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That triggered a tidal wave of doubt and concern in Castillo, surprising him both by its intensity and the speed with which it hit him and then grew.
It started with his reaction to Pevsner’s saying he had a “small seafood business in Chile.”
A small seafood business, my ass, Castillo had thought sarcastically. It’s called Cancún Provisions, Limited, and it flies a Boeing 777-200LR full of seafood to Cancún every other day. The 777 is owned by Peruaire. And you own that, too.
Was that natural modesty, Alek, or was the modesty a Pavlovian reflex of a former KGB colonel?
“Say as little as possible; deflect attention.”
How much can I really trust Comrade Polkovnik Pevsner?
Right now he tells me I’m family. In love—intending to marry—his cousin Susan, formerly Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva of the SVR.
But how long will that last if whatever the hell is going on here threatens his wife and children or his way of life?
Most of the charges laid against him are bullshit.
But, on the other hand, I know he supervised the beating to death with an angle iron a man who betrayed him. Or used the angle iron himself. Probably the latter.
My friend Alek is not a nice man.
Edgar Delchamps neither likes nor trusts Alek, and has told me so bluntly. And I know I can trust Delchamps. He’s been dealing with Russian spooks—successfully dealing with them—for nearly as long as I am old.
Castillo was as suddenly brought out of his unpleasant reverie as quickly as he had entered it.
There were soft fingers on his cheeks, the scent of perfume in his nostrils, and light blue eyes intently searching his.
“My darling,” Sweaty asked. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“You look like you’d seen a ghost!”
He shook his head, said, “I’m fine, baby.” He put his hand on her back and felt her warmth though the linen shirt.
Sweaty rose on her toes and kissed him on the lips with great tenderness.
Edgar Delchamps’s face showed signs of amused scorn.
Castillo gave him the finger with the hand that had been against Sweaty’s back, and announced, “I need a drink.”
He mimed to the bartender what he wanted. The bartender, a shaven-headed, barrel-chested man in his thirties, nodded and reached for a bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon. Castillo knew that the crisp white bartender’s jacket concealed a Micro Uzi submachine gun.
The bartender was one of the nearly one hundred ex-members of the KGB or the SVR whom Pevsner had brought out of Russia to work for him. And from the looks of him, the bartender was probably ex-Spetsnaz.
There was the snap of fingers.
The bartender looked at Pevsner, who held up two fingers, and then pointed to two armchairs by the coffee table. The bartender nodded.
Pevsner waved Castillo toward the armchairs. Sweaty steered Castillo away from the armchair and to the couch and then sat beside him. Pevsner’s face showed much the same amused scorn as Delchamps’s face had. Castillo reacted by leaning over to Sweaty and kissing her.
Max walked to the coffee table, sniffed, decided he would pass on the seafood, and went and lay at Castillo’s feet.
The bartender served the bourbon to Pevsner and Castillo, then looked to the others for orders. Sweaty shook her head. Delchamps ordered, in Russian, Scotch whisky on the rocks, two chunks only, and a glass of water on the side.
How did he know he’s Russian?
Was that a way to find out?
