Murov shook his head. “How could I shave in the morning, Colonel Castillo, looking out on some Caribbean beach, knowing that the price of my being there was my family in the basement of the Lubyanka prison?”
“Just as soon as Vladimir Vladimirovich finds out you fucked up again, that’s where Vladimir Vladimirovich is going to put them, and you know that, too.”
“The matter is in God’s hands,” Murov repeated doggedly.
“Jesus Christ, you people make me sick! Are you listening to yourself, Murov? You sound like a character in a very bad Russian novel. In the first place, committing suicide is not noble. I’m not sure, but I strongly suspect, in this religion all of you keep spouting, it’s also a sin.”
“I’m not committing suicide,” Murov said.
“What would you call it? And you’re the one who put your beloved wife and kiddies in a Lubyanka cell, Murov. You. Don’t try to hang that on Vladimir Vladimirovich. That’s the rules of this game we play, and you damn sure know them as well as I do.”
Murov was silent.
“Okay, Murov. For the sake of argument, after Janos literally beats you to death with that thing of his, you nobly refuse to tell me what I want. You pass out. You open your eyes, and there you are, inside the pearly gates. Saint Peter looks down at you.
“‘Tell me, my son, why the fuck didn’t you at least try to get your beloved wife and kiddies out of Lubyanka?’ What are you going to say, Sergei? ‘Nothing I could do, Pete. It was in God’s hands.’ Jesus!”
“Carlos, you’re blaspheming,” Svetlana said.
“Butt out, Sweaty!” Castillo snapped.
“You just don’t get people out of Lubyanka, Colonel, and you know that,” Murov said.
“Maybe not, but a man-particularly a Christian-would fucking well try for his family,” Castillo fumed. “And what are you going to say when good ol’ Saint Pete asks-”
“Carlos, stop!” Svetlana said.
“Stay out of this, Svetlana,” Nicolai Tarasov said, sharply.
“He’s blaspheming,” she said.
“I don’t think so,” Tarasov said. “What it looks like to me is that he’s trying to save Sergei’s soul.”
The support came as a shock to Castillo. He forgot what he had been saying.
“Where the hell was I?” Castillo said aloud. “Okay. So, what are you going to say to Saint Peter, Saint Sergei, when he asks, ‘Why the hell wouldn’t you tell Castillo what he wanted to know? I know he’s a heathen, but what was he doing wrong? Were the Americans about to nuke Moscow? Maybe drop a couple of barrels of Congo-X on it? Did you really believe, as well educated as you are, as widely experienced, that the Americans were planning to attack Holy Mother Russia? For that matter, anyone?”
“Fuck you, Colonel Castillo,” Murov said. “And may God forgive you!”
Castillo saw that Svetlana had tears running down her cheeks.
“I am still in charge here, Aleksandr,” Castillo said, but it was a question.
Pevsner nodded.
“Janos,” Castillo then ordered, “put some clothes on him, and take him back where you found him. And leave him.”
“You’re still going to interrogate him?” Svetlana asked.
“No, my love, I’m through interrogating him. He wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway; you heard him, God is on his side. And I won’t give the miserable bastard the satisfaction of having Janos beat him to death. Three’ll get you ten he’s already into self-flagellation. Get him out of my sight, Janos.”
Janos, Castillo noticed, did not look this time to Pevsner for permission to carry out the order.
Janos went to where Murov was seated, pulled him to his feet, and started marching him out of the room.
“Hand me the wine, my dear, and spare me your comments,” Castillo ordered.
Svetlana complied docilely.
“Colonel Castillo,” Murov called.
Castillo looked. Murov and Janos were at the door. Janos had his arms wrapped around the struggling naked man.
Castillo made the sign of the cross.
“Bless you, my son,” he called. “Go in peace, and sin no more. Amen.”
“Carlos!” Svetlana said, in almost a whine.
“It’s Clemens McCarthy, Colonel Castillo,” Murov said. “And a Secret Service agent named Douglas.”
THREE
The President’s Study The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 0805 21 April 2007
Secret Service Special Agent Mark Douglas pushed the door open and announced, “Mr. President, the secretary of State.”
“Well, show her in,” President Clendennen ordered.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Secretary Cohen said.
“Dare I hope, Madam Secretary, that you have heard from that miserable sonofabitch Martinez?” Clendennen asked.
“Actually, Mr. President, I’ve just spoken with Ambassador McCann,” she replied. “President Martinez called him with the information we’ve been waiting for. I took the call from the ambassador just now in my car.”
“And?”
“Mr. D’Alessandro is to meet with a Mexican deputy attorney general, a man named Manuel Jose Guzman, at one o’clock this afternoon in the Camino Real Acapulco Diamante in Acapulco. Senor Guzman will have the police chief, Pena, with him.”
“The where?”
“The Camino Real Acapulco Diamante, Mr. President. The literal translation is ‘Royal Road Acapulco Diamond.’ What it is is one of the better hotels in Acapulco.”
“Does this man D’Alessandro know how to find it? Where is he? How’s he going to get from where he is to Acapulco?”
Secretary Cohen said: “I understand that Mr. D’Alessandro is with General Naylor in the El Paso Marriott.”
“You heard that, Douglas,” the President ordered. “Get this man or General Naylor on the phone.”
“D’Alessandro may be registered as Jose Gomez, Mr. Douglas,” the secretary of State said.
“What the hell is that all about?” the President demanded.
“I don’t know, sir,” she said.
“Well, goddammit, don’t you think you should?”
“General Naylor told me that, sir,” she said. “I have no idea why Mr. D’Alessandro might be registered under another name. I was just trying to be helpful to Mr. Douglas.”
“I have General Naylor for you, Mr. President,” Douglas said, extending the handset of the red presidential circuit telephone to him.
“We finally heard from the goddamn Mexicans, General,” the President began the conversation. “Are you in contact with this man D’Alessandro?”
The telephone was not set on loudspeaker; only the Washington end of the conversation could be heard by others in the presidential study.
“Put him on, please.”
“This is the President, Mr. D’Alessandro,” Clendennen said. “Let me make this clear from the beginning. If you fuck this up, you’re not going back to Fort Bragg. If I can’t figure out some way to fire you, you’re going to find yourself counting envelopes in the Nome, Alaska, post office. You clear on that, Mr. D’Alessandro?”
“Okay. We’ve heard from the goddamn Mexicans. You’re to meet a deputy attorney general. . what’s his name, Madam Secretary?”
Secretary Cohen furnished the information.
“By the name of Manuel Jose Guzman,” the President went on. “In the Diamond hotel in Acapulco at one this afternoon-
“Yes, the Camino Real Acapulco Diamante,” the President confirmed impatiently. “He’s going to have this cop, Pena, with him. Can you make it down there in time?
“Okay. By the time you get there, these people will have figured out that they didn’t make a fool of me at the Juarez airport this morning. So let them know I’m mad. Tell them we’re not going to produce this Mexican bandito Abrego until we have proof we’re about to get Ferris in exchange for him. Like that photograph they wanted of Abrego standing outside somewhere recognizable in El Paso. Tell them to take a picture of Ferris standing outside the Oaxaca State Prison holding a copy of that day’s newspaper-