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“Thank you for coming, Sergei,” Lammelle said as Murov approached the table. “I know it was more than a little inconvenient for you.”
“Anything for you, Frank,” Murov said.
“I don’t think you know this fellow, but I understand you’ve been anxious to meet him. Charley, say hello to Sergei.”
“How do you do, Colonel Castillo?” Murov said in English as he sat down.
“Frank’s been telling me a lot about you, Sergei,” Castillo said in Russian. “But not that you look like cousins.”
“My Carlitos sounds as if he’s a Saint Petersburger, wouldn’t you agree, Sergei?” Sweaty asked.
She put her hand out. Murov rose, bowed, took her hand, kissed it, and then sat down.
“Svetlana, you are even more lovely than I remembered,” Murov said.
“And of course you and Dmitri are old friends, right?” Lammelle said.
“We have known each other for a very long time,” Murov said. “But perhaps ‘acquaintances’ would be the more accurate term.”
“Charley’s right,” Berezovsky said. “You and Frank do look like cousins.”
A waiter appeared with a silver coffee service on a tray and poured a cup for Murov.
“Lovely place, the Lobby Bar, isn’t it, Sergei?” Lammelle asked.
“I come here often,” Murov said.
“So I expect you’ll miss it?”
“Excuse me?”
“As soon as he gets to his office, your ambassador will be getting a call from Secretary of State Cohen. She will suggest to him that it would be best if you voluntarily gave up your post here and returned to Moscow. Today. If that is not acceptable, you will be declared persona non grata. In that case, you would have seventy-two hours to leave the country, but you will be leaving, Sergei.”
“Is that why you asked me to come here, Frank, to tell me that?”
“No. Actually, it was to ask a favor of you. I want you to take something to Moscow for me when you go, and see, personally, that it gets into the hands of Mr. Putin.”
“What would that be?”
“It looks like a blue rubber beer keg,” Castillo said. “I happened to come across it on a little island off the coast of Venezuela.”
“Not to worry, Sergei,” Sweaty said. “It’s quite dead. It would be nice if you dropped it on Yakov Vladimirovich’s foot, but I don’t want to kill you or him. Or anyone else that way.”
Murov lost his diplomatic composure.
“It’s dead?”
“As a doornail,” Castillo said.
“And that’s why I’d like you to take it to Mr. Putin, so he can see that for himself. And the sooner the better, of course,” Lammelle said. “Today. Rather than insisting on the seventy-two hours to which you are entitled before being expelled.”
“If you look out the window, Sergei, you will see that the beer barrel is being loaded into your Mercedes SUV right now,” Castillo said.
Murov looked.
“There’s just a little more, Sergei. I’m sure you have by now seen the Wolf News report . . .”
“You can’t miss it. It’s been on since last night.”
