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He paused.
“You heard me, Monteverde. Stand up!” he ordered, unpleasantly. Monteverde did so, and then as he was again suddenly aware he was naked, he put his hands over his crotch.
“Not necessary, Señor Monteverde,” Castillo said. “Colonel Alekseeva is also a professional. That’s not the first ding-dong she’s ever seen, although I don’t think she’s ever seen one quite that—how do I say this?—unappealing. You have an accident or something or is that the way it usually looks?”
Flushing from his forehead to halfway down his chest, Monteverde allowed himself to be led, shuffling in his plastic ankle ties, off the patio. Pena and Svetlana walked after him.
Castillo waited until Monteverde was out of hearing, and then turned to Murov.
“Well, what brilliant psychological weapon do I use on you, Sergei? Threaten to have ‘Saint Petersburg Poet’ chiseled on your tombstone?”
Pevsner and Tarasov chuckled.
Despite himself, Murov smiled.
“Now I know, Aleksandr,” Murov said, “why you wanted him here. He’s a master at this, isn’t he?”
“No, I am but a simple novice sitting at the feet of Master Pevsner,” Castillo said. “But this much I know, Sergei: When you get over your humiliation at being grabbed by Aleksandr’s people, you will decide yourself that you don’t have any choice but to tell me everything I want to know.”
“Or Janos will beat me to death with his wand?”
“Or I’ll leave you tied up on the steps of the Russian embassy in Mexico City and let Vladimir Vladimirovich decide how painfully you should die.”
He looked around and caught the waiter’s eye.
“Yes, thank you, I will have another sip of that lovely Cabernet Sauvignon while I’m waiting.”
Ten minutes later, Svetlana came back onto the patio and somewhat imperiously signaled to the waiter for a glass of wine. When he delivered it, Castillo held up his glass.
“How much of that have you had?” she challenged.
Castillo caught her eye. “Try to get this straight. You may ask that only after we’re married. And if you keep asking now, your chances of that happening diminish exponentially.”
She glared at him but did not respond.
“Well?” Castillo asked. “How did you do with Señor Monteverde?”
“He’ll be out in a minute,” she replied. “He’s cleaning himself up. When Juan Carlos was dangling him from the balcony, Monteverde threw up all over himself.”
“‘Dangling from the balcony’?” Castillo parroted.
“Juan Carlos hung him by his foot from the balcony,” she said, “using a sheet for a rope. When he was swinging back and forth”—she demonstrated with her hands—“Juan Carlos took another sheet and ripped it. It made a sound loud enough for Monteverde to hear. Then Juan Carlos let the sheet rope drop another couple of feet. Monteverde thought he was about to die.”
“It would then be safe to presume that Señor Monteverde is going to be cooperative?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Your Colonel Ferris is being held in Retainhuled, Guatemala. It’s about fifty miles from the border.”
“Who’s holding him?” Castillo asked.
“Venezuelan drug traffickers under the direction of the SVR,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Which brings us to the senior officer of the SVR involved in this. What are we going to do with you, Sergei?”
“I’d say that’s in the hands of God, wouldn’t you, Svetlana?” Murov replied.
“Actually, it’s in my hands,” Castillo said, “and I’m not nearly as nice as God.”
“Don’t blaspheme, Carlito,” Svetlana said, and then added, “He pretends to be a heathen, Sergei. But he’s really not.”
“You want to take a chance betting on that, Sergei?” Castillo asked. “Let’s start over, before I tell Janos he can start up again with his flyswatter. Here’s where we are: Monteverde is going to tell me everything he knows, and you know that. But what he doesn’t know, and what I want from you, is the names of the people you have in the Oval Office, and I will do whatever I have to find out.”
