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The Shooters—Sergeant Major Davidson, Sergeant Kensington, Sándor Tor, and Ricardo Solez—were on perimeter guard duty, no less efficient because they were seated comfortably in strategically placed upholstered chairs.
Edgar Delchamps not only approved the perimeter guard but suggested that Castillo recruit more Shooters for it. He said that he trusted Aleksandr Pevsner about half as far as he could throw him vis-à-vis not revealing the location of the safe house and pointing out that Pevsner was now aware that just about everybody with knowledge was gathered in one place, which made it one hell of a rich target for somebody who wanted mouths shut permanently.
Delchamps also volunteered the hope that Castillo was not holding his breath waiting for Pevsner to tell him anything about the location of Howard Kennedy. The race was on—and in high goddamned gear—if Castillo wanted to get the sonofabitch before Pevsner did.
Castillo was of two minds.
Professionally, he agreed with Delchamps—and just about everybody else—that Pevsner couldn’t be trusted and wouldn’t hesitate to have them all killed to protect himself—or, perhaps more important, to reduce or remove a threat to his family.
Personally, Castillo trusted Pevsner, at least to a degree.
But, obviously, he had to go with his professional judgment.
When his cellular went off, he had just about decided that school was going to be in session for a week—or longer—and to tell Bradley to get Dick Miller at the Nebraska Avenue Complex on the horn and to tell Miller to call either General Bruce J. McNab or Vic D’Allessando at Bragg and tell them to get a ten-man A-Team on the next flight out of Miami—put ’em in civvies and tell ’em to make like they’re soccer players—and, yeah, we have weapons here.
“¿Hol
a?” Castillo said to his phone.
“You, on the other hand, sound like a Porteno,” his caller said.
“So how’s the skiing?”
“Very nice, thank you. Our friend is in 1808 at the Conrad in Punta del Este.”
“You’re sure?” Castillo said, but after a moment he realized he was talking to a broken connection.
Delchamps looked at him with a question in his eyes.
“O ye of little faith!” Castillo said, and turned to Yung. “What’s the Conrad in Punta del Este?”
“Fancy hotel. Fanciest. With a casino.”
“Is there an airport there?”
“Yeah.”
“Jake, could we take the Gulfstream from here to wherever Punta del Este is in Uruguay…”
“On the Atlantic, about a hundred kilometers from Montevideo,” Yung furnished.
“…and then to Quito without refueling?”
“No problem. What do you plan to do about immigration?”
“Worry about that when we get to the States,” Castillo said.
He stuck out his tongue at Delchamps, made a loud humming sound, then said: “You can interpret that—it’s the best I can do—as sounding ‘Boots and Saddles.’ Kennedy is in room 1808 of the Conrad and we’re going to go get him.”
“Who we?” Delchamps asked.
“You, Munz, me, and Two-Gun,” Castillo said. “Alex, can you get on a secure line and tell the CIA guy in Montevideo…what’s his name?”
“Robert Howell,” Darby replied. “Bob Howell.”
“…to meet us with a car—better yet, a Yukon, or at least a van, something big—at the Punta del Este airport? And that we’re leaving right now?”
“Do I tell him why?”
