NATURE;
Grasher laid the message on his desk and looked at Miller.
"They don't think much of you in Angola, do they?" he asked.
"Sir," Master Sergeant Perez's voice came over the intercom. "General Potter is in conference with General Naylor. It's going to take at least another forty-five minutes. Shall I set it up for then?"
"No. Call General Naylor's office, Omar, and tell Sergeant Whatsisname that I have to see General Naylor and General Potter right now and that Major Miller and I are on our way over there. Got it?"
"Yes, sir."
[FIVE]
"Hey, Allan. What's up?" the secretary of homeland security asked, over the secure telephone in his office, the commanding general, U.S. Central Command, who was sitting at his secure telephone in the small room off the conference room of his headquarters.
"One question, Matt."
"Shoot."
"Did the president send Charley to Luanda, Angola?"
"Damn," Hall said, and then asked, "Where'd you hear that?"
"From Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., formerly the CIA station chief in Luanda."
" Formerly the CIA station chief?"
"He was relieved for cause and sent back here."
"He's in Tampa?"
"He's in Tampa. He got here just now, and, just before, we got a TWX from DIA saying he had been relieved for cause. 'Cause' apparently meaning everything from a serious breach of security to conduct unbecoming."
"That sonofabitch!" Hall said.
"You're not referring to Major Miller?" Naylor said, testily.
"No, I am not," Hall said. "Major Miller is one of the good guys, Allan."
"I'm really happy to hear that," Naylor said. "You going to tell me what's going on?"
"Not right now," Hall said after a moments hesitation. "Did DIA tell you what you're supposed to do with him?"
"DIA can't tell me what-or what not-to do. But their TWX said that I would be furnished with the results of an investigation which will begin immediately. I had the feeling they will be disappointed if I don't nail him to a cross," Naylor said.
"Nothing like that is going to happen," Hall said, firmly. "What I'd like you to do, Allan, is send him up here. Is there any reason you can't do that?"
"Not that it matters, but officially or unofficially?"
"Whichever is easiest for you."
"Where do I tell him to go?"
"Can you get him a cell phone? Or does he have one?"
"If he doesn't, I'll see that he gets one."
"Get the number to me. And give him my personal number, to be used only if he thinks he has to."
"Okay."
"And tell him the key to Charley's apartment will be waiting for him at the Mayflower's front desk. Tell him to hang around the apartment as much as possible; that I'll contact him if-when-I need him."
"Okay."
"That probably won't be until Charley gets back."
"Back from where?"
"I told him to bring me a Sacher torte," Hall said.
It took Naylor a moment to take the meaning of that.
"What's Charley doing in Vienna?"
"Meeting with a Russian arms dealer by the name of Aleksandr Pevsner," Hall said.
"Jesus Christ!"
"Allan, I think it would be better if Miller wore civvies. But make sure he has a uniform with him."
"Done."
"As soon as I can, I'll explain all this to you, Allan."
"I'd like that, Matt. I hate to stumble along in the dark."
"As soon as I can, Allan."
"Good enough," Naylor said. "And thanks, Matt."
"We'll be in touch," Hall said and broke the connection.
[SIX]
Hotel Sacher Wein
Philharmonikerstrasse 4
Vienna, Austria
1650 8 June 2005
There had been no familiar faces in the lobby of the Bristol, nor on the sidewalk outside, nor on Kaertnerstrasse as Castillo walked to Philharmonikerstrasse and the Sacher.
And there was no one in the bar when he went inside.
The barman remembered him from last night.
" Ein anderes Dzban, meine herr?" he, asked.
" Ja. Bitte," Castillo said.
He had finished about half of the beer when the American couple he had seen last night came. The man remembered him, too, apparently. He nodded and gave Castillo a brief smile as he walked past him to sit where they had sat last night.
Castillo had just signaled the barman for another Dzban when two men came in. He could not remember having seen them before. They were in their forties, and, from the cuts of their suits, Castillo decided they were from somewhere east. Czechoslovakia or Hungary. Or maybe Poland.
That aroused his interest.
But neither man paid any interest to Castillo at all. One of them took some stapled-together papers from a ratty-looking briefcase and both men studied them with care. They spoke very softly-almost whispered-as if afraid that someone would eavesdrop on their conversation. Castillo could not make out what they were saying.
When he finished-slowly-the second bottle of Dzban, Castillo signaled for another and then went to the men's room.
He had just begun to relieve himself when he heard the door whoosh open and turned from the urinal, aware that his heart had jumped.
It was the American from the bar.
The American smiled. "Beer goes right through me," he announced.
