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In the past forty-eight hours—give or take; having crossed through so many time zones, he didn’t know how long it had been in real time—he had flown across the North Atlantic, then, at the controls of an airplane he’d never flown before, across the Mediterranean. And then, while Jake and Fernando were flying across the South Atlantic, instead of crashing on one of the Gulfstream’s comfortable couches he’d consumed at least a gallon of coffee so he could stay awake while trying to make some sense of Eric Kocian’s notes, much of which had been written in abbreviations known only to Kocian. And then he’d made his second takeoff and landing in the Gulfstream, coming down from Recife.
And while he had been making a whirlwind tour of Paris, Fulda, and Budapest, there had been an attempt on his life, which had forced him to kill two people. Killing people always bothered him even when it was necessary.
He knew that he was exhausted and that what he should be doing—especially if he was going to have to deal with Aleksandr Pevsner, where he would really need all his faculties, presuming he was going to be able to see Aleksandr Pevsner—was to crash for at least twenty-four hours.
The problem there was, he didn’t think he had twenty-four hours.
He approached the Pilar exit from Route 8.
If memory serves—and please, God, let it serve—I get off here, make a sharp left onto the highway overpass, drive past the Jumbo supermarket on the left and the Mercedes showroom on the right, take the next right and then the next left, and then drive past the hospital, and, four clicks later, maybe a little less, turn right into the Buena Vista Country Club, where I probably won’t be able to get in. Or Pevsner won’t be there.
There was a red traffic light when he reached the intersection where he was to turn right.
For the first time, he looked at the instrument panel. A warning light was flashing. The fuel gauge needle was resting on EMPTY.
“Oh, fuck! You’ve done it again, Inspector Clouseau!”
There was a Shell gas station to his immediate left. But there also was a steady line of oncoming traffic that kept him from turning into it. And when the light turned green, he realized that his first idea—waiting for a chance to make the turn—was impractical. There was a symphony of automobile horns blasting angrily behind him.
He made the right turn and then the left, and there was an ESSO station right in front of him.
He pulled in.
“Thank God!”
Two attendants appeared.
“Fill it up,” Castillo ordered.
He took his wallet from his pocket to get his credit-card.
He dropped it.
It bounced under the car and he and one of the attendants got on their hands and knees to retrieve it.
He stood up.
A tall, dark-haired, well-dressed man who appeared to be in his late thirties was walking purposefully toward the service station’s restroom.
Jesus Christ, I’m hallucinating. That guy looks just like Pevsner!
He looked around the pumps. There was a black Mercedes-Benz S600 at the next row of pumps. A burly man was speaking to the attendant. Another burly man walked to the hood of the car and leaned against the fender and watched the door to the men’s room.
Castillo walked to the men’s room, pushed the door open, and walked to the urinal next to the man, who didn’t turn to look at him.
“I just love these service station pissoirs,” Castillo announced, in Russian. “You never know who you’ll bump into in one of them.”
Aleksandr Pevsner’s head snapped to look at him.
The hairs on the back of Castillo’s neck rose.
His eyes are like ice.
And then Pevsner smiled.
The door of the men’s room opened and the burly man who had been leaning on the Mercedes came in. He had his hand inside his suit jacket.
“If he takes out a gun, Alek, I’ll have to kill him,” Castillo said.
