“Before this family starts doing to each other what Vladimir Vladimirovich wants to do to us,” Tarasov said, “can we at least listen to what Podpolkovnik Castillo has to say?”
Pevsner glared at each of them.
“I’ll listen,” he said after a moment.
“How gracious of you,” Castillo said, his tone dripping sarcasm. “May I presume that I have the floor?”
“I should have killed you on the Cobenzl,” Pevsner said evenly.
“I guess I don’t,” Castillo said.
“Yes, you do,” Tom Barlow said. “Aleksandr, I just figured your odd behavior out. You just can’t face the fact that Carlos can deal with this problem better than you can. Carlos was right—again—to say that you think you’re Ivan the Terrible and we’re in Russia. You’re not, and we’re not. I say, thank God for Carlos.”
“So do I,” Anna Pevsner put in.
Castillo snapped his head around. He had been unaware she’d come into the room.
“What?” Pevsner snapped.
“Will anyone join me in giving thanks to the Lord for bringing Carlos into the family?” Anna said as she bent her head and put her hands, fingertips touching, together in prayer.
Castillo thought that Svetlana would be agreeable to involving the Deity, but he was genuinely surprised when Nicolai Tarasov and Stefan Koussevitzky got to their feet, bowed their heads, crossed themselves, put their hands together, and waited for Anna to continue.
And really surprised when Aleksandr Pevsner did the same thing.
Ninety seconds later, after everyone had joined Anna in saying “Amen,” Castillo suddenly found himself facing an expectant audience.
And so I have the floor . . .
“The way I’m going to do this is with what the U.S. Army calls a staff study,” he began. “If we can get laptops in here for everybody, Lester has my staff study on a thumb drive . . .”
“You heard Podpolkovnik Castillo,” Aleksandr Pevsner barked at the waiter. “What are you waiting for? Bring the goddamn laptops! And immediately serve their breakfast, as was ordered.”
[THREE]
The Oval Office
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
0830 18 April 2007
“Go see who’s out there, Douglas,” President Clendennen ordered. “I called this meeting for half past eight, and that’s what time it is.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” replied Secret Service Special Agent Mark Douglas, who now saw himself as the guardian of the President’s door. He went through the door into the outer office.
The President pointed at Clemens McCarthy, the presidential press secretary, and at Supervisory Secret Service Agent Robert J. Mulligan—both seated on simple chairs against the wall—and motioned them toward the armchairs and couches to which senior officials felt entitled.
“We don’t want these disloyal bastards to feel too comfortable in here, do we?” the President asked rhetorically.
Douglas came back into the office and announced, “The secretary of State, the attorney general, and the FBI director are out there, Mr. President.”
“Look at your watch, and in precisely five minutes let them in,” the President ordered.
“Yes, sir. And the secretary of Defense, Mr. President, and General Naylor are out there.”