Black Ops (Presidential Agent) Page 3

  "Then why wasn't I told of this before?"

  "You didn't have the Need to Know. Now, in my judgment, you do."

  "And the ambassador? Did he know?"

  "No. He didn't have the Need to Know, either."

  "You made that decision, is that what you're saying?"

  "I was given the authority to tell him if I thought it was necessary. Or not to tell him."

  "That violates the Country Team principle."

  "The secretary of State signed on to what the DCI told me."

  "What was Kuhl doing for the CIA?"

  "You want a thumbnail or the whole scenario?"

  "I think I had better hear everything."

  "Okay. Kuhl was a Hungarian Jew. His family had been in the pastry shop business for a long time, way back before World War One. They saw what was happening and got out of Hungary to the States in 1939. Kurt was then ten years old, the youngest of their children.

  "There was already a Kuhlhaus store in New York City and another in Chicago. The family went back to work in that business. When war came, his older brother, Gustav, went into the Army, was promptly recruited by the OSS, and was one of the original Jedburghs."

  "The original what?"

  "Agents for the Office of Strategic Services trained at Jedburgh, Scotland, to jump into German-occupied Europe. Bill Colby, who, I'm sure you remember, went on to become DCI in '73, was one of them. Gustav was captured in France, sent to Sachsenhausen, and executed there just before the Russians arrived.

  "In 1946, just as soon as he turned seventeen, Kurt, by then an American citizen, enlisted in the Army. Getting to Europe to see what family assets he could salvage was one reason. Avenging his brother was another.

  "He spoke German and Hungarian and Slovak, etcetera. He was assigned here as an interpreter at the Kommandatura--the Allied Control Commission. 'Four men in a jeep.' Remember that?"

  Spearson shook his head.

  "Toward the end of his tour, they found out that Corporal Kuhl had been sneaking in and out of what was then Czechoslovakia and Hungary and East Germany. That was in 1949. He should have been court-martialed, but somebody in the CIA was smart enough to offer him a deal.

  "If he was willing to be of service, unspecified, if called upon, he not only would not be court-martialed but would be allowed to remain in Vienna to salvage what he could of the family business, and he would be helped to do that.

  "He took the deal. I don't know what he did between '49 and '56, but he was so helpful during the Hungarian uprising that the agency put him on the payroll, as field officer, clandestine service. He's been on it ever since."

  "He's been a spy all this time?"

  "Not in the James Bond sense. What he has been doing--and if you think about it a moment, you'll see how valuable this has been--is identify people the company could turn. He didn't turn them. He just identified those people he thought could be turned. He became their friend, learned their strengths and weaknesses, and passed it to the company.

  "The diplomatic and intelligence services of the old Soviet Union, and its satellites, as well as the Western countries, do--as we do--tend to move their people between assignments in an area. In this case, Eastern Europe. Their dips would be in Warsaw on one assignment, Vienna the next, maybe Rome, and later Budapest, then back to Vienna . . ."

  "And we wouldn't recruit them here, but when they were somewhere else?"

  "Precisely. An Austrian passport was arranged for him. That happened to many ex-Hungarians who couldn't get a Hungarian passport. He became a Viennese, the heir to the Kuhlhaus pastry shops. It was a perfect cover. When the wall came down, no one raised an eyebrow when Kuhlhauses were opened or reopened--in Prague, Budapest, all over--and no one thought it was in any way suspicious that Kurt Kuhl moved around Eastern Europe supervising his business."

  "Well, apparently someone did," Spearson said. "If he was murdered."

  "Nobody ever accused the SVR of stupidity. I suppose we should have expected he would get burned. . . . My God, he was doing his job for fifty years. He didn't think so. I tried to warn him it was just about inevitable."

  "You've been in touch with him?"

  She nodded.

  "About once a week. At the Kuhlhaus store on the Graben. He often took me in the back room for a little cafe mit schlagobers. And I will go to his funeral. I think it will probably be held in Saint Stephen's. Over the years, he made a lot of important friends. I will go as an old customer, not as the counselor for consular affairs."

