The Hotel Sacher
Philharmonikerstrasse 4
Vienna, Austria
1925 28 December 2005
Colonel Jacob Torine was surprised to find Castillo feeding Max potato chips in the bar when he walked in, so surprised that he opened the conversation with the question: “They let dogs in here?”
“Only if they like you,” Castillo said.
Sparkman and Delchamps chuckled; Torine shook his head.
“Let’s get a table,” Castillo said, nodding to a table in the corner of the red-velvet-walled and -draped room.
“When did you get here?” Castillo asked. “More important: Have you got something for me?”
Delchamps handed him a padded envelope sized to ship compact discs.
Castillo took his laptop computer from his briefcase, laid it on the table, and booted it up. He then pulled an unmarked recordable CD from the envelope and fed it to the computer.
“We were here—over in the Bristol—at eleven,” Torine said. “Did you have a nice train ride down here?”
“A very interesting one,” Castillo said.
Delchamps moved so he could see the laptop screen.
“I was about to mention that that disc is classified,” Delchamps said. “But I see I won’t have to. It’s not working. What the hell happened?”
“ ‘United States Central Intelligence Agency,’ ” Castillo read off the screen. “ ‘Foreign Intelligence Evaluation Division. Top Secret. This material may not be removed from the FIED file-review room or copied by any means without the specific written permission of the Chief, FIED.’ ”
“How come I can’t see that?”
“You’re getting a little long in the tooth, Edgar. When was the last time you had your eyes checked?”
“Come on, Charley!”
“It’s got a filter over the screen,” Castillo said. “Unless you hold your head in exactly the right position—dead straight on—you can’t read the screen. More important, other people can’t read your screen.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Radio Shack,” Castillo said. Then: “Really. I think it cost four ninety-five.” Then he said, “Oh, good, this has got Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva’s dossier on it.”
“You know about her?” Delchamps asked, surprised.
“Charley and I can even tell you the color of her underwear,” Davidson said. “Professionally, of course.”
Delchamps looked at him, shook his head, but didn’t respond exactly.
“We had some trouble getting that disc, Charley,” he said.
“Tell me,” Castillo said, not taking his eyes from the laptop screen.
“Well, we got on the horn the minute we took off from Frankfurt. I told Miller what you wanted, and he said, ‘No problem. I’ll put Lester in a Yukon and send him over there. He’s feeling underutilized anyway.’”
“And then?” Castillo asked.
“Dick called me back as we were about to land here, and said Langley was giving Lester trouble and the best way he could think to handle it was to go over there himself. That raised the question of how we were going to get the data without taking one of the AFC portables to the hotel and going through all the trouble of setting it up.
“Then Sparkman volunteered . . .”
Sparkman snorted.
“. . . to stay at Schwechat and get the plane fueled, etcetera, and listen to the radio.”
“That came in about an hour ago, Colonel,” Sparkman said. “Major Miller said he had to call Ambassador Montvale to have him personally call the DCI.”
“Montvale was supposed to have told Langley to give us whatever we ask for,” Castillo said.
“That was my impression, too, Ace, but that’s what Miller told Sparkman,” Delchamps said.
Sparkman nodded and went on: “Major Miller said that some guy he didn’t know said something about not wanting to interfere in any way with an ongoing operation of the highest importance. He wouldn’t say what that operation was. Miller said the guy shit a brick when the DCI said, ‘Give him the dossiers.’
“And Miller said that’s when, reluctantly, they gave him the female’s dossier. What he said was that, when the DCI was in the file room, he said you wanted everything, and the DCI said, ‘Give them everything.’ That’s one good-looking woman; who is she, Colonel?”
“Berezovsky’s sister,” Castillo said, then asked, “Edgar, how’d things go with the local spook?”
“Bad karma, Ace. Your reputation has preceded you.”
“Explain that,” Castillo ordered.
“Well, the spook is a her. Miss Eleanor Dillworth, ostensibly the counselor for consular affairs. She’s a friend of Alex Darby’s—or so she said; I’d like to check that with Alex—and I’ve never heard anything bad about her. But she was not what you could call the spirit of enthusiastic cooperation when I asked her what she could tell me about the Kuhls. And that was
“How did my name come up?”
“She asked what I was doing in Washington, and I told her I worked for you.” He paused. “Ace, to respond to that pissed off look on your face, OOA is no longer a secret within the intelligence community.”
“Shit. I guess I’ve got to get used to that. Okay, so how did she respond when my name came up?”
“She said, and this is almost verbatim, ‘I know all about that sonofabitch and I want nothing to do with him.’ I naturally inquired of the lady what she meant, and she said that, first, you ruined the soaring career of a Langley pal of hers and, second, you actually got said pal fired.”
“Is that so?” Castillo said, his tone somewhat sarcastic. He looked at Delchamps. “She give you a name?”
“No. Is this none of my business?”
“The lady in question is Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson. She was some kind of an analyst at Langley, and when she fucked up doing what she should have done with that stolen airliner, she tried to put the blame on the local spook. She said that not only was the local spook incompetent but a drunk, the proof of that being that while in his cups, he made improper advances to her, knowing full well she was a married woman. She probably would have gotten away with it had she not been, at the time Dick Miller was supposedly trying to rape her—”
“
Castillo nodded. “—Had she not been fucking me at the time. She lied that Miller was working his wicked way on her. That got her transferred. Then she went to C. Harry Whelan, Jr., the infamous journalist, and tried to blow the whistle on me. Whelan then went to Montvale with the dirt that he had on me, which was what Mrs. Wilson had leaked to him.
“Montvale—and I owe him big-time for this, as I frequently have to remind myself—not only turned Whelan off but taped their conversation, in which Whelan referred, several times, to Mrs. Wilson as ‘his own private mole in Langley.’ ”
“Jesus Christ,” Delchamps said disgustedly.
“Then Montvale played the tape for the DCI. And
“Women in this business are dangerous,” Delchamps said.
“I was saying exactly the same thing to Charley earlier today,” Davidson said innocently.
Castillo slid the laptop to him.
“Take a quick look at this, Jack, and tell me what you think.”
Delchamps said: “I don’t think the truth would impress Miss Dillworth very much, Charley. You’re an unmitigated sonofabitch. What I think I should do is get on the horn to Alex Darby and get his take on the lady. Then I think I can deal with her. I’ll start out by telling her what a sonofabitch I know you to be.”
Castillo held his hand up as a signal for Delchamps to wait. He was looking at Davidson.
Finally, Davidson raised his eyes from the computer screen.
“It looks like the Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Under Britches are who they say they are, doesn’t it?”