Castillo nodded and returned his attention to the urinal, more than a little embarrassed at his jumping heart.
And then: Oh, shit!
Someone had pulled his jacket down, effectively immobilizing his arms.
"Careful," the American said, "you don't really want to piss all over the silk brocade wall."
The American patted him down, finding both knives.
He took the folding knife and flipped it open with a flick of the wrist.
"Nice," he said. "I suppose a journalist does need something like this to sharpen his pencils, doesn't he?"
Then he closed the knife and put it back in Castillo's shirt pocket.
"What I was looking for was a wire," the American said, and then, in Russian, said, "Adjust Mr. Gossinger's jacket, Sergei."
Whoever was behind him pulled the jacket back in place.
Castillo had trouble maintaining the direction of the flow of his urine into the urinal but did well under the circumstances.
The American went to the adjacent urinal and pulled down his zipper.
He looked over at Castillo.
"Beer really does go right through me," he said.
Castillo said nothing.
When his bladder finally emptied he pulled up his zipper and wondered what he was going to do next.
He saw that the men's room wall was indeed upholstered in red silk brocade.
If they were going to hurt – kill – me, they certainly had the opportunity. What the hell is going on?
The American completed his business with a satisfied sigh and Castillo heard him pull up his zipper.
The American went to a washbasin and started to wash his hands.
Over his shoulder, he said, "When you finish, Mr. Gossinger, Mr. Pevsner hopes that you will join him on the Cobenzl."
"May I turn around?" Castillo asked.
"Of course."
Castillo turned.
One of the Eastern Europeans-the larger one-was standing three feet from him with his hands crossed at his crotch. The American was still washing his hands.
As much to have something to do as for reasons of hygiene, Castillo took the half steps to the small row of washbasins and started to wash his hands.
The American carefully dried his hands.
"Well?" he asked.
"Well, what?"
"Are you going to join Mr. Pevsner on the Cobenzl?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Of course you do."
"Why the Cobenzl?"
"You know the Cobenzl?"
Castillo nodded. It was on top of a hill at what Castillo thought of as the beginning of the Vienna Woods. The street leading up it-he remembered the name: Cobenzlgasse-was lined with Heuriger, Gasthausen that sold new wine, which, Castillo also remembered, had a hell of a kick and produced memorable hangovers.
"Mr. Pevsner likes to watch the sun set over Vienna at this time of the year," the American said. "He thought you might enjoy it yourself."
"I'll go," Castillo said.
"Mr. Pevsner will be pleased," the American said.
This guy thinks I'm an asshole and wants me to know he does.
Unfortunately, he's right.
I was taken just now like a bumbling idiot. Like Peter Seller's Inspector Clouseau.
Castillo dried his hands.
"The car's outside," the American said. "I took care of your tab."
"Thank you," Castillo said, adding mentally, the asshole said politely.
The car at the curb was a Mercedes, a new 220, with deeply tinted windows and Prague license plates. The other East European stood on the curb holding the rear door open. The large East European got in the front seat and the American motioned for Castillo to get in the back.
"It'll be a little crowded in here, I'm afraid. Say hello to Ingrid."
The woman Castillo had thought was the American's wife was already in the car. She smiled at him.
" Guten abend, Herr Gossinger, "Ingrid said offering her hand.
" Guten abend, " Castillo replied.
She was, he saw now, a trim woman with luxuriant dark red hair.
She's much better looking than I remembered. I just didn't pay attention to her before.
Does terror kill my sex drive, or is it that that area of my brain is completely filled with lewd images of Patricia Wilson?
The American got in the backseat-and it was a little crowded; he could feel Inge's hip against his-and the door was closed.
"Inge works in our Prague office," the American said. "Among other things, she brought the cars from Prague for us to use."
What the hell is he doing? Telling me that Inge is available? Or even, presuming I'm a good boy, that Inge is the prize?
Or just making polite conversation?
"Do you know Prague, Herr Gossinger?" Inge asked as the car started to move.
"Yes, I do," Castillo said, politely.
[SEVEN]
The other car was another black Mercedes, another new one, but the big one, like Otto Gorner's, the 600 with the V-12 engine. Its windows were similarly deeply tinted, and it, too, carried a Prague license tag.
It was parked sideway, across three pull-in spaces, at the observation point on the Cobenzl, which was nothing more than a flat area paved with gravel, and with a steel, waist-high fence to keep people from falling down the hill. There were no other cars, although there was space for seven or eight.
