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“Right off Route 8,” Pevsner said. “I would like to rendezvous with the Ranger there on the most remote of the polo fields, take János to the place I mentioned, then have the Ranger take me to Jorge Newbery to meet my family. Would you carry us to the Polo Association?”
“When?”
“Right now, if that would be possible.”
Castillo exhaled audibly.
Then he said: “Set it up, please, Edgar. Lead car, Traffik, trail car. Shooters in everything. I’ll ride with Alek and János in the Traffik.”
Delchamps nodded and walked toward the house.
“Thank you, friend Charley,” Pevsner said. “I am greatly in your debt.”
Castillo shrugged.
“Can I give him some money?” Aleksandr Pevsner asked.
Castillo looked at him and saw that he was looking toward the house where Kensington was leaning against the wall outside his “operating room,” puffing on a cigar.
“You mean Sergeant Kensington?” Castillo asked.
“Your doctor. I am very grateful for what he did for János. I would like to show my appreciation.”
“Giving Sergeant Kensington money—how do I put this?—would be like slipping your priest a few bucks for granting you absolution. Except that if you tried, Kensington would probably rearrange your face so you would remember not to make that particular faux pas again.”
“Please tell him I consider myself in his debt and if there is anything I can ever do for him…”
“Tell him yourself, Alek,” Castillo said. “He’ll be in the Traffik with us and János.” He paused, chuckled, and went on: “But as a shooter, he has pretty much given up his medical career.”
“Similarly, my friend Charley, I am deeply in your debt. And not solely for saving my life.”
“You can pay that debt by staying out of my way while I’m running down our great mutual friend Howard Kennedy. I want him, Alek.”
“If I knew where he was, I’d tell you.”
“I want him without a beauty hole in his forehead, you understand that?”
“With great difficulty,” Pevsner said, nodding slowly. “There is only one suitable punishment for a man who enters your life dishonestly and gains your confidence and affection…”
“Got a little egg on your face, do you, Alek?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Aleksandr Pevsner, that great judge of character, trusted the wrong guy and mistrusted the good guy. Good guys, plural.”
“I’m not familiar with the expression.”
“You know what I mean, Alek.”
“I am where I am today because I…”
“By where you are today, I guess you mean hiding under your Mercedes from your good friends in the FSB while they tried to whack you?”
Pevsner’s face tightened.
“If that was the case…”
“No ‘if’ about it, Alek. Edgar Delchamps knew one of the guys in the laundry truck. Lieutenant Colonel Yevgeny Komogorov, deputy to Colonel Pyotr Sunev, director of the FSB’s Service for the Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight Against Terrorism.”
