“But?”
“I began to think of it again a few days ago in San Carlos de Bariloche,” Pevsner said. “When I was trying very hard, and failing, to see how Vladimir Vladimirovich’s intention to eliminate us tied in with the kidnapping of Colonel Ferris. When I finally realized it had nothing to do with that-the kidnapping had nothing to do, except possibly as a diversion, with eliminating us-everything suddenly began to be clear.”
“Tell me how,” Castillo said.
“Who is Vladimir’s greatest enemy? I don’t think anyone would argue it’s not the United States. Can he engage in a war against the United States? No. If he could, he would. Can he, at virtually no cost to himself, cause the United States trouble? Weaken it? Yes, he can. And is.”
“And that’s what he’s up to?” Castillo asked.
Pevsner nodded. “Mexico is the battlefield. For one thing, the Mexicans hate the United States. The United States took most of the Southwest away from Mexico in the war of 1848, and the Mexicans have never forgiven them for that. Mexicans by the millions illegally enter the United States while the Mexican government not only looks the other way but actively encourages them. If those people aren’t in Mexico, not only don’t they have to be fed and hospitalized and educated but they send money-billions and billions of dollars-to their families in Mexico.”
“That seems a little far-fetched, Aleksandr,” Castillo argued.
“It won’t if you give it some thought,” Pevsner said. “But illegal immigration isn’t the point here, and neither is the drug traffic-both of which weaken the U.S., which is fine with Vladimir Vladimirovich, but what he’s really after is the destruction of the United States government.”
“And how does he plan to do that?”
“Off the top of your head, friend Charley, tell me what were the greatest threats to the stability of the United States government in your lifetime?”
“I don’t know,” Castillo admitted. And then after a moment, asked, “You’re talking about Nixon?”
“Before Nixon resigned, there was rioting in the streets. You needed armed troops to protect the Pentagon.”
“And later the impeachment of Clinton,” Castillo added thoughtfully.
“And now you have a President who should be in a room with rubber walls,” Pevsner said.
“Who told you about that?” Castillo asked. “And what makes you think Putin even knows about it?”
“Oh, he knows,” Pevsner said, and issued an order in Russian: “Put two chairs there,” he said, pointing. “And bring them out.”
Two folding chairs were set up and then two men-stark naked, showing signs of having been severely beaten-shuffled onto the patio, their hands and their ankles bound together with plastic ties. Janos, Pevsner’s Hungarian bodyguard, brought up the rear of the procession.
The waiter offered Castillo more of the Cabernet Sauvignon.
“No, thank you,” Castillo said, politely. “I’ve had quite enough for the time being.”
“You’ve met Sergei, I understand,” Pevsner said. “But I don’t think you’ve met Jose Rafael Monteverde.”
Both men looked at Castillo. Monteverde looked terrified. Murov, Castillo decided after a moment, seemed resigned to his fate, whatever that might turn out to be.
“Untie their hands, Janos,” Castillo ordered in Hungarian. “Lester, get them water and a cigarette if they want one.”
Janos looked at Pevsner for guidance. Pevsner nodded.
Lester went to the wet bar for water.
“Where is Colonel Ferris?” Castillo asked.
Neither man replied.
“I don’t know about you, Mr. Monteverde,” Castillo said in Hungarian, “but you’re a professional, Mr. Murov. You know what options you have. You either answer my questions or Janos will slowly beat you to death.”
Castillo looked at Janos. “What have you been using on him?”
Janos flicked his wrist and a telescoping wand appeared in his hand. He flicked it back and forth. It whistled.
“That’s the one with the little ball of shot at the end?” Castillo asked.
Janos extended the wand to show Castillo the small leather shot-filled ball at the end of his wand.
“Very nice,” Castillo said. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen one.”
“As one professional to another, Colonel Castillo, can we get this over with quickly?” Murov asked, in Russian.
“Do you speak Hungarian, Mr. Monteverde?” Castillo asked, in Hungarian.
Monteverde’s face showed he did not.
“Pity,” Castillo said, in Russian. “Hungarian seems to have become the
Monteverde’s face showed he understood this.
Castillo then said in Hungarian: “As a matter of personal curiosity, Mr. Murov-though it doesn’t really matter-when did you become aware of President Clendennen’s mental instability? Before or after he became President?”
“It wasn’t much of a secret, was it, Colonel?” Murov replied.
“Lester, where’s the cigarettes I asked for for these gentlemen?” Castillo asked.
Janos gave a quick order in Hungarian, and the waiter walked to Lester and handed him a package of Sobranie cigarettes.
Bradley looked at them dubiously.
“Those are Sobranie, Les,” Castillo explained. “I don’t know whether those are Russian made or the ones they make in London.”
“Huh?” Lester said.
“Cigarettes are very bad for your health, Lester. I wouldn’t smoke one of those, if I were you.”
“No, sir, I hadn’t planned to,” Bradley said.
Everyone on the patio-including Murov and Monteverde-looked askance at the exchange.
Lester walked to Murov and Monteverde, handed them cigarettes, then lit them for them.
“Thank you,” Monteverde said.
“Beware of either Americans or Hungarians bearing gifts,” Castillo said in Hungarian. “Especially counterfeit Russian cigarettes.”
Pevsner and Tarasov smiled and shook their heads.
Monteverde eyed his cigarette suspiciously.
“It’s soaked with sodium pentothal, of course,” Castillo said, in Spanish. “My protocol is to use that before pulling fingernails and doing other things like that.”
Monteverde’s face showed that he was perfectly willing to accept that.
“Tell me, Senor Monteverde,” Castillo then went on in Spanish, “when you were in Cuba, did you happen to run into Major Alejandro Vincenzo?”
Monteverde’s face showed that he had, and was surprised that Castillo knew of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia officer.
“No,” he said.
“He got in a gun fight with Lester in Uruguay,” Castillo said, conversationally. “Right out of the O.K. Corral. Lester put him down with a head shot, offhand, from at least one hundred yards. That’s why we call him ‘Dead Eye.’”
Monteverde looked at Castillo as if he couldn’t believe what Castillo had just said.
“Well, those things happen in our line of business, don’t they?” Castillo said. “Sometimes people just don’t make it.”
He let that sink in for a moment, and then said, “Lester, why don’t you take Mr. Monteverde back where he came from? What we’re going to do next is see if Colonel Alekseeva and Chief Pena can’t talk Senor Monteverde