A tall man, dark-haired, well-dressed, was leaning on the metal guardrail puffing on a long light brown cigar. Another hefty East European type was resting his rear end on the front left fender of the Mercedes.
There was a small folding table beside him, something like a card table but smaller. On it was a bottle of cognac, two snifters, and a small wooden box.
The tall man, who appeared to be in his late thirties, turned and looked at the smaller Mercedes.
The American got out of the 220 and Castillo followed his lead. The American got back in the car.
"Herr Gossinger?" the tall man asked in German.
Castillo walked toward him and put out his hand.
"I'm Gossinger," he said. "And you're Herr Pevsner?"
"Why not? What's a name, after all?" Pevsner said with a warm smile. Pevsner's German was fluent and he sounded like a Berliner.
The next thing that Castillo noticed was Pevsner's eyes. They were large and blue and extraordinarily bright.
I wonder if he's on something?
Pevsner's grip was firm without being aggressive. Castillo noticed that his teeth were not only healthy looking but clean. That was not always the case with Russians.
Well, I guess if you've made multiple fortunes in the arms business you can afford a good dentist.
"Tell me, Herr Gossinger," Pevsner asked, "are you by chance a cigar smoker?"
Yes, I am.
Pevsner picked up the wooden box, a small cigar humidor, and extended it to Castillo.
"Try one of these. These are the good Upmanns," he said.
"Excuse me?" Castillo asked as he took one.
"From the Canary Islands factory," Pevsner said. "I don't think there's any question that they're much better than the ones Castro is making in Cuba, in the plant he took away from the Upmann people in the name of the people."
"I've heard that," Castillo said. "Thank you."
And an arms merchant can afford really good cigars. And big black Mercedeses.
Pevsner handed him a silver guillotine and Castillo trimmed the cigar.
"I've always wondered if those things were patterned after the head chopper or the other way around," Pevsner said.
"I think the: big one is named after a French doctor named Guillotin, without the e," Castillo said.
"Well, I'm glad to know that," Pevsner said. "And not surprised that you knew. I suppose journalists have to have brains stuffed with odd facts, don't they?"
"I've heard that, too," Castillo said.
Pevsner handed him a gold Dunhill butane lighter and Castillo carefully lit the cigar, took a couple of good puffs, then said, "Very nice indeed. Thank you, Herr Pevsner."
And gold Dunhill butane lighters.
"My pleasure, Herr Gossinger," Pevsner said. "Now, another question. Do you like French cognac?"
"Yes, I do."
Pevsner picked up the bottle and poured three-quarters of an inch into one of the snifters, and then added more to his glass.
That's a big snifter; there's a lot of booze in that glass.
Castillo picked up the snifter and began to warm the bowl in his palm.
"We are now equipped to watch darkness fall over Vienna," Pevsner said. "But, as aviators know, darkness doesn't fall, it rises. Isn't that so?"
"That's what I'm told," Castillo said.
"Tell me what you think of the cognac," Pevsner said.
Castillo held up a finger, indicating he wanted a moment, and then swirled the cognac around in the snifter for another twenty seconds. Then he took a sip.
"Very good," he pronounced.
And very good cognac. Who said crime doesn't pay?
"I'm pleased," Pevsner said and smiled at him. "You seem like such a nice fellow," Pevsner went on. "I am really pleased that it was not necessary to give you an Indian beauty mark."
"Excuse me?"
With a sudden movement-so quick Castillo didn't have time to jerk his head out of the way-Pevsner touched Castillo in the center of his forehead with his index finger.
What the hell is that all about?
Indian beauty mark?
Jesus Christ! He's talking about a bullet hole in the center of my forehead!
Pevsner picked up his cognac snifter and carried it to the guard fence. He very carefully balanced the glass on the top railing of the fence, relit his Upmann with the Dunhill, and then leaned on the fence with his hands supporting him.
After a moment, Pevsner looked over his shoulder, then waved with his left hand for Castillo to join him.
Castillo walked to the fence.
Pevsner gestured at Vienna.
"There it is," he said, "laid out before us. As it was for Emperor Franz Josef, and, before him, Napoleon. And you're right on time. We will shortly begin to see darkness-as you well know- rise and gradually mask Vienna."
"I suppose we will," Charley said.
"So here we are. We are drinking rather decent cognac and smoking what I think are really good cigars, and when darkness has finished rising from the ground, and all we will be able to see is a sea of lights under us, I hope you will be my guest at dinner."
"That's very kind of you," Castillo said.
Two inane responses in a row. Attaboy, Charley! Dazzle this guy with your quick mind and verbal agility.
