Sandra almost sadly nodded her understanding.
“Oops,” Castillo said. “Code names. I don’t want anybody using their real names or the phrase ‘the Russians’ or anything like that. So, from this moment, when you’re talking about them, Berezovsky is Big Bad Wolf. His wife is Mrs. Wolf. Sof’ya is the Cub. Colonel Alekseeva is Little Red Under Britches.”
Sandra’s eyebrow rose at that, but she didn’t say anything.
“Dealing with Little Red Under Britches is going to be a problem until Susanna Sieno can get here from Asunción, probably before noon tomorrow. Until then, we’re fucked.” He heard what he had said. “Sorry, Sandra. It’s been a long couple of days, and I’m a little . . .”
“ ‘Fucked up’?” Sandra replied. “I’ve heard the word, Charley. Not only am I a semanticist, for many long and painful years I have been married to a Philadelphia cop. They tend to use the ‘For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge’ acronym at least once every sixty seconds.”
He smiled at her. “Is that what it means?”
“According to Sherlock Holmes, that’s what the London bobbies wrote on their blotter when they locked up a hooker for practicing her profession.”
Castillo glanced at Jack Britton, then said, “According to your Sherlock Holmes, you mean?”
“I think the other one’s dead,” Sandra replied, straight-faced, and then went on: “Charley, I don’t want to put my nose in where it doesn’t belong, but this schoolteacher volunteers for anything you think I can do.”
Jack Britton said: “Little Red Riding Hood—”
“ ‘Under Britches,’” Castillo automatically corrected him. “Little Red Under Britches.”
“I’d love to know the etymological root of that,” Sandra Britton said.
“—doesn’t know that Sandra’s a professor,” Jack Britton finished.
Sandra added: “And while I don’t think I could render the lady colonel hors de combat with a karate chop, I am famous for my icy stare’s ability to silence a roomful of obstreperous students.”
“Jack, did the State Department issue you a diplomatic passport?”
“The embassy gave us both one the minute we walked in the door. I don’t even know what it’s good for.”
“It identifies you as a diplomat,” Castillo explained. “Which means you can’t be searched and then arrested for carrying a concealed weapon.”
“Really?” Sandra said. “When do I get my gun?”
“Do you know how to use one?”
“Sherlock here took me shooting on our honeymoon.”
“You sure you want to get involved?”
“You said there may be a connection between all the things that have happened. And in the course of one of those things, my new car and house got shot up. Hell yes I want to get involved.”
“Congratulations, Mrs. Britton,” Castillo said formally. “You are now a member of the Office of Organizational Analysis. Just as soon as we have a moment, I’ll get you on the horn with Agnes Forbison and we’ll get you on the payroll.”
“You’re serious,” Jack Britton, surprised, declared out loud.
“In the words of your bride, ‘Hell yes.’ ”
Castillo had just decided that Sandra Britton being here was a fortunate happenstance.
He had also just realized that neither Darby nor Santini had opened their mouths, not even to ask questions.
That could be because my briefing was brilliant, covering absolutely everything that needed to be said.
No questions necessary.
More likely, however, it’s because they don’t like what they heard and are deciding how and when they can tactfully suggest to the boss that he’s about to fuck up by the numbers.
When Castillo walked over to the quincho with the Brittons, Alex Darby, and Tony Santini, sitting on its verandah were Alfredo Munz, Edgar Delchamps, and Jack Davidson. Munz was holding a bottle of Coca-Cola; Delchamps and Davidson, liter bottles of Quilmes beer.
“Kensington?” Castillo asked.
“With our guests,” Delchamps said, jerking his thumb toward the interior of the quincho.
“Everybody up to speed?” Castillo asked.
“Ace, is this where you ask, ‘Any questions or comments?’ ” Delchamps said.
Castillo shrugged. “Okay. Any questions or comments?”
“Charley,” Darby said, “you’re aware that there is a U.S. government agency that’s charged not only with trying to get the bad guys—and girls, come to think of it—to change sides but has all the facilities in place to deal effectively with them. Yes? They call it the CIA.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“With that in mind,” Darby went on, “now that you’ve gotten Berezovsky and family safely out of Europe—where, I suspect, they were about to be grabbed by the Sluzhba Vnezhney Razvedki and/or the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, which, I also presume you know is charged with keeping defectors from defecting—”
“Why don’t I just get on the horn,” Castillo interrupted reasonably, “and call Langley and have them send a plane down here to take our guests off our hands?”
“Yeah,” Darby said. “Why don’t you?”
“I’m glad you brought that up, Alex. It reminds me of something else I’ve forgotten to do. Alex, if you happen to have a friendly conversation with your pal Miss Eleanor Dillworth in Vienna, you have no idea where I am, and you never heard of Berezovsky and company.”
“What?” Darby said.
“I didn’t get into that,” Delchamps said.
“Into what?” Darby asked.
“Miss Dillworth is not a big fan of our leader,” Delchamps offered.
“Your leader. I work for Langley.”
“No, Alex,” Castillo said, “you don’t. Ambassador Montvale has informed the DCI that—at the direction of the President—the CIA is to furnish the OOA—me—with whatever assets I think I need. You are such an asset. I don’t mean to get starchy, but it’s necessary. You will not tell the CIA or anyone else that you have been requisitioned. That’s an order, Top Secret Presidential, as was what I said before about the woman in Vienna. Clear, Alex?”
Darby’s face whitened.
“He does have the authority, Alex,” Delchamps said. “You’d better say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
“Jesus Christ!” Darby blurted.
“That’s close enough,” Castillo said.
“Are you now going to tell us what’s going on, Ace?”
“Two things,” Castillo said. “One is that I’m following my original orders, which remain in force until the man who issued them—and no one else—changes them. Those orders are to ‘find and render harmless’ whoever is responsible for the murder of Jack The Stack Masterson. I think that may be a General Sirinov; Berezovsky mentioned his name. He said Sirinov ordered the elimination of the Kuhls, Friedler, and Billy, Otto, and me. I think he probably had something to do with what happened to Jack and Sandra and to Liam Duffy.
“Second, Berezovsky said—for the two million bucks I promised him—that he would give me the details about a chemical factory in Congo-Kinshasa making some kind of weapon of mass destruction. I thought he was telling the truth, and so did Davidson.”
Davidson nodded.
“So,” Castillo finished, “I’m going to deal with these people myself until I am convinced that they are fucking with me or that I can’t—we can’t—handle them ourselves.”
“Ace, you realize you just bit off a hunk that’s going to be hard to chew, never mind swallow?”
Castillo took a long, thoughtful look at Delchamps, then said, “Meaning you think I’m wrong? On some kind of ego trip?”