The Outlaws (Presidential Agent 6)

“He was so happy with the way things were going that when General Sirinov came to him with an idea to tweak the American lion’s tail at little cost and with minimum risk—using a group of converts to Islam; there would be minimal Russian involvement—he told him to go ahead.

“What he was going to do was have the Muslims crash an airliner into the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia. There was an old American airplane sitting deserted on a runway in Angola. This plane would be stolen, equipped with additional fuel tanks, flown to Philadelphia, and ...”

He made a diving gesture with his hand.

“I always thought he came up with that idea himself,” Tom Barlow said.

“He could have,” Pevsner said. “But Sirinov has the better imagination. It doesn’t matter. I think of the both of them as one, as Putin-slash-Sirinov.”

“Point taken,” Barlow said.

“Enter friend Charley,” Pevsner said, waving a hand in Castillo’s direction. “A lowly U.S. Army major who, not having a clue about what was going on, jumped to the conclusion that the evil arms dealer Vasily Respin or the smuggler Alex Dondiemo or even the more mysterious and wicked Aleksandr Pevsner had stolen the 727 from the field at Luanda, Angola, for their criminal purposes and set out to reclaim it.”

Everyone was aware that “Dondiemo” and “Respin” were two of the identities Pevsner used when he thought it was necessary.

“When this came to my attention through a man I had working for me and at that point trusted—Howard Kennedy—”

“That’s the ex-FBI agent who was beaten to death by parties unknown in the Conrad Casino in Punta del Este?” Darby asked.

“That’s the fellow. Kennedy looked into Major Castillo and reported what he had learned to me. Some of this—for example, that Major Charley Castillo was also Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger, majority shareholder of the Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H., empire and that he was working directly for the American President—made me rethink my original solution to the problem.”

“Which was?” Delchamps asked.

“An Indian beauty mark,” Pevsner replied matter-of-factly, tapping the center of his forehead with his index finger.

“That sometimes takes care of problems like that,” Delchamps said.

“God wouldn’t let you kill my Charley,” Sweaty said seriously.

“Possibly. I never underestimate the power of divine intervention,” Pevsner said. “But at the time, I thought it was just common sense. My primary motive was to avoid drawing attention to myself. But, now that I think about it, at the time, I was asking God’s help to avoid taking anyone’s life unnecessarily, so perhaps, Svetlana, you’re right, and God was involved.”

Charley smiled when he saw Alex Darby’s face. It showed that he was having difficulty with Sweaty’s and Pevsner’s matter-of-fact references to the Almighty.

They don’t sound much like godless Communists, do they, Alex? Maybe more like members of the Flaming Bush Church of Christ in Porter’s Crossroads, Georgia?

“So,” Pevsner went on, “I arranged to meet Charley in Vienna, to see if I could reason with him, come to some kind of understanding—”

“What you did, Alek,” Castillo interrupted, “was have that sonofabitch Kennedy blindside me while I was taking a leak in the men’s room of the Sacher Hotel bar. Then he dragged me, at gunpoint, up to the Cobenzl.”

“Lovely spot,” Delchamps said. “I know it well. Just hearing ‘Cobenzl’ makes me think of fair-haired mädchen and hear the romantic tinkle of the zither.”

This earned him a look of mingled disbelief and annoyance from Pevsner.

After a moment, Pevsner said, “The moment I first saw Charley, I realized that it would be painful for me to have to give him a beauty spot. And, Svet, now that I think about, I did ask God to help me spare his life.”

Darby was now really confused. He kept looking at Delchamps and Duffy to get their reaction to Pevsner’s continued references to the Deity. But knowing of the genuine—if more than a little unusual—deep faith of Pevsner and the other Russians, their faces showed neither surprise or confusion.

“And that’s the way it worked out,” Pevsner went on. “Charley and I had a cigar and a little cognac watching night fall in Vienna, and then we went to dinner.”

“At the Drei Hussars,” Charley furnished. “Around the corner from the Opera House. By the time it was over, Alek and I were buddies.”

Pevsner gave him an annoyed look.

“Charley,” Pevsner continued, “said that he would do what he could with the President to call off the CIA and the FBI—they were then trying very hard to find me—if I would help him find the missing aircraft. I took a chance and trusted him.

“I admit that finding the missing 727 wasn’t difficult for me. I operate a number of airplanes in sub-Saharan Africa, and all of my crews always keep their eyes open for things in which they think I might be interested.

“Cutting a long story short, Charley was able to take the 727 back from the Muslims before they could do any damage with it. And, as he said he would, he got the President to call off the FBI and the CIA.