W. Griffin - Covert Warriors

“He’ll be out in a minute,” she replied. “He’s cleaning himself up. When Juan Carlos was dangling him from the balcony, Monteverde threw up all over himself.”

“‘Dangling from the balcony’?” Castillo parroted.

“Juan Carlos hung him by his foot from the balcony,” she said, “using a sheet for a rope. When he was swinging back and forth”-she demonstrated with her hands-“Juan Carlos took another sheet and ripped it. It made a sound loud enough for Monteverde to hear. Then Juan Carlos let the sheet rope drop another couple of feet. Monteverde thought he was about to die.”

“It would then be safe to presume that Senor Monteverde is going to be cooperative?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Your Colonel Ferris is being held in Retainhuled, Guatemala. It’s about fifty miles from the border.”

“Who’s holding him?” Castillo asked.

“Venezuelan drug traffickers under the direction of the SVR,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Which brings us to the senior officer of the SVR involved in this. What are we going to do with you, Sergei?”

“I’d say that’s in the hands of God, wouldn’t you, Svetlana?” Murov replied.

“Actually, it’s in my hands,” Castillo said, “and I’m not nearly as nice as God.”

“Don’t blaspheme, Carlito,” Svetlana said, and then added, “He pretends to be a heathen, Sergei. But he’s really not.”

“You want to take a chance betting on that, Sergei?” Castillo asked. “Let’s start over, before I tell Janos he can start up again with his flyswatter. Here’s where we are: Monteverde is going to tell me everything he knows, and you know that. But what he doesn’t know, and what I want from you, is the names of the people you have in the Oval Office, and I will do whatever I have to find out.”

“And you know I can’t tell you that,” Murov said. “I have given my vow to God, and whatever happens to me is in his hands.”

“Whatever happens to you in is my hands,” Castillo said. “But I digress. I want those names. And will do whatever I have to do to get them. That includes guaranteeing you asylum in the United States, or anywhere else you’d like to go, and a hell of a lot of money. Opening bid, one million.”

Murov shook his head. “How could I shave in the morning, Colonel Castillo, looking out on some Caribbean beach, knowing that the price of my being there was my family in the basement of the Lubyanka prison?”

“Just as soon as Vladimir Vladimirovich finds out you fucked up again, that’s where Vladimir Vladimirovich is going to put them, and you know that, too.”

“The matter is in God’s hands,” Murov repeated doggedly.

“Jesus Christ, you people make me sick! Are you listening to yourself, Murov? You sound like a character in a very bad Russian novel. In the first place, committing suicide is not noble. I’m not sure, but I strongly suspect, in this religion all of you keep spouting, it’s also a sin.”

“I’m not committing suicide,” Murov said.

“What would you call it? And you’re the one who put your beloved wife and kiddies in a Lubyanka cell, Murov. You. Don’t try to hang that on Vladimir Vladimirovich. That’s the rules of this game we play, and you damn sure know them as well as I do.”

Murov was silent.

“Okay, Murov. For the sake of argument, after Janos literally beats you to death with that thing of his, you nobly refuse to tell me what I want. You pass out. You open your eyes, and there you are, inside the pearly gates. Saint Peter looks down at you.

“‘Tell me, my son, why the fuck didn’t you at least try to get your beloved wife and kiddies out of Lubyanka?’ What are you going to say, Sergei? ‘Nothing I could do, Pete. It was in God’s hands.’ Jesus!”

“Carlos, you’re blaspheming,” Svetlana said.

“Butt out, Sweaty!” Castillo snapped.

“You just don’t get people out of Lubyanka, Colonel, and you know that,” Murov said.

“Maybe not, but a man-particularly a Christian-would fucking well try for his family,” Castillo fumed. “And what are you going to say when good ol’ Saint Pete asks-”

“Carlos, stop!” Svetlana said.

“Stay out of this, Svetlana,” Nicolai Tarasov said, sharply.

“He’s blaspheming,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” Tarasov said. “What it looks like to me is that he’s trying to save Sergei’s soul.”

The support came as a shock to Castillo. He forgot what he had been saying.

“Where the hell was I?” Castillo said aloud. “Okay. So, what are you going to say to Saint Peter, Saint Sergei, when he asks, ‘Why the hell wouldn’t you tell Castillo what he wanted to know? I know he’s a heathen, but what was he doing wrong? Were the Americans about to nuke Moscow? Maybe drop a couple of barrels of Congo-X on it? Did you really believe, as well educated as you are, as widely experienced, that the Americans were planning to attack Holy Mother Russia? For that matter, anyone?”

“Fuck you, Colonel Castillo,” Murov said. “And may God forgive you!”

Castillo saw that Svetlana had tears running down her cheeks.

“I am still in charge here, Aleksandr,” Castillo said, but it was a question.

Pevsner nodded.

“Janos,” Castillo then ordered, “put some clothes on him, and take him back where you found him. And leave him.”

“You’re still going to interrogate him?” Svetlana asked.

“No, my love, I’m through interrogating him. He wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway; you heard him, God is on his side. And I won’t give the miserable bastard the satisfaction of having Janos beat him to death. Three’ll get you ten he’s already into self-flagellation. Get him out of my sight, Janos.”

Janos, Castillo noticed, did not look this time to Pevsner for permission to carry out the order.

Janos went to where Murov was seated, pulled him to his feet, and started marching him out of the room.

“Hand me the wine, my dear, and spare me your comments,” Castillo ordered.

Svetlana complied docilely.

“Colonel Castillo,” Murov called.

Castillo looked. Murov and Janos were at the door. Janos had his arms wrapped around the struggling naked man.

Castillo made the sign of the cross.

“Bless you, my son,” he called. “Go in peace, and sin no more. Amen.”

“Carlos!” Svetlana said, in almost a whine.

“It’s Clemens McCarthy, Colonel Castillo,” Murov said. “And a Secret Service agent named Douglas.”

The President’s Study The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 0805 21 April 2007

Secret Service Special Agent Mark Douglas pushed the door open and announced, “Mr. President, the secretary of State.”

“Well, show her in,” President Clendennen ordered.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Secretary Cohen said.

“Dare I hope, Madam Secretary, that you have heard from that miserable sonofabitch Martinez?” Clendennen asked.

“Actually, Mr. President, I’ve just spoken with Ambassador McCann,” she replied. “President Martinez called him with the information we’ve been waiting for. I took the call from the ambassador just now in my car.”

“And?”

“Mr. D’Alessandro is to meet with a Mexican deputy attorney general, a man named Manuel Jose Guzman, at one o’clock this afternoon in the Camino Real Acapulco Diamante in Acapulco. Senor Guzman will have the police chief, Pena, with him.”

“The where?”

“The Camino Real Acapulco Diamante, Mr. President. The literal translation is ‘Royal Road Acapulco Diamond.’ What it is is one of the better hotels in Acapulco.”

“Does this man D’Alessandro know how to find it? Where is he? How’s he going to get from where he is to Acapulco?”