"Under those circumstances, wouldn't it be nice if we could be honest with one another? As we begin what could be-and, I hope, will be-a long and mutually profitable association?"
What's he going to do? Offer to put me on his payroll not to mention his name in print?
"That would be very nice, Herr Pevsner," Castillo said.
That's three in a row, Charley.
"I really hope you mean that, Major Castillo," Pevsner said, in English.
Jesus H. Fucking Christ!
"Please don't act as if you have no idea what I mean," Pevsner said.
"How the hell did you find out?" Castillo asked after a long moment.
"It doesn't really matter, does it? But I understand your curiosity." Pevsner inclined his head toward the smaller Mercedes. "Before he became associated with me, Howard spent twenty years with the FBI."
"Is that his first name or his last?"
"Howard Kennedy," Pevsner said. "Over the years, our relationship has changed from employer-employee to being friends. I call him by his Christian name."
It took a surprisingly short time for darkness to rise, until all that could be seen of Vienna was a sea of lights.
Pevsner had said nothing more. He had sipped his cognac and puffed on his cigar. It went out once and he relit it with the gold Dunhill and then politely offered the lighter to Castillo.
"Mine's still going, thank you," Castillo had said.
Finally, Pevsner said, "Well, that's all there is to see. Unless we want to stay here until the sun rises. Shall we go?"
"Fine," Castillo said.
Pevsner started toward the 600. There was just enough light for Castillo to see the East European hurry to open the rear door for them.
Pevsner waved Castillo into the backseat ahead of him. When he was inside, he saw that Howard Kennedy was in the front seat.
I guess Inge doesn't get to ride with the boss.
Kennedy turned and extended his hand over the seat back.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Castillo. In certain circles, you have quite a reputation."
Castillo shook the hand but said nothing.
"I'm sorry about that business in the men's room," Kennedy went on. "But Mr. Pevsner, for obvious reasons, doesn't like his conversations recorded."
Castillo nodded.
Out the window, he saw the East European first move the cognac snifters, the bottle, and the small humidor to the trunk of the smaller Mercedes, and then fold the table and put that in the trunk. Then he got behind the wheel and they started off.
They followed the 220 down Cobenzlgasse into Vienna, and then through the early evening traffic back to the center of the city, finally turning off The Ring onto Kaertnerstrasse.
"Do you know the Drei Hussaren, Major Castillo?"
"Yes, I do."
"What do you prefer to be called? 'Carlos'? Or 'Charley'? Or perhaps 'Karl'?"
" 'Charley' is what my friends call me."
"That's what Howard thought," Pevsner said. "You're really amazing, Howard."
"Thank you," Howard chuckled.
Pevsner touched Castillo's arm.
"In that case, since I really hope we are to become friends may I call you Charley?"
"Of course."
"My Christian name is Aleksandr," Pevsner said. "Howard calls me 'Alex.' Would you be comfortable calling me Alex, Charley?"
At the last split second, Castillo stopped himself from saying, 'Yes, sir.' " Yes, I would. Thank you."
That's a lie. I am not comfortable calling you Alex. I am not comfortable, period. I can't remember the last time I felt so helpless, so much at the mercy of a situation I don't understand and over which I have absolutely no control.
"And the Drei Hussaren is all right with you for dinner? If you have another:?"
"The Drei Hussaren is fine with me," Castillo said, as the Mercedes pulled up in front of the entrance to the restaurant.
And what would have happened if I had said, "Come to think of it, I know a very nice place just off Gumpendorferstrasse"?
The doorman of the Drei Hussaren pulled the doors open. Kennedy and Pevsner got out, and Castillo slid across the seat and joined them.
The headwaiter was standing inside the entrance, greeted them effusively, and led them down the stairs into the dining room, and then across it and into a private dining room. There were three places set at a table that could hold eight.
I guess Inge doesn't get to eat with the boss, either.
Glasses were produced and a waiter poured a white liquor into them.
In German, Pevsner said, "Since you have been here before, Karl, you know about the slivovitz. The management has learned the more slivovitz they can give away, the less likely their customers are to complain about the service, the size of the portions, the quality, and, most important, the size of the bill."
Castillo knew about the plum brandy-the best came from Moldavia-and suspected that what Pevsner said was absolutely true.
He chuckled.
"Herr Barstein," the headwaiter said, "that's a terrible thing to say about us!"
Castillo picked up on the Barstein.
"But it's truth. And the truth is important, isn't it, Karl?"
"Very important," Castillo said, picked up the glass, tipped it toward the headwaiter, said, " Prosit, "and tossed it down.
