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“Then you probably noticed that nothing was said about Congo-X.”
Murov nodded.
“Not a word about General Sirinov jumping Spetsnaz into the Congo, to see if we’d missed any Congo-X when we took out the Fish Farm,” Lammelle said. “Not a word about him personally flying into El Obeid Airport in North Kurdufan, Sudan, on a Tu-934A when they did find some that we missed. Not a word about the seventeen bodies he left at the airfield when he took off for what we now call ‘Drug Cartel International Airport’ in Mexico. Not a word about him watching as Pavel Koslov, the Mexico City rezident, loaded the two beer kegs you sent to Fort Detrick into a Mexican embassy Suburban for later movement across the border. Not a word about his then flying to La Orchila Island in Venezuela with what was left of the Congo-X.”
“We have movies of most of this, Sergei,” Castillo said.
“And General Sirinov has decided it’s safer for him to be here, talking to Frank, than it would be for him in Moscow, tr
ying to explain his failure to Vladimir Vladimirovich,” Berezovsky said.
“And are you also talking to Frank, Dmitri?” Murov asked.
“I could tell you no, but you wouldn’t believe me.”
“We can keep it that way, Sergei,” Lammelle said. “If Vladimir Vladimirovich agrees that getting into the question of Congo-X would not be good for either Russia or the United States.”
“‘Keep it that way’?”
“Well, your Ministry of Information could deny the whole thing. They could say it wasn’t a brilliant intelligence operation, that they had sold the Tu-934A to . . . what’s the name of that corporation, Charley?”
“LCBF. The LCBF Corporation,” Castillo furnished.
“Who then turned a quick profit by selling it to the CIA.”
“No one would believe that,” Murov said.
“There are always some people who will believe anything,” Sweaty said. “Including that Vladimir Vladimirovich is a fool.”
“I don’t quite understand, my dear Svetlana.”
“Sorry, Frank,” Svetlana said. “I know how much you and Sergei love to show each other how brilliant and civilized you are, but I’ve had enough of it.”
“Which means?” Murov asked.
“You tell Vladimir Vladimirovich that I said that if so much as a thimbleful of Congo-X turns up anywhere, or if I even suspect he’s trying to hurt any member of my family—and that includes my Carlitos, of course—I will make sure that every member of the SVR learns in detail how reckless and incompetent he is.
“And if he thinks this is an idle bluff, tell him to watch what happens if Koussevitzky’s wife Olga—he’s a Spetsnaz major; I shot him in the leg and left him on that island—and the entire Koussevitzky family are not in Budapest within seventy-two hours of your arrival in Moscow. I’ll have two out of three SVR officers giggling behind Vladimir Vladimirovich’s back, whispering that what he did when he was head of the KGB in Saint Petersburg was close his door and write poetry.”
She wet her index finger with her tongue and ran it over her eyebrow.
“Dmitri,” Lammelle said. “You’re right. Her bite is worse than her bark.”
“In other words, what you’re proposing is an armistice,” Murov said.
“On one hand,” Castillo said, “I don’t believe in the tooth fairy. Putin’s going to have a hard time swallowing what we’ve done to him. He may not be able to. On the other hand, there’s been an armistice in Korea for fifty years, during which fewer people on both sides have been killed than would have died if the war was still on. I’ll take my chances with that. You tell Putin what Svetlana said.”
Murov looked at Castillo and then at Svetlana. He stood.
“It’s been very interesting seeing you again,” he said. He offered his hand to Lammelle and Berezovsky. “And to meet you, Colonel,” he said, offering his hand to Castillo. He then waited for Svetlana to put out her hand, which took a good fifteen seconds. He bowed and kissed it. “And it has been a joy to spend a few minutes—however stressful—in the company of the most beautiful daughter of the Motherland I have ever known. But now I must leave. I have a plane to catch.”
He walked out of the Lobby Bar. Castillo, Lammelle, Berezovsky, and Svetlana looked out the window, and in a moment Murov appeared. He walked to the Mercedes SUV—the driver of which had taken advantage of the diplomatic privilege of parking wherever the hell the impulse strikes, and it was now blocking the curbside lane of Desales Street—jerked open the rear window to the cargo area, looked inside, and then slammed the window closed. He got in the passenger seat, slammed the door, and then the Mercedes drove off.
Castillo looked at Svetlana.
She said, “You heard what he said about the ‘most beautiful daughter of the Motherland’?”
“What I want to know is what all you Russians have against Saint Petersburg poets.”
