Black Ops

“And then?”

“They loaded into the Suburban and drove off.”

“You have any idea where they went?”

“Yes, sir, Colonel, sir, I do. In the BMW to which I retired, erring as I said—”

“Enough, goddamn it, Jack,” Castillo said.

“There is an embassy radio, to which I listened, and am thus able to tell you they reported they were going to the embassy.”

“Not to the safe house?”

“I’m guessing, Charley, I can’t read lips, but I think maybe one of the reasons Montvale was so pissed was that he asked the ambassador about the safe house and the ambassador said, ‘What safe house?’”

Castillo turned and looked at the Aero Commander.

Everybody had gotten out of it.

And why didn’t I think that at one o’clock in the afternoon of a sunny summer day in Argentina, the sun quickly turns the interior of an Aero Commander into an oven?

He signaled to Alfredo Munz to come over. Munz alone.

And why am I not surprised that everybody’s coming over?

When Pevsner’s men saw Munz, Svetlana, and Bradley walking to Castillo and Davidson, they got out of their cars and walked to them. When the gendarmeria officers saw Pevsner’s men walking to Castillo and Davidson, they got out of their cars and walked to them.

Davidson read Castillo’s mind.

“Well, maybe they’ll think Little Red Under Britches is a movie star and we are her groupies.”

“The Air Force Gulfstream brought Ambassador Montvale here,” Castillo announced when the little group had gathered around him. “They went to the embassy, which is where Jack and I are going. Alfredo is going to take Svetlana to Pilar. Lester, you take the AFC and go with them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Castillo turned to the gendarmeria officer.

“What are your orders?”

“To place ourselves at your orders, mi coronel.”

“You have two cars?”

“Si, mi coronel. The Mercedes and the Ford.”

“Send one of the cars with me, and the other with El Coronel Munz. Follow him and these gentlemen, but go no farther than the gate of the country club; we don’t want to attract any more attention than we have to.”

“Si, mi coronel.”

He turned to the people Munz had called “Pevsner’s people” and took a chance and spoke Russian.

“The Panamericana is so busy this time of day that following someone is very difficult.”

One of “Pevsner’s people” nodded his head in understanding. He was to lose the gendarmeria car if possible.

Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva, presumably reasoning that if it was safe for Lieutenant Colonel Castillo to speak Russian it would be safe for her, too, had a question of her own, which she expressed in Russian:

“When will you join me, Charley, my darling?”

Castillo saw the look on Jack Davidson’s face.

Well, fuck it. The cow’s out of the barn. I’d have to have told him anyway.

“Just as soon as I can, my love,” he said in Russian, then met Davidson’s eyes. “Are you all right to drive, Jack? You look like you’re in shock.”

X

[ONE]

The Embassy of the United States of America

Avenida Colombia 4300

Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina

1325 2 January 2006

It was a fifteen-minute drive from Aeropuerto Jorge Newbery, on the west bank of the River Plate, to the American embassy, and their route through heavy noontime traffic took them past six traffic lights, all of which were red when they reached them, and all of which seemed to be timed on a five-minute sequence.

Jack Davidson didn’t say a word during the entire trip, even when waiting for the lights to change. But his face showed that he was thinking of what he needed to say—and how to say it.

Castillo spent the trip dreading this inevitable dropping of Davidson’s shoe.

Not shoe, Charley thought.

Boot—damned lead-soled, thirty-pound diver’s boot.

Castillo, of course, had all that time to think, too. He had known Davidson just about as long as Castillo had been in the Army. Technical Sergeant Davidson had been covering Colonel Bruce J. McNab’s back—with a twelve- gauge sawed-off Remington Model 870 shotgun—when Second Lieutenant Castillo had reported to McNab for duty in the First Desert War.

And then Sergeant Major Davidson had manned the Gatling gun in the Black Hawk helicopter that Major Castillo had “borrowed” in Afghanistan to go see if he could get back Major Dick Miller and the crew of his shot- down Black Hawk before the bad guys overran their position, a task that had been solemnly considered by some very senior officers and pronounced absolutely impossible.

Between their first meeting and this latest trip around the block, Charley and Jack had gone around many blocks together.

Castillo also thought about when Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab had released Davidson from his duties at Camp Mackall to join Castillo at the Office of Organizational Analysis. McNab had called Castillo to tell him: “Just in case you might be thinking I have mellowed in old age, Colonel, and was being a nice guy, know that the sole reason I’m loaning you Sergeant Major Davidson is because he’s the only guy I know who can pour cold water on you when you’re about to fuck up big-time. So, Colonel, one more time I’m telling you something that you should have learned as a second lieutenant: ‘When Jack Davidson tells you not to do something, for God’s sake take his counsel and don’t do it!’ ”

Castillo knew that that counsel also worked in other ways.

In Afghanistan, when Castillo had told Davidson that he was going to “borrow” the Black Hawk and go after Miller despite just having been ordered not to—“Frankly, Major,” the brigadier general had barked, “I’m starting to question your mental health for even suggesting you try something so suicidal. What part of ‘Absolutely no!’ don’t you understand?”—all Davidson had said was, “You sure you want to do this, Charley?”

And then Davidson had gone to get them flak vests to wear over their Afghan robes and to make sure he had enough ammo for the door-mounted Gatling gun.

Castillo now thought:

Viewed objectively, as an indication of poor judgment and mental instability, “borrowing” a Black Hawk to fly through a snowstorm to go after Dick and his crew pales when compared to considering oneself in love with a lieutenant colonel of the SVR and deciding that she is telling me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

I knew I was safe to fly that day. I wouldn’t have taken Jack along if I didn’t really believe I could do it.

And the cold truth here is that whenever I look into Svet’s eyes—or in other more intimate situations—and hear the celestial chorus singing “I Love You Truly”—the small, still voice of reason keeps popping up and whispering, “This is wrong, you dumb fuck, and you know it. That violin music you hear is her playing you.”