Pevsner laughed.
"Karl, one of the few things they do half decently around here is the sauerbraten. They make it with deer-venison. May I suggest that?"
"That sounds fine," Castillo said.
"For all of us," Pevsner ordered. "And aware I'm taking an awful chance, a dry red wine of your choice. You can leave the slivovitz."
" Jawohl, Herr Barstein," the headwaiter said.
After he left, Kennedy went to the door and made sure it was closed.
"Howard," Pevsner said. "Charley is curious about how we learned he is not all the time Herr Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger."
Kennedy chuckled, helped himself to some more slivovitz, poured some in Castillo's and Pevsner's glasses, and said, "I know I really shouldn't drink this stuff but I like it."
Pevsner and Charley chuckled.
Kennedy looked at Castillo.
"Well, when the story came out, and Mr. Pevsner decided we should have a talk with you, we sent some people to Fulda:"
To give me an Indian beauty mark on my forehead?
": and when they reported that Gossinger was in Washington, Mr. Pevsner asked me to personally take over. I put a lot of time in D.C. when I was with the bureau."
Did taking over mean that you were going to personally apply the Indian beauty mark?
"Anyway, it wasn't hard to find out that Gossinger was sharing Suite 404 in the Mayflower with a fellow named Carlos Castillo. For a bit, we thought that Castillo might be Gossinger's playmate-a handsome Cuban or Tex-Mex might explain why Gossinger wasn't married. And that might have been useful:"
He took a sip of water, then continued.
": but then we found out, lo and behold, that Gossinger and Castillo were one and the same. And then we started asking about Senor Castillo. The first thing I thought then was that you were probably with the agency, but then I found out first that you're an Army officer-a West Pointer, a Green Beret, an aviator-and then that you are Matt Hall's special assistant. At that point, Mr. Pevsner decided we should have a talk with you:"
A talk-talk, as opposed to a beauty spot chat?
": so we had someone call Herr Gorner and tell him that Mr. Pevsner was willing to give Herr Gossinger an interview and here you are."
"My original purpose in all this, Charley," Pevsner said, "was-for that matter, still is-to keep the U.S. government off my back. And, of course, to keep my name out of the newspapers. I had nothing to do with stealing that old airplane in Angola. Where did you get that, anyway?"
"You had nothing to do with stealing the 727?"
"Absolutely nothing. For one thing, I have airplanes. Just last week, I bought another one-a nearly new 767 from an airline that went under in Argentina-and I don't need an old 727. Particularly, I don't need to steal one, which would attract the sort of attention I really don't want from the U.S. government and a lot of other people."
I'll be damned. I believe him. Or is that because I had two beers in the Sacher, two hefty snifters of cognac on the Cobenzl, and two slivovitz here:
"Where did you get the idea I had anything to do with it?" Pevsner asked.
"Two of your people were seen in Luanda just before the airplane was stolen," Castillo said.
"You don't happen to remember their names, do you?" Kennedy asked, casually.
If I did, I wouldn't give them to you.
"No," Castillo said, simply. "I don't."
"Howard?" Pevsner said.
"I'll look into it," Kennedy said.
Jesus Christ, what did I just do? Cause two people I never met, never saw, to take a bullet in the forehead?
The conversation was interrupted by two waiters, who delivered a rich-looking meat-and-vegetable soup and two bottles of red wine.
"This one, Herr Barstein," the waiter said as he poured a sip into Pevsner's glass, "is Hungarian. The other is from the north of Italy. Definitely not a Chianti. Whichever is your pleasure will be a small gift from Drei Hussaren."
As Pevsner raised the glass to his nose, he signaled with his finger for the waiter to give Castillo and Kennedy a taste. The waiter poured wine into their glasses.
Pevsner took a sip and nodded his approval.
"Very nice," he said. "Now, let's try the other one."
The ritual was repeated for everyone, which required other glasses to be produced from a cabinet against the wall.
"Decisions, decisions," Pevsner said. "What do you think, Karl?"
"I like the Hungarian," Castillo said.
"So do I," Pevsner said.
"I like the Italian," Kennedy said. "The Hungarian's a little too sweet for me."
Well, Kennedy doesn't apparently feel compelled to agree with the boss about everything.
"In that case," Pevsner said, "we accept the Drei Hussaren's kind gift of both. Thank you very much."
"Our great pleasure, Herr Barstein."
The waiters filled glasses and then left.
The vegetable soup was as good as it looked.
As he reached for his wineglass, Castillo thought, Easy on the sauce, Charley. You're already half crocked.
