Covert Warriors (Presidential Agent 7)

She moved the handset from her breast to her ear.

“If I have your word that you’ll do nothing until Carlito approves,” Svetlana said, “we can take off from here in about fifteen minutes.”

“You have my word that I will take no action until I tell him what I am going to do, and why,” Pevsner said. “And, Svetlana, remember who you are. How dare you talk to me that way.”

“I’ll tell you who I am, Aleksandr,” Svetlana said. “The woman who will tell my Carlito to fly over there. Or to stay here. And if we stay here, you will be free to do whatever you wish, and I can only hope that you will realize that you will be doing it alone.”

There was a long silence.

“What’s his name?” Juan Carlos asked.

“Aleksandr,” Castillo furnished.

“Can you hear me, Aleksandr?” Pena asked, raising his voice.

“I can hear you,” Pevsner said. “The policeman?”

“Actually, I’m a little more than a policeman,” Pena said. “But I used to be, and when I was, I learned that there are some women you just don’t fuck with, and your Cousin Sweaty is one of them. I wouldn’t cross her if I was you.”

“Pay attention, Aleksandr,” Castillo said, laughing.

There was a twenty-second pause.

“Then I will expect to see you in a little over three hours,” Pevsner said. “During which time you have my word that I will take no action that could possibly displease either my friend Charley or you, my dear Svetlana.”

The LEDs on the Brick went out; Pevsner had ended the call.

“Why do I think Aleksandr is annoyed with us?” Castillo asked rhetorically, then said, “You going to Acapulco tonight, Juan Carlos? Or do you want to spend the night here?”

“Neither. I’m going with you,” Juan Carlos said. “I’ve been hearing about that sonofabitch for years. Not only do I want to hear what he’s got planned, and for who, I want a look at him.”

“I can assure you, Juan Carlos,” Svetlana said, dead serious, “that Aleksandr’s parents were married. You are speaking of my mother’s sister, and she was not a bitch.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sweaty,” Pena said. “No offense intended.”

“Watch your mouth in the future.”

“Sí, señorita,” Juan Carlos said, contritely.

[TWO]

The Tahitian Suite

Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort

Cozumel, Mexico

0005 21 April 2007

When they had landed at Cozumel International, Castillo had seen “the other” Cessna Mustang, the one used to fly high rollers to the Grand Cozumel casino, and drug money to be laundered out of Mexico. So he was not surprised to find former SVR Colonel Nicolai Tarasov sitting on the balcony

of the twenty-third-floor penthouse suite beside former SVR Colonel Aleksandr Pevsner.

Max, delighted to see Pevsner, ran out onto the balcony, reared on his hind legs, draped his paws over Pevsner’s shoulders, and affectionately lapped his face.

“Can’t you control your goddamn animal?” Pevsner demanded.

“He likes you,” Castillo said. “Be grateful. His other mode is ‘rip your throat out.’”