Not shoe, Charley thought.
Boot—damned lead-soled, thirty-pound diver’s boot.
Castillo, of course, had all that time to think, too. He had known Davidson just about as long as Castillo had been in the Army. Technical Sergeant Davidson had been covering Colonel Bruce J. McNab’s back—with a twelve-gauge sawed-off Remington Model 870 shotgun—when Second Lieutenant Castillo had reported to McNab for duty in the First Desert War.
And then Sergeant Major Davidson had manned the Gatling gun in the Black Hawk helicopter that Major Castillo had “borrowed” in Afghanistan to go see if he could get back Major Dick Miller and the crew of his shot-down Black Hawk before the bad guys overran their position, a task that had been solemnly considered by some very senior officers and pronounced absolutely impossible.
Between their first meeting and this latest trip around the block, Charley and Jack had gone around many blocks together.
Castillo also thought about when Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab had released Davidson from his duties at Camp Mackall to join Castillo at the Office of Organizational Analysis. McNab had called Castillo to tell him: “Just in case you might be thinking I have mellowed in old age, Colonel, and was being a nice guy, know that the sole reason I’m loaning you Sergeant Major Davidson is because he’s the only guy I know who can pour cold water on you when you’re about to fuck up big-time. So, Colonel, one more time I’m telling you something that you should have learned as a second lieutenant: ‘When Jack Davidson tells you not to do something, for God’s sake take his counsel and don’t do it!’ ”
Castillo knew that that counsel also worked in other ways.
In Afghanistan, when Castillo had told Davidson that he was going to “borrow” the Black Hawk and go after Miller despite just having been ordered not to—“Frankly, Major,” the brigadier general had barked, “I’m starting to question your mental health for even suggesting you try something so suicidal. What part of ‘Absolutely no!’ don’t you understand?”—all Davidson had said was, “You sure you want to do this, Charley?”
And then Davidson had gone to get them flak vests to wear over their Afghan robes and to make sure he had enough ammo for the door-mounted Gatling gun.
Castillo now thought:
Viewed objectively, as an indication of poor judgment and mental instability, “borrowing” a Black Hawk to fly through a snowstorm to go after Dick and his crew pales when compared to considering oneself in love with a lieutenant colonel of the SVR and deciding that she is telling me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
I knew I was safe to fly that day. I wouldn’t have taken Jack along if I didn’t really believe I could do it.
And the cold truth here is that whenever I look into Svet’s eyes—or in other more intimate situations—and hear the celestial chorus singing “I Love You Truly”—the small, still voice of reason keeps popping up and whispering, “This is wrong, you dumb fuck, and you know it. That violin music you hear is her playing you.”
Davidson pulled the BMW nose-in to the curb in front of the embassy. The gendarmería’s Mercedes-Benz SUV pulled in beside them.
Davidson put both hands on the top of the steering wheel and turned to Castillo. Their eyes met.
Here comes Jack’s lead boot. . . .
After a moment, Davidson said, “Please tell me, Charley, that you are (a) fucking Little Miss Red Underpants as an interrogative technique to gain the confidence of the interrogatee, or at least (b) you had a couple of belts and things got temporarily out of control.”
“None of the above, Jack.”
“Oh, shit.”
Castillo shrugged. “I’m in love.”
“Well, then I guess it’s a good thing that I’m going to retire. When McNab hears about this, the most I could hope for would be to spend the rest of my days in the Army counting tent pegs in a quartermaster warehouse in Alaska.”
“I’ll make sure he knows that you did everything possible short of shooting me in the knees with a hollow-point .22 to dissuade me from my insanity.”
Davidson shook his head in resignation. “If I thought that would do any good, that’s just what I would do.”
“I would resign today, Jack, if it wasn’t for this chemical operation in the Congo.”
Davidson met his eyes again.
“When Berezovsky started talking,” Davidson said, “it looked like Delchamps was on the money when he said that was heavy.”
“It is. Very heavy.”
“Okay. You and Delchamps believe him. I’ll grant you that; I’m not going to say both of you are wrong. So I’ll give you that. But what the hell do you think you can do about it? Delchamps says the CIA knows about the plant and doesn’t think it’s a threat. And I don’t think they’ll listen to you or Delchamps that it is. They probably wouldn’t believe Berezovsky and/or your lady friend if they had them. Which they don’t. Which opens that can of worms.”
“Can I wave duty in your face, Jack?”
Davidson shook his head. After a moment, he softly said: “Yeah. For Christ’s sake, you know you can, Charley.”
“I think it’s my duty to take out that chemical factory, even if the CIA doesn’t think it’s a threat.”
Davidson nodded his understanding. “And how are you going to do that?”
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”
After a moment, Davidson said, “Are you willing to listen to some unpleasant facts?”
“I’ll be surprised if you can think of any I haven’t thought of myself—that’s not a crack at you, Jack; I’ve really given this a lot of thought—but go ahead.”
“The CIA is already pissed that you have the Russians.”
Castillo nodded his acceptance of that statement.
“And I don’t think you’re going to turn either of them over to the agency.”
“I’m not, Jack.”
Davidson shook his head again. “Which is really going to piss them off. And Montvale, too.”
Castillo nodded again.
“Your authority, Charley, comes from the Presidential Finding, which is to ‘locate and render harmless’ the people who whacked Jack ‘The Stack’ Masterson. Period. Nothing else. It says nothing about turning Russian spooks and nothing about going into the Congo and taking out a chemical factory—one the agency knows about and doesn’t think is a threat.”
He paused for a long time, a period that Charley took to mean that Jack was letting that counsel sink in.
Then Davidson shook his head again and went on: “So where do you think we’re going to get what we need to take out the factory? That’s got to be a helluva long laundry list—”
He said, “What we need.”
He’s in.
And he doesn’t care what that may cost him.
Castillo felt his throat tighten.
When he trusted himself to speak, Castillo admitted: “I haven’t figured that out yet either.”
“So what happens now, Chief?”
Castillo intoned solemnly: “ ‘The longest journey begins with the smallest step.’ You may wish to write that down.”
Davidson chuckled.
“What happens now is that I go in there”—Castillo nodded toward the embassy building?—“and, while trying very hard to keep Ambassador Silvio out of the line of fire, deal with Ambassador Montvale. And while I’m doing that, you go to Rio Alba, taking the gendarmería with you, and wait for me.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. Get some lunch. If I don’t call you in thirty minutes, call me. If I answer in Pashtu, hang up and head for the safe house.”