Black Ops (Presidential Agent 5)

"We look forward to seeing you, too, and will do so tomorrow," Castillo said, his tone suggesting he was past ready to finish the business conversation. "Thank you so much for your courtesy."

He hung up the telephone and said to it, "Sonofabitch wouldn't stop selling!"

Then he looked up at Svetlana.

He started to say something else but could not, because she had thrust something into his mouth.

"Beluga," she said, and showed him the label on the small jar.

Great . . . more goddamn fish eggs.

"Wonderful," he said a moment later.

"And Pommery extra brut," she said, offering him one of the glasses. "That Uruguayan champagne was not bad, but it was not French, and we're celebrating."

What the hell are we celebrating?

Dmitri volunteering that the both of you commit suicide?

She saw something in his eyes.

"Not to worry, my Carlos, I am rich. I will pay for it."

He touched his glass to hers.

"Exactly what is it that we're celebrating?"

"Us. You and me. Being in love."

"Sweetheart, what would I have to do to get you to stay here?"

She ignored him. "And after you finish the caviar and the champagne, I have a small present for you."

"Did you hear what I asked?"

"It is something I know you like. . . ."

"Jesus Christ, honey. Listen to me, please."

"No," she said flatly. "There is nothing you can say, my Carlos."

He looked at her for a long moment.

She flipped the robe open and then closed it. "What sort of a present, my darling, do you think Little Miss Red Under Britches has in mind for you?"

He smiled--So, she's heard her codename, he thought--then reached for her and wrapped his arms around her. Even through the thick terry cloth, he could feel the softness and warmth of her belly against his cheek.

He felt a tightness in his throat, and then his chest heaved.

Jesus Christ, I'm crying!

[SIX]

Portofino Island Resort & Spa

Pensacola Beach, Florida

1530 6 January 2006