Covert Warriors (Presidential Agent 7)

Don Fernando was aware of this. When Maria Elena’s time had come, she had flown to Mexico City, where Fernando had been born. He himself had been born on Hacienda San Dominic, the Castillo farm near Guadalajara, and Doña Alicia on Hacienda Santa Maria.

“Not a problem,” Don Fernando announced. “They’re like brothers; they’ll work it out between them.”

Carlos and Fernando had almost immediately—frankly surprising both their grandparents—become close and inseparable. Fernando called Carlos “Gringo,” and Carlos called Fernando “Fatso.”

Fernando and Charley were sitting with Svetlana, Stefan Koussevitzky, Lester Bradley, and Don Armando Medina on the veranda as two brown Suburbans with Policía Federal insignia on their doors kicked up a dust cloud coming up the road through the grapefruit groves to the house.

The front doors of both vehicles opened simultaneously. A trim, neatly uniformed Federale, holding a CAR-15 in his hands as if he knew what to do with it, got out of the lead vehicle.

Well, Castillo thought, despite what Don Armando said about us being old friends, I wouldn’t have recognized Juan Carlos if I’d fallen over him.

A stout, balding man in civilian clothing, a thick black cigar clutched firmly in his teeth, got out of the second Suburban. A Colt Model 1911A1 in a skeleton holster was on his belt.

Who the hell is he?

I’ll be damned! That’s Juan Carlos!

Last time I saw him he looked like a model in an advertisement for men’s cologne. Now he looks like . . . well, a fat Mexican cop.

Juan Carlos Pena, el jefe of the Policía Federal for the province of Oaxaca, waved cheerfully, and with the cigar still in his mouth, called, in perfect American English, “Carlos, you sonofabitch, how the fuck are you?”

Then he walked quickly onto the veranda, and the moment Castillo stood up, wrapped him in an affectionate hug.

Castillo saw that Fernando was smiling, and knew it was not at the display of affection but rather at Castillo’s discomfiture.

“Good to see you, Juan Carlos,” Castillo said.

Where the hell did he get that cologne?

And what did he do, pour it on?

“How the hell long has it been?” Juan Carlos said. “Too fucking long, that’s for goddamn sure.”

“How about a glass of wine, Juan Carlos?” Castillo asked in Spanish. “Or something stronger?”

“A little Jack Daniel’s would go down nicely,” Juan Carlos said, continuing in English. “But not until after I meet the girlfriend. You’re right, Fernando, she’s spectacular!”

“Swe . . . Susanna, say hello to an old friend, Juan Carlos Pena.”

“Hola,” Sweaty said. “Nice to meet you, Susanna Barlow.”

“And this is Stefan Koussevitzky,” Castillo said. “And this is Lester Bradley. My grandmother sent him down to see if he can straighten out the hacienda’s computers.”

Max instinctively stood up.

Sweaty laid a gentle hand on the dog’s back, and in Hungarian said, “It’s okay, baby.”

“What the fuck is that?” Juan Carlos said. “I’ve ridden smaller horses.”

“Meet Max,” Castillo said.

Juan Carlos looked at Svetlana. “What was that language you was speaking?”

“Hungarian. I’m Uruguayan but my parents immigrated there from Hungary.”

Juan Carlos nodded. “I noticed the funny accent.”

“I’m surprised you don’t know there’s three kinds of Spanish, Juan Carlos,” Castillo said. “Castilian—Spanish-Spanish; Southern Cone—the Spanish spoken in Uruguay, Argentina, and Chile; and the Spanish spoken in Mexico, Central America, and the rest of South America. Susanna speaks the Southern Cone variety.”