Black Ops

Analysis. Just as soon as we have a moment, I’ll get you on the horn with Agnes Forbison and we’ll get you on the payroll.”

“You’re serious,” Jack Britton, surprised, declared out loud.

“In the words of your bride, ‘Hell yes.’ ”

Castillo had just decided that Sandra Britton being here was a fortunate happenstance.

He had also just realized that neither Darby nor Santini had opened their mouths, not even to ask questions.

That could be because my briefing was brilliant, covering absolutely everything that needed to be said.

No questions necessary.

More likely, however, it’s because they don’t like what they heard and are deciding how and when they can tactfully suggest to the boss that he’s about to fuck up by the numbers.

When Castillo walked over to the quincho with the Brittons, Alex Darby, and Tony Santini, sitting on its verandah were Alfredo Munz, Edgar Delchamps, and Jack Davidson. Munz was holding a bottle of Coca-Cola; Delchamps and Davidson, liter bottles of Quilmes beer.

“Kensington?” Castillo asked.

“With our guests,” Delchamps said, jerking his thumb toward the interior of the quincho.

“Everybody up to speed?” Castillo asked.

“Ace, is this where you ask, ‘Any questions or comments?’ ” Delchamps said.

Castillo shrugged. “Okay. Any questions or comments?”

“Charley,” Darby said, “you’re aware that there is a U.S. government agency that’s charged not only with trying to get the bad guys—and girls, come to think of it—to change sides but has all the facilities in place to deal effectively with them. Yes? They call it the CIA.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“With that in mind,” Darby went on, “now that you’ve gotten Berezovsky and family safely out of Europe— where, I suspect, they were about to be grabbed by the Sluzhba Vnezhney Razvedki and/or the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, which, I also presume you know is charged with keeping defectors from defecting—”

“Why don’t I just get on the horn,” Castillo interrupted reasonably, “and call Langley and have them send a plane down here to take our guests off our hands?”

“Yeah,” Darby said. “Why don’t you?”

“I’m glad you brought that up, Alex. It reminds me of something else I’ve forgotten to do. Alex, if you happen to have a friendly conversation with your pal Miss Eleanor Dillworth in Vienna, you have no idea where I am, and you never heard of Berezovsky and company.”

“What?” Darby said.

“I didn’t get into that,” Delchamps said.

“Into what?” Darby asked.

“Miss Dillworth is not a big fan of our leader,” Delchamps offered.

“Your leader. I work for Langley.”

“No, Alex,” Castillo said, “you don’t. Ambassador Montvale has informed the DCI that—at the direction of the President—the CIA is to furnish the OOA—me—with whatever assets I think I need. You are such an asset. I don’t mean to get starchy, but it’s necessary. You will not tell the CIA or anyone else that you have been requisitioned. That’s an order, Top Secret Presidential, as was what I said before about the woman in Vienna. Clear, Alex?”

Darby’s face whitened.

“He does have the authority, Alex,” Delchamps said. “You’d better say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”

“Jesus Christ!” Darby blurted.

“That’s close enough,” Castillo said.

“Are you now going to tell us what’s going on, Ace?”

“Two things,” Castillo said. “One is that I’m following my original orders, which remain in force until the man who issued them—and no one else—changes them. Those orders are to ‘find and render harmless’ whoever is responsible for the murder of Jack The Stack Masterson. I think that may be a General Sirinov; Berezovsky mentioned his name. He said Sirinov ordered the elimination of the Kuhls, Friedler, and Billy, Otto, and me. I think he probably had something to do with what happened to Jack and Sandra and to Liam Duffy.

“Second, Berezovsky said—for the two million bucks I promised him—that he would give me the details about a chemical factory in Congo-Kinshasa making some kind of weapon of mass destruction. I thought he was telling the truth, and so did Davidson.”

Davidson nodded.

“So,” Castillo finished, “I’m going to deal with these people myself until I am convinced that they are fucking with me or that I can’t—we can’t—handle them ourselves.”

“Ace, you realize you just bit off a hunk that’s going to be hard to chew, never mind swallow?”

Castillo took a long, thoughtful look at Delchamps, then said, “Meaning you think I’m wrong? On some kind of ego trip?”

“Meaning, Ace, I think you’re doing the right thing—I can think of fifty ways that Langley could, would, fuck this up—and that means what I said, I just hope you realized what size chaw you just bit off.”

Castillo nodded.

“Any other questions or comments?” he asked.

When there were none, he gestured toward the sliding door of the quincho. “Let’s see to our guests.”

Bob Kensington, in a chair against one wall of the quincho, was still in his bathing trunks. He had the Uzi on his lap, the weapon’s sling, with a two-magazine pouch hanging from it, slung around his neck.

Sof’ya was sitting on the floor with the pups and Max. The puppies were trying to climb high enough on Max, who was sitting beside the girl, to gnaw on his ears. He didn’t seem to mind.

The adult Russians were sitting in a row on wicker chairs. Berezovsky had removed his jacket, revealing a sweat-soaked shirt and what Castillo decided was a really cheap pair of suspenders. His wife and Svetlana had removed their jackets. Their blouses were the opposite of crisp and fresh.

“Did you all get something to drink?” Castillo asked.

Berezovsky and his wife nodded.

Sof’ya said, “Thank you.”

Svetlana didn’t respond at all.

“The first thing we’re going to do is get you some summer clothing,” Castillo said. “And the way we’re going to do that is that Mrs. Berezovsky will go with Agent Britton”—he pointed to Sandra, not Jack, surprising more than a few—“to the local shopping center. Make sure you know the sizes of everyone, Mrs. Berezovsky.

“While they are gone, I will show the others your accommodations, and you can move your luggage into them. Mr. Darby and Mr. Delchamps will have to take a look through the luggage—”

“Is that necessary?” Svetlana interrupted.

Does that mean you have something you don’t want me to find?

Or that you have nothing I might consider contraband, and are going to be amused at our fruitless search?

“Obviously, Colonel, I have decided that it is,” Castillo said. “And right now I would like your purses, wallets, money, passports, and all identification. Put them on the Ping-Pong table, please, now. The purses will be returned after Agent Davidson has had a chance to examine them.”

“Less the contents, of course?” Svetlana asked sarcastically.

“Colonel, why don’t we try to start our relationship as amicably as possible? We are going to be spending a good deal of time together, and I don’t see much point in making it any more unpleasant than necessary.”

Colonel Alekseeva responded to the proffered olive branch by standing, then walking over to the Ping-Pong table and dumping the contents of her purse on it.

“Okay?” She held up the purse—he thought it looked like something that could be used to hold horse feed—so that he could see it was empty.

“Fine. But leave the purse, will you, please?”