Black Ops

the hell are you, Tom?”

Castillo thrust out his hand.

“Carlos Castillo, right?” Dmitri Berezovsky said. He stood, took the extended hand, and pumped it enthusiastically.

“Actually, it’s ‘Charley,’ Tom, but what the hell! Jack, this is Tom Barlow. You’ve heard me talk about him.”

“I sure have,” Davidson answered, then shook Berezovsky’s hand. “Jack Davidson, Tom. Going to Vienna, are you?”

“A business conference,” Berezovsky said, and looked at Castillo. “Charley, I don’t think you’ve met the better half, have you?”

“No, I haven’t,” Castillo said.

“Honey, this is Charley Castillo,” Berezovsky said. “Charley, this is my wife, Laura, and our daughter, Sophie, and my sister, Susan Alexander.”

The girl’s about the age of Aleksandr Pevsner’s daughter, Elena, Castillo thought.

And my Randy.

Except that but for blood my Randy’s not my Randy.

The wife and daughter smiled a little uneasily, offered their hands, but said nothing.

The sister said, “How are you? Nice to meet you,” as she offered her hand.

Nice English, Castillo thought. But the Russian comes through.

And then he noticed that she was beautiful.

I missed that until now?

What is that, tunnel vision?

“Charley, you know what?” Berezovsky said. “I was going to see if I could find you in Vienna. A little business opportunity I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Oh, really? I’m always open for a good business opportunity.”

“Well, we’re still a couple of hours from Vienna. What I was thinking was if we could find someplace to talk. . . . I don’t like to talk business in front of my family.”

“I understand,” Castillo said. “Well, how about my compartment? That is, unless you don’t like dogs.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have my dog with me. Some people are afraid of dogs.”

“I love dogs,” Berezovsky said.

“We’re two cars back,” Castillo said.

Davidson took tickets from his pocket, looked at them, and announced, “Compartment four, wagon three.”

“Compartment four, wagon three,” Berezovsky repeated. “Say, in thirty minutes?”

“Fine,” Castillo said. He offered his hand again to Berezovsky’s wife and then to his sister. “It was nice to meet you. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

He smiled at the girl, who smiled shyly back. Berezovsky’s wife again said nothing. The sister said, “That would be nice.”

“There’s a very nice Wiener schnitzel,” Berezovsky said. “And the beer’s Czech, from Pilsen.”

Castillo smiled at him, then turned and motioned for Davidson to go to a table across the aisle.

The waiter appeared almost immediately. They both ordered the Wiener schnitzel and, at the waiter’s recommendation, two bottles of Gambrinus, which he said came from eastern Bohemia and he personally preferred over the better-known Pilsner Urquell.

The beer was served immediately.

Three minutes later, as the waiter approached their table with the food, Berezovsky and party rose from their table and walked down the aisle.

Castillo waited until they were almost out of the dining car before asking, “Well, Jack, what do you think?”

“Nice ass on the sister.”

“Nice boobs, too, but that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Davidson sipped thoughtfully from his beer, then said, “We’ll just have to see what happens. I have the feeling that guy’s a heavy hitter.”

“Yeah. I think he is. And I think I’m in over my head with this. I wish Delchamps was here.”

[THREE]

Castillo and Davidson had been in their compartment no more than five minutes when there was a knock at the door.

Davidson opened it a crack, then slid it fully open.

The sister moved gracefully through the door. She held four beer glasses by their stems in one hand.

Max stood up and looked at her, wagging his stump of a tail.

“Hello,” the sister said.

“Hello,” Davidson said.

Berezovsky stepped into the compartment. He held two foil-cap-topped bottles of Gambrinus in each hand. Max stiffened, showed his teeth, growled deep in his throat, and looked poised to jump at Berezovsky.

“Sit, Max,” Castillo ordered sternly in Hungarian.

Max sat down but continued to show his teeth.

Berezovsky, who had frozen two steps into the compartment, smiled uneasily.

“Well, you know what they say, Tom,” Castillo said in English, “about dogs being good judges of character.”

“But I come bearing gifts,” Berezovsky said, raising—slowly—the beer bottles.

“And you know what else they say, ‘Beware of Russians bearing gifts’—or is that ‘the Greeks’?”

“It’s the Greeks and you know it,” the sister said in English.

Nice voice. Nice teeth.

She sat down and crossed her legs.

Nice legs.

“Let the nice man in, Max,” Castillo said in Hungarian. “I’ll let you bite him later.”

“Your Hungarian is very fluent,” Berezovsky said in Hungarian. “You could be from Budapest.”

“Yes,” Castillo agreed.

The sister smiled.

Castillo smiled back.

“May I sit down?” Berezovsky asked.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Castillo said.

Berezovsky sat down. Davidson slid the door closed.

The sister leaned forward and put the glasses on the small window-side table. Berezovsky almost ceremoniously opened a beer bottle and half-filled two of the glasses. Then he opened a second bottle and poured from it into the other two glasses. Then he passed the glasses around.

I would have opened all the bottles, Castillo thought, and handed everybody a bottle and a glass. Why did I notice the difference?

“What is it they say in New York?” Berezovsky asked in Russian. “ ‘Mud in your eye’?”

“Some places in New York,” Castillo replied in Russian, “they say, ‘Let us drink to the success of our project.’”

“Not only is your Russian as fluent as your Hungarian, but you know our drinking toasts.”

“Yes,” Castillo agreed.

And again the sister smiled.

And again Castillo smiled back.

“Not that you’re not welcome here,” Castillo said to her in Russian, “but I seem to recall my ol’ buddy Tom