He took a very small sip, and, when he put the glass down, sensed Pevsner's eyes on him.
"If you didn't steal the 727, who do you think did?" Castillo asked.
"I'm not absolutely sure about this but right now I think it was stolen by an obscure group of Somalian lunatics:"
"Somalian?" Castillo interjected, surprised.
": who call themselves the Holy Legion of Muhammad," Pevsner went on. He paused and then added: "Who plan to crash it into the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania."
"That's crazy," Charley blurted.
"Sounds that way, doesn't it?" Kennedy agreed. "But that's what we've got so far."
"I used the word lunatics," Pevsner said. "Crazy people tend to do irrational things. That's what makes them so very dangerous."
"The Liberty Bell?" Castillo argued. "Not the Statue of Liberty? The White House? The Golden Gate Bridge? Why would they want to hit the Liberty Bell?"
"We think two reasons," Kennedy said. "Maybe three. For one thing, since 9/11 the White House, Statue of Liberty, most important bridges, etcetera, have been pretty well covered. Nobody gives much of a damn about Philadelphia, so they stand a better chance of carrying it off. Second, these holy warriors probably-hell, almost certainly-think the Liberty Bell is more of a symbol than it is."
"It's a third-rate tourist attraction, that's all," Castillo thought aloud.
"I'm surprised at that comment, from someone like you," Pevsner said. "That's what they call 'mirror thinking': looking in the mirror and working on the premise that other people think like what you see in the mirror. They don't, and that's especially true of people who call themselves something like the Holy Legion of Muhammad."
Goddammit, he's right. The booze is clouding my thinking.
"You're right," Castillo said. "I am supposed to know better."
"And, third-here I admit I don't know what I'm talking about," Kennedy said. "I have a feeling there's a Philadelphia connection."
"A Philadelphia connection?" Castillo asked.
"If these holy warriors intend to take out the Liberty Bell, somebody gave them the idea. They never would have come up with it themselves. And that suggests somebody in Philadelphia did just that."
"Who?"
"Some converts to Islam. Idn bin Rag-on-His-Head, born John James Smith."
Castillo grunted.
"Did you ever give any serious thought to why so many American blacks converted to Islam?" Kennedy asked.
"No," Castillo admitted.
"Maybe you should," Kennedy said.
"You tell me."
"Because they hate Whitey as much as the rag-heads hate all infidels," Kennedy said. "And for exactly the same reason: They got left behind and they don't like it."
"That's what this war is all about, Charley," Pevsner said. "The Muslim world getting left behind. Think about it."
He paused and took a spoonful of the soup.
"Take away their oil reserves and what do they have?" Pevsner went on. "They once dominated the known world. Now, with the exception of their oil, they are completely unimportant-more to the point, powerless-in the modern world. They simply don't have the skills and the culture to compete in it. They gave the world mathematics, and some of the most wonderful architecture-so long as the architecture is based on one stone laid on top of another.
"All the skyscrapers in the Arab world were designed and built by the infidels. And their airplanes were designed and built by infidels and their telephone systems: even their sewers. And they need infidels to keep everything running.
"This isn't the way Muhammad told them it was going to be. He promised them, in the Koran, that they would control the world. And they all know this because higher education in the Arab world consists mostly of men-only men-memorizing the Koran. And since nothing is their fault, it has to be someone else's-the infidels'."
"That seems pretty simplistic," Castillo said, and immediately thought: Careful, Charley, you don't want to piss Pevsner off.
"Because an answer is simple doesn't mean it's not the answer," Pevsner said.
He took another sip of the soup and then a healthy swallow of the Hungarian wine.
"The Muslim world is four hundred-maybe five hundred-years behind the Western world," Pevsner went on. "And adding to that problem is their religious hierarchy who likes it that way. People in power are never in favor of a system change that will see their power diminished. That's also true in the Western world, of course. The Roman Catholic and my own Orthodox hierarchies-who also go around in medieval clothing-are as guilty of this as the mullahs. The difference is that as the influence of the Christian hierarchies on their societies has diminished over time, the Muslim hierarchies' influence has grown.
"They have-as we see examples of just about every day-thousands, tens of thousands, perhaps many hundreds of thousands of faithful who are perfectly willing to sacrifice their lives because their mullahs tell them it will please God. And also send them directly to heaven, where they will receive the attentions of grateful whores. This, I think you will have to agree, makes for a very dangerous situation for Western society."
He stopped and took another healthy sip of the Hungarian red.
"Excuse me," Pevsner said. "I really didn't mean to deliver a lecture."
