The Hunters (Presidential Agent 3)

Castillo took his cellular phone from his pocket and pushed an autodial button. He put the phone to his ear and, after a moment, said, “Castillo, Alex. We’re on our way back there. ETA ten minutes or less. When we get there I want that Traffik ready to move with Solez at the wheel and Munz in the back. I want Davidson and Kensington, with Car-4s and handguns—and Whizbangs, if there are any—ready to get into this Bimmer the minute we get there. Delchamps and I will transfer to the Traffik. Delchamps will need something heavier than his pistol. If there’s another Uzi there, fine. Put that and some Whizbangs in the Traffik. If not, a Car-4. There may be people watching who I don’t want to see any of this happening. Do what you can about that. Got all that?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Darby said. “What’s going on?”

“And make sure that Solez has a cellular I can call from this one.”

“Both that BMW and the Traffik have radios. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t. But I don’t know how to work them and there’s not time to learn.”

“You don’t want some company on this excursion?”

“No. The rest of you go on high alert. It’s possible that this excursion is being set up as a feint to cut down the people sitting on Kocian. The priority is still to keep him alive.”

Alex Darby thought over what he had just been told.

“You’re not going to tell me what this is all about?”

“Well, one thing is to determine whether Pevsner is one of the semigood guys or the unscrupulous murderous bastard most people think he is.”

“How do you think that determination will come out?”

“We’re about to find out,” Castillo said, then added, “We just turned onto Route 8,” and broke the connection.

When they reached the safe house in the Mayerling Country Club, Castillo saw that the Traffik was now parked on the driveway so that it blocked a view of the main door of the house from the street and that enough room had been left between it and the shallow steps up to the door for the BMW. From the street, no one would be able to see the BMW.

“Les, pull between the Traffik and the house,” Castillo ordered, softly.

“Yes, sir.”

The door of the house was closed and Castillo could see neither Davidson nor Kensington. But when Bradley had stopped the car and Castillo started to open the door so that he could go in the house and see where the hell they were, Delchamps touched his arm and pointed toward the Traffik.

The rear door was open and Davidson looked as if he was quickly prepared to jump into the BMW.

Castillo waved him off.

“There’s more room in the van,” Castillo said.

Delchamps opened his door and ran around the front of the BMW and quickly got into the Traffik.

“No, Max!” Castillo ordered sternly and reached around the dog and opened the rear door.

Max looked at both open doors, decided they had been opened for him, and that he had misunderstood Castillo—that what Castillo had really said was, “Go, Max!”

“Oh, shit!” Castillo said, then slid across the seat and followed Max into the van. He saw that Alfredo Munz was seated in the third row of seats.

“We’re going to meet Aleksandr Pevsner,” Castillo said. “They expect us—Delchamps, Munz, and me—to be in the Bimmer. So we’ll be in this. If they hit the BMW—a real possibility—just get the hell out of the line of fire. If anybody is here, they’re probably ex-Stasi and therefore good at what they do. And while I would really like to take them out, a firefight with bodies lying all over would cause all sorts of problems I don’t need.”

“Where do you think they’re going to hit us, Colonel?” Jack Davidson asked. “On the road somewhere? The highway?”

“Let’s find out,” Castillo said and took out his cellular, punched an autodial button, and then the SPEAKERPHONE button.

“¿Hola?” Pevsner’s voice loudly came over the phone.

“You really ought to work on getting rid of the Russian accent,” Castillo said. “You really sound funny.”

“Well?”

“Tell me more about this suite of yours in the Sheraton,” Castillo said.