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After everyone else filled the seats between, the waiters stood ready to pour the wine.
Pevsner picked up his glass, took a large sip, nodded his head as a signal to the waiter that it met his approval, and then watched as the waiter emptied the bottle between his, Uncle Nicolai’s, and Tom Barlow’s glasses. Much the same thing happened elsewhere at the table.
Then Pevsner made an announcement, or gave an order, that surprised—perhaps startled—both Roscoe and Porky.
“Let us pray,” he said, folding his hands piously before him, closing his eyes, and bowing his head.
He prayed in English: “Dear Lord and Father of mankind, we thank You for the bounty we are about to receive. We thank You for the continued good health and safety of our families . . .”
Roscoe had a somewhat irreverent thought: He sounds as if he’s having a conversation with a friend who happens to be the Almighty.
“. . . and our beloved friends. We ask that You permit us to assist the Archangel Michael and the Blessed Saint George in their and Your holy war against Satan, his wicked works, and his followers. We ask their and Your help in rescuing . . . what’s his name again, Karl?”
“Ferris, Colonel James D. Ferris,” Castillo furnished.
“. . . Colonel James Ferris from the evil men who hold him for Satan’s evil purposes, and we ask that those who are about to do battle in Thy name to this end be given the courage of Saint George.
“This we ask in the name of Thy son, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
There was a chorus of amens.
What the hell was that all about? both Porky and Roscoe thought more or less simultaneously.
Pevsner went on, now icily angry: “Where the hell are the shrimp cocktails?” He then switched to Russian, and apparently repeated what he had said in English, for both waiters hurried inside the building and quickly returned with trays of shrimp cocktails.
“It doesn’t get much better than this, Roscoe,” Castillo announced. “The shrimp were floating around out there”—he gestured toward the sea—“not six hours ago. And the beef and the wine arrived with the ex-Spetsnaz this morning from Chile.”
Parker wondered: With the what? The “ex-Spetsnaz”? Is that what he said?
“Charley, why was it important that I come here?” Roscoe asked.
“I’d planned to get into this after dinner,” Castillo replied, “but what the hell? The thing is, Roscoe, you’re one hell of a reporter . . .”
What is this, soft soap from Charley Castillo?
Watch yourself, Roscoe!
“. . . and I figured it was just a matter of time before you figured out that the kidnapping of Colonel Ferris, and the whacking of the other three guys, including my old friend Daniel Salazar, probably has nothing to do with the drug trade. And I wanted to ask you to hold off writing what you learned or intuited.”
Otherwise what?
“Otherwise we’ll have to kill you”?
Do not pass GO.
Go directly to the cemetery and do not collect one million dollars?
“Are you going to explain that? If it’s not connected with the drug trade, what’s it all about?”
“Vladimir Vladimirovich has a problem, Mr. Danton,” Pevsner said.
Who? Oh! Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.
“That, and his ego is involved,” Tom Barlow said.
“That’s part of the problem,” Pevsner agreed, “but his major problem is that everyone in the Russian intelligence community, and the diplomatic community, and of course within the Oprichnina—”
“Within the what?” Roscoe interrupted.
