Castillo looked at Janos. “What have you been using on him?”
Janos flicked his wrist and a telescoping wand appeared in his hand. He flicked it back and forth. It whistled.
“That’s the one with the little ball of shot at the end?” Castillo asked.
Janos extended the wand to show Castillo the small leather shot-filled ball at the end of his wand.
“Very nice,” Castillo said. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen one.”
“As one professional to another, Colonel Castillo, can we get this over with quickly?” Murov asked, in Russian.
“Do you speak Hungarian, Mr. Monteverde?” Castillo asked, in Hungarian.
Monteverde’s face showed he did not.
“Pity,” Castillo said, in Russian. “Hungarian seems to have become the lingua franca of interrogations like this. Now you won’t know what Mr. Murov and I are talking about, will you?”
Monteverde’s face showed he understood this.
Castillo then said in Hungarian: “As a matter of personal curiosity, Mr. Murov-though it doesn’t really matter-when did you become aware of President Clendennen’s mental instability? Before or after he became President?”
“It wasn’t much of a secret, was it, Colonel?” Murov replied.
“Lester, where’s the cigarettes I asked for for these gentlemen?” Castillo asked.
Janos gave a quick order in Hungarian, and the waiter walked to Lester and handed him a package of Sobranie cigarettes.
Bradley looked at them dubiously.
“Those are Sobranie, Les,” Castillo explained. “I don’t know whether those are Russian made or the ones they make in London.”
“Huh?” Lester said.
“Cigarettes are very bad for your health, Lester. I wouldn’t smoke one of those, if I were you.”
“No, sir, I hadn’t planned to,” Bradley said.
Everyone on the patio-including Murov and Monteverde-looked askance at the exchange.
Lester walked to Murov and Monteverde, handed them cigarettes, then lit them for them.
“Thank you,” Monteverde said.
“Beware of either Americans or Hungarians bearing gifts,” Castillo said in Hungarian. “Especially counterfeit Russian cigarettes.”
Pevsner and Tarasov smiled and shook their heads.
Monteverde eyed his cigarette suspiciously.
“It’s soaked with sodium pentothal, of course,” Castillo said, in Spanish. “My protocol is to use that before pulling fingernails and doing other things like that.”
Monteverde’s face showed that he was perfectly willing to accept that.
I think I’ve got him.
“Tell me, Senor Monteverde,” Castillo then went on in Spanish, “when you were in Cuba, did you happen to run into Major Alejandro Vincenzo?”
Monteverde’s face showed that he had, and was surprised that Castillo knew of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia officer.
“No,” he said.
“He got in a gun fight with Lester in Uruguay,” Castillo said, conversationally. “Right out of the O.K. Corral. Lester put him down with a head shot, offhand, from at least one hundred yards. That’s why we call him ‘Dead Eye.’”
Monteverde looked at Castillo as if he couldn’t believe what Castillo had just said.
“Well, those things happen in our line of business, don’t they?” Castillo said. “Sometimes people just don’t make it.”
He let that sink in for a moment, and then said, “Lester, why don’t you take Mr. Monteverde back where he came from? What we’re going to do next is see if Colonel Alekseeva and Chief Pena can’t talk Senor Monteverde into making the right decisions tonight, before things get unpleasant.”
He paused.
“You heard me, Monteverde. Stand up!” he ordered, unpleasantly. Monteverde did so, and then as he was again suddenly aware he was naked, he put his hands over his crotch.
“Not necessary, Senor Monteverde,” Castillo said. “Colonel Alekseeva is also a professional. That’s not the first ding-dong she’s ever seen, although I don’t think she’s ever seen one quite that-how do I say this? — unappealing. You have an accident or something or is that the way it usually looks?”
Flushing from his forehead to halfway down his chest, Monteverde allowed himself to be led, shuffling in his plastic ankle ties, off the patio. Pena and Svetlana walked after him.
Castillo waited until Monteverde was out of hearing, and then turned to Murov.
“Well, what brilliant psychological weapon do I use on you, Sergei? Threaten to have ‘Saint Petersburg Poet’ chiseled on your tombstone?”
Pevsner and Tarasov chuckled.
Despite himself, Murov smiled.
“Now I know, Aleksandr,” Murov said, “why you wanted him here. He’s a master at this, isn’t he?”
“No, I am but a simple novice sitting at the feet of Master Pevsner,” Castillo said. “But this much I know, Sergei: When you get over your humiliation at being grabbed by Aleksandr’s people, you will decide yourself that you don’t have any choice but to tell me everything I want to know.”
“Or Janos will beat me to death with his wand?”
“Or I’ll leave you tied up on the steps of the Russian embassy in Mexico City and let Vladimir Vladimirovich decide how painfully you should die.”
He looked around and caught the waiter’s eye.
“Yes, thank you, I will have another sip of that lovely Cabernet Sauvignon while I’m waiting.”
Ten minutes later, Svetlana came back onto the patio and somewhat imperiously signaled to the waiter for a glass of wine. When he delivered it, Castillo held up his glass.
“How much of that have you had?” she challenged.
Castillo caught her eye. “Try to get this straight. You may ask that only after we’re married. And if you keep asking now, your chances of that happening diminish exponentially.”
She glared at him but did not respond.
“Well?” Castillo asked. “How did you do with Senor Monteverde?”
“He’ll be out in a minute,” she replied. “He’s cleaning himself up. When Juan Carlos was dangling him from the balcony, Monteverde threw up all over himself.”
“‘Dangling from the balcony’?” Castillo parroted.
“Juan Carlos hung him by his foot from the balcony,” she said, “using a sheet for a rope. When he was swinging back and forth”-she demonstrated with her hands-“Juan Carlos took another sheet and ripped it. It made a sound loud enough for Monteverde to hear. Then Juan Carlos let the sheet rope drop another couple of feet. Monteverde thought he was about to die.”
“It would then be safe to presume that Senor Monteverde is going to be cooperative?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Your Colonel Ferris is being held in Retainhuled, Guatemala. It’s about fifty miles from the border.”
“Who’s holding him?” Castillo asked.
“Venezuelan drug traffickers under the direction of the SVR,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Which brings us to the senior officer of the SVR involved in this. What are we going to do with you, Sergei?”
“I’d say that’s in the hands of God, wouldn’t you, Svetlana?” Murov replied.
“Actually, it’s in my hands,” Castillo said, “and I’m not nearly as nice as God.”
“Don’t blaspheme, Carlito,” Svetlana said, and then added, “He pretends to be a heathen, Sergei. But he’s really not.”
“You want to take a chance betting on that, Sergei?” Castillo asked. “Let’s start over, before I tell Janos he can start up again with his flyswatter. Here’s where we are: Monteverde is going to tell me everything he knows, and you know that. But what he doesn’t know, and what I want from you, is the names of the people you have in the Oval Office, and I will do whatever I have to find out.”
“And you know I can’t tell you that,” Murov said. “I have given my vow to God, and whatever happens to me is in his hands.”
“Whatever happens to you in is my hands,” Castillo said. “But I digress. I want those names. And will do whatever I have to do to get them. That includes guaranteeing you asylum in the United States, or anywhere else you’d like to go, and a hell of a lot of money. Opening bid, one million.”