W. Griffin - Covert Warriors

The kissing ritual began. Anna kissed Castillo. Sweaty kissed Pevsner, and then Anna. Castillo was not surprised when Anna kissed Lester Bradley-her husband was alive because Lester had put a.45 round in the forehead of Pevsner’s would-be assassin, and from then on he was considered a member of the family-but he was surprised when both Blatov and Koshkov got into the line of people waiting to swap kisses with the Laird of Karinhall and his lady.

“More relatives?” Castillo asked Sweaty.

She nodded.

“Kiril and Anatoly,” she replied, “are-let me see-second cousins, once removed. Aleksandr is Kiril’s godfather.”

“And that would make Kiril’s baby what?” Castillo said. “A third cousin twice removed? Or just a second cousin twice removed?”

Sweaty considered the question seriously for perhaps thirty seconds before realizing she was being teased.

“You will pay for that, my love,” she said.

“Which means they’re Oprichniks in good standing?” he pursued.

“I’m getting sorry I ever told you about the Oprichnina,” Sweaty said.

“Yes or no?”

“Of course,” Sweaty said. “They couldn’t have become Spetsnaz officers otherwise.”

“Every Spetsnaz officer is an Oprichnik?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sweaty said.

“Yes, you did,” Castillo said.

He sensed Aleksandr Pevsner’s eyes on him.

“Very impressive, Alek,” Castillo said, indicating the men with the Kalashnikovs. “But where’s the band?”

“The band?”

“I sort of expected a brass band to welcome us. Or at least somebody playing ‘The Volga Boatmen’ on a balalaika.”

Pevsner shook his head resignedly.

“Let’s go down to the house and have dinner,” he said. “Afterward, we have a lot to talk about.”

“Would you like to freshen up?” the Laird of Karinhall, the perfect host, asked, “or after a drink?”

“Give me ten minutes,” Sweaty said.

There was nothing in her reply, or tone of voice, that suggests she has anything more romantic-or carnal-on her mind than freshening up.

Damn!

Oh, I know. It’s because I mocked the family. And the Oprichnina .

“I’ll have a little of the emergency liquid, please,” Castillo said, smiling at Kiril Koshkov and indicating a bottle of vodka encased in a block of ice.

“Oh, that’s right, you heard about that, didn’t you?” Koshkov said with a smile.

“Kiril’s been telling me how undisciplined you Spetsnaz are,” Castillo replied.

Pevsner was also smiling broadly as he generously poured the literally ice-cold vodka into a chilled glass.

What the hell are you smiling about, Alek? You never were Spetsnaz, and I don’t think you even know what we’re talking about.

Epiphany time!

You’re smiling because you know that even one drink will make me one drink stupider when we have our little chat. With a little luck, I will be two-or more-drinks stupider when we have the chat.

The thing for me to remember about you, Alek, ol’ buddy, is that you were SVR, and while you can take the boy out of Russia, you can’t take the SVR out of the boy.

Not a problem. I will have two or more drinks-after that flight through the Andes, I’m entitled. And we will have our little chat in the morning, not tonight.

It was fifteen minutes-during which time Castillo had two substantial belts of vodka-before Sweaty rejoined the family, and then everyone went into the dining room. Not surprising Castillo at all were both another frosty glass of chilled vodka and a bottle of Saint Felicien Cabernet Sauvignon waiting for him at his place at the enormous table.

Sweaty was seated beside him.

“I waited for you,” Sweaty said quietly.

“Really? What did you want?”

She said, “It’s not important.” Her eyes told him carnal was off the table for tonight. And maybe for the next day, too.

What was on the table for tonight was a feast of Chilean seafood-absolutely marvelous oysters and enormous lobsters.

About half a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon later, Castillo was watching when former Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley, USMC, stopped cracking the claw of an enormous lobster, pushed his chair away from the table, picked something up from the floor, and discreetly put it on his lap.

Castillo knew what had happened: When Lester rose in the morning, he stuffed a theoretically invisible flesh-colored speaker into his ear canal. When a call came to his closed Brick and there was no answer, it spoke a number into the earpiece, identifying the person who was having trouble getting through.

Castillo naturally wondered who was calling. He learned who it was only after Lester pushed back from the table, took a handset from the Brick, walked over to Castillo, and handed it to him.

The illuminated LEDs on the handset told Castillo that the Brick was in Category I encryption status and showed him the number 6.

Castillo put the handset to his ear.

“Castillo,” he said.

There was a very brief period during which the system compared the digital interpretation of his voice with its database, found a 99.9 percent match, and illuminated the number 1 on the calling party’s handset, telling A. Franklin Lammelle, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, that he was now connected with Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, U.S. Army, Retired.

“Where the hell have you been, Charley?” Lammelle began the conversation. “I’ve been calling every five minutes for the past half hour.”

“I was occupied.”

“Doing what, that you couldn’t answer?”

“For most of that time, I was dodging rock-filled clouds in a helicopter flown by a guy who finished flight school six weeks ago in Sevastopol. I don’t take calls under those conditions.”

He exchanged smiles with Koshkov.

Lester didn’t think I should have gotten on the phone, either; otherwise he would have handed it to me.

“Rock-filled clouds where?”

“The Andes.”

“What the hell are you doing down there? The locator’s not working.”

“I turned it off,” Castillo replied, adding, “At the moment, eating lobster.”

“Why do I suspect you’ve been at the sauce?”

“You’re perceptive? Would that explain it?”

“Jesus Christ, Charley, the last thing I need is you smashed.”

Right now, the last thing Charley needs is Charley smashed.

Whatever this is, Lammelle is excited about it.

Why the hell did I drink that goddamn vodka?

“Frank, calm down. Consider the possibility that I’m pulling your chain.”

“You sonofabitch! You have a sick sense of humor!”

“So I have been told,” Castillo said.

He saw Sweaty making an exaggerated punching motion with her index finger.

He knew what it meant- turn on the loudspeaker function -and ignored her.

“So are you going to tell me what’s so important or not?” Castillo asked.

There was a pause, suggesting Lammelle was getting his temper under control.

“Forty-five minutes ago, I had a call from General McNab,” he began. “He’s on his way to Afghanistan.”

“So? Half of SPECOPSCOM is in Afghanistan; he goes there all the time.”

“I think maybe I should start at the beginning,” Lammelle said.

“Yeah. Why don’t you?”

“The people you had at Arlington-and you, too-walked out on the President’s remarks.”

“Actually, we got in our limos and went to the Mayflower. So what?”

“You having those Delta and Gray Fox guys at Arlington pissed the President off. And then you walked out on his remarks. That pissed him off even more. And your party at the Mayflower pushed him over the edge.”