Covert Warriors (Presidential Agent 7)

“Very interesting,” Juan Carlos said. “Maybe you’re not the all-around son . . . bas . . . evil person everybody says you are.”

Castillo laughed when he saw that Juan Carlos was applying his “when meeting someone cutthroat, attack to put them on the defense” theory of how best to deal with dangerous people who expect to be treated differentially.

Sweaty said, “You’re learning, Juan Carlos.”

“You’re the policeman, obviously,” Pevsner said.

“Carlos has been telling me that Max is an infallible judge of character,” Juan Carlos said. “I tend to agree. We hadn’t known each other ninety seconds when he was begging me to scratch his ears.”

“And if I may be permitted to say so, Señor Pena,” Pevsner said, “I am not at all surprised that you and Karl are friends. You share not only a very odd sense of humor but a complete inability to take things seriously.”

“That’s it!” Svetlana snapped. “Stop.”

She walked to her Uncle Nicolai and allowed him to kiss her cheek.

“Introduce me to your friend, Svetlana.”

“Juan Carlos, this is my Uncle Nicolai,” Sweaty said. “Nicolai Tarasov, Juan Carlos Pena. I’d forgotten. You know Lester, don’t you?”

“How could I forget Mr. Bradley?” Tarasov said, and patted Lester on the back.

Tarasov and Pena shamelessly examined each other as they shook hands.

“And tell me what brings the chief of the Policía Federal for Oaxaca State so far from home?” Tarasov said.

“Well, not much was happening at Hacienda Santa Maria,” Pena said, “so I thought I might as well come over here and arrest somebody.”

Castillo chuckled.

“I said stop that and I meant it!” Svetlana said. “All right, Aleksandr, what’s so important that you couldn’t tell us on the Brick?”

“Before we get into that, do you suppose I could have a glass of wine?” Castillo said.

“It would be better if you were sober when I tell you what I have to tell you.”

“I said a glass, Aleksandr, not a damn bottle. Humor me.”

That’s unusual. He usually tries to feed people he’s dealing with all the booze he can get into them.

What the hell is this all about?

A waiter—whose starched white jacket did not entirely conceal the mini Uzi on his hip—appeared.

“Bring wine, some of that Cabernet Sauvignon, for my guests,” Pevsner ordered. Then he turned to Castillo. “The reason I didn’t open this subject on the Brick is I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

“What makes you think I’ll believe you now?”

“Get to it, Aleksandr,” Svetlana ordered.

He looked at her and nodded.

“Vladimir Vladimirovich doesn’t want to exterminate us,” he said. “Unless of course that should prove to be convenient while he’s doing what he set out to do in the first place. It took me a long time to figure that out.”

“Of course he wants to exterminate us!” Svetlana said. “For all the reasons you know.”

“Listen to me carefully, Svetlana,” Pevsner said. “If he can eliminate us while he’s doing what he set out to do in the first place, he’d be pleased. But eliminating us is not his highest priority.”

Castillo looked at Pevsner. Where the hell is he going with this?