Lammelle came out with his Glock-like air pistol, aimed it at D’Allessando, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He squeezed the trigger again.
“Funny thing about air pistols, Frank,” D’Allessando said. “They don’t work without air.”
And then he took his Glock-like air pistol from under his pillowing Mexican resort shirt, aimed at Lammelle, and squeezed the trigger. There was a psssst sound.
“Shit!” Lammelle said, looking down at the dart in his chest.
“Allan Junior,” D’Allessando said, “why don’t you help Ol’ Frank sit down before he falls down? And on your way back, bring his computer.”
“What the hell is that you shot him with?” Allan Junior asked, as he moved down the aisle.
“I guess I’m not the only one your father didn’t tell about Lammelle’s CIA wonder gun,” D’Allessando said. “Which raises the question, What do I do with General Naylor and his faithful sidekick, Colonel Brewer?”
Everyone watched as Lammelle went limp and as Allan Junior lowered him onto the row of seats. Then Allan Junior came down the aisle carrying a laptop.
D’Allessando called out in Russian.
The minibus began to move.
“General,” D’Allessando said, “Charley said I was to treat you with as much respect as possible under the circumstances. Are you going to try anything brave and noble? Or . . . are you willing to give me your parole, sir?”
“That’s a seldom-used term, isn’t it?” General Naylor said. “The last time I think an officer gave his parole was when Colonel Waters—General Patton’s son-in-law—gave his to his German captors, who then took him to the Katyn Forest and showed him the graves of the thousands of Polish officers the Russians had murdered.”
“With all respect, General, thanks for the history lesson, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
“It seemed germane here. One of the German officers to whom Colonel Waters gave his parole was Oberst Hermann von und zu Gossinger, Colonel Castillo’s grandfather. Yes, Mr. D’Allessando. If you give me your word that we are en route to see Colonel Castillo, I will offer my parole. And if memory serves, the Code of Honor says that my parole includes that of my immediate subordinates, which would mean you also have the parole of Colonel Brewer and my son, Major Naylor.”
“Isn’t that Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor, General?” D’Allessando asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Thank you, sir,” D’Allessando said. “Okay, we’re headed for the business side of Cancún International. An airplane will be waiting for us. What I would like to suggest to anyone watching is that one of our number has been at the sauce and needs help to board the airplane. Now, will your parole permit you to help me do that?”
“I’ll carry the sonofabitch aboard myself,” Allan Junior said.
[SIX]
Laguna el Guaje
Coahuila, Mexico
1105 11 February 2007
Looking with frank fascination out the window of the Cessna Mustang as it was towed under what looked like an enormous tarpaulin, General Allan Naylor saw a number of very interesting things.
There were four aircraft already in the cave/hangar/whatever it was: One of them he recognized as what he thought of as “Doña Alicia’s Lear.” There were two Gulfstreams, a III and a V. He presumed the III was Castillo’s airplane, the one in which he and Dick Miller and the others had flown away from their retirement parade at Fort Rucker. He had no idea who the Gulfstream V belonged to.
And there was a Black Hawk helicopter, with its insignia and a legend painted on the fuselage identifying it as belonging to the Mexican Policía Federal Preventiva. Naylor knew the U.S. government had “sold” a dozen of them to Mexico to assist in the war against drugs. He had smarted at the time—and smarted again now—at the price the Mexicans had paid for them, which came to about a tenth of what the Army had paid for them. And he naturally wondered what a Policía Federal helicopter was doing here.
But what he found most fascinating was Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, who was standing with another man, a woman, and Castillo’s dog, Max, watching the aircraft come into the cave. The humans were dressed identically in yellow polo shirts and khaki trousers.
Now that I think about it, just about everybody in the cave is wearing yellow polo shirts and khaki trousers. Is there something significant in that?
The woman—who was wearing an enormous gaudily decorated sombrero that looked like it belonged on the head of a trumpet player in a mariachi band—was leaning her shoulder against Castillo’s and holding his hand.
And the other guy—he looks like her, and they’re brother and sister—has to be Berezovsky.
What I am looking at is former Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky of the SVR, the Russian Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System; and former Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva, also of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki.