Black Ops

Nuestra Pequena Casa

Mayerling Country Club

Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1905 29 December 2005

Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky was the first of the Russians to appear. He was wearing baggy swimming trunks, a knit shirt embroidered with a Ralph Lauren polo player insignia, and rubber sandals, and he had a towel draped around his neck.

Castillo, who was standing at the parrilla turning bifes de chorizo, saw Sof’ya holding the puppy and running happily toward her father, obviously intending to tell him that the dog was now hers.

Berezovsky, without breaking stride, held out his hand to her in a stop signal. Shedding the shirt and the towel en route, he took the steps into the shallow end of the pool, waded toward the deep end until he judged it deep enough for swimming, then flopped onto his belly and swam using a breaststroke with his head out of the water to the far end of the pool. There, he stopped, hung on to the side of the pool for several seconds, then flopped back into the water and breaststroked—with his head held high again—back to the shallow end. And, there, he stood, waded until he reached the end of the pool, and got out.

Castillo saw that Berezovsky had managed his swim without getting his hair wet.

The Russian walked to where he had dropped the towel and Sof’ya was now standing. He picked up the towel and dried himself methodically as Sof’ya explained what had happened and tried to hand him the dog.

When he had finally dried himself to his satisfaction, he rolled up the towel, held it between his knees, put the polo shirt back on, draped the towel around his neck, and took the dog.

Berezovsky looked thoughtfully across the pool at Castillo.

He’s wondering what we’re up to, Castillo thought.

In his circumstances, I’d do the same damn thing.

And by now, of course, in addition to wondering what’s going to happen to him and his family, he’s almost certainly wondering if defecting was really such a good idea in the first place.

Castillo turned to the parrilla, stuck an enormous fork into a two-pound bife de chorizo—New York strip steak—then held it over his head, signaling Berezovsky to come over.

Still carrying the pup, Berezovsky did so, with Sof’ya at his side.

“My Sof’ya tells me she has been given this animal,” he said, making it a question.

“And now she wants me to cook it for her on here?” Castillo asked.

“No!” Sof’ya said, but laughed.

Berezovsky handed her the puppy.

“Why?” he asked simply.

“I guess Mr. Delchamps thought she should have it,” Castillo said. “This has to be tough on her, Colonel.”

Berezovsky nodded. Castillo couldn’t read it.

“Are the women about ready?” Castillo said. “The food is.”

He picked up another bife de chorizo to illustrate his point.

“Sof’ya, go tell your mother that supper is ready. And Auntie Svetlana, too.”

The girl ran off with her puppy.

“The beef here is the best in the world,” Castillo said.

“So I have been told,” Berezovsky said.

“It goes down very well with wine,” Castillo said, pointing to an uncorked bottle of Saint Felicien Cabernet Sauvignon and some long-stemmed wineglasses sitting beside an open cardboard case of the wine. “You’re welcome to help yourself, but you might want to keep in mind that right after we have our supper, we’re going to have the first of our conversations.”

Berezovsky met his eyes, considered what he had said, then said, “Thank you,” and headed for the wine.

I wonder if the “thank you” was for the warning or the wine?

Berezovsky poured wine—a lot of it—into two of the large wineglasses, half filling them and half emptying the bottle, then walked to Castillo at the parrilla and offered him one.

“I started early,” Castillo said. He pointed to his now nearly empty glass at the end of the grill.

Berezovsky thrust the glass he held at Castillo again and smiled.

Okay. I get it. You think I have grape juice in my glass.

Then you will drink the real stuff, get plastered and loose-lipped, and I will be absolutely sober and able to take advantage of your naive trust.

Castillo took the glass Berezovsky held out to him.

“Chug-a-lug?” Castillo asked.

“‘Chug-a-lug’?” Berezovsky parroted.

I don’t think, Tom Barlow, ol’ buddy, that you have a clue what that means.

Castillo raised the glass to his lips and drained it.

Berezovsky’s eyes showed his surprise, but he rose to the challenge and also drained his glass.

Castillo immediately refilled the glasses, but set his down and began to flip the steaks on the grill.

If I chug-a-lug again, I’ll probably fall down and begin to sing bawdy songs, or in some other manner manifest behavior unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, such as myself.

Why the hell did I do that?

One of the maids appeared with several large serving platters.

“The bife de chorizo is done,” Castillo announced. “Please put it on the table.” He turned to Berezovsky. “It’s hot, grilling the steaks. I’m going to cool off until the women get here.”

He walked to the deep end of the pool, dove in, swam underwater to the shallow end, turned, and swam back. Then he turned to repeat the process. When he came up for air at the shallow end of the pool, he saw the women—Sandra Britton, Lora and Sof’ya Berezovsky, and Svetlana Alekseeva—walking together from the house toward the quincho.

They were all dressed very much alike, in brightly colored cotton skirts and white blouses, and chatting and laughing among themselves.

If it wasn’t for Jack Britton walking behind them with that Uzi held at his side, they’d look like members of the Midland Junior League headed for lunch at the Petroleum Club pool.

Jesus, she’s really good-looking!

He turned and swam to the deep end of the pool, considered his situation for a moment, and turned again.

By the time Castillo climbed out of the pool, he had completed three more laps, and by the time he took his seat at the big table in the quincho, everybody had already been served and had started to eat.

[TWO]

The housekeeper, Svetlana Alekseeva, and Jack Davidson all came into Castillo’s office together. The housekeeper carried a tray with three mugs and a large thermos of coffee. There was no cream or sugar, and Castillo idly wondered whether that was an oversight or because the housekeeper had heard Svetlana refuse both after supper.

Probably the latter, Castillo decided. The housekeeper was more than she seemed to be. She had worked—at exactly what, Castillo didn’t know—for Alfredo Munz when El Coronel Munz had been head of SIDE, Argentina’s version of the CIA and FBI rolled into one. Munz had vouched for them when Darby and the Sienos had been staffing Nuestra Pequena Casa, and that was good enough for Castillo.

Davidson carried two small recording devices; a large ashtray; a box of wooden matches; a portable leather cigar humidor (he was as addicted to the filthy weed as was Castillo); what looked like a laptop computer but was actually much more, as was its twin—Castillo’s—already on the table; a legal pad; a box of fine-point felt-tip pens; and a small notebook.