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He was not prepared, however, for the look of unabashed incredulity on Hall's face-and on Joel Isaacson's and Tom McGuire's. Clearly, they not only believed zero, zilch, nada of what he was telling them, but were also-worse-now questioning his reputation as a hard-ass special operator for wasting his and their time relating it.
"Charley, I've seen his dossier," Isaacson said. "It's this thick." He held his hands eighteen inches apart. "There's a lot in there about murder, extortion, bribery, smuggling, arms-dealing, you name it, but not one line about his being a devoted husband and loving daddy."
"I believed him," Castillo had replied.
"About what part?" Hall asked.
"Most of it," Charley said. "The family photograph looked too cozy not to have been staged."
"You actually think the airplane was stolen by Somalians? Who plan to crash it into the Liberty Bell? Because of what this international thug told you?" Hall asked, more sadly than angrily.
"Sir, you told me that one of the major problems in intelligence is with people at my level telling their superiors what they think the superiors want to hear, instead of what they believe. What I told you just now is what I believe."
"That wasn't me who told you that," Hall said after a long pause. "That was the President."
"Charley, do you know how close you came to having this guy take you out?" Joel Isaacson asked.
"Yeah, I do, Joel. He said he was glad he didn't have to give me an 'Indian beauty spot'-a small-caliber bullet in the forehead-and I believed that, too." [FOUR] Pevsner led Castillo into the house, through a two-story entrance foyer to a sitting room. With the exception of what was probably an antique samovar sitting on a table, the furnishings of the sitting room gave it a British feeling. Two walls were lined with books and oil paintings, and there was a red-leather couch with matching armchairs.
The windows offered a view of a large swimming pool under a curved plastic roof, something like a Quonset hut. Vapor rose from the pool.
Well, they don't have many heated swimming pools in Merry Old England, but this place still feels English.
A middle-aged woman in a maid's uniform came into the sitting room from a side door as the three men entered.
"Would you please ask Madam Pevsner if it is convenient for her and the children to join us?" Pevsner ordered in Russian.
The woman, unsmiling, nodded but didn't say anything. She left the sitting room by the door Pevsner, Kennedy, and Castillo had come in.
"Howard, see if you can find someone in the kitchen who can bring wine, and so forth," Pevsner ordered in English.
"Red, right, Charley?" Kennedy asked. "A cabernet?"
"Please," Castillo said, as he walked to the samovar for a closer look. He had just decided that it was a bona fide antique Russian kettle when Pevsner said in Russian, "Ah, Anna, come and welcome Charley to our home!"
Castillo turned and saw the wife and kiddies from the Clairol commercial walking into the room. They were all almost startlingly blond and fair-skinned. The mother looked to be in her late twenties, but Charley decided she had to be older than that to be the mother of the girl, who was thirteen or fourteen. There were two boys, one who Charley guessed was ten or so, and another about six. Everyone was wearing a thick white terry cloth robe.
Madam Pevsner smiled and put out her hand to Castillo and said in Russian, "I'm happy to meet you. My husband has told me so much about you."
The maid was now in the room.
"Olga, would you bring some wine?" Madam Pevsner ordered, and the maid walked to what was apparently the kitchen door.
"Howard's getting the wine," Pevsner said in Russian, and then switched to English. "Greet our guest in English," he said to the children. "Charley, this is Elena. Darling, this is Mr. Castillo."
Elena, shyly, almost blushing, curtsied and said, "How do you do, Mr. Castillo?" in a pronounced British accent.
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Elena."
The ten-year-old was even more shy. The six-year-old was not. He walked past his brother, put out his hand, and announced, "I am Sergei and I am happy to make your acquaintance, sir."
"And I'm pleased to meet you."
"Aleksandr!" Pevsner said, propelling the ten-year-old into action.
The ten-year-old, squirming, finally offered his hand and mumbled something unintelligible.
Pevsner beamed proudly.
