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“What can I do for you, Mr. Whelan?”
“Do you know who I am, Miss Dillworth?”
“If this is the talking head I see on Wolf News, yes, I do.”
“Miss Dillworth, I’m running down a story that a rogue special operator named Castillo stole two Russian defectors from you. Would you care to comment?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I’d rather not say just now, Miss Dillworth, but if this story is true ...”
“It’s true.”
“I’d like to talk to you about it at some length.”
“Okay. When and where?”
I have had too much of the Egri Bikavér.
“It’s too late tonight. But what about first thing in the morning? Would it be convenient for you to meet me at the Old Ebbitt Grill? Do you know it?”
“What time?”
“Half past eight?”
“See you there, Mr. Whelan.”
“How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll recognize you. Half past eight.”
She hung up.
Whelan closed the cell phone and handed it back to Murov. Murov returned it to his jacket pocket and then put out his hand.
“I presume we have a deal, Harry?” he asked.
Whelan took the hand.
Forty-five minutes later, Sergei Murov laid three one-hundred-dollar bills on the waiter’s leather check folder and told him to keep the change.
“Mind if I look at that?” Whelan asked, and picked up the bill.
“They don’t give that Egri Bikavér away, do they?” he asked.
“They don’t give anything at all away,” Murov said.
Whelan slipped the check in his pocket, and followed Murov out of the restaurant.
[ONE]
Quarters #1
MacDill Air Force Base
Tampa, Florida
2015 8 February 2007
