0940 10 June 2005
The preparations to get through Mexican customs without having to explain Sherman's radio and their small arms turned out to be unnecessary. As the Lear trailed a follow me jeep down a taxiway at the small but grandly named Cozumel International Airport, Castillo saw an off-brown Mexican customs Ford F-150 pickup truck and three white Yukon XLs-with heavily tinted windows-parked where they were apparently being directed. A tall, dark-haired man wearing powder blue slacks and a yellow short-sleeved shirt-dressed for the golf course-was sitting on the hood of one of the Yukons.
Aleksandr Pevsner had come to the field himself to meet them. Castillo didn't see Howard Kennedy or any of Pevsner's bodyguards anywhere.
But they're almost certainly in the Yukons.
"That's Pevsner," Charley said. "But the odds are, he's not calling himself that now. Play along with me."
Two Mexican customs officers, armed with chrome-plated. 45 ACP semiautomatic pistols, approached the Lear as the engines wound down and Charley opened the door.
"Welcome to Cozumel," one of them said in Spanish. "May we come aboard?"
"Of course," Charley said in Spanish.
Customs and Immigration lasted no longer than it took for the customs officers to rubber-stamp Fernando's certificate of permission for unlimited, frequent, unscheduled entry into Mexican airspace. They didn't even look very closely at anyone in the cabin.
Castillo waited until they had driven off in the pickup before getting out of the airplane.
Pevsner, smiling, waved at him.
"Welcome to Cozumel," he called in Spanish.
"Thank you, senor," Charley replied in Spanish as he walked to the Yukon and Pevsner slid nimbly off the hood. They shook hands.
"I'm afraid I've forgotten your name, senor," Charley said.
"Why not call me Dondiemo, Alex Dondiemo?" Pevsner said. "What's in a name?"
"Roberto's cousin, perhaps?"
Pevsner smiled at him. "Something like that," he said, and asked, "And who are you, today?"
"An American golfer named Charley Castillo, Senor Dondiemo."
"Funny, I would have thought a snorkler," Pevsner said, switching to English. "Snorklers are usually busy looking for something. Anyway, Charley, it's good to see you again. And who did you bring with you?"
"My cousin, Fernando Lopez, a copilot for the airplane, and a: I guess you could call him a super cellular telephone technician."
"And that's all?"
Charley nodded.
"And who are they really?"
"Fernando is really my cousin. The pilot is an Air Force colonel, an expert in 727 aircraft, and the technician is really a Special Forces sergeant."
"And no old associates of Howard's, excuse me, Roberto?"
"Not a one."
"He was so worried about that that he just couldn't bring himself to come out here to greet you himself," Pevsner said.
"He had no cause for worry," Castillo said.
"I tried to tell him that," Pevsner said. "But Howard is a worrier."
He gestured-a casual wave-in the direction of the two Yukons behind his. Doors on both immediately opened and half a dozen men got quickly out. They were all holding Uzi submachine pistols.
Charley recognized two of them from Vienna. One of them was the large East European who had pulled his jacket down, skillfully immobilizing him when he had been meeting nature's call in the men's room of the Hotel Sacher.
"You can put those away," Pevsner ordered in Russian. "And help our guests with their luggage." He turned to Charley and, still in Russian, said, "Why don't you ask your friends to join us, Charley?"
"What language are we going to speak?"
"Good point, Charley," Pevsner said in Russian and then switched to English. "How about English? A good hotelier like Alex Dondiemo would speak pretty good English, wouldn't you think?"
Charley smiled at him and asked, "And is it Senor Dondiemo?"
"Alex, of course, Charley. We're friends, right?"
"I hope so," Charley said and waved at the airplane. Fernando got off first, followed by Colonel Torine and Sergeant Sherman.
"Welcome to Cozumel," Pevsner said, offering his hand. "I'm Alex Dondiemo, your innkeeper. Charley and I are old friends."
"Fernando Lopez," Fernando said.
"Jack Sherman," Sergeant Sherman said.
"Jake Torine, Mr. Dondiemo."
"The bellmen will take care of your luggage," Pevsner said. "And it's hot out here in the sun. Why don't we go to the hotel? A little breakfast is probably in order."
He gestured toward the Yukon and then walked around the front of it. When Charley got in, he saw that there were two more "bellmen" sitting in the rear seat of the Yukon.
What did he expect, that an FBI SWAT team was going to erupt from the airplane, slap cuffs on him, and haul him off to the States?
He didn't think that was likely to happen, but it could have, and Pevsner stays ahead of his game by expecting – being thoroughly prepared for – the unexpected.
When Pevsner started up the Yukon and began to move, the Yukon parked behind him got in front of him and stayed there on the three-mile drive along a wide white beach to the Grande Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort.
When Pevsner cheerfully volunteered, "We like to think our beach is much nicer that Miami. Much nicer than any I know in Europe. The only one I know as nice is in the Florida Panhandle, around Pensacola," Charley understood that Pevsner was not going to talk about the airplane while they were in the Yukon.
He thinks we might be wired. Keep that in mind, Charley, he doesn't trust you.
[FOUR]
The Grande Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort was larger than Charley expected. The main building-there were cottages as well-was a sprawling, four-storey white building right on the beach. There was a very verdant golf course. As Charley watched, a long-legged blonde whose white shorts failed to conceal much of the cheeks of her derriere missed a long putt.
The main building had an underground garage, access to which was guarded by a muscular Mexican in a police-type uniform standing by a barrier that looked like it could stop anything up to an Abrams tank.
They had just gotten out of the Yukon when the third one, with the "bellmen" carrying their luggage, pulled into the garage.
They didn't have time to get into Sherman's suitcase.
Or did they?
Take nothing for granted, Charley.
There was a bank of elevators, guarded by another man in a police-type uniform.
Do they guard the elevators all the time or only when Pevsner's here?
They got in the elevator and Pevsner put a key in the control panel, then pushed a button marked penthouse b.
When the elevator started to move, Pevsner took the key from the control panel and handed it to Castillo.
"There will be more keys upstairs," he said.
When the elevator door opened, Castillo saw they were in a small lobby. There was only one exit from it: Open double doors showed a large living room overlooking the water.
As they walked through the lobby, there was an electronic buzz.
"Usually," Pevsner said, "that goes off only when a departing guest has souvenirs in his clothing. People just can't seem to bear to part with one-sometimes, more than one-of our silver bowls when they leave us."
Somewhat sheepishly, Fernando reached under his shirt and came out with the. 45 ACP semiautomatic pistol he had been carrying in the small of his back.
"Well, while I admit there are people here who regard visiting North Americans as an easy source of income," Pevsner said, "you're really not going to need that."
"Fascinating detector," Castillo said. "I guess it would detect anything-say, a wire-right?"
"It's a very good detector, Charley," Pevsner said.
"Well, now that you know we're not trying to steal your silver," Castillo said, "can we get to the business at hand?"
"Absolutely," Pevsner said. "But first, come in and say hello to another old friend of yours."
He gestured for them to pass through the double doors. Charley went first, and, as he entered the room, Howard Kennedy walked up to him, smiling, and put out his hand.