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zumel, Mr. Parker, you’re just in time for an Argentine bife de chorizo, which I believe loosely translates from Spanish as ‘food for the gods.?? I’m Charley Castillo.”
Parker knew a good deal about Charley Castillo, but this was the first time he’d ever seen him up close, and he was surprised at what he saw. It showed on his face.
Parker thought: As a matter of fact, the only time I’ve ever seen him at all was on television, when he and the other guy who’d stolen that Tupelov airplane walked off it at Andrews Air Force Base.
I guess—because of that Castillo name and because he’s a Mexican-American—I expected, if not Zorro, then that Mexican-American actor, Antonio Bandana, or whatever the hell his name is.
This guy has blue eyes and lighter skin than mine, and damn sure doesn’t look like a Super Spook capable of stealing a Russian airplane right from under Hugo Chavez’s nose. Or, for that matter, stealing two Russian defectors from the CIA station chief in Vienna.
Oh, Jesus! That’s who the redhead is!
The Russian defector, the former SVR rezident in Copenhagen, who President Clendennen had been willing—hell, been trying desperately—to swap to the Russians.
“Something wrong?” Castillo asked.
“No. I guess I’m a little shook up by everything that’s happened.”
The waiter put a glass in his hand, and Porky took a healthy swallow.
Castillo gave his hand to Danton.
“Thank you for coming, Roscoe,” he said. “I know it’s inconvenient, but it’s important.”
“Anytime, Charley,” Danton replied.
He added, mentally: I always try to oblige people who are going to give me a million dollars. And it’s not as if I had much of a choice, is it?
“Mr. Parker . . . can I call you Porky?” Castillo said.
John David Parker—who loathed being called “Porky”—heard himself saying “Certainly.”
Castillo nodded, then went on: “Porky, you ever hear ‘What happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas’? That applies here in spades. You take my meaning?”
“I think so,” Parker said.
Roscoe thought, Porky took his meaning, all right. Castillo didn’t have to say, “Otherwise, we’ll have to kill you.”
Porky figured that out all by himself.
“Okay,” Castillo said. “Introductions are in order. You’ve met Sweaty.” He pointed at a man who looked very much like himself. “That’s her brother, Tom Barlow. And their cousin Aleksandr Pevsner. And their uncle, Nicolai Tarasov—they answer to Alek and Nick. The fellow watching porn on his laptop is Vic D’Alessandro . . .”
D’Alessandro, without raising his head from the laptop, gave Castillo the finger.
“. . . and that’s my cousin, Fernando Lopez. That’s Stefan—call him Steve—Koussevitzky, and last but certainly not least, Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley, USMC, Retired.”
Roscoe knew who Stefan Koussevitzky was. The last time he had seen him was on the island. He then had been wearing the uniform of a Spetsnaz major. About the last picture Roscoe had taken on the island as the Tupelov taxied to the runway was one of Koussevitzky sitting on the ground against a hangar wall, applying a compress to his bloody leg. Sweaty had shot him with her tiny .32 Colt automatic.
How did he get here?
And what the hell is he doing here?
A man wearing chef ’s whites appeared at the door to the swimming pool and said something in what Porky recognized as Russian.
Castillo then announced, “That’s Russian for ‘the steaks are done,’ ” and gestured for everybody to go onto the balcony.
A long banquet table had been set up around the corner of the building. The man with the chef’s hat and two white-jacketed waiters were lined up next to it. There was a large charcoal grill against the balcony railing, and a table loaded with bottles of wine against the building wall.
Castillo took a seat at one end of the table, and Alek Pevsner at the other. Sweaty sat at one side of Castillo, and Delchamps sat across from her. Pevsner had Tom Barlow on one side of him and Uncle Nicolai Tarasov on the other.
