The Hunters (Presidential Agent 3)

They were halfway to Pevsner’s house when János caught up with them in Pevsner’s black Mercedes-Benz S600, then passed them.

Aleksandr Pevsner, looking a member of the British landed gen

try—he was wearing a Barbour rainproof jacket, corduroy pants, a checkered shirt, and a plaid woolen hat—stood waiting for them under the light over his front door. János stood behind him.

“Go open the door for me, Lester,” Castillo said. “I want him to think you’re an embassy driver.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get the pancake flour and maple syrup from the trunk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“¡Hola, Alek!” Castillo called in Spanish as he got out of the car. “Been out in the rain, have you?”

“I was at the stable,” Pevsner said.

“Hey, Mr. Respin,” Delchamps called cheerfully, in Russian. “I knew when I saw János that you’d probably be somewhere around. It’s been a longtime.”

“Nine years,” Pevsner replied after a long moment. “So long I forget what name you were using then.”

“As a matter of fact, so do I,” Delchamps replied. “Saffery, maybe?”

“I don’t think that was it,” Pevsner said. “What name are you using these days?”

“Delchamps. Edgar Delchamps. And what about you, Vasily?”

“Well, Mr. Delchamps, while I’m pleased to see you after all those years you’re not the old friend I expected our mutual acquaintance to have with him.”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Alek,” Castillo said, “but that old friend isn’t at all sure you’re really a friend of his.”

“Why does ol’ Charley here keep calling you Alek, Vasily?”

“Because that’s my name!” Pevsner snapped.

“Where would you like me to put this stuff, sir?” Lester Bradley asked as he walked up with the maple syrup and pancake flour.

Pevsner looked at what Bradley was carrying.

“I just happened to be passing a Sam’s Club,” Castillo said. “And I remembered how much Sergei and Aleksandr like their pancakes and I figured, what the hell.”

“Give it to János,” Pevsner ordered.

“Hell, I’ll carry it,” Castillo said. “If János takes it, he’ll have to take his hand off his pistol and I know how much he hates to do that.” He took the flour and the gallon jug from Bradley. “That’ll be all for now, Bradley,” he said, then turned to Pevsner. “You are going to ask us in, aren’t you, Alek?”

Pevsner exhaled audibly, shook his head, and turned around and held open the door to his house.

János followed everybody inside.

“I just remembered where it was the last time I saw you, Vasily—excuse me, Alek,” Delchamps said.

“Where was that?” Pevsner said.

Delchamps turned to Castillo. “Remember when Laurent Kabila was trying to overthrow Mobutu Sese Seko in the Congo, Charley?”

“Yeah, vaguely. What was that? 1997? 1998?”

“Ninety-seven. Well, the good guys needed some guns, so I called Alek here—what does that stand for, ‘Aleksandr’?”