It took a moment for Castillo to frame his reply, and then he said, “I would really have preferred the armistice, but count me in, of course.”
This time, Danton thought, they’re talking about killing people.
And this time they’re not kidding!
“So, as I understand our agreed-upon plan, we wait for Vladimir Vladimirovich’s next move, in the meantime putting in place certain precautions. Need I spell them out?”
“Yeah, you do,” Castillo said. “Just so everybody understands everybody else.”
“Very well,” Pevsner said. “I have already taken what precautions I think are called for here at the Grand Cozumel and in Argentina. What happened in Acapulco might be a diversion; and they might really start what they’re up to with me.
“That said, I agree with you, Charley, that they probably are considering action against your grapefruit farm here, or even against your family-especially your grandmother-in the United States. Against that possibility, the ten ex-Spetsnaz Stefan and I brought up this morning will be flown to the grapefruit farm at first light tomorrow by Fernando and Uncle Nicolai.
“Once they are in place to his-and of course to Fernando’s-satisfaction, Stefan will return here to handle the ex-Spetsnaz, another ten of them, who will arrive on the PeruaireCargo flight the day after tomorrow.
“Fernando will stay at the grapefruit farm as long as he feels is necessary or return to the United States, whichever he feels is best. I will return to Argentina tomorrow morning and see what, if anything, I can learn about Vladimir Vladimirovich’s plans from my sources.
“Dmitri will stay here in the Grand Cozumel. My instructions to the staff are that he speaks with my voice. You and Svetlana will go to San Antonio to satisfy yourself about your grandmother’s security.”
Pevsner met Castillo’s eyes, and added: “Is that about it?”
“Two things, Alek. I don’t care what you told your staff about Tom. He and everybody else are to understand that I’m calling the shots in Mexico. Is that understood?”
“Dmitri,” Pevsner said, “is that satisfactory to you?”
“Perfectly,” Berezovsky replied. “But I wonder about you. You’re not used to asking anybody for permission to do anything.”
“I have given my word,” Pevsner said.
“That’s good enough for me,” Castillo said. “The agreement is that nobody takes any action-except in self-defense-until it is discussed and agreed to by Alek, Edgar, Dmitri, and me. And we’re all agreed, right, that that applies to snatching Pavel Koslov?”
“You know I don’t agree with that,” Sweaty said angrily. “We should grab him while we have the chance.”
“You made that point, my love, over and over. And you were voted down. They call that democracy.”
Her brother laughed.
“Who’s Pavel Koslov?” Danton asked.
“The Mexico City rezident,” Delchamps furnished. “I think we ought to whack him, tit for tat, if he hurts Colonel Ferris, but I agree with Charley that snatching him now is not a very good idea.”
Castillo nodded, then looked around and said, “Is that it?”
“What do I tell McNab, Charley?” D’Alessandro asked. “He said he wants to see me the minute I get back.”
“Tell him everything,” Castillo said. “I never lied to him before, I don’t want to start now, and I’m certainly not going to ask you to withhold anything from him.”
“He’s going to ask what you’re going to want from him,” D’Alessandro said. “What do I tell him?”
“I’d like whatever intel he feels he can give me. But aside from that, I’m not going to need anything from the Stockade. Except you, of course.”
“Got it.”
“Uncle Nicolai, you about ready to fly Vic to Mexico City?”
“No. I’ve been drinking. But one of my pilots is standing by.”
D’Alessandro walked around the table, shaking hands, and then disappeared past the sliding glass doors.
IV
ONE
Office of the Commanding General United States Special Operations Command Fort Bragg, North Carolina 0830 13 April 2007
A substantial number of liaison officers was attached to the Special Operations Command. Some of them were military-for example, the liaison officers from the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations; the Office of the Chief of Staff, USAF; the commander in chief, Central Command; the Defense Intelligence Agency; and even the XVIII Airborne Corps, which commanded the physical assets of Fort Bragg as well as the 82nd and 101st Airborne divisions.
There were also civilian liaison officers: They included a State Department liaison officer; an FBI liaison officer; and a CIA liaison officer. They all had staffs, some of them as large as a dozen deputies and clerks.
The building in which they were housed was known jocularly as “Foggy Bottom, South.” Others called it “Siberia.” Most liaison officers felt that Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab regarded them as spies for their superiors, and that they were treated accordingly. They rarely saw him in person after their first brief chat with him on their assignment. They dealt with Major General Terrence O’Toole, the SPECOPSCOM deputy commander.
O’Toole had summoned Charles D. Stevens, the FBI liaison officer, to his office two days before.
“This is in connection with Colonel Ferris,” he said, getting right to the point. “You’re aware of the package the general received with Ferris’s photo?”
Stevens had nodded. He knew about the FedEx package. He had learned of it through FBI channels, not from anyone in SPECOPSCOM.
“Neither the CIA nor your laboratory at Quantico was able to learn much-in fact, anything-from it. The fingerprints found on it were useless because it had passed through so many hands.
“The general feels that the next communication from these people will come the same way, that is via either FedEx or UPS. He would like to get his hands on that package before it is handled by everybody and his idiot brother.”
“I understand, General.”
“What the general would like to see the FBI do is to locate that package as soon as it enters the FedEx/UPS process. The package would then be placed, taking care to touch it as little as possible, into another envelope and then sent on its way here. Do you think the FBI can handle that, Mr. Stevens?”
“The FBI will certainly try, General.”
“The general feels that it is highly likely that the address on the package will be different from the address on the original package, which itself was addressed to Lieutenant Colonel McNab, not Lieutenant General McNab, probably to avoid undue attention. So what you should be looking for is an Overnight envelope addressed accordingly, perhaps even addressed to someone in these headquarters, not the general, or to the home address of such people.”
“I understand the reasoning. I’ll get right on it.”
“Thank you. Keep me posted, please.”
FBI Liaison Officer Stevens thought: The chances of finding that envelope among the X-many million overnight envelopes that UPS and FedEx handle every day are right up there with my chances of being taken bodily into Heaven.
This proved to be either unduly pessimistic or a gross underestimation of the enthusiasm with which employees of FedEx or UPS would respond to a request for assistance from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Fewer than twenty-four hours later, Stevens received a telephone call from the special agent in charge-the SAC-of the El Paso FBI office, William J. Johnson, who happened to be an old friend.
“I’m in the UPS Store in the Sunland Park Mall in El Paso, Chuck,” the SAC said. “Holding-very carefully, in my rubber gloves-a UPS overnighter addressed to Sergeant Terry O’Toole, Yadkin and Reilly Road, Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Is this what you’re looking for?”
“Yadkin Road and Reilly Street is known as ‘Generals’ Row,’” Stevens said. “Major General Terrence O’Toole lives there, next door to General McNab.”