“How do you know that?” General Naylor challenged.
“We have it all on surveillance tape, sir. I’ll show the tapes to you, if you’d like. There’s a very clear picture of General Yakov Sirinov, who is apparently in charge of the opera
tion. The Tupolev Tu-934A then left here, and is presently on the ground at La Orchila airfield. That’s on an island off the coast of Venezuela.”
“How could you possibly know that?” General Naylor demanded.
“I’d show you the satellite imagery, sir, but if I did, you’d know where I got them.”
“I don’t think I’d have to look very far, would I, General McNab?” Naylor asked unpleasantly.
Castillo said, “You have my word that I did not get them from General McNab. And, sir, with respect, your parole does not give you the right to question me, or anyone else. Please keep that in mind.”
He let that sink in, and then went on: “Now, for Facts Bearing on the Problem, Scene Two. The Russian rezident in Washington, Sergei Murov, had Frank Lammelle—speaking of whom, Vic: Should we have someone take a look at him?”
“He has two of your Spetsnaz watching him, Charley. I think they’ll be able to tell if the SOB croaks.”
Castillo nodded, then went on: “The Russians had Lammelle over to their dacha on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, where Murov, the rezident, admitted they sent the Congo-X to Colonel Hamilton, and then offered to turn over all Congo-X in their control and give us their assurance that no more will ever turn up. All they want in return is Dmitri, Sweaty, and me.
“The President thinks the price is fair. He sent General Naylor to arrest me, and Frank Lammelle to arrest Sweaty and Dmitri. . . .”
“Is that true, General Naylor?” Danton asked.
“Any conversations I may or may not have had with the President, Mr. Danton,” Naylor said, “are both privileged and classified.”
“It’s true,” General McNab said.
“How do you know?” Danton asked.
“Because that’s what General Naylor told me,” McNab said. “Under the Code of Honor, people—especially general officers—don’t tell fibs to each other. They may try to make human sacrifices of fellow officers, but telling fibs is a no-no. Telling a fib will get you kicked right off that Long Gray Line.”
“Colonel Brewer, please be prepared to report that exchange in detail,” Naylor said.
“Jesus Christ, Allan!” McNab said. Then, “Sorry, Sweaty, that just slipped out.”
“The question is moot,” Castillo said. “Colonel Berezovsky and Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva are not going to be involuntarily repatriated. And I ain’t goin’ nowhere I don’t want to go, neither.”
“So what are you going to do, Charley?” Allan Junior asked.
“It took me a lot longer than it should have for me to figure this out, Allan, but what I’m going to do is something they told me on that fabled plain overlooking the Hudson when I was eighteen. When, if I made it through Hudson High and became an officer, my first duty would be to take care of my people.
“I forgot that over the years. The truth of the matter was that falling off the face of the earth didn’t bother me much. There I was, with Sweaty, on the finest trout-fishing river in the world. The President of the United States had relieved me of my responsibilities.
“Then Dmitri and Sweaty’s cousin, Colonel V. N. Solomatin, who runs the Second Directorate of the SVR with Putin looking over his shoulder, wrote a letter to Dmitri and Sweaty, telling them to come home, all is forgiven.
“Since he didn’t know where they were, he had the rezident in Budapest give the letter to a friend of mine there who he thought knew how to get in touch with me. He was right. Several hours later, Sweaty and I were reading it in Patagonia.
“What was significant about the letter was not that Putin thought anybody would believe that all was forgiven, but that he wasn’t going to stop until Sweaty and Dmitri paid for their sins. That letter was intended to give Clendennen an out: He wasn’t forcing Sweaty and Dmitri to go back to Russia. ‘Knowing that all was forgiven—here’s the letter to prove that—they went back willingly.’
“Then the Congo-X appeared in Fort Detrick. Just about as soon as that happened, some people who knew the OOA—”
“The what?” Roscoe Danton interrupted.
“The Office of Organizational Analysis, the President’s—”
“Okay. Now I’m with you,” Danton said.
“Okay. Some people—”