By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“Welcome to Cozumel,” Pevsner said, offering his hand. “I’m Alex Dondiemo, your innkeeper. Charley and I are old friends.”

“Fernando Lopez,” Fernando said.

“Jack Sherman,” Sergeant Sherman said.

“Jake Torine, Mr. Dondiemo.”

“The bellmen will take care of your luggage,” Pevsner said. “And it’s hot out here in the sun. Why don’t we go to the hotel? A little breakfast is probably in order.”

He gestured toward the Yukon and then walked around the front of it. When Charley got in, he saw that there were two more “bellmen” sitting in the rear seat of the Yukon.

What did he expect, that an FBI SWAT team was going to erupt from the airplane, slap cuffs on him, and haul him off to the States?

He didn’t think that was likely to happen, but it could have, and Pevsner stays ahead of his game by expecting— being thoroughly prepared for—the unexpected.

When Pevsner started up the Yukon and began to move, the Yukon parked behind him got in front of him and stayed there on the three-mile drive along a wide white beach to the Grande Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort.

When Pevsner cheerfully volunteered, “We like to think our beach is much nicer than Miami. Much nicer than any I know in Europe. The only one I know as nice is in the Florida Panhandle, around Pensacola.” Charley understood that Pevsner was not going to talk about the airplane while they were in the Yukon.

He thinks we might be wired. Keep that in mind, Charley: He doesn’t trust you.

[FOUR]

The Grande Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort was larger than Charley expected. The main building—there were cottages as well—was a sprawling, four-story white building right on the beach. There was a very verdant golf course. As Charley watched, a long-legged blonde whose white shorts failed to conceal much of the cheeks of her derriere missed a long putt.

The main building had an underground garage, access to which was guarded by a muscular Mexican in a police-type uniform standing by a barrier that looked like it could stop anything up to an Abrams tank.

They had just gotten out of the Yukon when the third one, with the “bellmen” carrying their luggage, pulled into the garage.

They didn’t have time to get into Sherman’s suitcase.

Or did they?

Take nothing for granted, Charley.

There was a bank of elevators, guarded by another man in a police-type uniform.

Do they guard the elevators all the time or only when Pe

vsner’s here?

They got in the elevator and Pevsner put a key in the control panel, then pushed a button marked PENTHOUSE B.

When the elevator started to move, Pevsner took the key from the control panel and handed it to Castillo.

“There will be more keys upstairs,” he said.

When the elevator door opened, Castillo saw they were in a small lobby. There was only one exit from it: Open double doors showed a large living room overlooking the water.

As they walked through the lobby, there was an electronic buzz.

“Usually,” Pevsner said, “that goes off only when a departing guest has souvenirs in his clothing. People just can’t seem to bear to part with one—sometimes, more than one— of our silver bowls when they leave us.”

Somewhat sheepishly, Fernando reached under his shirt and came out with the .45 ACP semiautomatic pistol he had been carrying in the small of his back.

“Well, while I admit there are people here who regard visiting North Americans as an easy source of income,” Pevsner said, “you’re really not going to need that.”

“Fascinating detector,” Castillo said. “I guess it would detect anything—say, a wire—right?”