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.