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“Think the opposite of Aleksandr’s Janos, Your Eminence,” Sweaty chimed in. “Lester looks like a choirboy, and he is not going to stay in Las Vegas if Peg-Leg comes down here.”
The archbishop’s curiosity was not satisfied.
“‘Tourist destinations’?” he asked.
“Mogadishu, Somalia, comes immediately to mind,” D’Alessandro said. “Because of the pirates. And of course Mexico because of the drug problem Charley’s going to solve there. And a grand tour of Europe, probably starting with Budapest. But I would suggest that we start with Mexico, until the colonel is up to speed again. And then probably Fort Bragg, while he forms his team. Or maybe Fort Rucker, Charley. That would give you a chance to see your son.”
“His son?” His Eminence asked. “I was asked if Carlos had ever been married and told he had not.”
“There is one little problem with this scenario,” Charley said.
“Your hitherto undisclosed marriage, you mean?” His Eminence asked. “That opens a number of windows through which we must look before you can be married.”
“It’s not a problem, Your Eminence,” Sweaty said. “My Carlos has never been married.”
“The problem is,” Castillo said, “that I’m not going along with this tour of the world. I’m not going anywhere. Sweaty’s right: it would be committing suicide.”
“Don’t be silly, my darling,” Sweaty said. “Of course you are. You heard what His Eminence said about how important answering the call of duty is. You’re going, and I’m going with you.”
“‘And Ruth said,’” the archimandrite quoted approvingly, “‘Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go… . ’”
“First Ruth, sixteen,” the archbishop amplified.
“Vic, call Aloysius,” Sweaty ordered.
A moment later, Vic D’Alessandro said, “Hey, Aloysius, how’s things in Sin City?”
As that conversation began, His Eminence said, “Carlos, my son, tell me about your son.”
Charley said, “Jake, hand me that bottle of cognac.”
[THREE]
Embassy of the United States
Avenida Colombia 4300
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1705 7 June 2007
Former Major Kiril Koshkov, the onetime chief instructor pilot of the Spetsnaz Aviation School, flew Lieutenant Colonel Allan Naylor, Junior, to Buenos Aires’ Jorge Newbery International Airport in the Cessna Mustang twin-engine jet that Sweaty had given Charley for his birthday.
There they were met by a Mercedes SUV driven by another former member of Spetsnaz. He had been sent from Aleksandr Pevsner’s home in Pilar—“the World Capital of Polo,” forty kilometers from downtown—to take them to the embassy.
This took place during the Buenos Aires rush hour—actually hours, as the period started at half past four and did not slack off until eight, or thereabouts. They arrived at five past five. When Colonel Naylor presented himself at the embassy gate and said he wanted to see the Defense attaché, the Argentine Rent-A-Cop on duty announced that that official was gone for the day and he would have to retu
rn tomorrow.
Allan considered that information, and then decided that while a certain delay was what they were after, delaying fourteen hours was a bit too much of a good thing.
“In that case, I wish to speak to the duty officer,” Colonel Naylor announced.
To get through to the duty officer, Allan first had to deal with a Marine sergeant of the Embassy Guard, but finally an Air Force captain appeared. The captain was extremely reluctant to contact the Defense attaché at his residence without very good reason.
“What’s your business with the colonel, Colonel?”
Colonel Naylor had been around the military service all his life, and he knew that if he did tell the captain that he wished to send a highly classified message, the captain would almost certainly not have the authority to permit him to do so without checking with his superior, and that superior would not be the Defense attaché himself, but rather an officer, probably a major, immediately superior to the captain. And then the whole sequence would start again with the major’s superior, probably a lieutenant colonel. Et cetera.
