W. Griffin - Covert Warriors

“Before Nixon resigned, there was rioting in the streets. You needed armed troops to protect the Pentagon.”

“And later the impeachment of Clinton,” Castillo added thoughtfully.

“And now you have a President who should be in a room with rubber walls,” Pevsner said.

“Who told you about that?” Castillo asked. “And what makes you think Putin even knows about it?”

“Oh, he knows,” Pevsner said, and issued an order in Russian: “Put two chairs there,” he said, pointing. “And bring them out.”

Two folding chairs were set up and then two men-stark naked, showing signs of having been severely beaten-shuffled onto the patio, their hands and their ankles bound together with plastic ties. Janos, Pevsner’s Hungarian bodyguard, brought up the rear of the procession.

I wondered where Janos was.

The waiter offered Castillo more of the Cabernet Sauvignon.

“No, thank you,” Castillo said, politely. “I’ve had quite enough for the time being.”

“You’ve met Sergei, I understand,” Pevsner said. “But I don’t think you’ve met Jose Rafael Monteverde.”

Both men looked at Castillo. Monteverde looked terrified. Murov, Castillo decided after a moment, seemed resigned to his fate, whatever that might turn out to be.

“Untie their hands, Janos,” Castillo ordered in Hungarian. “Lester, get them water and a cigarette if they want one.”

Janos looked at Pevsner for guidance. Pevsner nodded.

Lester went to the wet bar for water.

“Where is Colonel Ferris?” Castillo asked.

Neither man replied.

“I don’t know about you, Mr. Monteverde,” Castillo said in Hungarian, “but you’re a professional, Mr. Murov. You know what options you have. You either answer my questions or Janos will slowly beat you to death.”

Castillo looked at Janos. “What have you been using on him?”

Janos flicked his wrist and a telescoping wand appeared in his hand. He flicked it back and forth. It whistled.

“That’s the one with the little ball of shot at the end?” Castillo asked.

Janos extended the wand to show Castillo the small leather shot-filled ball at the end of his wand.

“Very nice,” Castillo said. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen one.”

“As one professional to another, Colonel Castillo, can we get this over with quickly?” Murov asked, in Russian.

“Do you speak Hungarian, Mr. Monteverde?” Castillo asked, in Hungarian.

Monteverde’s face showed he did not.

“Pity,” Castillo said, in Russian. “Hungarian seems to have become the lingua franca of interrogations like this. Now you won’t know what Mr. Murov and I are talking about, will you?”

Monteverde’s face showed he understood this.

Castillo then said in Hungarian: “As a matter of personal curiosity, Mr. Murov-though it doesn’t really matter-when did you become aware of President Clendennen’s mental instability? Before or after he became President?”

“It wasn’t much of a secret, was it, Colonel?” Murov replied.

“Lester, where’s the cigarettes I asked for for these gentlemen?” Castillo asked.

Janos gave a quick order in Hungarian, and the waiter walked to Lester and handed him a package of Sobranie cigarettes.

Bradley looked at them dubiously.

“Those are Sobranie, Les,” Castillo explained. “I don’t know whether those are Russian made or the ones they make in London.”

“Huh?” Lester said.

“Cigarettes are very bad for your health, Lester. I wouldn’t smoke one of those, if I were you.”

“No, sir, I hadn’t planned to,” Bradley said.

Everyone on the patio-including Murov and Monteverde-looked askance at the exchange.

Lester walked to Murov and Monteverde, handed them cigarettes, then lit them for them.

“Thank you,” Monteverde said.

“Beware of either Americans or Hungarians bearing gifts,” Castillo said in Hungarian. “Especially counterfeit Russian cigarettes.”

Pevsner and Tarasov smiled and shook their heads.

Monteverde eyed his cigarette suspiciously.

“It’s soaked with sodium pentothal, of course,” Castillo said, in Spanish. “My protocol is to use that before pulling fingernails and doing other things like that.”

Monteverde’s face showed that he was perfectly willing to accept that.

I think I’ve got him.

“Tell me, Senor Monteverde,” Castillo then went on in Spanish, “when you were in Cuba, did you happen to run into Major Alejandro Vincenzo?”

Monteverde’s face showed that he had, and was surprised that Castillo knew of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia officer.

“No,” he said.

“He got in a gun fight with Lester in Uruguay,” Castillo said, conversationally. “Right out of the O.K. Corral. Lester put him down with a head shot, offhand, from at least one hundred yards. That’s why we call him ‘Dead Eye.’”

Monteverde looked at Castillo as if he couldn’t believe what Castillo had just said.

“Well, those things happen in our line of business, don’t they?” Castillo said. “Sometimes people just don’t make it.”

He let that sink in for a moment, and then said, “Lester, why don’t you take Mr. Monteverde back where he came from? What we’re going to do next is see if Colonel Alekseeva and Chief Pena can’t talk Senor Monteverde into making the right decisions tonight, before things get unpleasant.”

He paused.

“You heard me, Monteverde. Stand up!” he ordered, unpleasantly. Monteverde did so, and then as he was again suddenly aware he was naked, he put his hands over his crotch.

“Not necessary, Senor Monteverde,” Castillo said. “Colonel Alekseeva is also a professional. That’s not the first ding-dong she’s ever seen, although I don’t think she’s ever seen one quite that-how do I say this? — unappealing . You have an accident or something or is that the way it usually looks?”

Flushing from his forehead to halfway down his chest, Monteverde allowed himself to be led, shuffling in his plastic ankle ties, off the patio. Pena and Svetlana walked after him.

Castillo waited until Monteverde was out of hearing, and then turned to Murov.

“Well, what brilliant psychological weapon do I use on you, Sergei? Threaten to have ‘Saint Petersburg Poet’ chiseled on your tombstone?”

Pevsner and Tarasov chuckled.

Despite himself, Murov smiled.

“Now I know, Aleksandr,” Murov said, “why you wanted him here. He’s a master at this, isn’t he?”

“No, I am but a simple novice sitting at the feet of Master Pevsner,” Castillo said. “But this much I know, Sergei: When you get over your humiliation at being grabbed by Aleksandr’s people, you will decide yourself that you don’t have any choice but to tell me everything I want to know.”

“Or Janos will beat me to death with his wand?”

“Or I’ll leave you tied up on the steps of the Russian embassy in Mexico City and let Vladimir Vladimirovich decide how painfully you should die.”

He looked around and caught the waiter’s eye.

“Yes, thank you, I will have another sip of that lovely Cabernet Sauvignon while I’m waiting.”

Ten minutes later, Svetlana came back onto the patio and somewhat imperiously signaled to the waiter for a glass of wine. When he delivered it, Castillo held up his glass.

“How much of that have you had?” she challenged.

Castillo caught her eye. “Try to get this straight. You may ask that only after we’re married. And if you keep asking now, your chances of that happening diminish exponentially.”

She glared at him but did not respond.

“Well?” Castillo asked. “How did you do with Senor Monteverde?”