Schmidt’s face had tightened at the fornicating-elephants metaphor, and now he appeared to be on the verge of an angry reply. But then he shrugged and instead said, “The ‘don’t follow anybody across the border’ order came from the President.”
“He does have a tendency to micromanage, doesn’t he?”
“He’s determined to get Colonel Ferris back from the drug cartels. I can’t fault that.”
“The drug cartels don’t have him, Mark.” Lammelle pointed at the photograph of Jose Rafael Monteverde. “There’s the proof.”
“This guy could be tied to the cartels.”
“Before he joined the Venezuelan foreign service, he did three years with the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia.”
“Even if that were true. .”
“It’s true, Mark.”
“. . how could I go to the President with that? I think he’d want to know where I got my information.”
“Don’t go to the President with it. Just face the real problem.”
“Which is?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Are you going to close your eyes to it?”
Schmidt met his eyes but didn’t reply.
“And I’ve had this further discomfiting thought,” Lammelle said. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe Montvale does want to move into the Oval Office.”
“Have you heard anything?”
Lammelle shook his head. “But one way for him to get there would be to allow Clendennen to get a lot of egg on his face trying to swap Felix Abrego for Ferris.”
Schmidt didn’t reply directly. Instead, he said: “The President has ordered the attorney general to move Abrego from Florence to a minimum-security prison, La Tuna, which is twelve miles north of El Paso.”
“You’ve already heard from the, quote unquote, drug people?” Lammelle asked.
Schmidt went to his desk, worked a combination lock, opened a drawer, and took from it a folder. From that he pulled out a single sheet of paper and a photograph and handed both to Lammelle.
The photograph showed Colonel Ferris much as the first two photos of him had. He was sitting in a chair. Two men with Kalashnikov rifles stood next to him. Ferris’s beard showed that he had not shaved. He was holding a day-old copy of El Diario de El Paso in front of him.
Lammelle read the message, which, like the first two messages, had been printed on a cheap computer printer:
Delighted that we can do business.
To prove that Senor Abrego has been moved from Florence, please arrange for El Diario to publish a photograph of him taken in an easily recognizable location near El Paso from which he can be quickly moved to the exchange point, which will be made known to you once we have examined the photograph.
“Clendennen has his own channel to these people?” Lammelle asked.
“That came in after the President ordered Abrego moved,” Schmidt said.
“Where is Abrego now?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think there’s been time to move him to La Tuna.”
“Find out for me,” Lammelle said. “I want to know where he is minute by minute.”
“Why?”
“Because when the Merry Outlaws launch their plan to rescue Ferris, Abrego’s location is intelligence Castillo has to have.”
“The President doesn’t want Castillo anywhere near this.”
“I know. Which means you’re going to have to make up your mind whether you’re going along with Clendennen’s-how do I put this? — logically challenged notions of how to deal with this, which will probably result in Ferris’s being dead, the President really going over the edge, and Vice President Montvale convening the Cabinet to vote on Clendennen’s, quote unquote, temporary incapacity, requiring him to assume the presidency, or going along with Castillo.”
“Castillo has a well-earned reputation for leaving bodies all over.”
“Do you really care how many SVR bodies or drug cartel bodies Castillo leaves anywhere?”
Schmidt considered the question for a long moment, as if it confused him, and then he said: “Frank, when I consider the option of Montvale taking over, I have to admit that I don’t.”
VIII
ONE
The Lobby Lounge Llao Llao Hotel and Spa Avenida Ezequiel Bustillo Bariloche Rio Negro Province, Argentina 1225 18 April 2007
Castillo, Sweaty, Bradley, Tom Barlow, Kiril Koshkov, and Stefan Koussevitzky were sitting around an enormous round table with a wood fire burning in its center when a white-jacketed bellman pointed them out to the four men he’d just brought from the airport.
They were Colonel Jacob Torine, U.S. Air Force (Retired); Major Richard Miller, U.S. Army (Retired); former Captain Richard Spark-man, U.S. Air Force; and CWO5 Colin Leverette, U.S. Army (Retired).
Castillo stood and addressed Torine: “Good afternoon, Colonel, sir. I trust the colonel had a nice flight?”
Torine eyed him suspiciously.
“Why am I afraid of what comes next?” Torine asked, then went to Svetlana and kissed her cheek.
“I believe the colonel knows Colonel Berezovsky,” Castillo went on. “And he may remember Major Koussevitzky. .”
“Indeed, I do,” Torine said. “How’s the leg, Major?”
“It only hurts when I move, Colonel,” Koussevitzky replied. “Good to see you again, sir.”
“And this is Kiril Koshkov, late captain of the Spetsnaz version of the Night Stalkers,” Castillo went on. “Kiril, Stefan, these distinguished warriors are Colonel Jacob Torine, Captain Richard Spark-man, and Mr. Colin Leverette.”
The men shook hands.
“I’m afraid to ask,” Torine said, “but why are we being so military?”
Max walked to Torine, sat beside him on his haunches, and thrust his paw at Dick Miller until he took it.
“Max, I hate to tell you this,” Miller said, “but as I came through the door there was a sign in at least four languages that says NO DOGS.”
“Not a problem. Max knows the owner,” Castillo said.
“You were telling me, Colonel,” Torine said, “why we are being so military.”
“I spent the morning playing general,” Castillo said. “I gave a PowerPoint presentation of a staff study that I am forced, in all modesty, to admit was brilliant.”
Svetlana shook her head in resignation.
“How so?” Torine asked, smiling.
“Don’t shake your head at me, Podpolkovnik Alekseeva,” Castillo said. “Did I, or didn’t I, convince Ivan the Terrible Junior that his plans for this problem wouldn’t solve it?”
“What were his plans?” Torine asked.
“They did have, I’ll admit, the advantage of simplicity,” Castillo said. “What he wanted to do was whack anyone who he suspected was SVR. I finally managed to convince him that Vladimir Vladimirovich has more SVR operators than we have bullets, and that a wiser, less violent, solution was called for.”
“Which is?” Torine asked, smiling as he beckoned to a waiter.
“I’m still working on that,” Castillo said. “Little problems keep popping up.”
“You managed to talk Pevsner out of whacking everybody in sight and letting God sort it out,” Leverette asked, incredulously, “without having a Plan B?”
“I was impressed,” Tom Barlow said. “That’s just what he did. I didn’t think he was going to get away with it.”
Castillo smiled at Svetlana, and said, “Pay attention to your big brother, Sweaty.”
“What makes either of you think you really got away with it?” Sweaty replied.
“No plans at all, Charley?” Leverette asked.
“More questions than plans,” Castillo said.
He pointed at the laptop in front of Bradley.
“Lester, show Uncle Remus, Uncle Jake, and Gimpy the letter that the President wants President Martinez to send to him.”
The three bent over the laptop and read the letter.
“Where’d you get this?” Torine asked.
“What is it?” Miller asked.