They were all dressed very much alike, in brightly colored cotton skirts and white blouses, and chatting and laughing among themselves.
If it wasn't for Jack Britton walking behind them with that Uzi held at his side, they'd look like members of the Midland Junior League headed for lunch at the Petroleum Club pool.
Jesus, she's really good-looking!
He turned and swam to the deep end of the pool, considered his situation for a moment, and turned again.
By the time Castillo climbed out of the pool, he had completed three more laps, and by the time he took his seat at the big table in the quincho, everybody had already been served and had started to eat.
[TWO]
The housekeeper, Svetlana Alekseeva, and Jack Davidson all came into Castillo's office together. The housekeeper carried a tray with three mugs and a large thermos of coffee. There was no cream or sugar, and Castillo idly wondered whether that was an oversight or because the housekeeper had heard Svetlana refuse both after supper.
Probably the latter, Castillo decided. The housekeeper was more than she seemed to be. She had worked--at exactly what, Castillo didn't know--for Alfredo Munz when El Coronel Munz had been head of SIDE, Argentina's version of the CIA and FBI rolled into one. Munz had vouched for them when Darby and the Sienos had been staffing Nuestra Pequena Casa, and that was good enough for Castillo.
Davidson carried two small recording devices; a large ashtray; a box of wooden matches; a portable leather cigar humidor (he was as addicted to the filthy weed as was Castillo); what looked like a laptop computer but was actually much more, as was its twin--Castillo's--already on the table; a legal pad; a box of fine-point felt-tip pens; and a small notebook.
Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva brought only her purse with her. When Castillo had waved her into one of the upholstered captain's chairs at the table, she instead went to his desk and began to unload the purse. Out came a package of Marlboro cigarettes, a disposable lighter, two ballpoint pens, a notebook, a small package of Kleenex, a small bottle of perfume, and a plastic bottle filled with blue gunk. The last item so interested Castillo that he picked it up and read the label. It was Argentine sunscreen lotion with aloe.
"The last time we did this, Charley," Davidson said in Pashtu as he arranged his toys on the table, "neither the prisoner nor the surroundings were nearly as nice, were they?"
Castillo chuckled, as the image of that last time--a really bad guy in a crude stone building that was more of a hut than a building--popped into his mind.
"What was that, Pashtu?" Svetlana asked, but it was more of a statement.
If you know what it was, Castillo thought, you probably understand it, so there goes our private code.
And we won't be able to fall back on alternatives A and B, either. We know you speak Russian and Hungarian.
But why did you ask? Why give that up?
Castillo ignored her question. Instead, he said: "Before we get into the fingernail-pulling and waterboarding aspects of this, Svetlana, let me tell you what's going to happen tonight."
She nodded, just once, and did not smile.
"As we speak, your identification and other information we took are being processed in Washington. When we get that back, we can clear up any inconsistencies there may be."
She nodded again.
"For now, to get started, let's clear up a few minor things. First, why don't you identify these account numbers for us?"
He gestured with his index finger, took a sheet of paper that had been stuck into the legal pad, and slid it across the table to Svetlana.
She glanced at it quickly, then looked into Castillo's eyes, not quite able to conceal her surprise and discomfort.
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Gotcha, sweetheart!
"That's a printout from the chip Mr. Darby found in the lining of your purse," Castillo said. "Probably the guts of one of those things . . ."
He looked at Davidson, who furnished, "Flash drives, Charley."
". . . those flash drives you stick in a computer's USB slot," Castillo finished.
There was no expression on her face, but her eyes showed that she had just been kicked in the stomach.
"Sergeant Kensington," Castillo continued, "who's really good at that sort of thing, had a hell of a time reading it, but finally managed it. Darby thinks they're bank account numbers. Maybe encoded somehow. Anyway, we sent them to Two-Gun Yung in Vienna. . . . Oh, that's right. You never met Two-Gun, did you? Two-Gun is our money guy. He's just about as good at finding hidden money as Kensington is at fooling around with computers."