Black Ops

Berezovsky looked at his sister and chuckled.

“Is true, Svetlana.”

“Well, much the same thing happens to West Pointers such as myself. When they give us jobs like mine, we are perfectly free to lie, cheat, steal, and get to be pals with other people who do.”

Berezovsky thought that was amusing. Castillo saw in Svetlana’s eyes that she did not.

“Okay, what happens now is that when the train pulls into the Westbahnhof, there will be Wiener Tages Zeitung trucks on each platform.”

“ ‘Each platform’?” Svetlana parroted.

“You’re familiar with the station?” Castillo asked.

Both nodded. Vienna’s Westbahnhof—Western Station—was a major Austrian railway terminal.

“There’re two tracks between the platforms. There will be a truck on each one. Nothing suspicious about them; they’re there every day to load newspapers on the trains for the boonies—the countryside.

“When the train pulls in, you will already be at the end of the car with your luggage. If everything looks kosher—looks all right—two men will come to the car from the truck on the platform you’d normally use. They will load you into the truck.

“However, if it appears that people are looking for you on the platform, the men in the truck will create a diversion, and you will leave the train by the other door, which means you’ll have to jump onto the tracks, get onto the other platform, and then get into the truck on the other side.”

“And what if there is a train on the other track?” Svetlana asked.

“Then a man will help you pass through it,” Castillo said.

“Where will they take us?” Berezovsky asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” Castillo said. “Somewhere safe. A man named Sandor Tor will be with you. I don’t think we should risk being seen together.”

“Is this man good at what he does?” Berezovsky asked.

“He was a Budapest police inspector and, before that, he did a hitch in the French Foreign Legion.”

“I wish you were coming with us,” Svetlana said.

So do I, sweetheart!

But are you saying that just to save your ass?

Or did those sky-blue eyes just tell me you meant it, that you’re back to putting the make on me?

Careful, Don Juan!

“I think you should leave one at a time,” Castillo said. “You first, Svetlana.”

[FIVE]

The corridor side—as opposed to the compartment side—of the sleeping car was next to the platform as the “Bartok Bela” backed into the Westbahnhof.

Castillo waited until he saw that both trucks with Tages Zeitung logotypes on their sides were on the platforms and then stepped into the corridor. The trucks were much smaller than he expected; it was going to be a tight fit with four people and their luggage.

As Davidson waited in the compartment, Castillo looked up and down the platform but couldn’t see anyone he wanted to see.

It would have been helpful, 007, if you had asked the nice people which car they were in!

Then he saw something he didn’t want to see.

A departing passenger, a well-dressed stout gentleman of about forty, was suddenly hit in the stomach by an eight-inch-thick bound stack of the newest edition of the Tages Zeitung. The mass of newsprint knocked him onto his rather ample gluteus maximus and caused him to say very unkind things in a very loud voice to and about the cretins in the newspaper truck.

Castillo moved quickly back into the compartment. Davidson pointed.

Berezovsky was hoisting his wife onto the adjacent platform by her hips as Sandor Tor did the same for the girl. Svetlana was throwing their luggage onto the platform. A man in a gray smock took the luggage and threw it into the Tages Zeitung truck there.

Almost simultaneously, Berezovsky and Tor hoisted themselves onto the platform. Tor directed Berezovsky to the truck, then extended his hand to assist Svetlana onto the platform.

She was well ahead of him. She had hoisted her skirt to her waist, which revealed that she was wearing both red lacey underpants and, on her inner thigh, some sort of small semiautomatic pistol in a holster.

She then leapt to the platform with the agility of a gazelle, and, adjusting her skirt in the process, ran quickly to the truck and got in.

“I have always been partial to women in red panties,” Davidson said.

“Being a professional, I was of course more interested in the pistol.”

“You didn’t notice the red panties, right?”

“In passing, of course.”

“I noticed the pistol in passing. I have no trouble walking and chewing gum at the same time. It was more than likely a Model 1908 Colt Vest Pocket, in more than likely .25 ACP, although they made some in .32 ACP.”

“It was my in-passing snap judgment that the garment in question was Victoria’s Secret Model 17B, which comes with a label warning that there is not enough material in the garment for it to be used to safely blow one’s nose.”

“You don’t think she gets cold, do you?”

“Russian women have a reputation for being warm-blooded.”

“You better keep that in mind, Charley. I think that dame is trouble.”

Castillo grunted. “That would appear to be the understatement of the day.”

He picked up his briefcase and waved Davidson ahead of him out of the compartment.

There were three burly men in the corridor. Two of them were carrying the travel kennel. It now had Madchen inside with her pups.

That was a good idea, Charley thought. If Madchen and Max had gotten into a fight, that would’ve been a real diversion.

The third burly man blocked their way until Billy Kocian came out of the compartment and vouched for them.

As they walked down the platform and then down the stairs to cars waiting for them on the street, Castillo saw four different groups of men—two pairs, one trio, and one quartet—who could have been waiting for Berezovsky and the others. Or who could be waiting for anyone else.

The trio seemed unusually interested in Billy Kocian and the procession following him. Which of course could be attributed to Max and Madchen, who were growling at each other.

A silver Mercedes S600 with Budapest tags was waiting at the curb. Kocian opened the kennel, motioned Madchen inside the automobile’s backseat, took a pup in each hand, and followed. A burly man closed the door, and the car immediately drove off.

A much smaller and older Mercedes pulled up. The burly man opened the front and rear right-side doors and motioned for Davidson and Castillo to get in. Max did so first, taking his place in back.

“Where are we going?” Davidson asked as the vehicle lurched forward.

“The Sacher,” Castillo said.

“As in Sachertorte? The cake of many layers?”

Castillo nodded. “It was invented there. Billy has an apartment there.”

“Room enough for us?”

“Room enough for us and half a dozen other people.”

[SIX]

The Bar