“And the schoolteachers will sue for damages,” Barlow said. “That’s really going to cost you a fortune, Alek.”
“Actually, no,” Pevsner said.
“No?” Castillo said. “You underestimate tort attorneys.”
“You underestimate me,” Pevsner retorted. “Of course I thought of those miserable parasites. I hired the best one I could find. Which of course cost me a small fortune.”
“Whatever it cost,” Castillo said, “it was money well spent to have the best of the parasites defending you in court.”
“What my legal counsel did, Friend Charley,” Pevsner said, “was compose the small print on the back of the tickets. When my passengers sign the back of their tickets, acknowledging receipt of same, they also acknowledge the hazards of the sea, and agree that if something unpleasant happens, a one-time payment of seven dollars and fifty cents will provide full and adequate compensation for any and all inconveniences they may have experienced.”
“You’re an evil man, Alek,” Castillo said.
“No more or less than any other cruise ship operator,” Pevsner said.
“I guess the Czarina of the Gulf will be out of service for some time,” Castillo said.
“I’ll have it cleaned up by the time your wedding guests arrive, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, it’s not. Before I heard what had happened to it, I was hoping I could charter her for twenty-four hours.”
“Why on earth would you want to do that?”
“So that I can run the C. G. Castillo Pirated Ship Recovery Training Program on her.”
“And what in hell is that?”
Castillo told him, concluding, “My plan was that cameras would be rolling as the SEALs take the ship back from Delta Force. I would then have loaded Roscoe J. Danton into my birthday present and Dick Miller would have flown him to Washington, where he would have shown the video to the President, which would have convinced ol’ Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen I’m working hard to carry out his orders.”
“Several questions, Charley,” Pevsner said. “Starting with what birthday present?”
“The Cessna Mustang Sweaty gave me for my birthday.”
“I’d momentarily — probably due to the disaster on the Czarina of the Gulf—forgotten that,” Pevsner said. “But now that it’s come up — if you don’t mind a little advice. Once you marry Svetlana, Charley, you’re going to have to get her spending under control. That’s the key to a happy marriage. That and never saying ‘yes’ or even ‘maybe’ to your wife when she asks you if you don’t agree she’s putting on a little weight where she sits.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Castillo said. “What other questions did you have?”
“How much of the ship will you require for your movie for President Clendennen?”
“Enough cabins for the Delta Force people and the SEALs. About twenty of the former, and a few more than that many SEALs. Plus the photographers and some of my people. Not much, on a ship that large.”
“And when is this going to happen?”
“As soon as possible after Delta and the SEALs get here. The SEALs are coming, bringing their boats and telephone poles, by bus from my grapefruit farm in Oaxaca Province. The Delta people will be flying in here this afternoon. They’re coming as the Fayetteville Blood Alley Ping-Pong Wizards.”
“As the what?”
“The Fayetteville Blood Alley Ping-Pong Wizards. While they’re here, they hope to challenge the Greater Sverdlovsk Table Tennis Association to a demonstration match.”
“Sorry to rain on your parade, Charley, but I don’t think those Russians know how to play Ping-Pong,” Pevsner said.
“I thought that might be the case,” Castillo said. “Roscoe J. Danton is arranging for the match to be televised on the Wolf Sports International channel.”
“You’re an evil man, Charley Castillo,” Pevsner said.
“No more or less than any other former Delta Force operator,” Castillo said. “Endeavoring to win the hearts and minds of people by whatever non-lethal means one has available.”
“What were the SEALs doing at your grapefruit farm in wherever you said?”
“They were aboard the nuclear submarine USS San Juan returning to California from Venezuela when General Naylor ordered them to report to me for hazardous duty. Because I was at the grapefruit farm, that’s where they went. When they got there, the sub surfaced, they loaded their telephone poles into their rubber boats, and headed for shore. You should have been there, Alek. The sight of twenty-four large SEALs and six telephone poles jammed into two small rubber boats racing across the waves is one I won’t soon forget.”
“A couple of questions, Charley. What’s with the telephone poles? And what was the nuclear submarine doing off the coast of Venezuela?”
“So far as the telephone poles are concerned — the SEALs are touchy on the subject — the best I’ve been able to figure out is that the SEALs train with them. Like when I went through the Q course—”
“The what?”
“Q for Special Forces qualification. When I went through the Q course at Camp Mackall, they issued us a rifle, a pistol, and a knife. We had to keep all three with us around the clock. I don’t know that I buy it, but I’ve been told that the SEALs do the same thing with telephone poles. Makes one think about it. Did you ever see a picture of SEALs training without a telephone pole in it?”
“Now that you mention it, no.”
“So, what was suggested to me is they become emotionally involved with their telephone poles. They become, so to speak, their security blankets. They just don’t feel comfortable unless they have a telephone pole — the bigger the better, I was told — around.”
“Makes sense,” Pevsner said. “And what was the sub doing off the coast of Venezuela?”
“Just between us? I wouldn’t want this to get around.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Well, you remember when the Venezuelans nationalized the American oil companies, seizing them, so to speak, for the workers and peasants?”
“Indeed, I do. And I confess that I was surprised when you didn’t send your Marines to take them back from the workers and peasants. That’s what we would have done. In the bad old days, I mean.”
“We’ve learned subtlety, Alek,” Castillo said. “What we did was refuse to sell them any more parts for the oil well drilling equipment and refineries they seized.”
“Whereupon we — I mean the Russian Federation — leapt to their aid in the interest of internal peace and cooperation, and sent them the parts they needed.”
“Which you — I mean the Russian Federation — since they don’t make those parts themselves, bought from us, doubled the price, and then sold to the Venezuelans. Correct?”
“You’re not saying there’s anything wrong with turning a little profit on a business deal, are you?”
“Absolutely not! So when we found out what the Russians were doing, we had several options. We could stop selling the parts to the Russians, which would have meant our parts people wouldn’t have made their normal profit. That was unacceptable, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Or we could have sunk the Russian Federation ships either as they were leaving the U.S. or — after the parts had been put ashore in Russia, where they were reloaded into crates marked ‘More Fine Products of Russian Federation Craftsmen’—when the ships carrying the parts were en route to Venezuela. That would have been an act of war, so we didn’t do that, either.”