Black Ops

“You know damned well for what.”

“Okay. Then you’re welcome,” Davidson said, then added, “Pevsner!”

“Jesus Christ!”

“That would explain why they came to you in Germany,” Davidson said. “They know you know him.”

“I don’t think so. If they were in touch with Pevsner, and he wanted to get them out, he would have sent planes and people. Alex is very good at that sort of thing.”

“What did you think of that state-within-a-state business she fed us?”

“It may be proof that I was in no shape to interrogate anybody, much less a pro like that one. I think it’s probably true.”

“Me, too. You never heard anything like that before?”

“That the SVR is a separate class within Russian society, sure. Not that it goes back to Ivan the Terrible with the same people.”

“I always forget not to look in the mirror when I’m thinking about the Russians,” Davidson confessed. “Maybe because I’m a half, two-thirds, a bunch of Russian myself. Those Russians are not like our Russians. I should write that on the palm of my hand.”

“How’d you do with those account numbers?”

“It worked the way she said it would. But no names.” He paused. “Christ, her face when you told her we had the chip. If looks could kill, in other words. I almost felt sorry for her.”

“Feeling sorry for Little Red Under Britches would be very dangerous.”

Davidson started to speak, stopped, and then went on: “I’m glad you said that, Charley. Otherwise, Colonel, sir, I would have had to say it to you, and sometimes you are not as grateful of my wise counsel as you should be.”

Castillo gave him the finger.

“Come on, let’s go out to the quincho and see how the professionals did with the colonel. And get those account numbers to Two-Gun and Mrs. Sanders, to see what they make of them.”

“I don’t suppose we could stop in the living room and have a little taste on the way, could we? Trying to read that dame wore me out.”

“Every once in a great while, Sergeant Major, you have a great idea.”

[THREE]

“First impressions,” Edgar Delchamps said. “Berezovsky is what he says he is, and you don’t get to be the Berlin rezident unless you are very, very good. It’s almost as important as a posting to Washington or the UN.

“Second, I have the feeling he’s not used to being on the receiving end of being scared, which both supports the previous impression and may explain why, I think, operative word think, he has been telling us the truth, and will continue to do so. We didn’t get into many specifics. I want to do that tomorrow, after I have a chance to ask some questions to verify the unimportant stuff he gave us.” He paused thoughtfully, then waved at Alex Darby. “Alex?”

“I agree. I wanted to get more into why they defected, but there wasn’t the chance.”

“According to Little Red Under Britches,” Castillo said, “they were afraid of getting thrown out with the bathwater when Putin inevitably cleans house.”

Castillo raised his eyebrows, asking for Delchamps’s and Darby’s reaction to that.

“Credible,” Darby said, and Delchamps nodded his agreement.

“Did Aleksandr Pevsner’s name come up?”

Darby and Delchamps shook their heads.

“All we know about him,” Castillo said to ensure everyone had the same story, “is that there are fourteen Interpol warrants out for him.”

Everybody nodded their understanding.

“What did she have to say about Pevsner?” Delchamps asked.

“They’re cousins. His mother and theirs are sisters. He was an oprichniki who got out—”

“A what?” Delchamps said.

“An oprichniki is a member of the Oprichina, the secret police state-within-the-state that goes back to Ivan the Terrible. She gave us quite a history lesson. And Jack and I think it’s probably true.”

“Wow!” Darby said.

“Anyway, she says Pevsner got out when everything was upgefukt when the Soviet Union was coming apart—”

“A lot of them got out when that happened,” Delchamps offered. “It explains why the Russian mafia suddenly became so successful: Three-quarters of them are ex-KGB.”

Castillo nodded. “—and that he’s here. She doesn’t know where.”

“At noon he was in Bariloche,” Alfredo Munz offered. “And there was no indication that he planned to go anywhere.”

Alfredo, my friend, Castillo thought, you have just earned your OOA salary for the rest of this year—and for six months of next year.

And wasn’t I smart to put you on the payroll?

“Alfredo, I’m thinking I may have to go there. Do you think Duffy can arrange for me to borrow his friend’s Aero Commander again?”

“Probably,” Munz said. “You can ask him in the morning when he comes here?”

“ ‘When he comes here’?” Castillo parroted incredulously.

“I thought it better to tell him you were here than for him to find out himself then think you were trying to keep something from him. Which would have destroyed his current—if fragile—belief that you are a wonderful human being.”

And wasn’t I stupid not to realize that the former head of SIDE was not going to ask anybody’s advice—or permission—before doing what he thought was obviously the appropriate thing to do?

“What time’s he coming?”

“I invited him for breakfast,” Munz said.

“You tell him who’s here?”

Munz shook his head. “I didn’t know how you’d feel about that.”

“Well, see if you can get in touch with him and convince him that we don’t need any help in dealing with our guests.”

Munz nodded.

“Prefacing this by saying I don’t think any of them are going to try to escape—operative words don’t think—how do we keep our chickens in the coop overnight?” Castillo asked. He looked at Sergeant Kensington. “Bob?”

“I just checked the motion sensors, Colonel. A-OK. I also took a look at the house from the driveway. Maybe the colonel and the lady could get into the drive—where they would set off the sensors—by making a rope from sheets. But I don’t think Sof’ya or her mother could climb down a rope.

“So we leave the floodlights on in the backyard. The guy on the radio—and, by the way, I checked out Mr. and Mrs. Britton on the AFC—would see anyone out there, and then they’d have to get over the fence.

“What I would suggest, Colonel, is that we station one guy in the foyer of the house, have another guy wandering around, and someone on the radio. And then change the team around, so the guy on the radio could get a little sleep. So I see it as me, the Brittons, and somebody else.”

Castillo had used the military technique of soliciting opinions starting with the junior member. As he was trying to decide who would be the least pissed off by being selected as the next-to-junior member, Tony Santini jumped in and answered the question for him.

“Let Sandra get some sleep,” Santini said, “so she can deal with the women tomorrow. I’ll take her place.”

Castillo looked around and saw that the suggestion met everyone’s approval.

“Anybody else?” he asked.

There were no takers.

“Okay. That’s it. I’m off to bed. Breakfast at half past seven.”