"You make some interesting points," Castillo said.
"We were talking about the Holy Legion of Muhammad's intention of crashing into the Liberty Bell, I believe?"
"We were."
"Howard?" Pevsner said.
"We found out the 727 was flown to Chad," Kennedy said. "But we don't know where in Chad and Chad is a big country. Lots of remote places where you could hide a 727. And we don't know if it's still there. They may have finished."
"Painting new registration numbers on it, you mean?"
"I think they're going to do more than that. The only way they can hope to get close to the U.S.-Philadelphia-is to disguise the airplane so it looks like somebody else's. The question there is, whose?"
"When we have more information, we'll get it to you," Pevsner said.
"Why are you giving me this information?" Castillo asked.
"Because the U.S. government is better able to deal with the Holy Legion of Muhammad than I am," Pevsner said. "If I could deal with these people myself, I would. I don't want these lunatics to get away with this."
"Why should you care?" Castillo asked.
For the first time, he sensed anger in Pevsner. His head snapped toward Charley and his eyes were cold.
"Because I am on the same side in this war as you are," Pevsner said. "I hoped I had made that clear."
And if we find the airplane, the pressure is off you?
I can't say that. He's already angry.
People sometimes say things when they're angry they shouldn't.
"And also because if we find the 727, the pressure is off you?" Castillo asked, meeting Pevsner's eyes.
Pevsner didn't reply for a moment. Then, evenly, he asked, "Are you married, Charley?"
Castillo shook his head.
"And you prefer women to men?"
"Yes, I do," Castillo said, and blurted, "Jesus Christ!"
"Howard told me that you have a certain reputation in that area," Pevsner said. "But I wanted to see your reaction to a question like that."
Well, fuck you, Alex!
"There has been some speculation about my own-what's the word they use now?- orientation," Pevsner said. "Probably because very little is known about my personal life. The truth is:"
Jesus Christ, is he going to tell me he's a fag?
": that I have a wife, whom I adore, and we have three lovely children. Two boys and a girl."
Pevsner reached into his jacket pocket, came out with an alligator-skin wallet the size of a passport, and took from it a color photograph and handed it to Castillo.
"My family, Charley," he said.
The photo showed Pevsner and a blond, svelte woman seated on chairs. Charley thought she looked something like Otto's Helena. A slim blond girl of about thirteen stood to their left, a blond boy of maybe ten stood to their right, and a six-year-old boy, dressed in white, was on his knees in front of his father, smiling mischievously at the camera.
"Very nice," Castillo said as he handed the picture back and thinking that it could have easily been a fabricated photo, one showing a family that did not exist except for an arms dealer's convenience. Castillo wondered how hard it would be to check it out. There had been nothing in the dossier on Pevsner that he'd read that mentioned a family.
"Yes," Pevsner agreed. "They are very important to me, Charley. I don't want them blown up, or poisoned, or machine-gunned by some lunatic from a culture five hundred years behind ours who believes that he's pleasing God."
Charley nodded understandingly.
"As I said before," Pevsner said. "I am on the same side in this war as you are. There are other reasons, but the only reason I need is my family. Do you understand?"
"Of course."
"I believe I can make a contribution to this war," Pevsner said. "I have what I think is a pretty good intelligence apparatus and I have many contacts."
"I'm sure you do," Castillo thought aloud.
"What I want to do is get the information I sometimes have to someone in the U.S. government who is in a position to do something about it." He paused to let that sink in and then continued. "Right now, the CIA-and, to a lesser extent, other intelligence agencies-are of two minds about me, neither of them very flattering. One opinion held is that I am an arms dealer and the sooner I can be put out of business-preferably, imprisoned-the sooner the world will be a safer, better place. The second opinion is that I am a useful asset for the movement of things, and people, when the Operations Division needs to have things and people moved covertly. They 'handle' me; I have a 'handler.'"
He makes "handler" sound like an obscenity.
"And the ops division, Charley," Kennedy said, "is not about to tell the FBI-or anyone else-that Mr. Pevsner does contract shipping for them; or that when they feel the need to provide weapons to some group of people, they often turn to Mr. Pevsner, who often knows where they can buy such weapons very quietly."
The door opened again and two waiters began to clear the soup bowls away, replace the silver, and lay a steaming tray of Hirschbraten in a thick reddish brown sauce, Kartoffelknodel,, and sauerkraut on the table. They also brought two more bottles of wine.
When a waiter started to fill Castillo's glass, he put his hand over it and said, "I've had enough, thank you."
Pevsner did the same thing.
