Reichsforst und Jägermeister?”
“You are amazing,” Pevsner said in Russian. “How are you familiar with that, with Carinhall?”
Castillo continued to speak German: “My grandfather had a book—a large, leather-bound book—that Göring gave him when he was a guest. I used to look at it when I was a kid.”
“Your grandfather was a Nazi?”
“He was an Army officer who was badly wounded at Stalingrad and evacuated just before it fell. With Billy Kocian, incidentally. He told me Göring used to receive busloads of wounded senior officers at the place, and everyone got a book. The first picture inside, so help me God, was of Göring in lederhosen holding a bow and arrow.
“But, no, to answer your question, my grandfather was not a Nazi. My mother told me—when she knew she was dying; she said she thought I should know—that he was on the SS’s list of those officers known to be associated with Claus von Stauffenberg in the bomb plot, and they were looking for him until the end of the war.”
“What kind of a senior officer, Karl?” Pevsner said, now speaking German.
“Infantry, detailed to Intelligence. He was a lieutenant colonel at Stalingrad; they promoted him to colonel while he was recuperating.”
“And now the German senior officer’s grandson is an American senior officer detailed to Intelligence, and the descendants of the SS, now in the employ of the Russians, are looking for him in order to kill him. Blood really does run deep, doesn’t it, friend Charley?”
Castillo realized that Pevsner’s observation made him uncomfortable and wondered why.
“I think you mean, ‘History does repeat itself, doesn’t it?’” Castillo said, then went on quickly before Pevsner could reply: “I had a couple of days off one time in Berlin and went to see Carinhall. It’s in Brandenburg, in the Schorfheide Forest—was there; Göring had the place blown up to keep the Russians from getting it. They did a good job. The gates are still there, but aside from that not much else is left.”
A maid rolled a cart loaded with spirits and the necessary accoutrements into the room, cutting off the conversation. After she had positioned the cart, she looked at Pevsner.
The Shooters Page 44
