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Davidson came back into the office.
"Thanks, Jack," Castillo said.
"For what?"
"You know damned well for what."
"Okay. Then you're welcome," Davidson said, then added, "Pevsner!"
"Jesus Christ!"
"That would explain why they came to you in Germany," Davidson said. "They know you know him."
"I don't think so. If they were in touch with Pevsner, and he wanted to get them out, he would have sent planes and people. Alex is very good at that sort of thing."
"What did you think of that state-within-a-state business she fed us?"
"It may be proof that I was in no shape to interrogate anybody, much less a pro like that one. I think it's probably true."
"Me, too. You never heard anything like that before?"
"That the SVR is a separate class within Russian society, sure. Not that it goes back to Ivan the Terrible with the same people."
"I always forget not to look in the mirror when I'm thinking about the Russians," Davidson confessed. "Maybe because I'm a half, two-thirds, a bunch of Russian myself. Those Russians are not like our Russians. I should write that on the palm of my hand."
"How'd you do with those account numbers?"
"It worked the way she said it would. But no names." He paused. "Christ, her face when you told her we had the chip. If looks could kill, in other words. I almost felt sorry for her."
"Feeling sorry for Little Red Under Britches would be very dangerous."
Davidson started to speak, stopped, and then went on: "I'm glad you said that, Charley. Otherwise, Colonel, sir, I would have had to say it to you, and sometimes you are not as grateful of my wise counsel as you should be."
Castillo gave him the finger.
"Come on, let's go out to the quincho and see how the
professionals did with the colonel. And get those account numbers to Two-Gun and Mrs. Sanders, to see what they make of them."
"I don't suppose we could stop in the living room and have a little taste on the way, could we? Trying to read that dame wore me out."
"Every once in a great while, Sergeant Major, you have a great idea."
[THREE]
"First impressions," Edgar Delchamps said. "Berezovsky is what he says he is, and you don't get to be the Berlin rezident unless you are very, very good. It's almost as important as a posting to Washington or the UN.
"Second, I have the feeling he's not used to being on the receiving end of being scared, which both supports the previous impression and may explain why, I think, operative word think, he has been telling us the truth, and will continue to do so. We didn't get into many specifics. I want to do that tomorrow, after I have a chance to ask some questions to verify the unimportant stuff he gave us." He paused thoughtfully, then waved at Alex Darby. "Alex?"
"I agree. I wanted to get more into why they defected, but there wasn't the chance."
"According to Little Red Under Britches," Castillo said, "they were afraid of getting thrown out with the bathwater when Putin inevitably cleans house."
Castillo raised his eyebrows, asking for Delchamps's and Darby's reaction to that.
"Credible," Darby said, and Delchamps nodded his agreement.
"Did Aleksandr Pevsner's name come up?"