"Like you, Charley," Pevsner said, "wine loosens my tongue. I tend to say things I shouldn't."
Was that some sort of a reprimand or simply an observation?
"I tend to do things I shouldn't," Castillo heard himself say.
"But then, Charley, you're a bachelor. You have that freedom," Pevsner said. "God, that smells good!"
He waved the waiters out of the room and served the venison.
"And just about everything that needed to be said has been said," Pevsner said. "Wouldn't you say?"
"I'm not sure I know what you mean," Castillo said.
"Mr. Pevsner hopes that you will go to Matt Hall and tell him:"
"That I had nothing to do with the theft of the 727 airplane in Luanda," Pevsner interrupted.
": and that we are going to do whatever we can to help you stop the Holy Legion of Muhammad from attacking the Liberty Bell," Kennedy picked up without missing a beat.
"And make other contributions, as we can, to help in the war between the modern Western world and Islam," Pevsner interrupted again.
"In exchange for which Mr. Pevsner hopes that Hall will do what he can:"
"And I expect him to do something concrete," Pevsner interrupted again.
": with regard to keeping Mr. Pevsner from undue attention," Kennedy finished.
"You understand that, Charley? 'Undue attention'?" Pevsner asked and then added: "And both what I intend to do and why I am doing it?"
"You have to understand that I just work for Hall," Castillo said. "I take orders, run errands, that's all."
"That's not what I hear," Kennedy said.
"Well, then, you hear wrong."
"But you will, Charley, won't you, talk to Secretary Hall?" Pevsner asked.
And just in time again Castillo stopped himself from replying "Yes, sir."
"Yes, I will. Of course I will."
"All right, then, let's enjoy our meal," Pevsner said.
No one had room for dessert, but there was, of course, cognac, and a cigar to go with the coffee.
Castillo knew that he shouldn't take the cognac but decided there was no way he could refuse.
When Kennedy slid the cognac bottle across the table to Pevsner, who had gone through his cognac quickly, Pevsner held up his hand.
"We have to go, Howard," he said and stood up.
He put out his hand to Castillo, who took it and somewhat ungracefully stood up himself.
"It's been a pleasure, Charley. I look forward to seeing you again. And I'll be in touch."
"I have no idea how Matt: Secretary Hall will react to this," Castillo said.
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Isn't that what they say?" Pevsner said. "The other car will take you back to the Bristol. Good night, Charley."
"Good night, Alex," Castillo said.
"Watch your back, Charley," Kennedy said. "You don't want to piss on the red silk brocade, do you?"
He touched Castillo's shoulder and then followed Pevsner out of the room.
"Jesus Christ!" Castillo said aloud when they had gone.
The Mercedes 220 was at the curb when he left the restaurant. Pevsner's car was nowhere in sight.
He half expected to find Inge in the backseat. But she wasn't there.
He went to his room in the Bristol and decided the first thing he needed was a cold shower and some coffee. Lots of black coffee. He called room service and ordered coffee and then stood under the shower, as cold as he could stand it, for as long as he could stand it, and tried to think.
He finally reached the conclusion that he was in no condition to make any but the most basic decisions.
As he, shivering, dried himself and pulled on the terry cloth bathrobe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, he made three of these:
First, that he was not going to see Pevsner again in Vienna. Pevsner had said all he intended to say. He had probably gone from the Drei Hussaren to the airport, where, almost certainly, a private jet was waiting for him.
Second, that he would not try to put anything down on the computer and/or send any kind of a message. Maybe in the morning but not now.
And, third, that he had to get to Washington as quickly as possible.
He called the concierge and told him that something had come up and he really needed to get to Washington as soon as he could, even if that meant getting there by a circuitous route. The concierge said he would do what he could and call him.
There was a knock at the door while he was still on the phone with the concierge. It was the floor waiter with his coffee.
When the floor waiter had gone, Charley realized the coffee posed another problem: What's smarter? Take the coffee and see if it clears my thinking? Or just go to bed and sleep it off?
And then, not two minutes later, there was another knock at the door.
What did I do? Forget to sign the bill?
When he opened the door, Inge was standing there. She ducked past him and entered the room. He saw that she held a bottle of cognac.
"Hello, Charley," Inge said. "I thought you might like some company."
"You thought, or Alex Pevsner thought?"
She laughed in her throat and walked close to him.
"Does it matter?" she asked.
And then he felt her hand on him under the terry cloth robe. And, a moment later, she laughed again deep in her throat. "And Howard was afraid you were a poofter," she said.
What the hell, why not? Maybe it'll get Patricia Wilson out of my mind.