“Dmitri, my son,” the archbishop said, “what do you think?”
“Knowing Vladimir Vladimirovich as well as I do, Your Eminence, what Nicolai suggests may well be the case. I just don’t know.”
“I think that Nicolai and I can agree that the Marburg affair was a total disaster for Vladimir Vladimirovich,” Pevsner said. “None of the intended targets was eliminated; Dmitri and Svetlana, instead of being arrested in Vienna, were flown to safety here. Where they told my brother Charley about the fish farm, which resulted in the President of the United States doing his best to eliminate that ‘abomination before God.’”
“And the SVR rezident in Vienna, Kirill Demidov, who eliminated the Kuhls—or had them eliminated—with a Hungarian secret police garrote, was found sitting dead with such a device around his own neck in a taxicab outside the American embassy,” D’Alessandro said.
“You sound as if you approve, my son,” the archbishop said.
“Your Eminence, I’m not Russian Orthodox, I’m a Roman Catholic, but so far as I’m concerned you’re a priest and I can’t lie to a priest. I thought the sonofabitch got what he deserved. Maybe taking out the old man was justified—he knew the game he was in—but Frau Kuhl? I knew her. She was a sweet old lady. I’d have garroted the sonofabitch myself if I could have gotten at him.”
“Colonel Castillo, what do you know about this murder?”
“Not much more than Mr. D’Alessandro, Your Eminence.”
“Really?” His Eminence replied, his tone suggesting he did not accept what Castillo had said as the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. When he went on, “But do you know who murdered this man?” the same tone was in his voice, as if he did not expect an honest answer.
There was a perceptible pause before Charley replied.
“I have a good idea, Your Eminence.”
“And whom do you suspect?”
“That’s none of your business, sir,” Castillo said.
“Charley,” Pevsner said warningly, “you can’t talk—”
“To put a point on it, did you order the murder of this man?” the archbishop interrupted.
“Weren’t you listening when I just told you I don’t know much about it?” Castillo said, now visibly angry, and then the anger took ove
r. “What would you like me to do, Your Eminence, lay my hand on a Bible and swear that I did not order the execution of Demidov?
“It has been my sad experience,” Castillo snapped, “that the worst of liars are willing to utter the most outrageous untruths with one hand on the Holy Bible and the other on their mother’s tombstone or the heads of their children.”
Castillo stood up.
“Go fuck yourself, Your Eminence,” he said. “I’ve had enough of this whole affair, the history lesson, telling you a hell of a lot that’s none of your business, and especially you, you self-righteous sonofabitch. I thought I was willing to do damned near anything to get you to give Sweaty permission to marry me. But you just stepped over that legendary line drawn in the sand and that no longer seems to be the case.
“Let’s go, guys. This session of the Russian Inquisition is over.”
The archbishop laughed heartily, which was the last reaction Castillo—or anyone else—expected of him.
“I now understand why Svetlana was swept off her feet by you, my son,” he said. “Aleksandr, would you ask the ladies to join us?”
“Excuse me?” Pevsner said, his utter confusion evident in his voice and demeanor.
“Go out into the foyer, Aleksandr, and bring the women in here,” the archbishop ordered.
Pevsner did so.
“Svetlana, my child,” the archbishop then said. “If you will stand there”—he pointed—“and Carlos, my son, if you will stand beside her, and if the other ladies will find places at the table, we can deal with the situation before us.”
“Svetlana,” he ordered, “place your hand in Carlos’s hand.”
He stood up, put his hand on the gold crucifix hanging around his neck, and held it out in front of him at shoulder height.
“Let us pray,” he boomed. “May God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost bestow his manifold blessings on the union of Svetlana and Carlos in the holy state of matrimony in which they are soon to enter. Amen.”