That the attractive pair was affluent seemed to the owner to be proven when they didn’t try to bargain about the monthly rent or his demand that he be paid the first and last months’ rent plus a security deposit equal to another two months’ rent before they moved in. He had the money in hand—sixteen thousand dollars, in U.S. currency—the day after he had asked for it.
Nuestra Pequeña Casa—the owner had named it—could fairly be described as a mansion in a neighborhood of mansions. Mayerling was several kilometers off the Panamericana, a toll superhighway, and fifty-odd kilometers from Plaza del Congreso, the monolith in front of the Congress in central Buenos Aires, from which all distances in Argentina are measured.
Argentine law defined “country club” as a gated community in which at least thirty percent of the land was given over to such things as polo fields, golf courses, and other green areas. Further, a “gated community” in Argentina meant a private neighborhood enclosed by ten-foot-tall fences topped with razor wire, equipped with motion-sensing devices, and patrolled by private security guards armed with pistols, shotguns, and in some cases Uzis.
Mayerling far exceeded the minimum green-space requirements of the law. There were five polo fields and two Jack Nicklaus-designed golf courses. The smallest lot within its ten-foot walls was one hectare, or 2.45 acres.
“Mayerling,” Castillo had noted when the Sienos first rented the property, was also the name of the Royal and Imperial hunting lodge outside Vienna where—depending on which version one chose to believe—Crown Prince Rudolph had shot his sixteen-year-old mistress and then himself, or Crown Prince Rudolph had been shot at the orders of his father, Emperor Franz Josef, who believed young Rudy was planning to split the Austro-Hungarian Empire by becoming King of Hungary.
Many of the homes in Mayerling were built on two or more lots. Nuestra Pequeña Casa was built on two, and had six bedrooms, all with bath and dressing room, three other toilets with bidets, a library, a sitting room, a dining room, a kitchen, servants’ quarters (for four), a swimming pool, and, in the backyard near the pool, a quincho.
A quincho was something like an American pool house, except that it was primarily intended as a place to eat, more or less outdoors, and had a wood-fired grill for this purpose.
Our Little House’s quincho was solidly built of masonry and had a rugged roof of mottled red Spanish tiles. It had a deep verandah, which also was covered by the tile roof, and a wall of sliding glass doors that overlooked the pool.
Like most of the houses in Mayerling, Nuestra Pequeña Casa was individually fenced on three sides, the fences concealed in closely packed pine trees. They, too, had motion-sensing devices. Motion-sensing devices also protected the unfenced front of the house.
The house—indeed all of Mayerling—had been constructed on a cost-be-damned basis to provide its residents with luxury, privacy, and, above all, security, as kidnapping of the rich was one of the more profitable cottage industries in Argentina.
And all of this, of course, made Nuestra Pequeña Casa ideal for the Office of Organizational Analysis, which needed a safe house. Within the intelligence community, a safe house was defined as a place the bad guys didn’t know about, a place where one may hide things and people.
Jack and Sandra Britton and Bob Kensington, all in bathing suits, were standing on the verandah of Nuestra Pequeña Casa when the little convoy rolled up. The housekeeper and a maid stood behind them.
The moment Castillo opened the door of the embassy Suburban, the heat and humidity of an Argentine summer afternoon hit him. He stood there and again thought of the Russian women in clothing intended for winter in Northern Europe.
Castillo slammed the door shut and walked up to the house.
“Well, we didn’t expect to see you so soon,” Britton greeted him, putting out his hand.
“Unexpected things happen,” Castillo said lightly, then changed his tone. “From this moment, we’re going to run this place tight. First thing: We get everybody out of the vehicles and into the foyer. Kensington, get a weapon.”
Sergeant Kensington took one step backward into the house, reached down, and came up holding an Uzi at his side.
“I should have known better, Bob. Sorry.”
Castillo saw Sandra Britton looked like she was about to say something. “Sandra, please go inside and save your lip for later.”
She gave him a dirty look, glanced at her husband, but went into the house.
The expression on Jack Britton’s face showed he didn’t like Castillo’s curtness to his wife, though he didn’t say anything.
“Bob,” Castillo went on, “stay where you are. Jack, go to the Suburban and open the rear door. Tell the people in there to get out and into the house.”
“Who are they?” Britton asked.
“Indulge me, Jack. Just do it.”
Max erupted from the Suburban the moment the rear door was opened and ran into the house. Then Sof’ya, holding one of the pups, slid off the seat and to the ground.
“Bring him into the house, sweetheart, please,” Castillo called to her in Russian.
The smile on Sof’ya’s face vanished when she saw Kensington and the submachine gun. She looked back at the Suburban, then at Castillo.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Castillo called as Sof’ya’s mother, holding the other puppy, slid awkwardly off the Suburban’s high seat and onto the ground.
“Right this way, please, Mrs. Berezovsky,” Castillo said, and then, switching to English, called, “Now the Mercedes, Jack. Watch this one!”
Kensington went to the second vehicle, Alfredo Munz’s Mercedes 230 SUV. He opened the front passenger door, then, seeing no one in the front passenger seat, closed it and opened the rear door.
Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva got out, with a show of leg, and looked around.
“Over here, please, Colonel,” Castillo ordered in Russian, gesturing toward the open door.
She walked quickly to the house and went inside without looking directly at Castillo.
“And now Santini’s car,” Castillo called in English. “And really watch this one.”
Britton opened the passenger door of Santini’s Peugeot sedan. Colonel Berezovsky got out and looked around. Santini came quickly around the front of the car as Edgar Delchamps got out of the backseat.
Delchamps gestured for Berezovsky to go into the house. After a moment—long enough to demonstrate that he wasn’t going to jump at anybody’s command—Berezovsky walked to the house and went inside.
Castillo followed Berezovsky into the foyer.
“We’re now going to move to the quincho,” Castillo announced in Russian. “Before we go out there, I want to tell you the area is fenced. You are forbidden to get closer than two meters to the fence. If you do, you will be shot.”
He turned to Jack Davidson. “Get a weapon . . .”
“Behind you in the closet,” Kensington offered.
“. . . and take them out there. I’ll have something cold sent out for them to drink. And while you’re doing that, and the luggage is being brought in from the cars, I’ll bring everybody up to speed.”
[FOUR]
“Okay,” Castillo said, winding up his briefing of Alex Darby, Tony Santini, and the Brittons in the main house. “That’s about it.”
“It’s hard to believe that woman is a Russian spy,” Sandra said.
Castillo flashed her a cold look, and then, seeing her face, immediately recognized he was wrong. Sandra wasn’t being clever; she was stating the obvious.
“Well, she is, Sandra,” he said. “And what is it they say about ‘the female being the deadlier of any species’?”