Billy Kocian took over the administration of the estates, which included Castle Cséfalzvik, now a hotel, the farmlands, the vineyards, and considered then decided against moving into the Cséfalzvik mansion in Budapest. Instead, he rented it to a Saudi Arabian prince who was fascinated with Hungarian women and was willing and more than able to pay whatever asked to rent a suitable place to entertain them.
Billy Kocian also told Karlchen that if he was waiting for him to address him as His Grace, Duke Karl I of Cséfalzvik, it would be wise not to hold his breath.
[TWO]
Following Morning Prayer in the chapel, breakfast was served in the Breakfast Room of La Casa, which overlooked the mansion’s formal gardens.
Charley had attended Morning Prayer because he knew if he didn’t Sweaty would deny him the privileges of their prenuptial couch and also because he liked the ceremony itself. Much of the service was sung — men only, including about a dozen ex-Spetsnaz — and their voices had a haunting beauty.
His Eminence was in fine voice, and showed no signs of suffering from all the wine of the previous evening.
The breakfast that followed was literally a movable feast. Just as soon as His Eminence had expressed his gratitude to the Deity for the bounty they were about to receive, white-jacketed servants began rolling in that bounty on carts. There was champagne and cognac (Argentine, and labeled as such because the Argentines could see no reason to give the French exclusive rights to those appellations for sparkling wine or distilled white wine); salmon (Chilean, from a bona fide fish farm Aleksandr Pevsner owned there); caviar (Uruguayan, which Aleksandr Pevsner decreed as just about as good as that from the sturgeon in the Black Sea); the expected locally sourced eggs, breads, ham, trout, and fruit; and the not expected — Aleksandr Pevsner’s favorite breakfast food, American pancakes, served with what he called “that marvelous tree juice,” or maple syrup.
Sweaty beamed when His Eminence called to her to sit beside him at the long table. “And you, Carlos, my son, on my other side.”
And her smile grew even broader when His Eminence said, “I think the time has come to discuss plans for the wedding.”
It disappeared a moment later when His Eminence went on, “Starting with when. How long do you think your intended will be gone?”
“Gone where, Your Eminence?” Svetlana asked.
“Wherever this ‘extended hazardous active duty’ Colonel Naylor told us about takes him. How long would you say that’s going to take him?”
Svetlana was struck dumb.
“Carlos,” His Eminence went on, “is really fortunate in that very few brides-to-be have the sort of experience you do. Most would not understand how important answering the call of duty is.”
“Your Eminence,” Charley said, “I never like to take risks without a good reason, and I don’t see any good reason to take this one.”
“But I would suggest your friends do,” His Eminence reasoned, “otherwise they wouldn’t be here.”
His Eminence leaned over and looked past Svetlana to Jake Torine, who was sitting farther down the table.
“Colonel, why do you think Colonel Castillo should take this assignment?”
“Your Eminence,” Charley said politely, and then very quickly realized (a) that his temper was rising, (b) had in fact risen, and (c) that he had every right to be pissed—Who the hell are you to be deciding what I should or should not do? — went on, somewhat less politely, “I don’t give a damn what Jake thinks. It’s my ass on the line here, not his. Or, for that matter, yours.”
“Carlos!” Sweaty said, horrified.
The archbishop was unruffled.
“Perhaps you would be good enough, my son, to tell me why you are so opposed to doing your duty?”
“Generally, because it’s not my duty, and specifically because I don’t want to wind up in the basement of that beautiful building on Lubyanka Square.”
The beautiful building to which he referred had been built in Moscow in 1900 as luxury apartments renting for two or three times the norm. The Trump Towers or the One57 building of its time, so to speak. In 1919, the capitalist tenants were evicted by Felix Dzerzhinsky so that the building could be put to use for the benefit of the workers and peasants. The Cheka moved in, and the storage areas in the basement were converted to cells. The building has been occupied ever since by successor organizations to the Cheka.
His Eminence apparently knew about Lubyanka, but was again unruffled.
“And you believe, my son, that would be inevitable?”
“I don’t play Russian roulette, either,” Charley said.
Vic D’Alessandro laughed, then raised his hand and asked, “Permission to speak, Colonel, sir?”
“If you think this is funny, go fuck yourself,” Charley replied.
“I’ll take that as ‘Permission granted,’” D’Alessandro said. “Thank you, sir.”
Charley gave him the finger.
“Your Eminence,” Svetlana said, “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive my Carlos. He tends to forget his manners when he’s a little upset.”
The archbishop graciously gestured that he was prepared to forgive Svetlana’s Carlos, and then that D’Alessandro should continue.
“Your Eminence, I have known Colonel Castillo since he was a second lieutenant maybe five months out of West Point,” D’Alessandro said. “When I met him he already had the Distinguished Flying Cross and his first Purple Heart—”
“Jesus Christ!” Charley said.
“If you love God, you should not blaspheme, my son,” the archbishop said. “Please continue, Mr. D’Alessandro.”
“And in the next couple of weeks,” D’Alessandro went on, “he had the Silver Star, another Purple Heart, and an assignment as aide-de-camp to an up-and-coming new brigadier general.
“At that point, we began to call him, and he thought of himself, as ‘Hotshot.’”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Charley demanded. “And I never thought of myself as ‘Hotshot.’”
D’Alessandro laughed, shook his head, and then went on, “And what Hotshot decided then was that he had the Army figured out. Just so long as he kept getting medals, he wouldn’t have to do what ordinary soldiers spent most of their time doing.”
“I don’t think I understand,” the archbishop said.
“Napoleon said, ‘An army travels on its stomach,’” D’Alessandro said. “He was wrong. The army travels on paper.”
The archbishop shook his head, signaling he still didn’t understand.
“Soldiers, Your Eminence, especially officers, spend a great deal of time making reports of unimportant things that no one ever reads. For all of his career, Charley skillfully managed to avoid doing so. But that’s over.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Castillo asked.
“Solving your problem with the President.”
“By writing reports?” Castillo asked. “Reports about what?”
“On the way down here, Frank Lammelle sent me this,” D’Alessandro said, as he took out his CaseyBerry. “He recorded it while the President was telling everybody about his latest brilliant idea. Pay attention.”