  "What am I supposed to do?"

  "I hope nothing. But I thought you should know who he really was, and what he was doing, rather than be surprised when you read it on the front page of the Wiener Tages Zeitung."

  [FIVE]

  Restaurant Oca

  Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

  1855 24 December 2005

  In the opinion of Liam Duffy--a short, muscular, blond thirty-nine-year-old--there was a good deal to recommend the Restaurant Oca on a blistering hot Christmas Eve, starting with the fact that it would stay open until seven. Most other restaurants in this country of devout Catholics closed just after lunch to celebrate the night before Christ's sacred birth.

  The food was good, but the basic reason he had suggested to Monica, his wife, that they take a ride out to Oca in Pilar from their apartment in Barrio Norte was the geese.

  Oca was adjacent to a residential country club called The Farm. Just inside the gate to the guarded community of larger-than-ordinary houses, and immediately behind the restaurant, was a small lake that supported a large gaggle of geese.

  The geese had learned to paddle up to the rear of the restaurant and beg for bread scraps. The Duffy kids--there were four, two girls and two boys, ranging in age from two to seven years--never tired of feeding them.

  This meant that Liam and Monica could linger over their dessert and coffee without having to separate the children from sibling disputes. These occurred often, of course, but far more frequently when the kids were excited, as they were by Christmas Eve and when the temperature and humidity were as oppressive as they were now.

  Duffy ignored the waiter standing nearby with their check in hand as long as he could, but finally waved him over. Monica collected the kids as her husband waited for his change.

  From here, they would go to Monica's parents' home in Belgrano for the ritual Christmas Eve "tea." They would have Christmas dinner tomorrow with his parents and four other Duffy males and their families at their apartment in Palermo.

  Monica appeared with the children, holding the hand of the youngest boy and the ear of the elder. The other two children seemed delighted with the arrangement.

  Duffy shook hands with the proprietor, whose smile seemed a little strained, then left the restaurant and got in the car. He handed the car-parker a five-peso note instead of the usual two. It was, after all, Christmas Eve.

  And he was driving a year-old Mercedes-Benz 320 SUV, which suggested that he was affluent and could afford a five-peso tip. He wasn't; the car belonged to the government. But the valet, of course, had no way of knowing this.

  To get in the southbound lane of the Panamericana Expressway, it was necessary to pass through a tunnel under the toll road itself. As Duffy came out the far side of the tunnel and prepared to turn left onto the access ramp, an old battered white Ford F-150 pickup truck pulled in front of him, causing Liam Duffy to say certain words, ones Monica quickly pointed out to him should not be used in the presence of children.

  Duffy followed the Ford up the access ramp, where the sonofabitch driving the pickup suddenly slammed on its brakes.

  Duffy stopped just before ramming him.

  And then, as the hair on his neck curled, he looked over his left shoulder.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God, not on fucking Christmas Eve!

  He jammed the gearshift into low, spun the steering wheel to the right, and floored the accelerator. He rammed the right rear of the Ford. The pickup's tires scream
ed as Duffy pushed it out of the way. The SUV--which was why Duffy had chosen it--had full-time four-wheel drive.

  Monica screamed.

  Duffy then heard bullets impacting the Mercedes. By the time he reached the top of the access road, he had both offered a prayer for the safety of his family and drawn from under his shirt his semiautomatic pistol, an Argentine-manufactured version of the Model 1911A1 .45 ACP Colt.

  He held down the horn with the hand holding the pistol as he drove through the traffic on the toll road.

  Monica was screaming again.

  "The kids?" he shouted.

  She stopped screaming and tried and failed to get into the backseat.

  "Monica, for Christ's sake!"

  "They're all right," she reported a moment later. "For God's sake, slow down!"

  Yeah, and let the bastards catch up with us!

  He didn't slow down, but did stop weaving through traffic.

  Five kilometers down the toll road, he saw a Policia Federal police car parked in a Shell gasoline station.

  He pulled off the highway and skidded to a stop by the car. The policemen inside looked at him more in annoyance than curiosity.

  Duffy pushed the button on his door panel that rolled down his window.

