Hall grunted and then said: “Until just now, I guess I didn’t understand that that story would be printed. I thought it was just a means to give me a heads-up about what you’d found over there.”
“It was printed in the Tages Zeitung on 5 June, sir,” Castillo said. “Before I even left Luanda. A number of the German papers picked it up, and so did the Associated Press. It’s logical to presume Respin/Pevsner saw it. Hell, he might even have a clipping service. His man called Otto just before Otto called here. The timeline works.”
“What do you think I should do with that interesting bit of information? Turn it over to the DCI and see what the CIA can find out from—or about—this guy?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me to get on a plane to Vienna.”
“My God, Charley, those people are dangerous! Somebody —the police commissioner in Philadelphia, as a matter of fact—told me the Russian immigrant gang there makes the Italian Mafia look like choirboys, and from everything I’ve read—not only your pal Miller’s filing—Respin, or whatever else he calls himself—”
“Respin and Pevsner and there are probably other names,” Charley furnished and chuckled and then asked, “Hereafter Pevsner, sir?”
It was a reference to the rules laid down for writing intelligence reports, which permitted, for example, references to the Arabic scholar Sheikh Ibn Taghri Birdi, to be shortened after the first use of his name in a filing by adding the phase “hereafter Birdi.”
Hall smiled at Charley. “Hereafter Pevsner,” he said. “Hereafter Pevsner is the head thug. If he didn’t like seeing his name in the newspaper, he’s entirely capable of having you assassinated. Both for writing the story and to discourage others.”
“I don’t think he would telegraph his moves, sir. He would simply have sent somebody to eliminate me in Fulda. I think we ought to see what he wants.”
“What could he want?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think he’s really going to give an interview as the first step to getting on Larry King Live. He wants something.”
Hall smiled again.
“But what could he want, Charley?”
“We’ll never know, sir, unless you tell me to get on the next plane to Vienna.”
“I don’t know,” Hall said, doubtfully.
“Sir, I also respectfully suggest that having me out of town for the next few days might be a good idea.”
“Because of our encounter with the DCI just now?” Hall asked.
Castillo nodded, then said, “I had the feeling he thinks killing the messenger is probably a very good way to handle something like this.”
“I don’t think he’d go that far, Charley, but he didn’t seem to be taken very much with your charm and good looks, did he?”
“No, sir. I didn’t think so.”
Hall looked at Castillo thoughtfully for fifteen seconds and then said, “Okay, Charley. Bring me a Sacher torte. And I mean bring me. I don’t want it shipped here with your body.”
“Yes, sir. White or dark chocolate, sir?”
Hall shook his head, touched Castillo affectionately on the shoulder, and walked out of the apartment.
[THREE]
The Mayflower Hotel 1127 Connecticut Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 1925 6 June 2005
The leading security officer accompanying the DCI—the trailing security officer was following the DCI—glanced through the plate-glass door leading from the Mayflower lobby, saw the Yukon was where he expected it to be and that there was nothing suspicious on the street, and pushed the door open.
Then he turned and found the DCI was nowhere in sight.
Jesus Christ!
He hurried back into the lobby.
The trailing security officer was standing, his hands folded in front of him, near the front desk. He made a small gesture indicating what looked like the entrance to a hallway near the end of the front desk and smiled at his colleague.