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Pena barked: “You’re going to spend the rest of your life in the Oaxaca State Prison, you realize. If you live long enough . . .”
“Think that through, Juan Carlos. Are you really in a position to threaten anyone? The guys with the guns get to do the threatening. You might want to write that down.”
“I don’t scare, Carlos. You might want to write that down.”
“I really hope that’s true,” Castillo said.
Two of the men in black got into the Suburbans and drove them out of sight into the grapefruit orchard.
“Speaking of the truth . . .” Castillo began, and then interrupted himself. “But before we get into that, why don’t you sit down and drink your coffee?”
“Fuck you and your coffee,” Pena said.
“Are you saying that because you don’t like coffee, or to prove you’re not terrified and aren’t thirsty?”
“Fuck you,” Pena repeated—but couldn’t restrain a slight smile.
“Go on, have some coffee,” Castillo said, taking a seat beside Sweaty. “We used to be pals, and, who knows, maybe we can be again.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Pena said. He sat in one of the upholstered wicker chairs across from Castillo and Svetlana, and reached for the coffee.
Max walked up to him, sat on his haunches, and thrust his paw at him.
Pena shook it.
“What’s a nice dog like you doing hanging around with a crazy gringo?” he asked.
Castillo thought: Max, you better be right!
Please, God, let Max be right!
“I have a confession to make, old buddy,” Castillo said. “I have not been exactly truthful with you.”
“No shit?” Pena said, as he scratched Max’s ears.
Castillo gestured with his coffee cup at Koussevitzky.
“The last time you were here, I told you that my friend Stefan Koussevitzky here is an Israeli citrus expert. Actually, he’s not an Israeli, and he really doesn’t know much about citrus.”
“No shit? Then what is he?”
“He’s a businessman, associated with the LCBF Corporation. And before that, he was a major of Spetsnaz.” He gestured toward the black-clad men. “You know about the Spetsnaz, Juan Carlos, right?”
“I’ve heard the term,” Pena said.
“And I told you that Señorita Barlow owns an estancia in Uruguay. That’s true, but before she bought the estancia, she was known as Svetlana Alekseeva, and she was an SVR podpolkovnik. That’s a lieutenant colonel, Juan Carlos.”
Pena studied her, then said, “You won’t mind, Red, if I find that very hard to believe.”
“I won’t mind, but you’d be a fool if you didn’t,” she said.
“And, finally, I told you that Lester here is a computer expert. That’s also true, but what I didn’t tell you is that he’s my version of your American Express.”
“This kid is your American Express?” Pena said.
Castillo smiled. “Looks can be deceiving, mi amigo. Say hello to Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley, USMC, Retired.”
Pena shook his head, then eyed Lester.
