Carlos read the text message aloud before observing, “Peters has landed. It appears he is alone. He is by himself in the men’s room near the airport’s baggage-claim area.”
The older man, Pedro, held his frosty glass up in mock toast. “Uri’s team has an incentive to leave this man dead after the polnyi pizdets—er, fuck-up—in England.” He noticed his companion was empty-handed. “Have a drink to celebrate, my young friend!”
“Perhaps when we have news Peters has been dealt with. But you are right: not only Uri but Maksim. They say he may never recover full use of his right eye.”
Pedro tossed off the contents of his glass. “Once burned by milk, you will blow on cold water. Both Uri and Maksim will use more care this time.”
“And if they fail again?”
The older man was refilling his glass. “Then we have but to wait. Peters did not come to San Juan on vacation. He will be seeking us out.”
“And if he finds us?”
“He will, he will. We will make certain of that.”
“We want him to find us?”
“Would not the wolf prefer the lamb came to him?”
Pedro lurched toward the bathroom, leaving Carlos to gauge how much his friend had drunk by the frequency of Russian proverbs.