curious.”
“That kind of an op, huh? No problem. I’ll just have them drop me off—not to worry, they won’t remember where—and worry about getting back to Vegas later. It’s seven hundred nautical miles. Figure an hour to get to the airport and off the ground and an hour and three-quarters in the air. Add all that up, Charley, and I’ll see you then. Casey out.”
Castillo pushed a button, turning off the AFC speakerphone function.
“You really have such interesting friends, Carlos,” Svetlana said. “That
“You know about him, huh, Svet? What that was was a very lonely man—his wife just died—who I think I just made very happy. He’s sitting all alone in a house about twice the size of the one in Golf and Polo, or vice versa, that you like so much, on several hundred hectares of very expensive real estate overlooking Las Vegas and of course the AFC labs and plants.”
“I don’t understand,” Berezovsky said.
“When Aloysius was a kid, Colonel,” Davidson offered, “he was in the Vietnam War, the commo— communications—sergeant on a Special Forces A-Team operating black in Cambodia and other places. When he gets here, you will learn how he almost won that war all by himself. He never really took off the suit.”
“What does that mean?” Svetlana asked.
“He still thinks of himself as a special operator,” Castillo said.
“And Charley just told him he could come out and play. No, not play. This is for real, and that makes it better; he can tell us young guys how to do an operation the right way. For Aloysius, that’s better than Christmas, his birthday, and Saint Patrick’s Day all rolled into one.”
“He’s stopped talking to Billy Waugh,” Castillo said. “Did you hear that?”
Davidson nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Isn’t that the fellow who caught Carlos the Jackal?” Berezovsky asked.
“One and the same,” Davidson said. “Aloysius and Billy were young green beanies together, and Billy’s still out there—the last I heard he was in Afghanistan again—going after the bad guys. Meanwhile, Aloysius is behind a desk—and can’t stand that Billy isn’t pushing a walker rather than making HALO jumps.”
“How old are they?” Castillo mused. “Seventy-five, anyway. Pushing eighty.”
“Then they ought to have enough sense to stand down,” Svetlana said. “If they’re that old.”
“And do what?” Berezovsky said. “The American general Patton said it, Svet. The only good death for a soldier is to die from the last bullet fired in the last battle.”
Castillo said, “How about me having a heart attack on the ninth green, or whatever they call it, of Golf and Polo, and then you having one trying to load me into the golf cart? That way, we could go out together and wouldn’t have to look for a job. Or play golf.”
“I think I’d rather take that last bullet,” Berezovsky said. “Even though it no longer seems we have that option.”
“Or we could go fishing in that lake with Aleksandr, fall out of the boat and drown,” Castillo said.
“Your William Colby went out that way,” Berezovsky said.
“Who?” Svetlana said.
“He was a director of Central Intelligence,” Berezovsky said.
“And he fell out of his canoe,” Castillo said. “And drowned.”
“I think I’d prefer the bullet,” Berezovsky said.
“Me, too,” Castillo said. “All things considered. God knows I can’t see myself on a golf course.”
“The both of you make me sick!” Svetlana said furiously. “May God forgive you both!”
She stormed out of the library.
“What the hell’s the matter with her?” Castillo asked.
“She’s a woman,” Berezovsky said. “I suspect your learning about women is going to be an interesting experience for you. Painful, but interesting.”
[SEVEN]
1250 8 January 2006
Casey’s Gulfstream V—which Castillo thought was both beautiful and probably carried the most advanced avionics in the world—touched smoothly down, turned at the end of the strip, and taxied back to the hangar.
The stair door opened and Aloysius Francis Casey, Ph.D., came down the steps carrying an open laptop computer. He was wearing clothing not often seen in South Boston: a Stetson hat, Western World ostrich-skin boots, a sheepskin-lined denim jacket, and matching trousers.
He saluted. Castillo returned it.
“We cheated death again,” Casey announced triumphantly, then nodded at the computer. “This little sonofabitch was right on the money.”
He handed the laptop to Lester Bradley.
“You can carry this. I wouldn’t want a Marine to rupture himself trying to carry anything heavier.”
“Yes, sir,” Bradley said. He looked at the screen. “Dr. Casey, why does this show we’re in Dallas?”
Casey took a quick, shocked look at the screen.
“You little sonofabitch, you got me!” Casey said approvingly.
A man wearing the shoulder boards of a first officer came down the stairs carrying a large cardboard box, followed by a man wearing the four-stripe shoulder boards of a captain and also carrying a large cardboard box.
“That’s the delicate stuff,” Casey barked. “Be careful with it.”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison as they headed for one of the Yukons. Bradley went to the nearest and opened the rear door.
“Where’d you get the cowboy suit?” Castillo asked.
“Weren’t you paying attention in the Q course when they said you should always try to blend into the native population? And this is Texas, right? At least Dallas, if one were to believe the Boy Marine.”
Castillo chuckled.
“Well, hello,” Casey said, having spotted Svetlana.
“I like your cowboy suit,” Svetlana said. “Carlos, I want one just like that.”
“
“You don’t sound like a Texan,” Casey said. “But as pretty as you are, you can sound like anything you want.”
“My grandmother’s in the house, setting up lunch,” Castillo said.
“Your
“We need all the help we can get,” Castillo said.
“And here I am,” Casey said. “Let’s get this crap off the airplane.”
The “crap off the airplane” nearly filled both Yukons.
Less than an hour after it touched down, Casey’s Gulfstream went wheels-up.
“What we’re going to need before too long are a couple of large, very large, monitors,” Casey announced. “Better, three. Better yet, four. That’s presuming the Marine Corps doesn’t smash everything taking it out of the boxes.”
He nodded toward Bradley, who was half inside one of Casey’s large cardboard boxes that crowded the library.
“Not to worry, sir. I know how delicate vacuum tubes are.”
“So it would appear,” Berezovsky said.
“I may decide not to like you, Tom. And I don’t even know who you are.”
“You tell me what kind of monitors you want, and I’ll go into town and get them,” Castillo said. “And while I’m doing that, Davidson can tell you who Tom is and otherwise bring you up to speed.”
Casey said, “Go to Radio Shack and get a bunch of precision soldering irons and hand tools, that kind of thing.
