Covert Warriors

When Delchamps pushed UP, the opening bars of The Blue Danube came over loudspeakers. After just a faint sensation of movement, the door slid open.

Parker thought: That was quick. We’re probably only going to the second floor.

They were on a circular foyer, off of which were eight closed doors and one open double door. A burly man in a white jacket-a twin of the man at the airport-stood next to the open doors, holding an Uzi submachine gun along his leg.

He ran his eyes among the elevator passengers and then sat down.

Delchamps walked to and through the open doors with the others following him. Parker, confused for a moment, saw that rather than being on the second floor, they were on a very high floor.

They were in a large room. There were six men. Two were playing chess while a third-a very young man, almost a boy-watched. A fourth was reading a Spanish-language newspaper, and a fifth was reading the Wall Street Journal. The sixth was working at a laptop computer on a glass-topped coffee table.

Through wide plate-glass doors, Parker saw two more men-one of them a very large, obviously Latino man and the other a good-looking, six-foot, fair-skinned man in his late thirties who looked American-hoist themselves nimbly out of a swimming pool and start to towel themselves dry.

A huge black dog like the ones at Lorimer Manor came trotting around the side of the pool with a white soccer ball in his mouth. He dropped it at the feet of the swimmers and then shook himself dry. It produced an explosion of water.

What the hell is it with these dogs?

A stunningly beautiful redheaded woman wearing a transparent flaming yellow jacket over a matching bikini- together, the garments left only negligible anatomical details to the imagination-rose gracefully from a chaise longue next to the pool and marched up to Roscoe Danton. She gave him a little hug and offered her cheek for him to kiss.

Then she put out her hand to Porky, and announced, “I’m Sweaty. Welcome to Cozumel. What can I get you to drink?”

That has to be a name, Parker decided, because she damn sure doesn’t smell sweaty.

She smells as if she just took a bath in the most expensive of perfumes Chanel et Cie has to offer.

“I’ll be almost pathetically grateful for anything with alcohol in it,” Porky said.

A white-jacketed waiter suddenly appeared.

“Scotch, double, rocks,” Porky ordered.

“Twice,” Roscoe said.

I don’t think ordering a double scotch was the smart thing for me to do, Porky thought. The last thing I need to do when I have to do some serious thinking is get bombed.

Not only do I not know what I’m doing here, I’m not even sure where the hell “here” is.

“Well, Gimpy, I see you managed to cheat death once again,” the swimmer Parker thought of as “the American” said. “Please tell me you didn’t bend my nice new bird.”

Gimpy gave the American the finger.

The American walked up to Parker.

“Welcome to Cozumel, Mr. Parker, you’re just in time for an Argentine bife de chorizo, which I believe loosely translates from Spanish as ‘food for the gods.’ I’m Charley Castillo.”

Parker knew a good deal about Charley Castillo, but this was the first time he’d ever seen him up close, and he was surprised at what he saw. It showed on his face.

Parker thought: As a matter of fact, the only time I’ve ever seen him at all was on television, when he and the other guy who’d stolen that Tupelov airplane walked off it at Andrews Air Force Base.

I guess-because of that Castillo name and because he’s a Mexican-American-I expected, if not Zorro, then that Mexican-American actor, Antonio Bandana, or whatever the hell his name is.

This guy has blue eyes and lighter skin than mine, and damn sure doesn’t look like a Super Spook capable of stealing a Russian airplane right from under Hugo Chavez’s nose. Or, for that matter, stealing two Russian defectors from the CIA station chief in Vienna.

Oh, Jesus! That’s who the redhead is!

The Russian defector, the former SVR rezident in Copenhagen, who President Clendennen had been willing-hell, been trying desperately-to swap to the Russians.

“Something wrong?” Castillo asked.

“No. I guess I’m a little shook up by everything that’s happened.”

The waiter put a glass in his hand, and Porky took a healthy swallow.

Castillo gave his hand to Danton.

“Thank you for coming, Roscoe,” he said. “I know it’s inconvenient, but it’s important.”

“Anytime, Charley,” Danton replied.

He added, mentally: I always try to oblige people who are going to give me a million dollars. And it’s not as if I had much of a choice, is it?

“Mr. Parker. . can I call you Porky?” Castillo said.

John David Parker-who loathed being called “Porky”-heard himself saying “Certainly.”

Castillo nodded, then went on: “Porky, you ever hear ‘What happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas’? That applies here in spades. You take my meaning?”

“I think so,” Parker said.

Roscoe thought, Porky took his meaning, all right. Castillo didn’t have to say, “Otherwise, we’ll have to kill you.”

Porky figured that out all by himself.

“Okay,” Castillo said. “Introductions are in order. You’ve met Sweaty.” He pointed at a man who looked very much like himself. “That’s her brother, Tom Barlow. And their cousin Aleksandr Pevsner. And their uncle, Nicolai Tarasov-they answer to Alek and Nick. The fellow watching porn on his laptop is Vic D’Alessandro. .”

D’Alessandro, without raising his head from the laptop, gave Castillo the finger.

“. . and that’s my cousin, Fernando Lopez. That’s Stefan-call him Steve-Koussevitzky, and last but certainly not least, Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley, USMC, Retired.”

Roscoe knew who Stefan Koussevitzky was. The last time he had seen him was on the island. He then had been wearing the uniform of a Spetsnaz major. About the last picture Roscoe had taken on the island as the Tupelov taxied to the runway was one of Koussevitzky sitting on the ground against a hangar wall, applying a compress to his bloody leg. Sweaty had shot him with her tiny.32 Colt automatic.

How did he get here?

And what the hell is he doing here?

A man wearing chef ’s whites appeared at the door to the swimming pool and said something in what Porky recognized as Russian.

Castillo then announced, “That’s Russian for ‘the steaks are done,’ ” and gestured for everybody to go onto the balcony.

A long banquet table had been set up around the corner of the building. The man with the chef’s hat and two white-jacketed waiters were lined up next to it. There was a large charcoal grill against the balcony railing, and a table loaded with bottles of wine against the building wall.

Castillo took a seat at one end of the table, and Alek Pevsner at the other. Sweaty sat at one side of Castillo, and Delchamps sat across from her. Pevsner had Tom Barlow on one side of him and Uncle Nicolai Tarasov on the other.