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“And what have they found out?”
“The ship is called Stadt Wien,” Powell said. “It plies the Danube back and forth between Budapest and Vienna.”
“I already know that. The question is, is Castillo—and maybe the Russians—on it or not?”
“We’ve learned that Castillo never made a reservation on it.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“We don’t know, Mr. President.”
“Did it occur to your people to go aboard the damned ship and look for him?”
“They couldn’t get a ticket, Mr. President. And without a ticket you can’t get on the Stadt Wien. Apparently, sir, you have to make reservations at least two weeks in advance.” Powell hesitated and then went on: “What the Stadt Wien is, Mr. President, is somewhere the Viennese and the Budapesters take their romantic interests for an overnight trip. Not always their wives, if you take my meaning. It’s very popular.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack! Castillo hasn’t been over there two weeks. How the hell could he have made a reservation on this Hungarian Love Boat?”
“Mr. President, all I can tell you is that’s where Casey’s GPS locator shows he is.”
“Presumably fucking the woman traitor as they cruise up and down the Danube? Jack, listen closely: I don’t think Castillo is anywhere near Europe. I think Naylor and McNab have found him in Mexico. And presuming neither the CIA nor Ambassador Stupid get involved and fuck things up for them—the more I think about it, Naylor or McNab did shoot Lammelle with that dart gun and load him on that cruise ship to get rid of him—”
President Clendennen interrupted himself, took a deep breath, and then went on: “Jack, what I want you to do is get in touch with all your Clandestine Service officers who are running around chasing their tails looking for Castillo and the Russians and get them back to Langley. And then lock them in. Naylor is going to bag Castillo if you don’t get in the way. You understand me?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“The next time you walk in that door, Jack, I want you to tell me that you’ve just learned from General Naylor that he’s dealt with the problem. And I don’t want to see you until you can do that.”
[THREE]
Cozumel International Airport
Isla Cozumel
Quintana Roo, Mexico
1010 12 February 2007
Dick Miller and Dick Sparkman had flown the Policía Federal Preventiva UH-60 from Drug Cartel International to Cozumel. They had carried with them all but two of the ex-Spetsnaz special operators and all the weapons and other equipment that would be needed.
Both pilots had been more than a little pissed—and vocally so—with their assigned tasks in the operation. Miller had wanted to fly with Castillo in the UH-60 in the assault, and Sparkman had simply presumed until the last minute that he would be Jake Torine’s co-pilot when the Tu-934A was flown out of La Orchila.
Uncle Remus Leverette had similarly taken for granted that he would be in on the assault and was more than displeased with his assigned role: He was now to “hold the fort” at Laguna el Guaje. It was more than a figure of speech. There was a small but real chance that some members of the drug cartel—either not having heard, or not caring that Drug Cartel International was closed—would drop in.
If this should happen, Uncle Remus would politely suggest to them that they come back another day—say, in a week—and if that didn’t work, he would take the appropriate measures. The drug runners would, if possible, be disarmed, placed in plastic handcuffs, and confined.
If the disarmament option didn’t work, they would be eliminated.
To assist him in this task, in addition to the two ex-Spetsnaz operators, Uncle Remus had Mr. Vic D’Allessando, former Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley, and Lieutenant “Peg-Leg” Lorimer (Retired). Former Special Forces Sergeant Aloysius F. Casey and Generals Naylor and McNab were to be the reserve force.
General McNab had voiced no objection to this, but everyone knew if there was shooting, McNab would be in the middle of it.
Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor—having been told that he would be useless on the actual assault due to the fact that he (a) was a tank driver, (b) had no Special Operations training, and (c) spoke no Russian—first pleaded to be taken along. Then, when his pleas fell on deaf ears, he said very unkind things to Colonel Castillo.
Colonel Castillo forgave the outburst, kissed him on the forehead, and charged him with sitting—literally, if that became necessary—on the deputy director of the CIA, Mr. Lammelle.
All of those remaining at Drug Cartel International had come to see—if very reluctantly—that there was no valid argument against Castillo’s logic in making the assignments. The more the operation was polished, the more it became apparent how much success would depend upon Dmitri Berezovsky’s ability to dazzle—or at least substantially confuse—General Sirinov’s Spetsnaz until they had a pistol up the general’s nose.
Castillo didn’t plan to open his mouth, but if he had to, his Russian was so fluent that people thought he came from Saint Petersburg. None of those being left to hold the fort spoke the language so well. And although Uncle Remus’s Russian was nearly as good as Castillo’s, there were very few Russians as black as God had made Uncle Remus.
