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“The next step is to locate the Russians. You think they’re in Argentina?”
“I have no idea where they are, Mr. President,” DCI Powell said.
“Well, I want them found and I want them found quickly. Do whatever has to be done. Send as many people down there—or to anywhere else you think they might be—and find them. Run down the people who used to work for Castillo. See if they know where the Russians are. And Castillo is.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is a no-brainer, Mr. Powell. If we can get these Russian bastards to keep that stuff out of the country, and all it costs us is giving them back two traitors, that’s a price I can live with. I’ve always thought that people who change sides are despicable.”
“Even if the side they change from is despicable, Mr. President?” Natalie Cohen asked.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that, Madam Secretary,” the President of the United States said.
[THREE]
Penthouse B
The Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort
Cozumel
Quintana Roo, Mexico
1310 7 February 2007
A good deal of conversation and thought had not shot many holes in the scenario of what was probably going on, but on the other hand it also hadn’t done much to confirm it.
Neither had “all the agency intel” that Casey had furnished. The CIA’s analysts also seemed to feel the Congo-X sent to Fort Detrick and left for the Border Patrol to find on the Mexican border had most probably come from the Fish Farm in the Congo. But they had no idea how it had been moved from Africa to the United States, and apparently had not considered that the Tupolev Tu-934A might have been involved.
Castillo had called Casey and asked him to see if his source could find anything about Tupolevs moving anywhere, and again asked him to send any intel, no matter how unimportant or unrelated it might seem.
The only thing to do was wait for something to happen. Everybody was frustrated, but everybody also knew that sitting around with your finger in your ear—or other body orifice—waiting for something to happen was what intelligence gathering was really all about.
So everybody but Castillo, Svetlana, Pevsner, and Tom Barlow had gone deep-sea fishing on a forty-two-foot Bertram owned by the Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort.
Castillo had seen everybody’s departure as an opportunity. But Tom Barlow had come to the penthouse and asked if he wanted to play chess before he could take advantage of
the opportunity. Castillo no more wanted to play chess than he wanted to lunch on raw iguana, but the alternative was saying, “No, thanks, as I’m planning to spend the morning increasing my carnal knowledge of your sister.”
When the door chime went off, they were playing chess, and Svetlana—in a bikini—was taking in the sun on a chaise longue by the pool, with Max lying beside her.
The latter went to answer the door.
Aleksandr Pevsner, János, and another man were standing there.
Before Pevsner knew what was happening, Max put his paws on Pevsner’s shoulders and licked his face.
“Look at that!” Tom Barlow called happily. “Max loves you, Alek.”
And then he recognized the man with Pevsner and exclaimed, “I’ll be damned!”
The man with Pevsner was plump, ruddy-faced, and in his early fifties. His short-sleeved blue shirt had wings and epaulets with the four stripes of a captain on it.
“Well, my God, look who’s all grown up and wearing lipstick! And not much else,” the man said, and spread his arms.
“Uncle Nicolai!” Svetlana cried happily and ran into his arms.
Castillo watched, then thought: Well, that explains that. Another relative.
