W. Griffin - Covert Warriors

There was a buzzing sound.

“Our master’s voice,” Dick Miller said as he took a CaseyBerry from his pocket and put it to his ear.

“How nice of you to call,” he went on. “I just put you on conference, Charley.”

Roscoe saw Delchamps and Yung quickly put their CaseyBerrys to their ears. He took out his own, found the CONF button, and pushed it.

“I didn’t call to chat, Gimpy,” Castillo’s voice announced. “I called hoping to hear that Edgar has Roscoe in the bag and that you’re about to go wheels-up. Better yet, that you’re already in the air.”

Danton made a face.

“Roscoe in the bag”?

What the hell does that mean?

“Ace, Roscoe is in the bag,” Delchamps said.

What the hell are they talking about?

“And he brought Mr. John David Parker with him,” Delchamps continued.

“What the hell is that all about?” Castillo said.

“Roscoe, would you be so kind as to tell our leader what the hell that’s all about?”

“The press is looking for him,” Danton said.

“Why?”

“Right about now, the President is going to announce he’s accepted his resignation,” Danton replied.

“Because of that fucked-up press conference?”

“Yes, but Porky didn’t fuck it up,” Danton said.

After a moment, Castillo replied, “Got it. And you are-what is it you say? — ‘chasing the story.’ ”

“That’s right.”

“So what are you planning to do with Mr. Parker?”

“We’re trying to figure that out, Charley.”

“Is Mr. Parker also trying to evade the press, Roscoe, or do you have him in handcuffs?”

“He doesn’t want to see them, either.”

“Okay, so bring him down here,” Castillo said.

“What?”

“Bring him down here; we’ll work it out later,” Castillo said. “Got it, Edgar?”

“Jawohl, mein Fuhrer!” Delchamps barked.

“Spare me the sarcasm,” Castillo said. “Just call me when you’re wheels-up. I need Roscoe and the Mustang down here yesterday.”

He needs me? What the hell for?

And where’s “down here”?

“Jawohl, mein Fuhrer,” Delchamps repeated.

A moment later, Roscoe, seeing that everyone had taken their CaseyBerrys from their ears, turned his off.

“Where is ‘down here’?” Danton asked.

“Cozumel,” Yung replied.

Danton looked at him, and thought: If he says “And now that you know that I’ll have to kill you,” I’ll throw this goddamn phone at him.

“And he wants me to go down there?” Danton asked incredulously.

Yung looked at Delchamps, and said: “Small problem. Mr. Parker doesn’t have his passport.”

“I don’t have my passport, either,” Danton said.

“Catch, Roscoe,” Delchamps said, and when Danton looked at him, Delchamps tossed him a passport.

“We’ve been through the ‘I don’t have my passport’ routine with you before,” Delchamps said.

“This was locked in my desk!”

“Yes, it was,” Delchamps said.

“What do I need my passport for?” Parker said. “I don’t want to go to Cozumel. I don’t even know where that is.”

“Not far from Cancun on the Yucatan Peninsula,” Yung furnished.

“What’s going on there?” Parker asked.

“Your call, Mr. Parker,” Delchamps said. “We’ll drop you anywhere you want on our way to the airport.”

“John,” Danton suggested, reasonably, “going to Cozumel would get you out of sight for a couple of days.”

Parker considered that for a moment and then shrugged.

“Why not?” he said finally. “I don’t have any other clever ideas at the moment.”

Danton nodded, and thought, Great! For a couple of days, I’ll have you all to myself.

“Back to Mr. Parker’s passport problem,” Yung said.

“Where do you live, Mr. Parker?” the elderly lady asked.

“The Verizon, it’s at 777 Seventh, Northwest-”

“I know where it is,” she said. “No problem, Two-Gun. You take your friends to BWI. By the time Gimpy has the rubber bands on the Citation wound up, we’ll meet you with Mr. Parker’s passport and a quick change of linen.”

“How are you going to get into my apartment? Past the press?”

“Getting into your apartment would be easier, Mr. Parker, if you gave me the keys,” she said. “As far as the press is concerned, it’s been my experience that they pay very little attention to little old ladies who use a walker, especially little old ladies being helped into a building by a kindly member of the clergy-and accompanied by a snarling hundred-twenty-pound dog.”

“Where are you going to get the kindly clergyman?” Roscoe asked.

Tom Sanders stood.

He motioned with his right hand to form a cross, then said, “Bless you, my children. Go and sin no more. And just as soon as I get my clerical collar on and load one of the dogs into a Yukon, we can get this show on the road.”

The Tahitian Suite Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort Cozumel, Mexico 1710 12 April 2007

Vic D’Alessandro, whose barrel chest and upper arms strained his short-sleeved floral-print Hawaiian shirt, walked onto the balcony of the penthouse suite and announced, “Jesus, it must be nice to be rich!”

“It’s way ahead of whatever’s in second place, Vic,” Fernando Lopez said agreeably. “Write that down.”

Lopez, a very large man with a dark complexion, was sprawled on a chaise longue with a bottle of Dos Equis on his chest. He raised his right arm over his head without turning, and offered his hand. D’Alessandro walked to him and shook it.

Castillo got off his chaise longue and walked to D’Alessandro. They wordlessly embraced. Max sat on his haunches and thrust his paw repeatedly at D’Alessandro until D’Alessandro shook it. Lester Bradley stood behind Castillo.

“Hey, Dead Eye,” D’Alessandro said.

“It’s good to see you, sir,” Bradley said.

Aleksandr Pevsner, Tom Barlow, and Stefan Koussevitzky, sitting on chaise longues in the shade of a striped awning, stood. D’Alessandro nodded to them, then went over and offered his hand.

“Good to see you, Mr. Pevsner,” D’Alessandro said.

“And you, Mr. D’Alessandro,” Pevsner replied. “This is our friend Stefan Koussevitzky.”

“You can be nice to Stefan, Vic,” Castillo called. “You guys went to different snake-eating schools.”

“I know you by reputation, Mr. D’Alessandro,” Koussevitzky said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“You’re the guy who Sweaty shot on that island, right? And call me Vic.”

Koussevitzky smiled and nodded.

“I was one of them. She also shot General Sirinov in the foot. Fortunately, mine was a minor flesh wound in the leg with a thirty-two.”

“Fortunately for Stefan, Svetlana always liked him,” Tom Barlow said. “She was never at all fond of the general.”

“So where is Charley’s redhead?” D’Alessandro asked.

“She’s having a bikini wax. She should be up in a minute in her bikini,” Castillo said. “Lester, why don’t you get Vic a Dos Equis? After which he can tell us all about Acapulco.”

“Lester,” D’Alessandro said, “why don’t you get your old Uncle Vic a double of that Jack Daniel’s?”

“Yes, sir.”

D’Alessandro slid onto a chaise longue in the shade of the striped awning, and sat on it.

“Is everybody familiar with the official version, the message Ambassador McCann sent to Secretary of State Cohen?” he began.

“Which she passed to Roscoe Danton, giving him his scoop,” Castillo said. “Yeah, Vic, we’re all familiar with that.”