  "Comandante Duffy, Gendarmeria Nacional!" he shouted at the Policia Federal policemen. "We have just been ambushed. Shot at. Look for a battered white Ford 150."

  They took him at his word.

  The driver, a young officer, jumped out of the car, drew his pistol, and looked up the highway. The passenger, a sergeant, walked to the SUV.

  By then Duffy had the microphone of his radio in his hand.

  "All gendarmeria hearing this. Comandante Duffy has just been ambushed at kilometer forty-six on the Panamericana. I want the nearest cars at the Shell station, kilometer thirty-eight, southbound. En route, stop all old white Ford 150 pickups and inspect right rear of vehicle for collision damage."

  It will do absolutely no fucking good, Duffy thought. The bastards are long gone.

  But nobody's hurt, and cars are on the way.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God, thank you for answering my prayer.

  Duffy got out of the car, put the pistol back in the holster in the small of his back under his shirt, then opened the rear door of the Mercedes.

  He picked up the seven-year-old Jose and said, "Why don't we go in there and get a Coke, and then we'll go see Abuela?"

  His wife, holding the baby, looked at him.

  "Well, we'll have something to talk about when we get to your mother's, won't we?" Liam asked.

  "Goddamn you, Liam!" Monica said.

  II

  [ONE]

  7200 West Boulevard Drive

  Alexandria, Virginia

  1145 25 December 2005

  A yellow Chrysler minivan with the legend Captain Al's Taxi Service To All D.C. Airports painted on its back windows drove through the snow of the long, curving driveway up to the big house and stopped before the closed four doors of the basement garage.

  The sole passenger--a trim woman who appeared to be in her sixties but was in fact a decade older, her jet-black hair, drawn tight in a bun, showing traces of gray--slid the door open before the driver could get out of the van to do it for her.

  There was a path up a slope from the driveway to the front of the house, but there were no footprints in the snow to suggest that anyone had used it recently.

  The driver took a small leather suitcase from the rear of the van, thought about it a moment--What the hell, it's Christmas Day--and then said, "I'll walk you to the door, ma'am."

  "That's very kind of you."

  She followed him up the path. When he had put the suitcase at the foot of the door, she handed him a folded bill.

  "Thank you," she said. "And Merry Christmas."

  He looked at the money. It was a hundred-dollar note.

  The fare was thirty-three fifty.

  "Ma'am, I can't change this."

  "Merry Christmas," she said again, and pushed the doorbell button.

  "Thank you very much, and a Merry Christmas to you, too."

  He got back in the van, waited to make sure that someone would answer her ring, and then drove away.

  The door was opened by a large, muscular young man in a single-breasted suit.

  "Yes, ma'am?"

  "Merry Christmas. Colonel Castillo, please."

  "There's no one here by that name, ma'am."

  "Yes, there is," she said politely but firmly. "Tell him his grandmother is here."

  The muscular young man considered that for a moment, then appeared to be talking to his suit lapel. It wasn't the first time she had seen someone do that.

  "Roger that," he said again. "She says she's Don Juan's grandmother."

  Not ninety seconds later, a large, fair-skinned, blue-eyed man of thirty-six suddenly appeared at the front door. Lieutenant Colonel Carlos G. Castillo, Special Forces, U.S. Army, was wearing brown corduroy slacks and a battered sweatshirt with USMA printed on it. He held what could have been a glass of tomato juice in one hand, and a large, nearly black, eight-inch-long cigar in the other.

  At his side was a very large silver-and-black shaggy dog about one and a half times the size of a very large boxer. At first sight, the dog--a one-hundred-forty-pound Bouvier des Flandres named Max--often frightened people, even dog lovers such as the muscular young man in the business suit who had answered the door, and who took some pride in thinking he was unflappable.

  He flapped now in shock as the old lady, who, instead of recoiling in horror as Max rushed at her, dropped to her knees, cooed, "Hello, baby! Are you happy to see your old Abuela?" and wrapped her arms around Max's massive neck.

  Max whined happily as his shaggy stub of a tail spun like a helicopter rotor.

