needed a safe house. Within the intelligence community, a safe house was defined as a place the bad guys didn’t know about, a place where one may hide things and people.
Jack and Sandra Britton and Bob Kensington, all in bathing suits, were standing on the verandah of Nuestra Pequena Casa when the little convoy rolled up. The housekeeper and a maid stood behind them.
The moment Castillo opened the door of the embassy Suburban, the heat and humidity of an Argentine summer afternoon hit him. He stood there and again thought of the Russian women in clothing intended for winter in Northern Europe.
Castillo slammed the door shut and walked up to the house.
“Well, we didn’t expect to see you so soon,” Britton greeted him, putting out his hand.
“Unexpected things happen,” Castillo said lightly, then changed his tone. “From this moment, we’re going to run this place tight. First thing: We get everybody out of the vehicles and into the foyer. Kensington, get a weapon.”
Sergeant Kensington took one step backward into the house, reached down, and came up holding an Uzi at his side.
“I should have known better, Bob. Sorry.”
Castillo saw Sandra Britton looked like she was about to say something. “Sandra, please go inside and save your lip for later.”
She gave him a dirty look, glanced at her husband, but went into the house.
The expression on Jack Britton’s face showed he didn’t like Castillo’s curtness to his wife, though he didn’t say anything.
“Bob,” Castillo went on, “stay where you are. Jack, go to the Suburban and open the rear door. Tell the people in there to get out and into the house.”
“Who are they?” Britton asked.
“Indulge me, Jack. Just do it.”
Max erupted from the Suburban the moment the rear door was opened and ran into the house. Then Sof’ya, holding one of the pups, slid off the seat and to the ground.
“Bring him into the house, sweetheart, please,” Castillo called to her in Russian.
The smile on Sof’ya’s face vanished when she saw Kensington and the submachine gun. She looked back at the Suburban, then at Castillo.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Castillo called as Sof’ya’s mother, holding the other puppy, slid awkwardly off the Suburban’s high seat and onto the ground.
“Right this way, please, Mrs. Berezovsky,” Castillo said, and then, switching to English, called, “Now the Mercedes, Jack. Watch this one!”
Kensington went to the second vehicle, Alfredo Munz’s Mercedes 230 SUV. He opened the front passenger door, then, seeing no one in the front passenger seat, closed it and opened the rear door.
Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva got out, with a show of leg, and looked around.
“Over here, please, Colonel,” Castillo ordered in Russian, gesturing toward the open door.
She walked quickly to the house and went inside without looking directly at Castillo.
“And now Santini’s car,” Castillo called in English. “And really watch this one.”
Britton opened the passenger door of Santini’s Peugeot sedan. Colonel Berezovsky got out and looked around. Santini came quickly around the front of the car as Edgar Delchamps got out of the backseat.
Delchamps gestured for Berezovsky to go into the house. After a moment—long enough to demonstrate that he wasn’t going to jump at anybody’s command—Berezovsky walked to the house and went inside.
Castillo followed Berezovsky into the foyer.
“We’re now going to move to the quincho,” Castillo announced in Russian. “Before we go out there, I want to tell you the area is fenced. You are forbidden to get closer than two meters to the fence. If you do, you will be shot.”
He turned to Jack Davidson. “Get a weapon . . .”
“Behind you in the closet,” Kensington offered.
“. . . and take them out there. I’ll have something cold sent out for them to drink. And while you’re doing that, and the luggage is being brought in from the cars, I’ll bring everybody up to speed.”
[FOUR]
“Okay,” Castillo said, winding up his briefing of Alex Darby, Tony Santini, and the Brittons in the main house. “That’s about it.”
“It’s hard to believe that woman is a Russian spy,” Sandra said.
Castillo flashed her a cold look, and then, seeing her face, immediately recognized he was wrong. Sandra wasn’t being clever; she was stating the obvious.
“Well, she is, Sandra,” he said. “And what is it they say about ‘the female being the deadlier of any species’?”
Sandra almost sadly nodded her understanding.
“Oops,” Castillo said. “Code names. I don’t want anybody using their real names or the phrase ‘the Russians’ or anything like that. So, from this moment, when you’re talking about them, Berezovsky is Big Bad Wolf. His wife is Mrs. Wolf. Sof’ya is the Cub. Colonel Alekseeva is Little Red Under Britches.”
Sandra’s eyebrow rose at that, but she didn’t say anything.
“Dealing with Little Red Under Britches is going to be a problem until Susanna Sieno can get here from Asuncion, probably before noon tomorrow. Until then, we’re fucked.” He heard what he had said. “Sorry, Sandra. It’s been a long couple of days, and I’m a little . . .”
“ ‘Fucked up’?” Sandra replied. “I’ve heard the word, Charley. Not only am I a semanticist, for many long and painful years I have been married to a Philadelphia cop. They tend to use the ‘For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge’ acronym at least once every sixty seconds.”
He smiled at her. “Is that what it means?”
“According to Sherlock Holmes, that’s what the London bobbies wrote on their blotter when they locked up a hooker for practicing her profession.”
Castillo glanced at Jack Britton, then said, “According to
“I think the other one’s dead,” Sandra replied, straight-faced, and then went on: “Charley, I don’t want to put my nose in where it doesn’t belong, but this schoolteacher volunteers for anything you think I can do.”
Jack Britton said: “Little Red Riding Hood—”
“ ‘Under Britches,’” Castillo automatically corrected him. “Little Red Under Britches.”
“I’d
“—doesn’t know that Sandra’s a professor,” Jack Britton finished.
Sandra added: “And while I don’t think I could render the lady colonel
“Jack, did the State Department issue you a diplomatic passport?”
“The embassy gave us both one the minute we walked in the door. I don’t even know what it’s good for.”
“It identifies you as a diplomat,” Castillo explained. “Which means you can’t be searched and then arrested for carrying a concealed weapon.”
“Really?” Sandra said. “When do I get my gun?”
“Do you know how to use one?”
“Sherlock here took me shooting on our honeymoon.”
“You sure you want to get involved?”
“You said there may be a connection between all the things that have happened. And in the course of one of those things, my new car and house got shot up. Hell yes I want to get involved.”
“Congratulations, Mrs. Britton,” Castillo said formally. “You are now a member of the Office of Organizational
