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“Of course,” Charley said in Spanish.
Customs and Immigration lasted no longer than it took for the customs officers to rubber-stamp Fernando’s certificate of permission for unlimited, frequent, unscheduled entry into Mexican airspace. They didn’t even look very closely at anyone in the cabin.
Castillo waited until they had driven off in the pickup before getting out of the airplane.
Pevsner, smiling, waved at him.
“Welcome to Cozumel,” he called in Spanish.
“Thank you, señor,” Charley replied in Spanish as he walked to the Yukon and Pevsner slid nimbly off the hood. They shook hands.
“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name, señor,” Charley said.
“Why not call me Dondiemo, Alex Dondiemo?” Pevsner said. “What’s in a name?”
“Roberto’s cousin, perhaps?”
Pevsner smiled at him. “Something like that,” he said, and asked, “And who are you, today?”
“An American golfer named Charley Castillo, Señor Dondiemo.”
“Funny, I would have thought a snorkler,” Pevsner said, switching to English. “Snorklers are usually busy looking for something. Anyway, Charley, it’s good to see you again. And who did you bring with you?”
“My cousin, Fernando Lopez, a copilot for the airplane, and a . . . I guess you could call him a super cellular telephone technician.”
“And that’s all?”
Charley nodded.
“And who are they really?”
“Fernando is really my cousin. The pilot is an Air Force colonel, an expert in 727 aircraft, and the technician is really a Special Forces sergeant.”
“And no old associates of Howard’s, excuse me, Roberto?”
“Not a one.”
“He was so worried about that that he just couldn’t bring himself to come out here to greet you himself,” Pevsner said.
“He had no cause for worry,” Castillo said.
“I tried to tell him that,” Pevsner said. “But Howard is a worrier.”
He gestured—a casual wave—in the direction of the two Yukons behind his. Doors on both immediately opened and half a dozen men got quickly out. They were all holding Uzi submachine pistols.
Charley recognized two of them from Vienna. One of them was the large East European who had pulled his jacket down, skillfully immobilizing him when he had been meeting nature’s call in the men’s room of the Hotel Sacher.
“You can put those away,” Pevsner ordered in Russian. “And help our guests with their luggage.” He turned to Charley and, still in Russian, said, “Why don’t you ask your friends to join us, Charley?”
“What language are we going to speak?”
“Good point, Charley,” Pevsner said in Russian and then switched to English. “How about English? A good hotelier like Alex Dondiemo would speak pretty good English, wouldn’t you think?”
Charley smiled at him and asked, “And is it Señor Dondiemo?”
“Alex, of course, Charley. We’re friends, right?”
“I hope so,” Charley said and waved at the airplane. Fernando got off first, followed by Colonel Torine and Sergeant Sherman.