  The old lady looked up at the man in the West Point sweatshirt.

  "And what about you, Carlos? Are you happy to see your old Abuela?"

  "Happy yes," he said. "Shock will come later. What the he--What are you doing here?"

  "Well, Fernando, Maria, and the children spent Christmas Eve with me at the house. Today I was faced with the choice of spending Christmas with Maria's family or getting on the plane and spending it with you."

  "How'd you find the house, Abuela?"

  "I told Fernando I was going to send you a turkey, and he gave me the address."

  "In other words, he doesn't know you're here?"

  "Probably not," Dona Alicia Castillo confessed as she stood up. "But the way that works, darling, is that I'm the Abuela and you and Fernando are the grandchildren. I don't need anybody's permission."

  "Welcome, welcome, Abuela," Castillo said, smiling, and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off the floor.

  "I echo the sentiment," a deep voice with a slight Eastern European accent said. "Until you arrived, Dona Alicia, I was sick with the thought of having to spend the day alone with these barbarians."

  Eric Kocian, a tall, erect man with a full head of silver hair, who also appeared to be in his sixties but was in fact eighty-two years of age, was in a starched white dress shirt, pressed woolen trousers, and a blue-striped chef's apron. He walked to her and with great formality kissed her hand.

  "Count your fingers, Abuela," Castillo said. "And make sure you still have on your wedding ring."

  "Merry Christmas, Billy," Dona Alicia said, using his nickname, and rising on her toes to kiss his cheek. "I don't think I've ever seen you in an apron."

  "When one is being fed by vulgarians, one is wise to keep one's eye on the cooks."

  "Well, I'm glad to see you. I somehow had the idea you'd gone back to Budapest."

  Kocian sighed dramatically. "I pray daily that I will soon be released from durance vile. So far the Good Lord has ignored my devout pleas."

  "I had no idea you were living here with Carlos."

  "I'm not," he said a little too quickly. "Madchen and I--with those few pups Karlchen has not torn cruelly from their mo
ther--are staying in the Mayflower."

  "Four of those adorable pups, as I suspect you well know, Billy, are making this Christmas even more joyous for some very nice people."

  Kocian ignored that. He said, "May I offer you a glass of champagne, Dona Alicia? I took the precaution of bringing some, knowing that if the inhabitants of this monastery had any at all, it would be vinegar."

  " 'Monastery'?"

  "That's what they call it," Kocian said with a nod at Castillo. "Their sense of humor is as perverse as their taste in food and wine."

  "I would love a glass of champagne," Dona Alicia said, smiling.

  "If you would be so kind as to follow me?"

  Dona Alicia saw that the kitchen was large--even huge--and that the sliding doors open to the adjacent living room showed that it was sizable, too, causing her to idly wonder what exact purpose this great big house--and all these people--served for her grandson. There were seven people in the kitchen, six men and a woman, not counting Eric Kocian or Charley Castillo. Most were sprawled in chairs holding what could have been glasses of iced tomato juice, but what Dona Alicia knew had to be Bloody Marys. The woman and two of the men were standing at the stove, which was in an island in the center of the room.

  There was also another Bouvier des Flandres, this one a third smaller than Max and lying on the floor beside an infant's crib that held four sleeping puppies. She clearly was the mother--Madchen--and sat up attentively when the others came into the room.

  Castillo gestured toward the woman and one of the men at the stove. Dressed casually in nice blue jeans and sweaters, both were in their forties, a pleasant-looking pair yet average to the point that they would not stand out in a crowd on Main Street, U.S.A.

  "Abuela," Castillo said, "this is Dianne and Harold Sanders. They take care of us. This is my grandmother, Mrs. Alicia Castillo. Have we got enough to feed her?"

  "No problem, Colonel," Harold Sanders said as he stirred some dark sauce in a large pot. He looked at Abuela and nodded once. "It's our honor to meet you, ma'am."

  "You know everybody else, right, Abuela?" Castillo went on.

  "Enough," she said, and went to Dianne Sanders. "My grandson should have given you Christmas off."