Darby nodded.
"Do you-either of you-have to rush back to the embassy?" Castillo asked. "Or would you have time to look at some of Kocian's files and see if anything rings a bell? At least until I get back?"
"Back from where?"
"Where I'm going, Alex," Castillo said, smiling.
"Curiosity underwhelms me. I'll make time," Darby said, smiling back.
"Me, too," Santini said.
As he picked up the heavily corded telephone, Darby asked, "White House, right?"
"Right."
"Darby again," Darby said into the telephone. "Get me a secure line to the White House switchboard." [FOUR] Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1025 8 August 2005 Castillo was glad when he saw the sign indicating the exit from Route 8 to the Pilar Sheraton Hotel. He hadn't been certain that he was on the right road to the Buena Vista Country Club or, for that matter, even on the right road to Pilar.
He hadn't been able to ask directions from Santini or Darby; that would have given them more than a hint of where he was going. He had had trouble getting on the Panamericana, the toll highway that led to Pilar, but he'd finally-after ten minutes-found it.
And then he had trouble with the tollbooth. He had sat there for Christ only knew how long, holding a ten-peso note out the window with angry horns bleating behind him, until the horns finally woke him up to the fact that not only was there no attendant in the booth but that the barrier pole was up.
As he pulled away, he saw an electronic gadget mounted inside the windshield, under the rearview mirror. The gadget had triggered the barrier-raising mechanism as he approached. He hadn't noticed it.
From the tollbooth to the sign pointing to the Sheraton Hotel exit, he had wondered about a number of things, including how he was going to get past the gate of the Buena Vista Country Club once he got there-if he got there. And what he was going to do if Aleksandr Pevsner wasn't there. Or was there and didn't want to see him.
And how he was going to protect Eric Kocian if he couldn't get through to Pevsner, presuming he could get past the Buena Vista Country Club gate to get in to see him.
He knew that he wasn't functioning well and the reason for it.
In the past forty-eight hours-give or take; having crossed through so many time zones, he didn't know how long it had been in real time-he had flown across the North Atlantic, then, at the controls of an airplane he'd never flown before, across the Mediterranean. And then, while Jake and Fernando were flying across the South Atlantic, instead of crashing on one of the Gulfstream's comfortable couches he'd consumed at least a gallon of coffee so he could stay awake while trying to make some sense of Eric Kocian's notes, much of which had been written in abbreviations known only to Kocian. And then he'd made his second takeoff and landing in the Gulfstream, coming down from Recife.
And while he had been making a whirlwind tour of Paris, Fulda, and Budapest, there had been an attempt on his life, which had forced him to kill two people. Killing people always bothered him even when it was necessary.
He knew that he was exhausted and that what he should be doing-especially if he was going to have to deal with Aleksandr Pevsner, where he would really need all his faculties, presuming he was going to be able to see Aleksandr Pevsner-was to crash for at least twenty-four hours.
The problem there was, he didn't think he had twenty-four hours. He approached the Pilar exit from Route 8.
If memory serves-and please, God, let it serve-I get off here, make a sharp left onto the highway overpass, drive past the Jumbo supermarket on the left and the Mercedes showroom on the right, take the next right and then the next left, and then drive past the hospital, and, four clicks later, maybe a little less, turn right into the Buena Vista Country Club, where I probably won't be able to get in. Or Pevsner won't be there.
There was a red traffic light when he reached the intersection where he was to turn right.
For the first time, he looked at the instrument panel. A warning light was flashing. The fuel gauge needle was resting on EMPTY.
"Oh, fuck! You've done it again, Inspector Clouseau!"
There was a Shell gas station to his immediate left. But there also was a steady line of oncoming traffic that kept him from turning into it. And when the light turned green, he realized that his first idea-waiting for a chance to make the turn-was impractical. There was a symphony of automobile horns blasting angrily behind him.
He made the right turn and then the left, and there was an ESSO station right in front of him.
He pulled in.
"Thank God!"
Two attendants appeared.
"Fill it up," Castillo ordered.
He took his wallet from his pocket to get his credit-card.
He dropped it.
It bounced under the car and he and one of the attendants got on their hands and knees to retrieve it.
He stood up.
A tall, dark-haired, well-dressed man who appeared to be in his late thirties was walking purposefully toward the service station's restroom.
Jesus Christ, I'm hallucinating. That guy looks just like Pevsner!
He looked around the pumps. There was a black Mercedes-Benz S600 at the next row of pumps. A burly man was speaking to the attendant. Another burly man walked to the hood of the car and leaned against the fender and watched the door to the men's room.
Castillo walked to the men's room, pushed the door open, and walked to the urinal next to the man, who didn't turn to look at him.
"I just love these service station pissoirs," Castillo announced, in Russian. "You never know who you'll bump into in one of them."
Aleksandr Pevsner's head snapped to look at him.
The hairs on the back of Castillo's neck rose.
His eyes are like ice.
And then Pevsner smiled.
The door of the men's room opened and the burly man who had been leaning on the Mercedes came in. He had his hand inside his suit jacket.
"If he takes out a gun, Alek, I'll have to kill him," Castillo said.
"It's all right, Janos," Pevsner said, in Hungarian. "The gentleman and I are old friends." Then he switched to English. "How nice to see you, Charley. And quite a surprise. I somehow had the idea you were in the United States."
"Well, I get around a lot."
"And what brings you to this service station pissoir?"
"Aside from having to take a leak, you mean?"
"Uh-huh," Pevsner said, chuckling.
"Actually, bearing a small gift, I was on my way to see you."
"What is it they say? 'A small world'? Or is it 'truth is stranger than fiction'?"
"Some people say both," Castillo said.
Pevsner turned from the urinal and walked to the washbasins. Castillo heard water running, then the sound of the hot-air blower of the hand dryer.
"I hate these things," Pevsner announced.
Castillo finished and turned around. The burly Hungarian was gone. Castillo washed his hands, put them under the dryer, and said, "Me, too."
Then he offered his hand to Pevsner, who took it and then wrapped his arm around Castillo's shoulder and hugged him.
Then he turned him loose, put his hands on Castillo's arms, and looked into his eyes.
"You are a man of many surprises, Charley."
"I guess I should have called and told you I was coming."
"That would have been a good idea. Am I supposed to believe you just walked in here and were surprised to see me?"
"No, I knew you were in here," Castillo said. "I had just told the attendant to fill my tank-I was running on fumes when I pulled in-when I saw you headed for the men's room."
Pevsner smiled at him but didn't say anything.
"If you doubt me, Alek, check the pump to see how much they've pumped into it."
"Oh, I trust you, Charley. Why would you lie to me?"
"Thank you. I would never lie to you unless it was necessary."
Pevsner smiled.
"Well, let's go out to the house and have what the Viennese call a kleines Fruhstuck."